Just another five minutes of stumbling brought us to the start of the whitewashed rough-stone wall and, ten metres or so later, the tall iron gates.
It was good to feel tarmac under my feet. I turned left and moved as quickly as I could to get away from the area. If a vehicle came I'd just have to plunge back into the undergrowth and hope for the best.
As I shuffled forward with the weight of the man over my shoulder, I became much more aware of the pain in my right calf. It hurt too much to raise my foot, so I kept my legs as straight as possible, pumping forward with my free arm. Rain ricocheted a good six inches off the tarmac, making a horrendous racket. I realized I'd never be able to hear a vehicle coming up behind us, so I had to keep stopping and turning round. Thunder and lightning roared and crackled behind me and I kept moving as though I was running away from it.
It took over an hour but I finally got us both into the canopy at the loop. The rain had eased off but Unibrow's pain hadn't, and neither had mine. The jungle was so dark now I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, only the small luminous specks on the jungle floor, maybe phosphorescent spores or night-time beasties on the move.
For an hour or so I sat, rubbed my leg, and waited for Aaron, listening to Unibrow's whimpers, and the sound of his legs moving about in the leaf litter.
His groans faded, and eventually disappeared. I crawled over to him on my hands and knees, feeling for his body.
Then, following his legs up to his face, all I could hear was weak, wheezy breath trying to force itself through his mucus-filled nostrils and mouth. I pulled out the Leatherman and jabbed his tongue with the blade. There was no reaction, it was just a matter of time.
Rolling him on to his back, I lay on top of him and jammed my right forearm into his throat, pushing down with all my weight, my left hand on my right wrist.
There was little resistance. His legs kicked out weakly, moving us about a bit, a hand floundered about my arm and another came up weakly to scratch at my face.
I simply moved my head out of the way and listened to the insects and his low whimpers as I cut off the blood supply to his head, and oxygen to his lungs.
FIFTEEN
Wednesday 6 September It's Kev, Kelly's dad. He's lying on the living-room floor, eyes glazed and vacant, his head battered, an aluminium baseball bat lying beside him.
There's blood on the glass coffee table and the thick shag-pile carpet, some even splattered on the patio windows.
I put my foot on the bottom stair. The shag pile helps keep the noise down, but still it's like treading on ice, testing each step gently for creaks, always placing my feet to the inside edge, slowly and precisely. Sweat pours off my face, I worry if anyone is hiding up there, ready to attack.
I get level with the landing, I point my pistol up above my head, using the wall as support, move up the stairs backwards, step by step ... The washing machine is on its final thundering spin downstairs, still the soft rock plays on the radio.
As I get nearer to Kev and Marsha's room I can see that the door is slightly ajar, there's a faint, metallic tang ... I can also smell shit, I feel sick, I know I have to go in.
Marsha: she's kneeling by the bed, her top half spreadeagled on the mattress, the bedspread covered with blood.
Forcing myself to ignore her I move to the bathroom. Aida is lying on the floor, her five-year-old head nearly severed from her shoulders; I can see the vertebrae just holding on.
Bang, I go back against the wall and slump on to the floor, blood is everywhere, I get it all over my shirt, my hands, I sit in a pool of it,
soaking the seat of my trousers. There is a loud creak of wood splitting above me ... I drop my weapon, curl up and cover my head with my hands. Where's Kelly?
Where the fuck is Kelly?
'Shit! shit! shit!'
There was the crash of branches, followed swiftly by the thud on the jungle floor, close enough that I felt the vibration in the ground as it does when two tonnes of dead tree have just given up the will to stay upright.
The crash spooked not only me but also the birds lazing on branches high above.
There was screeching and the heavy, slow flap of large wings getting their owners the hell out of there.
A few gallons of canopy-held rain had followed the deadfall. I wiped the water from my face and stood up. Shit, it's getting bad. I've never had them on a job and never had them about Kev and his gang. It must be because I'm so knackered, I just feel totally drained ... I pushed hair off my forehead and got a grip of myself. Knackered? So what? Just get on with it. Work is work; cut away from that shit. You know where she is, she's safe, just do the job and try to keep her that way.
Deadfall was a constant problem in the jungle, and checking to see if there were any dead trees or branches nearby or overhead when basha'ing up for the night was an SOP (Standard Operating Procedure) that was taken seriously. I marked time, trying to do something with my legs. I could feel pins and needles.
Please, not here, not now.
According to Baby-G it was 2.23, not long to pick-up.
The rain had held off while I'd been here, but now and again a bucketful still fell after being dislodged, bouncing off the foliage on its way down with the sound of a finger tapping on a side drum, as if to accompany my static marching.
I'd been here amongst the leaf litter for nearly six hours. It was like having a night out on belt-kit not having the comfort of being off the ground in a hammock and under a poncho, instead having to rough it with just the equipment that you have on your belt: ammunition, twenty-four hours of food, water and medical kit. Only I didn't even have that. Just guaranteed misery as I became part of the jungle floor.
I finished with marking time: the sensation had gone away. I'd fought off jet lag, but my body still wanted desperately to curl into a ball and sink into a deep sleep. I felt my way back down against the hard rough bark of a tree and was surrounded by invisible crickets. As I stretched out my legs to ease the cramp in the good one and the pain in the other, I felt around to make sure the sweatshirt dressing was still tight around the wound; it didn't feel as if it was bleeding any more, but it was painful and, I imagined, messy down there. I could feel the pulse throbbing against the edge of the wound.
As I moved to relieve the numbness in my arse once more, the soles of my Timber lands pushed against Unibrow. I'd searched him before we went into the treeline, and found a wallet and several metre lengths of copper wire tucked into a canvas pouch on his belt. He'd been setting traps. Maybe he was into that sort of stuff for fun: it wasn't as if the lot up at the house would be in need of the odd wild turkey.
I thought back over some of the stuff I'd done over the years, and right now I hated all the jobs I'd ever been on. I hated Unibrow for making me kill him. I hated me. I was sitting in shit, getting attacked by everything that moved, and I'd still had to kill someone else. One way or another that was the way it had always been.
Until midnight I'd heard only three vehicles moving along the road, and it was hard to tell if they were heading towards the house or away from it. After that, the only new sounds were the buzzing of insects. At one point a troop of howler monkeys passed us by, using the top of the canopy so they had some starlight to help them see what they were doing. Their booming barks and groans reverberated through the jungle, so loud they seemed to shake the trees. As they swung screeching and bellowing from tree to tree they disturbed the water caught in the giant leaves, and we were rained on again.
I sat gently rubbing around the cut on my leg as more buzzes circled my head, stopping just before I felt something bite into my skin. I slapped my face just as I heard movement high above me in the canopy, sending another downpour.
Whatever it was up there sounded like it was moving on rather than coming down to investigate, which was fine by me.
At 2.58 I heard the low rumble of a vehicle. This time the noise didn't fade.
The engine note took over gradually from the chirping of the crickets, passing my position until I could clearly hear the tyres splashing in puddled-up potholes. It stopped just past me, with a gentle squeak of not-too-good brakes. The engine ticked over erratically. It had to be the Mazda.
Leaning on the gollock to help me get to my feet, I stretched my legs and tried to get them warmed up as I checked to make sure I still had my docs. The wound felt even more tender now I was standing again, and my
