out.'
Carrie turned.
'Oh, OK.'
I followed her towards the house as Aaron's sun glassed eyes gave me one last look and nod before going back to the wagon.
We were just short of the veranda when she stopped and turned once more. As Aaron moved the Mazda over towards the tubs, I could see my bitten, lumpy face and scary sticking-up hair reflecting back at me in her slightly mirrored glasses. The lenses were too opaque for me to see anything of her eyes.
'Luce, our daughter, thinks you're part of aUK study group, and you're here for a few days to see how we work. OK?'
'Sure, that's not a problem.' I was going to have to do my best to look like a tree-hugging academic. I wished I could see her eyes. I hated talking to mirrored glass.
'She knows nothing about why you're really here. Nor do we, come to that. She's asleep, you'll see her soon.' She tapped her left lens and pointed at my swollen eye.
'Don't worry about that. It'll be fine in a few days.'
NINETEEN
I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open as we stepped across cracked, faded terra cotta tiles, past two dark wood Victorian rocking-chairs and an old rope hammock scattered with coffee- and dribble-stained pillows. The front door was open, and Carrie pulled open a mesh mozzie door with a creak of hinges. To the left, and set above a meshed window, was a wall light, its bowl full of dried insects, fatally attracted to its glow. I caught the screen before it sprang back, and followed her inside.
We were in near darkness after the blinding brilliance outside, and there was a strong smell of wood. It was like being in a garden shed. I stifled a yawn; my eyes were trying to close, but I had to fight them. This was virgin territory and I had to take note of every detail.
The room was large, with a high ceiling. Hefty tree trunks supporting the building were set into plastered walls, which had once been painted cream but were now scuffed and discoloured. It was furnished like a holiday let, basic stuff, a bit rough, and not a lot of it.
Carrie was heading straight to another door, painted a faded yellow, about ten metres dead ahead. I followed as she took off her glasses and let them fall around her neck. To our left were four armchairs built out of logs, covered with dirty cushions with flowery patterns that didn't match. The chairs were evenly arranged around a circular coffee table, which was made from a slice of dark wood more than a metre in diameter. Trained over the coffee table and chairs were two 1950s-style, free-standing electric fans with protective wire covers.
The chrome had seen better days, and it was a shame there was no ribbon hanging from the mesh to given them that authentic look.
The wall to the left had two more doors, also painted yellow and set into flaking brown frames. The furthest one was partly open and led into what I presumed was their bedroom. A large natural wood headboard held one end of a once-white mosquito net; the other was suspended from the ceiling. The bed was unmade and I saw purple sheets. Men's and women's clothes were thrown over a chair. The wooden butt of a rifle hung on the wall to the right of the bed. I thought I'd keep it a little closer, living out here.
Further along, in the corner, was the kitchen area, with a small table and chairs. An array of different- patterned mugs hung from hooks in the wall.
On my right, the whole wall, as far as the door we were heading for, was covered by bookshelves. The only break was another window, also covered with protective mesh, which seemed to be the only other source of natural light.
I began to smell porridge. Steam rose from a large pot sitting on one of the kitchen units to the side of the cooker. Next to it lay a big bunch of bananas and a bowl of oranges.
Carrie disappeared through the door, and I followed her into the larger, corrugated-iron extension. The walls were lined with plyboard, and there was a rough concrete floor. Hanging down from the high ceiling on the end of steel rods were two old and very dirty days-of-the-Raj overhead fans, both stationary.
The room was a lot hotter than the one we'd just left, but lighter, with large sheets of clear corrugated plastic high up in the walls serving as windows.
The extension might be cheap and low-tech, but what it housed wasn't. Running the length of the wall in front of me and continuing after a right angle down the left-hand side was one continuous desk unit, formed out of trestle tables.
On it, and facing me, were two PCs with webcams attached to the top of the monitors; in front of each was a canvas director's chair, the green backrests well sagged with use. The screen of the PC on the right was displaying an image of the Miraflores lock. It must have been a webcam online, because the screen was just at the point of refreshing itself to show a cargo ship half-way out of one of the locks. Going by the bright reflection in the puddles on the grass, we weren't the only part of Panama with sun.
The PC to the left was closed down, and had a set of headphones with the mike attached hanging over the camera. Both machines were surrounded by paper and general office clutter, as was the underneath, with wires running everywhere and packs of office supplies. The desk against the wall to the left, facing me, housed a third PC, also with a webcam with headphones hanging, and was surrounded by schoolbooks. This had to be Luce's Land.
Carrie turned immediately to the right through the only other door and I followed. We entered what looked like a quartermaster's store, a lot smaller than the other two areas and a lot hotter. It smelt like the local deli. Rows of grey angle-iron shelving lined the walls left and right of me, turning the middle into a corridor. Stacked each side of us were all sorts, cartons of tinned food, hurricane lamps, torches, packs of batteries. On pallets on the floor were bags of rice, porridge oats and milk powder the size of coal sacks.
Enough supplies, in fact, to keep the Good Life going for a year. Laid out in the corridor was a US Army cot bed and a blanket, a dark green US Army lightweight still in its thin, clear plastic wrapping. That's for you.'
She nodded towards a corrugated-iron door facing us as she quickly closed the one to the computer room behind us, plunging this area into near darkness.
'That'll take you outside. You'll be able to see better out there. I'll bring out the first-aid kit.'
I walked past her, dropped my jacket on the cot, then turned back to see her climbing up the shelves.
'Could I see the imagery, please?'
She didn't look down at me.
'Sure.'
I went outside. The sun was casting a shadow on this side of the building, which was good as my head was thumping big-time and being in the full glare wouldn't help at all. The crickets were still out doing their stuff; they're not great for headaches, either.
In front of me, two hundred metres away, lay the massed ranks of white tubs with their greenery sticking out of the top and the sunlight bouncing off puddles around them as the generator chugged rhythmically. Aaron was in the distance, where the tubs met the track, a hose in his hands, flushing out the back of the wagon. A flock of large black and white birds lifted from the tree-line beyond the tubs and whooshed overhead just above the rooftop.
I slumped down on the concrete foundation that protruded along the wall, my back against one of the green water butts, and closed my eyes for a second, trying to relieve the pain. It wasn't happening so I opened the hole in my jeans to inspect the wound. The sweatshirt was still wet and muddy in the creases and knots, even after the clean-up in the drainage ditch. It had done the job of stopping the blood flow pretty well, though I couldn't be sure about infection.
I'd had tetanus boosters, but probably only Aaron knew what kind of weird and wonderful microbes lurked in the Panama jungle.
I checked out the clotting between the material and flesh: the two had been trying their hardest to dry together and become one, and the swollen bruising around the wound felt kind of numb. I knew from experience that this sort of injury would be a major drama if you were stuck out in the jungle for any length of time, becoming a pus-filled mound within days, but at least here I could sort it out.
Carrie appeared from the storeroom with an old-fashioned, brown-cheque red suitcase and a sheet of A4 paper. She placed both on the concrete and lifted the suitcase lid to reveal what looked like quite a good basic medical pack. She came close in to look at the sweatshirt around my leg, and for the first time I caught a glimpse of
