chapter thirty-two, Monday:4thnovember2013, trouble
We don’t hear the repetitive thrum of helicopter blades spinning until it is quite close, a small aircraft painted aqua blue, circles us and flies away again. “Strange,” I say.
“Indeed,” from Nigel, a finger of KitKat paused to his lips.
“Let’s finish our snack,” says I trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about, “follow the edge of the mountain round to the west and find the Landy.” I stuff the last piece of chocolate in, take the final slurp of tea, satisfied.
Daniel sweeps my hair from around my face and kisses me gently on the lips smiling as he does.
“What?” I ask innocently.
“Its east baby.” and he messes my hair so I look more windswept than before.
I pout, directions are not my thing, “l do make a nice cuppa though right?” Everyone agrees and toasting with our plastic cups, we pack up to leave. We don’t hear the helicopter again and reach the Wolf in less than two hours, trekking on the surface is much easier and my brain feels healthier too. It’s sunny and the bluest sky has thin wisps of cloud randomly strewn about like clothes on my bedroom floor. The air smells of dust and baked earth, a faint hint of sage and something which sticks like a lump in my throat, a scent that seems out of place, fireworks. Cordite?
He sees me glancing over at him, “I can smell explosives.” says Stan suddenly, his voice low and conspiratory.
“Me too” I nod at him, nobody else notices.
“Let’s get going, everyone get into the Landrover. Tharie? You’re driving.” Nobody argues, we just load ourselves in the same configuration as before except Stan takes point and rides shotgun next to me. Daniel in the back with the idol in the beautiful box, it’s heavy in his backpack wrapped around in a Motorhead sweatshirt, but he wields it like a long lost toy he doesn’t want out of his sight. I shove the gear into first hard and spin off in a cloud of dust, reaching speeds of a little under thirty miles an hour, as the land is flat and quite smooth, but still the old Wolf rattles about like a tin can with nails in. Stan is directing me with use of the GPS to the point on the map marked by the string puzzle. I swerve to avoid rocks and brushy vegetation as I go but I don’t slow down, I am fuelled with anticipation of discovering what all this is about, and it motivates me. Determined not to let my part be the fall of us, after we’ve come so far, I drive like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do, my brain is chattering warnings over and over, but my adrenalin ignores the noise and charges my body with the will to propel us forward. Thirty miles an hour is quite fast off tarmac.
“Four kilometres toward 2o’clock,” shouts Stan, he’s got the hang of directing me, I don’t know my right from my left either, but I have been able to tell the time since I was a toddler. He’s yelling over the clattering the Landy makes travelling over rough terrain at speed, “I can see a building.” He says with his binoculars to his face, “stucco two storey, terracotta tiled roof, whitewashed.” He lowers the binoculars, looks at Daniel and Kurt in the back, “there’s an aqua coloured helicopter parked there.” I turn to look at him suddenly apprehensive, but I have a job to do, so I do it.
“We still go there,” Daniel answers the question none of us dared ask, “My Dad pointed this way before he died, we owe it to him to discover what happened to him.” We all nod in emphatic agreement, but I secretly wonder where Graham Pearce's body or remains are if he failed to get out of the hole, I keep it to myself, exchange a glance with Stan, we are both thinking exactly the same thing.
As we get closer to the house, it’s a humble building but impressive nonetheless. A good size, vaguely Georgian in its layout and I appreciate its symmetry. It has a centrally placed large front door with a knocker and letterbox, which out here feels a little surreal, who would ever knock on the door or post anything? A small garden is planted around the perimeter someone is desperate to keep roses alive as I spot a clever irrigation system keeping the plants watered. The aroma ignites memories of my own garden and I pang for home, the earthy smell of my horses coats as I hug them and breathe them in. And my cats, who betray an unscheduled visit from my mum by smelling of Chanel no.5. Suddenly I wish she were here, she'd love this little garden, I give myself a quick glance, then again maybe not!
The helicopter is parked at the side of the house, two other vehicles sits next to it, a 110 Camel Trophy Defender, painted that unmistakable been-through-hell-and-back yellow of the original trials, it's dented and faded, and a tiny piece of trash Japanese thing, quite literally as it turns out. The Camel has water containers tied to the roof with wide webbing straps held in place with seatbelt sliders, spotlights all across the front of the rack wrapped in protective rubber mesh, sand tracks and bridging ladders are strapped to the roof rack too and there's a high lift jack bolted to the back door over the spare wheel. An electric winch on the front bumper. The tires show a small deflation for driving on sand, whose car is this? Its windows are dirty and covered in trials stickers, it's unmistakably real, and not the fake version of later series, I notice things, allergic to fake, this pleases me.
Next to it, someone with a sense of humour has parked a Japanese 4 wheel drive, or what is left of it, the source of the smell now located, I’m not sure whether this pleases me or not, I never did like Japanese 4x4’s, but it didn’t really deserve to be blown up. Or did it, maybe it was evil? I need tea, soon.
We pile out of the car, the place seems deserted, no one comes out to greet us or otherwise. I walk up the rough path created with flat stones clearly salvaged from the desert, bend to smell the roses, I recognise it, David Austin, Geoff Hamilton, one of my own favourites.
Inside I hear a faint thump, and whilst I’m wondering whether anyone else hears it, the front door flies open and all my brain can focus on is the business end of a shotgun and two f*cking large barrels levelled at my head.
Bloody hell, I’m going to need some tea!
True story.