Prologue
18th December 2011
Down the steep mountain slope, hidden by the trees, the snowmobiles are revving their engines. The dogs are snarling and barking, straining to be let off the leash, eager to hunt me down and sink their razor fangs into my legs. Even if I run all night they will still be on my heels, following my footprints in the snow or tracking my scent along the forest floor.
Movement in the darkness to my right. The monochrome night vision image in my binoculars reveals what my eyes can’t see, a dozen deer sitting in the shadows. A stag with huge antlers. Why haven’t they run away?
The breeze in my face tells me that I am downwind. That, and the noise of the snowmobiles and the dogs, is masking my presence.
A deer climbs to her feet and, as she does so, I realise what I must do. Quietly dropping the binoculars into my backpack, I slowly stand up and shoulder the pack in one fluid movement. Now I know where to look, I can make out the vague shapes beneath the trees. A dog starts barking urgently. The deer’s ears turn towards the noise. I use the distraction as my cover. Rushing forwards, I leap onto the stag’s back, throwing my arms around his neck as he scrambles to his feet.
He must weigh three times more than I do. Low hanging branches claw at me as the herd charges into the depths of the forest. I press my face in the stag’s thick winter mane. Those hours spent clinging to an overweight pony as it jumped over a plank balancing on four polystyrene cups, having persuaded Mum that riding was an essential life skill for all ten-year-olds, even the ones who live in a town, finally pay off. I squeeze my thighs and cling to the stag’s back like a limpet.
The herd crashes through the trees and bursts into a clearing. For a brief second, a cold moon hangs above us in silent witness before we dive back under the cover of the forest. Snow kicks up in all directions and the panting exertions of the animals fill the air. Their eyes are wide with fear.
While the snowmobiles can match our speed, this journey follows no paths. How far behind are the dogs? My scent is masked by the musk of the deer and my feet are no longer leaving steps in the snow. Maybe, just maybe, I have a chance.
The mountain gets steeper. On the edge of a near vertical drop, the stag loses his footing, threatening to send us both tumbling into the void to be torn apart on the rocks below. Frantically he scrambles forwards while I cling to his neck as if my life depends on it.
Which it does.
We are too close to the precipice. A sharp weight scrapes and scratches my back; a broken branch has become wedged under my backpack. Reaching behind me, I wrestle one-handedlywith the branch, trying to dislodge it while gripping the stag as he strains every muscle to escape. His action serves only to dig the branch further in. I howl in agony. The noise startles him and he stops pushing forward long enough for me to drop a shoulder and pull the branch up and over my head.
As the stag surges forward, a female deer crashes into the back of us and loses her footing. Unable to alter her course, she slides and tumbles over the edge. There is a sickening crunch as she hits the rocks some distance below.
On and on through the darkness beneath the trees. By the time exhaustion brings the herd to a standstill, we are far from the village and deep in the alpine forests. I slip from the stag’s back and drop into the snow. The stag collapses beside me. I have no idea whether we are in France or in Italy. It no longer matters. The night is thick with gasping and grunting as the deer fill their heaving lungs in the thin air. Steam rises from their backs and blossoms in front of their open mouths.
Shaking from head to toe, I sit up and wait beside the stag to check he is all right. My cheek is burning where the branches have scratched me. Finally, satisfied that the stag’s breathing is returning to normal, I pat his shoulder and leave to find shelter. It doesn’t take long to find a path and then a junction and a sign post. In one direction lies Claviere, in the other Cesana Torinese. Cesana Torinese sounds more Italian. The path leads upwards and out above the tree line. Under the moon’s blind eye I stumble along a snow crisp path, the bare rock of the mountains above me. I reach a cattle shed but every door is bolted. A little further on the path becomes a road.
Please let there be a house.
There are no houses, but there is another signpost that reads Rifugio di montagna 300m. I am in Italy. The snow is falling heavily now.
I half walk, half run. There it is, on the edge of the forest, a mountain refuge. The door is unlocked. I tumble inside, pushing the door closed with my feet, and lie there shivering. Outside, the wind howls as it scrapes its nails along the wooden walls. Moonlight penetrates the single room through chinks in the shutters and, as my eyes adjust, I see a table and chairs, an old sofa, a sink and some cupboards.
So here I am in this wooden cabin in the snow. Two days ago everything I am about to write would have seemed impossible or insane or both.
I was studying for my GCSEs, bored with Facebook, who isn’t, and wondering whether this Christmas would be any better than the last one. Which was rubbish, since you ask.
My bags were packed for a short trip to Brussels. My first solo trip. I had won a competition; first prize go to the European Parliament to explain to a room full of politicians why the oceans of the world need protecting.
I get really creaky about the way the planet is being fried by old people who won’t be alive when the future comes knocking on our door. So I wrote about what it would be like living in a world without coral reefs, parrot fish and turtles, tiger sharks and dolphins, and the tiny phytoplankton that provide over half the world’s oxygen. I pressed send and forgot all about it.
Six weeks passed.
I nearly dumped the email in the trash without opening it.
Dear Miss Blanchard,
Congratulations. You have been chosen for the …
Like I was being sent to a distant star as the representative of planet Earth. According to the email there were two of us who had won, me and some Italian boy. Mum had a fit, told me I had exams, bla bla. Told me Brussels was unsafe, like a war zone. Like she had ever been to Belgium herself.
I knew it was just the old family wound popping up, worry about me travelling alone, worry about another Blanchard disappearing without trace … and then there were two …
I’m tired but I don’t want to sleep. I have to stay alert. Has the snow fallen quickly enough to cover my footprints? Are the hunters already outside? Are there wolves? If I survive I promise I will never complain about anything ever again.
Most of all tonight I don’t want to dream. It’s an old nightmare from when I was six years old and I’ve had it twice in twenty-four hours. But I am so tired.
I’m holding his hand as he leads me down a dimly lit corridor. The corridor is moving. No windows. The floor is shiny. A door with a big wheel stuck in the middle of it is opening up ahead. A rippling blue light spills into the corridor, like a smell wafting in the air. I grip Dad’s hand tighter.
A square of deep impossible water high above my head, its surface rippling. A grey shape drifts lazily beneath the surface. An eye, metallic and dull, stares down at me. The eye has no eyebrow. I scream. Dad laughs and turns towards …
I sit bolt upright in the darkness of the cabin. My heart is banging between my ribs like a human rattling about in a diving cage while a great white shark shakes the bars between its deadly tooth-encrusted jaws. Waves of panic are drowning the tight rock of my six-year-old self. I remember the long empty months after he disappeared, shouting out at the top of my voice, on a walk, in the car, on the beach, in the park … Dad, Dad. DAD!
1
November 2011
The faintest scraping sound caused him to spin round.
‘It is time,’ Omar said.
Michel looked out between the dark serrated silhouettes of the cliffs towards the yellow moonlight dancing on the water beyond the jetty. It no longer mattered how dangerous it was. For all five of them, this was their best chance, their only chance, finally to be free.
Crossing the complex, past the pool and on towards the hangars, they approached the two guards from the deep shadows, grabbing them from behind, clamping a hand over their mouths while injecting the powerful sedative. A brief struggle and the guards fell to the ground unconscious. As expected, the guard who always stank of cigarettes was carrying a box of matches, which they took.
Inside the hangar stood the helicopters, specially adapted for the missions they had been carrying out over the past six months.
The two men worked quickly, taking the equipment they needed from the helicopters, cutting fuel lines, pouring fuel across the floor. Finally they broke into one of the offices. In seconds they had collected their equipment and made a pile of stationery, towels, and paper under one of the desks. The two men exchanged glances. Michel struck a match. They closed the door behind them and ran back to the pool.
Omar slipped like an eel into the rippling waters to join the others while Michel ran to the small office that nestled between the pool and the cliff.
He knew exactly what he was looking for; masks, wet suits, and oxygen cylinders. Emerging into the night air, he glanced towards the hangar. A faint dancing light from the flames was already visible in one of the windows.
A race down the steps towards the narrow beach, past the outhouse and on to the marina with its three powerful speedboats moored side by side along the jetty. Dumping the diving gear and the equipment taken from the office into the first boat, Michel leapt aboard the second boat. All the boats carried spare fuel in a locker under the seats. He threw open the locker, pulled out a jerry can and splashed fuel about the deck, then leapt onto the third boat and did the same again.
Back to the outhouse, checking his watch as he ran. Three minutes since he had struck the match in the hangar.
He had the key to the outhouse; they trusted him with that. A gentle hum inside indicated that everything was working. A quick touch of the keyboard and the computer monitor came to life, but it was too dark to see anything inside the pool. He typed quickly and switched the monitor to show the outside of the door that connected the pool to the sea. The light from the moon was just enough and he was relieved when he saw the heavy door starting to swing open.
One, two, three, four shadows slipped out into the waters along the jetty. Michel ran outside, so focussed on his next task, a moment that was two minutes into the future, that he forgot the immediate present, until it crashed into him from his left with a force that sent him flying into the rough rock of the cliff. His leg twisted and buckled beneath him. He heard something crack as he tumbled forwards down the concrete steps. Pain sparked like fireworks.
The guard was all over him, beating him and shouting. Michel drew himself into a ball in a futile attempt to protect himself from the blows of the riot stick. He tried to focus; they had come too far to fail now. He was still trying to think when the blows stopped raining down and the guard collapsed on top of him.
‘He had it coming,’ Omar said, hauling the guard aside and offering Michel a hand. ‘All that country music he listens to. It stinks.’
Supported by Omar, Michel hopped along the jetty and let himself be hoisted into the first boat. He sat at the controls, furious with himself, while the others pulled the boat away from its moorings.
‘Have we forgotten anything?’ Omar asked.
‘The picnic hamper?’ Michel said.
‘Yeah, funny guy.’
Five metres from the jetty, Michel powered up the engines. As he did so, he caught sight of two more guards running but, before they could reach the jetty, a massive burst of light, followed by a boom that shook the air, blew the men off their feet. The helicopter hangar disappeared in a ball of flame and smoke.
There was no longer any need for stealth. Omar tossed burning rags into the other two boats, dived and swam half a dozen strokes to the first boat. He clambered aboard and was promptly thrown backwards as Michel threw full power at the engines and the boat surged forward. In no time at all, the cliff was far behind them, and they were speeding towards an uncertain future.
Michel wasn’t a fool, he knew that sooner or later they would be hunted down. They were worth far too much money to be allowed to disappear. When the hunters came they would have to be ready.
2
Friday 16th December 2011
‘… and that is why we want you to act now,’ I say to the sea of faces, ‘to save the world’s oceans and its forests, to ensure that when we young people grow old, long after you are all dead, the world still contains sawfish and sturgeon, leatherback sea turtles and tiger sharks, bluefin tuna, vaquita, gray whales and all the amazing animals and plants that are threatened with extinction today.’
‘Before it is too late,’ Rafael adds in Italian.
Rafael is the other competition winner. He’s wearing a suit and tie, and reminds me of a nerdy and even skinnier version of Shaggy in Scooby-Doo. Before you ask, I know what Rafael just said because a woman is standing next to us signing in English for the hard of hearing. Fred, my little brother is deaf, so I’ve been signing for years.
We wait while our final words are translated.
‘Mr Rafael Bernini and Miss Sam Blanchard,’ the President of the Parliament says. ‘Thank you to you both for ensuring the parliament is aware of how passionate young people are about our oceans and forests and the biodiversity they support.’
The applause is loud but polite rather than wild and enthusiastic. In the gallery above the hemicycle I see Eva, the head of the Wild World campaign in Brussels. She is clapping like she means it.
The room is massive. Hundreds of Members of the European Parliament sit behind their desks, organised in a series of concentric semicircles. Most of the MEPs wear headphones. An army of translators, hidden behind huge windows, turn whatever language is spoken into twenty-three other languages to ensure that each of the one thousand five hundred ears can understand every word spoken by any of the seven hundred and fifty mouths. It’s like those inter-galactic conference scenes in science fiction films, except that here the occupants all look vaguely human; no long purple trunks, no eyes on the ends of tentacles, no giant orange stick insects …
We follow the steward up the steps, under the 27 EU flags, towards the VIP exit. The President of the Parliament gives us a brief smile while arranging his papers.
‘You could have spoken a little more loudly,’ Rafael says.
‘Thanks, that shows real empathy, Rafael. You are a very rounded human being. Your family must all be professional therapists or experts in conflict resolution.’
‘What?’
I pause on the threshold, reminding myself that the parliament we have just addressed represents 500 million people. And it isn’t every day you see me in a dress, with my hair plaited like a ballet dancer. If Mum hadn’t insisted, it would be jeans and a t-shirt. I hope someone has taken a good photo that I can show her.
‘Milan have drawn Arsenal,’ the steward says to Rafael. ‘And Napoli will play Chelsea.’
‘We are finished. We have to sell Taiwo. My nose runs faster than he does.’
What is it with boys and football? I had to argue with Rafael about removing his smart phone off the podium, he wanted to see the Champions League draw live, while we were giving our speeches.
Stepping out into the corridor, I am smacked into from the left, so hard that I end up gasping for breath on the floor. My head is spinning as Rafael and the steward lift me to my feet.
‘I am so sorry. You are not hurt?’
I look at my assailant. A perfectly coiffured blond woman, about Mum’s age, wearing a ultramarine trouser suit, and shoes that must cost more than many people spend on their summer holidays. Like me, she looks a little groggy from the impact.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rafael says to the woman, ‘she’ll be all right.’
Like he would know? I shrug his arm away.
‘I heard your speech. A fighter, just like your father. He would be proud of you.’ The woman produces a small envelope and a pen from the caramel coloured leather bag slung over her right shoulder and scribbles quickly on the envelope. ‘I didn’t want to miss you.’
‘You didn’t,’ I say, feeling my nose to check it isn’t broken.
‘This is for your father.’ She thrusts the envelope into my hands.
I shove the envelope in the pocket of my dress. My father? That’s the second time she’s said it.
The woman takes my hands and squeezes them. ‘You are as beautiful as I imagined. Your friends must be jealous of all that thick dark hair and those blue eyes. A little tall for a girl, perhaps, but we cannot fight our genes. Are you staying for the biodiversity debate?’
‘Our minder, Stephanie, has organised everything,’ I explain. ‘I’m not sure what she has planned for us.’
‘I am proposing an amendment against illegal fishing operations in the Mediterranean. If it passes there will be action to help Italy and France destroy illegal bluefin tuna pens. Maybe Stephanie will bring you in to listen.’ She smiles and walks away. Before disappearing round the curve of the corridor, she turns. ‘Call me.’ And with that she is gone.
The steward wipes a hand over his bald head. ‘You will be all right?’
We nod.
‘Then you will excuse me.’ The steward leaves.
Chatting and laughing, a group of blue suited men emerge from a room across the corridor. Before the door swings shut, Rafael is there looking into the room. He beckons me over. We enter.
‘You sure this is for us?’
‘Hunger busting scenario,’ Rafael explains through a mouthful of pastry.
Grinning like an empty coat hanger, he offers me a small tart containing olives and tomatoes. ‘You didn’t tell me your father was famous.
I take the tart, ignore the comment. It has nothing to do with him. The tart is delicious, I hadn’t realised I was so hungry.
Along one wall there are floor to ceiling curtains. Beneath the modern art hanging on the opposite wall is a long table upon which are an assortment of drinks, elaborate sandwiches and tarts. Beside the room’s only window, is a bank of television screens. The first screen shows the debating chamber. The second shows a television news channel, and the third a shot of the corridor outside.
‘Smile.’
I am such a sucker. As I turn, Rafael takes my photo on his smart phone. What is it with boys?
‘So your dad, is he also …’
‘He isn’t anything,’ I shout, spraying crumbs. ‘He’s dead.’
‘OK. Sorry.’ Rafael pockets his phone and takes a couple of sandwiches. Why does he keep pushing his stupid fringe off his face? Blonds.
Behind him the door handle is turning. Convinced that we are in trouble, blame my upbringing, I grab Rafael’s arm and drag him towards the curtains. I know, hiding with your feet sticking out from under a length of golden fabric is dumb but, as luck would have it, there is a recess behind the curtain. And a door. Not so stupid after all. Well done that girl.
The sound of a bottle top being unscrewed. The pfft of a fizzy drink.
‘How long do we wait?’ The voice is rough like cement.
The second voice is like the first but less polished. ‘We wait.’
They’re speaking in French.
‘Yes, but I thought …’
‘You aren’t paid to think.’
Carefully and quietly, I reach me behind me and try the door handle. It’s locked. Damn. Beside me Rafael is dribbling sandwich crumbs down his jacket.
‘Did you …’ he starts to whisper.
I wave a finger to shut him up and point at the locked door.
‘Why kill her here?’ asks the first voice on the other side of the curtain. ‘There are too many people.’
‘Which is why it is perfect, you imbecile. A thousand suspects. Two thousand kilometres from home.’
‘We should have fed her to the fish. Like the other one. Less evidence.’
My heart is thumping, who are they? Are they really plotting a murder? I tug the edge of one of the curtains, just enough to see into the room. Across the room a thick set man with close cropped hair is pulling at the collar of his shirt as he coughs to clear his throat.
“Olive,” he explains to the shorter man. ‘Ready?’
The second man dabs his glistening forehead with a dirty handkerchief, then pulls a gun from a holster under his armpit. He thrusts his hand, gun and all, into his jacket pocket. The curtains billow, the air pressure in the room is changing. Both men turn towards the opening door.
Through the narrow gap between the gently swaying curtains I glimpse two people entering and stifle a gasp. Being ushered into the room in front of a man so fat that it is impossible to see where his face ends and his neck begins is the woman who bumped into me moments ago. She looks furious.
‘What do you want?’ she asks in English. ‘I am addressing the parliament in five minutes.’
The fat man answers in Italian. I can’t understand what he says but I can tell from the way he spits out his words that he is threatening her.
She answers in Italian, her face defiant, and turns to leave. The man blocks her path.
Beside me there is a tiny click and I am pulled backwards.
The corridor is empty as Rafael closes the door and grips the handle, his whole body straining as someone rattles the handle from the other side of the door. The rattling stops.
‘Run,’ Rafael says.
Copyright © 2015 Christian Vassie / Injini Press