RACE AMAZON: False Dawn (James Pace novels Book 1) (3 page)

‘Go on,’ said Pace cautiously.

‘Of course they get to plaster their logos and products on everything we print, photograph or film about the race and lap up immeasurable positive press, but I am hopeful the real message won’t be lost on the world.  A new century and new millennium must equal a new attitude towards conservation.’  

His excitement visibly eased and he sat back again.  ‘So yes, you are right in what you say.  It is a race.  Actually it’s a race to be run in the Amazon jungle.  That’s in Brazil, but I’m sure you know that.’

‘The idea is brilliant,’ Pace said, honestly meaning it, ‘but what does it have to do with me?’

He still couldn’t remember many more details but he had a niggling feeling the teams were all going to be comprised of expert competitors; they always were in races like this.  Unless they needed an experienced helicopter pilot, or worried that some of their people might go crazy and need nursing out there, he didn’t fit the bill.

‘Surely all the teams will be made up of top people? I don’t qualify on that score,’ he said, ‘but then you know that already.’

‘Agreed James, very much agreed.’ McEntire was a good enough judge of character to realise he needed to be brutally blunt if he was to be believed. ‘Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t fit the selection criteria.’

‘But I am a possibility now?’ Pace guessed cautiously.  ‘Now I’m flavour of the month with the media, so to speak.  Something has changed?  What and how?’ 

‘One reason the public has really warmed to you is the bravery aspect,’ McEntire had to stop a smile curling the edges of his mouth.  ‘They appreciate the courage you showed in nearly being killed just to help people you didn’t even know. The newspapers dug up everything they could about you to boost their articles, including your military background and experience with a video camera.  That’s why you are a possibility.  You have a flying background and a knack with a video camera.’

They
had
made a meal out of it, it was true. Hardly Hollywood, just a few wedding videos for friends that led to a small commission from the local council to make a couple of training films for their staff. Pace had been given a nice camera to use though, and the luxury of a sound and lighting technician.

As for his military background, he’d served with the Royal Air Force for eight years, the last six of them flying helicopters of differing types, though mainly the Westland WG13 Lynx back in those days; a decade ago.  He still flew enough hours every year just to keep up his license but his salary didn’t stretch to pleasure flying and his higher flying skills were as rusty as the hull of a century-old tramp steamer.

‘I made a couple of short films,’ Pace said. ‘It was very basic stuff.’

‘But you
did
make them, and you
can
work a camcorder with some degree of flair.’ Seeing his questioning look, he added, ‘I had a brief look at those council videos you shot. It’s true to say the content is hardly riveting but both of them had a solid feel. You made something out of nothing with them. For an amateur you show real potential.’

‘So what’s your point, exactly?’ Although flattered by having such an esteemed visitor praising his work, Pace was tiring of the conversation and the first twinges began to overcome his drug-induced pain relief, to prick at his chest beneath the bandages.

‘My point?’  If he was annoyed at the bluntness, McEntire didn’t show it. ‘My point is simply this. I need a camera operator to accompany each of the teams in order to film the racing perspective. There will be three teams and I only have two camera operators signed up. I would like you to consider being my third.’

Without wanting to, Pace laughed.  He instantly regretted it as the needle pricks of pain suddenly transformed into jackhammers. His laughter triggered three coughs in a row and by the end of the third choke McEntire and his offer didn’t matter. All that mattered was being able to breathe again. 

Gasping for air, he went very cold, oblivious to a trickle of blood streaking from the corner of his mouth, running down his chin and dropping onto the newly changed sheets, spotting the crisp white with patches of vivid red.

McEntire was stung into action and moved for help with speed that belied his paunch, having Sally there in moments with others in tow. A new infusion was pumped into Pace’s arm, followed almost immediately by a delightful warmth that chased away the chills and darkened the daylight.

When Pace awoke, several hours later, everything was as it had been except for a new set of bedding and an oxygen mask firmly plastered over his face. He sensed movement next to the bed and Sally’s face appeared, etched with a mixture of concern and disapproval.

She checked his breathing, pulse and temperature, jotting them officially on his chart and pausing long enough to say how glad she was to see him still alive and adding that visitors of any kind were now banned for at least a fortnight.  The doctors feared a repeat performance would risk permanent collapse of his injured lung, she explained. They had miscalculated his level of recovery and placed him at risk. It was a mistake they would not repeat.

During the following two weeks Pace had no further contact with McEntire, other than a brief note of apology and an expensive floral arrangement by way of recompense. Time dragged by sluggishly and it was as close as he’d ever come to a heavenly experience when the day finally arrived for his supportive bandaging to be removed. 

The doctors, in all their wisdom, pronounced him to be in good general health and definitely out of danger. X-rays exposed directly onto a computer, as opposed to the more traditional film, revealed his lung to be healing well along with his abused breastbone. X-rays exposed this way allegedly only used one third of the radiation of their regular cousins but Pace still had so many taken he began to worry if he’d glow in the dark.

In total he ended up being in hospital for six weeks. The final week was spent undergoing a battery of tests but finally he was pronounced a free man, which was good because he’d just about had enough. 

All that remained was for him to give a press briefing in the hospital foyer prior to returning to a normal life. Despite being able to have visitors after those initial weeks of recovery, Pace had convinced the powers that be to extend the boycott for the entire period of his stay. In return he promised them an impressive discharge interview, filled with praise for their medical care.

Pace gave the briefing on his last afternoon.  He was clad in jeans, which felt awkwardly constricting after so long living in pyjama bottoms, and a tee-shirt. 

Earlier that morning he’d said his goodbyes to the nursing staff and left a thank you note for Sally. She wasn’t there to see him off, having gone home to Mauritius for a holiday three days earlier. On her last shift, however, she volunteered to work a night with him and had tested his levels of fitness in her own way. It was a carnal experience that he would always remember.

Sporting a neat haircut, given to him by a specially drafted local stylist, Pace was ready for the media. Flanked on a long table by senior managers from the hospital, he gave his carefully prepared speech.  He praised his carers and thanked the public for all their letters of support and get well cards. After his speech came the questions.

Was he aware the fund started for him had now topped one hundred thousand pounds? He wasn’t but, speaking of a fund initially set up when it was unclear if he would need constant care if he survived, Pace was now in a position to state that all the money was being donated to the hospital, to contribute towards the building of a dedicated emergency department for children. 

And so it went on for about fifteen minutes, back and forth, smiles and camera flashes until he had nothing new to say and the television crews each had enough material to construct short clips for their respective news bulletins. He took one final look around, shook a couple of hands, and made his way out to a waiting taxi.

Settling into the rear seat he watched the world go by as the driver chauffeured him the twelve miles home.

3

His flat looked just the same as when he left it, to go to work on that fateful morning almost two months before.  It boasted one bedroom, was newish, and sat on the first floor of a two-floor complex. When he’d bought it three years earlier the estate agent called it compact.  Pace called it small but it was all that his salary ran to.  Anyway he lived alone so it was fine.

The first thing that hit him as he stepped into the communal lobby, climbed the green carpeted stairs and opened his front door, was the stench of rotting food.  He didn’t keep any pets and had brushed away the hospital’s offer to arrange somebody to visit weekly and check the place over. 

Instantly he regretted his decision not to let anyone in. Pace had genuinely forgotten about the few perishables in the refrigerator.  Time had not done them any good at all.  Swallowing back the stink, he stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind him.

He hated rubber gloves, in their unflattering shades of bright yellow and orange, but kept a pair beneath the sink in case of emergencies. They served him very well for the next hour as he cleared several mould-encased, furry objects from his refrigerator.

The tomatoes resembled deflated footballs, sheathed in thick white hair and each spotted with marks of blue and purple, and were quite fetching really. Together with similarly coated carrots and salad vegetables, they all vanished into a bin liner one after the other.

At the end of the hour his rubbish sack was firmly tied and dumped in the communal skip, situated outside by the car park. With all the windows flung wide open the smell slowly subsided. While the increasingly chill wind blew the last offending odour away, Pace busied himself checking the place over for other mess.

He scooped up some crumpled, sour washing and threw it straight into the washing machine. He put fresh sheets and a new quilt cover on his bed and then shot off to get a few essential groceries. He couldn’t go far because the police had not seen fit to return his car from their compound, having collected it from the town centre car park where he’d parked it on that fateful morning.

There was a petrol station-cum-convenience store a few hundred yards down the road. The round trip only took him fifteen minutes and the walk did him good. By the time he opened his front door for the second time that day, not a trace of unpleasantness remained.

He put the milk, eggs and bottled water down on the breakfast bar next to the huge pile of mail he’d collected from behind his front door.  He filled and boiled a kettle of fresh water to make himself a strong mug of tea, adding a splash of milk for colour before settling into an armchair. As he sipped at the familiar liquid, he noted with indifference the rain now slanting down outside, clearly visible through the open windows.

Taking a moment to close all but one of them, he started on the pile of letters. It was a mammoth task.  Next to him, perched on the elderly pine coffee table, his tea steamed away unattended while the low hum of the washing machine filled the flat with its repetitive drone.

There was no fan mail for him but that didn’t matter. Pace still had to arrange the collection of dozens of sacks being stored at the hospital.  He’d barely scratched the surface of the mass of letters and cards sent to him by well-wishers but determined to read all of them, even if it took months.

The media had thankfully agreed to keep his home address out of their stories. They knew he’d need some space once the hospital finally released him and, after all, the hospital and its grounds gave a more dramatic backdrop for their bulletins.  Pace suspected they also wanted to keep him sweet until they were sure they didn’t need him to sell their publications any longer.  To this end the pile contained no letters of support from the public, just the mail he could normally expect. 

The first three letters came from respective credit companies, all demanding money for defaulted payments on his car, furniture and plastic. There was also a letter from work.  Occupational Health needed to assess if he could still carry out his duties on the ward.  The rest were assorted junk letters, advertising unbeatable deals on holidays and life insurance.  All the useless trimmings of modern society and all really saying ‘give me your cash’. 

All in all, Pace was in a reasonably irritable mood by the time he read the last one and turned to find
his tea stone cold. He swore aloud and the door buzzer chose that moment to sound from its box by the front door.  It was a strangely disquieting feeling.  His first visitor.

Crossing to the intercom panel, he opened the line with a flick of the switch.

‘Hello, who is it?’  Nothing.  He tried again.  ‘Hello?’ 

‘Mr Pace? Mr James Pace?’ The voice was soft and feminine, instantly arousing his interest. It was as good a start as any.

‘That depends on who you are and what you’re selling,’ Pace replied evenly.

‘Of course,’ the voice agreed sweetly. ‘My name is Sarah McEntire, Mr Pace. I am Doyle McEntire’s daughter as well as his
personal assistant.  We need to speak about the offer my father made to you while you were in hospital.’  She wholeheartedly failed to mention the visit had nearly killed him. ‘If this isn’t a good time I could call back tomorrow.’

McEntire wasn’t giving up then, Pace mused, or was this just the official retraction, using a female family member to soften the blow. He was intrigued and opened the outer door lock with a flick of a different switch before crossing to the front door. Opening it, he readied himself to greet the body behind the voice.

The body attached to that voice climbed the stairs effortlessly and soon stood before him, dressed immaculately in a flatteringly-tailored cream trouser suit, with a plain white blouse beneath. Her raven hair, with the faintest suggestion of deepest red, was shoulder-length he guessed. Pace couldn’t tell properly because it was tied up with a hair band; straight not curly. She sported strappy, open-toed black shoes that encased small, pretty feet, wore no outer coat and carried a wet, freshly dripping umbrella clutched firmly in one hand. The other held a slim black briefcase.

There were no frills, scarves or refinements because she wasn’t in that age bracket yet, instead relying on her natural beauty to suffice. It was another guess but Pace figured her to be in her early thirties.

Not knowing what was coming and therefore how standoffish, or not, to be Pace smiled and offered her his hand. She shook it firmly and he stepped to one side, motioning her in. She swept past him into his small hallway and moved on into the lounge. She stopped there and waited for him to close the door and join her.

‘Please.’ Pace gestured with one hand to the sofa.  ‘Take a seat. Would you like some tea?  I’m making fresh.’

She smiled easily.  As she sat down he noticed how fluidly and gracefully she moved. ‘Tea would be lovely,’ she accepted. ‘White, no sugar please.’

Pace slid into the kitchen and busied himself preparing two mugs of tea. He never used a teapot, instead preferring to make it in the mug with a bag. It only took a couple of minutes but when he returned he felt calmer.  Looking at her again as she took the offered mug, he had to admit she was very attractive, almost in a magazine or advertising sense.  

She didn’t appear to be wearing much make-up, though such things were deceptively hard to spot nowadays.  Her skin looked as if it hadn’t seen much sunshine lately, despite her father’s huge wealth, being pale and clear.  Her figure was curved in all the right places and she stood about five feet seven inches tall. 

Slightly taller than her old man, he thought.  Her nose was small but her lips were full, suggesting sensuality.  Her most striking feature, for him, lay in a pair of sparkling hazel eyes, tinged with the merest hint of sapphire.  They glinted at him with thoughtful intellect.

Like her father she wasn’t one to bother with tact and diplomacy when nothing could tangibly be gained from it. She didn’t want to be there but she’d promised her father she would come and sort things out, just like she always did.  She looked at Pace and wondered what on earth her father was thinking trying to get this man onside.  True, he looked big and strong, perhaps handsome in a rough sense, but he was a rank amateur and she hated dealing with amateurs more than anything else.  Still a promise was a promise so she had to swallow her distaste.

She took another sip of tea and put it down on the table, next to his own earlier drink, finding an empty envelope to sit it on so as not to damage the tabletop.  Pace hadn’t bothered.  He settled onto the armchair and they eyed each other for a second over the ten-foot gap established, each oblivious to the other’s inner thoughts. 

‘Miss McEntire.’ Pace beat her to the opening. ‘What can I do for you, that has seen you drag yourself out here on an awful day like today?  A phone call would have done the trick.’ He took a swallow of his tea and felt a shiver run up and down his spine for no reason at all.

‘For me, Mr Pace, you can do nothing.’ Unlike her father she made no attempt to be more familiar with her address.  ‘Matters like this require personal attention.  Telephones don’t make a good enough substitute.’  Her rebuff was totally without malice.  ‘As I said, I’m here on my father’s behalf to see if you’ve given his offer any more thought while you’ve been convalescing?’  

So the offer was still on the table then.  Pace was surprised. 

‘Your father made me a very interesting offer Miss McEntire. It is one, frankly, he could put to others far more experienced than myself. I can’t understand why he hasn’t found somebody else by now.’

‘That’s just his way.’ Sarah McEntire spoke without a hint of family warmth. ‘He wants you on the project and I need to take him back an answer, today hopefully.’ As if to add a more human element, she added, ‘Please understand, Mr Pace.  I have a massive amount of organising and planning still to do, so an answer would be helpful, sooner rather than later.’

‘Of course I understand,’ Pace agreed, ‘but I’m going to need some more information before I commit myself to an answer, whatever that might be.’ Pace added the last part just to let her know his agreement wasn’t a foregone conclusion just because her father had decided to pick him. 

It was a Pace family tradition; a stubborn refusal to do anything when pressure was deliberately applied to do so.  It was a genetic trait that nearly proved fatal for his grandfather in the Great War. 

His company had been stuck, without food, in the trenches of France and ordered to sit tight and wait for supplies to arrive.  It was a stupid order in his grandfather’s book because the supply lines had been severed a week previously and their rations had been used up.  Consequently, he and his fellows took it in turns to leave their positions and shoot pigeons to eat.  Caught, tried and convicted of disobeying a direct order he, as the so-called ringleader of the group, was sentenced to be shot.

Luckily the battle of the Somme was to erupt a week later and all available men were moved up to fight.  It was only a temporary reprieve his accusers were sure but they were wrong. He somehow survived the evil slaughter and lived to fight in the Second World War, finally dying peacefully in his small seaside cottage at the age of eighty-three.

Pace’s father had been just the same, moving from one job to another as arguments and disagreements dictated.  He’d finally ensconced himself within the Trade Union movement and put all his fire and debating skills to good use in support of the workers. Sadly he had died of a heart attack at only forty-eight so, for him, the family stubbornness turned out to be a curse. 

His mother, on the other hand, was the most placid person Pace had yet known.  His memories were filled with pictures of her helping her children, or offering to help others.  She only survived his father by two years, falling victim to a ravaging strain of breast cancer.  But that was a long time ago; they’d both been gone for many years.  

As for the rest of his family?  His elder brother David didn’t have the fire at all, instead being calm and passive like his mother, but his younger sister, Amanda, could be tyrannical if provoked. She was a primary school teacher and Pace was sure she taught the best-behaved classes in her school.  Both lived in different countries.  David had moved to Australia, looking for a fresh start, just before their father’s death.  He had always loved to cook and saw his future in a country where the climate allowed for year round tourism.  He had done very well too, meeting a girl and marrying, then starting a small business that was booming by all accounts.  They only exchanged cards at Christmas but it was enough.  

Amanda grew quickly fed up with the state of British schools and got herself a job in Chicago, two years after David left and barely a week after their mother’s funeral.  Pace hadn’t spoken to her at all since then.  He didn’t have a reason but they’d never got on as kids and it was a situation of non-communication based on the ‘why should I phone her first, she should phone me’ syndrome.  So nobody phoned anybody and Pace was pretty much alone.

‘I have all the details right here, Mr Pace,’ Sarah said, jerking him from his reverie.  Pace hoped he hadn’t looked too distant.  

Sarah popped two small latches on her briefcase.  Opening it up, she removed a sheaf of A4 papers that were neatly comb-bound together and laid the document on top of the pile of his opened mail.  Closing the briefcase she stood up. As an after-thought she stooped down and picked up her mug of tea.  She took a final swallow before turning and disappearing with it into the kitchen.