The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (29 page)

“We are a lively society that happens to be on this island!”

Z
erbinetta’s
line from Strauss’
Ariadne auf Naxos
scrolled in Japanese characters
across the screens set into the backs of the blue velvet chairs in front of
them. In the stunning setting of the Opera City Tower in Tokyo’s ultramodern
Shinjuku District, Kuro could not believe his luck, turning to see Aiko looking
as radiant as ever by his side.

Aiko had her screen turned off. She did not need a
translation to interpret the moving performance unfolding in front of her eyes.

They smiled.

Their hands met.

Kuro savored the moment he had waited a long time for.

In his new role as a test inspector in Hitachi’s Oyama
factory, Kuro was “product focused,” “target driven” and saving every yen toward
the day he would move out of his parents’ poky apartment into an even smaller
one of his own. Who knew? This time next year he and Aiko could be swimming
with dolphins in Cancún.

Kuro had never been to an opera before but figured this
might be the way to Aiko’s heart, mulling over the idea for weeks before
finally plucking up the courage to invite her. He was delighted when she had
said yes.

H
ans
stared at the sagging tube, praying it was his mind playing tricks, but a
cursory inspection confirmed that air bubbles signaled the raft’s demise once
more. The duct tape must have come unstuck and the tube had spat out the compass
point. Now he would have to put all the tasks he had resumed on hold while attempting
to save them from disaster
again
.

What about the other compass point?

If he attached a wire lanyard to the second compass point, he
could reinsert it each time the pressure blew it out and maybe buy them enough
time to reach the shipping lanes. They
must
be close now. He opened
Penny’s jewelry case and went to work with the pliers, not just twisting one
loop of wire around the stainless-steel shaft but two to be on the safe side.

His endeavor was in vain. The raft deflated within the hour,
ejecting the makeshift stopper as if it were a thorn in its side. Subsequent
attempts also proved unsuccessful, Hans unable to pump the tube to half capacity
before the dreaded flow of bubbles leeched life from the failing craft once more.

Hans’ mind and body screamed at him to lie down, to close
his eyes and take time out from this god-forsaken hell. But he knew if he did, lassitude
would take over, seeing him slip from this world into the next and condemning
his beautiful girl to a watery grave. Their survival rested on Hans patching
the leak. Somehow he had to raise it out of the water and let the sun work its
magic, drying the area around the hole so the adhesive would take.

Solid rubber anchor points secured the exterior handline to
the top tube at three-foot intervals. Hans took a coil of nylon cord from the
ditch kit and cut off a length. He lashed one end to the section of handline below
the starboard side of the doorway and the other to a webbing strap at the rear
of the raft, repeating the process for the port side, resulting in two guy
ropes spanning the doughnut-shaped hull like thwarts in a rowing boat.

Hans inserted the raft’s wooden paddle into a bight in the
starboard cord and began twisting it slowly. The effect was immediate, the
tubes bowing inwards like a pair of lopsided lips. He locked the paddle off
against the rope with a length of string and repeated the process using the
snorkel for leverage on the port line.

Although Hans was pleased with his effort, the floor hung
low in the water and the bottom tube dipped below the surface every time he leant
out of the doorway to inspect the leak. It was imperative to keep the damaged
area out of the sea long enough to make the repair. The alternative meant
hopping overboard and attempting to fix the problem while treading shark-infested
water, and by the time the tube dried enough for him to patch it, he doubted he
would have the strength left to climb back aboard.

Hans’ stress increased, and the stabbing pain intensified. He
took a few deep breaths, which only exacerbated the agony, and went to work
untying all his knots. Adopting a different approach, he fed the remaining ten feet
of cord through the section of handline directly below the doorway and pulled
it back on itself to create two equal lengths. He knotted the doubled-up cord
in the middle and lashed the two ends a yard apart to webbing straps on the
opposite side of the raft, resulting in a Y-shaped arrangement. He hoped that
when tensioned, the rope would divide the strain across the three points, and
only the raft’s damaged front section would rise up, like the prow of an
inflatable speedboat.

Hans inserted the paddle into the doubled-up stem of the Y and
began to wind, gradually letting air out of the top tube’s valve as he did.

“Hee-hee-hee!”

Although far from perfect, the pulley system worked better
than before, the punctured area slowly scrunching inwards as planned. Hans
treated himself to a rest.

“What are you doing, Papa?”

“Well, I’m supposed to be conducting the orchestra, but the
stagehands have gone on strike, so I’m doing
their
job too.”

In the relatively calm conditions, the troublesome hole lifted
clear of the water, with only the odd wave lapping up to foil Hans’ plan. He
found that by positioning their weight and equipment accordingly, the section
of tube remained out of the water long enough for the sun’s rays to take
effect. In no time at all it was as dry as the day it came out of the factory.

Hans took a small square of sandpaper from the repair kit
and, lying flat across the sagging floor, roughed up the area around the leak
so the adhesive would take hold. He knew from countless times fixing bicycle punctures
it was best to be generous with the glue, so he squeezed a large bead from the
tube and wiped it around the hole. Hans’ arm went into spasm, his face screwing
up as he stifled a scream. When he opened his eyes, their only tube of adhesive
had slipped from his grasp.

“No!”

Hans considered diving after it but knew it was too late.
Instead he scrambled for the repair kit, pulling out the first patch he found. In
his haste to lie back down, water surged up over the carefully prepared hole.
Fighting to stay calm, Hans blew off the worst of the unwanted brine and, using
his finger, dabbed at the adhesive in an attempt to spread it evenly. He removed
the protective film from the back of the patch, but the situation did not look
good. The minimal amount of glue adhering to the tube had turned milky in color,
indicating contamination with salt water. Hans had no choice but to slap on the
patch and hope for the best.

He clambered over the restraining cords and slumped against
the tubes at the rear of the raft, trying to keep the repair aloft long enough
for the adhesive to dry.

The Phantom of the Opera is here . . . inside my mind . .
.

Hans could see it now. This whole experience had been a
battle of good versus evil, and the phantom had struck again. The phantom was
winning.

After half an hour Hans released the tension in the cords
and pumped the top tube back up to capacity. Then he secured the connector to
the bottom tube’s valve. This was it. Everything rested on whether the patch held.

As he squeezed it in his hands, the pump wheezed like a
forty-a-day smoker running for a bus. Hans was hesitant to inflate the chamber
completely, happy to leave it slightly under pressure to give the repair the
best chance of success. But just as he thought the battle was over, bubbles
spilled out from under the patch with as much vigor as before.

U
nder
a halo of cigarette smoke in a Filipino restaurant basement on the outskirts of
Tokyo, Alfonso played the poker game of his life.

Sipping whiskey, the usual suspects crowding the baize, he
reflected on what a tough week it had been sitting in his crane loading goods
onto the endless stream of colossi pulling up at the dockside in Yokohama, a
process made all the more difficult by stringent safety rules implemented in
the wake of the
Tokyo Pride
incident. The subsequent inquiry into the
loss of eighty-seven containers went on for months, yet Alfonso managed to come
through it unscathed, the guilt assigned to the haulage company for supplying
aging equipment. Besides, universally accepted was that no one could have anticipated
a force ten gale wreaking havoc in the North Atlantic in May.

In the Philippine village of Jimenez on the island of
Mindanao, life ticked over at a snail’s pace compared to the bustling Japanese
capital. Auto rickshaws and other mostly dilapidated modes of transport spewed
noxious fumes as they chugged in a slow procession along the narrow high
street, roadside entrepreneurs selling all manner of fast food, fruit and
vegetables off barrows shaded from the sun by large parasols.

Alfonso’s wife, Nichol, pulled a tissue from a cellophane
pack and wiped the sweat from her brow before presenting her ID card to the
woman in the post office. The worker smiled and barked an order to an elderly
man in a sleeveless shirt, shorts and flip-flops, who sat dozing under a
cooling fan. He disappeared into the backroom and returned seconds later
hefting a large rectangular object wrapped in cardboard and plastered with
airfreight stickers.

With the help of her two children, Alfonso Jr. and Lilibeth,
Nichol lugged the surprise delivery back to their wooden shack, its brand-new
corrugated-iron roof shining like silver foil in the midday rays. She cut
through the packaging with a kitchen knife to reveal a Hitachi 42-ES-1080 widescreen
TV – another luxury sent from Yokohama. As the children shrieked with joy,
Nichol’s devout Catholic mind didn’t question how her husband afforded such
gifts on his paltry salary.

T
hat
night, although utterly drained, Hans barely slept. He did not have the energy
to inflate the leaking tube with the five hundred pumps an hour it required to
keep its shape. As a result, the ocean splashed up over the canopy and seeped
through the zippers, the excess drag working against Eurus’ compassionate blow
to reduce their progress to nothing.

The sagging floor enveloped Hans, and he feared they would drown.
He attempted to lie at the edge of the raft but soon rolled back into its waterlogged
folds. Raising himself took increasing effort, Hans’ panic worsened by sharks knocking
against his outlined figure. Being lighter, Jessica fared better and slept
peacefully.

In the morning the little girl’s gentle snores signaled obliviousness
to her father’s failure and broken promises. Hans watched his angel’s chest rise
and fall, happy memories floating up out of the insanity like compassionate
ghosts . . .

Rescuing her mother in Sierra Leone. Waking up in the
hospital after the car crash to find Kerry there by his side. Buying their
first home in Maine and – ha! – painting over those ugly pink walls. Founding
the Larsson Investigation Agency and holding his tiny baby seconds after she
entered the world without so much as a whimper.

He thought about the night terrors she experienced as a tot,
knocking on their bedroom door with tears running down her cheeks, and the
satisfying sense of family he experienced when she climbed under the covers between
them
.

Boy, did we make a fuss of her in the morning!

The time he taught her to ride her first bicycle – not that
she needed teaching. Hans had steadied his child for all of ten seconds before
she pulled away and pedaled up the street without so much as a backwards look.

When JJ arrived, Jessica doted on her sibling as if nothing
else mattered. The two years between them could easily have been ten for all
the love and attention she gave him. Their bond had been strong. She had been
so brave since his death.

“She didn’t deserve it.” Hans burst into tears. “She didn’t
deserve it . . . She didn’t deserve it!”

Anger engulfed him, like wildfire raging through a tinder-dry
forest.

“
Nooooooo
!
God
!
Nooooooo
! She doesn’t
deserve this! She doesn’t deserve this!”

He sobbed and sobbed, until apathy took hold, gradually pacified
his ire. He was tired of struggling to survive, tired of fighting all his life.

“Damn you, phantom!
Damn
you! I don’t care about your
pathetic opera, your stupid scary games! I don’t care . . . I
don’t
ca .
. . a . . . a . . . re . . . u-huht . . . huh . . . uh . . .”

Hans pulled Jessica’s knife from his pocket and peeled open
the blade. He paused, contemplating whether to slash at the raft’s useless
tubes, but decided to plunge it straight into his heart. He climbed into the
doorway with the intention of letting his dying body fall overboard. Without
his weight in the raft, Jessica stood a better chance of reaching the shipping
lanes.

He held the knifepoint a foot from his chest with his good
arm. It was all he could do to reach out and close his other palm around the
handle, blanking the agony in the knowledge it would be over in a moment and he
would reunite with his wife and son.

He thrust the blade toward him.
“
Arrrrrrrh
!”

“Papa!”

The knifepoint stopped an inch from his rib cage.

Jessica was not impressed. “You must
never
hold the
blade toward you! Naughty Papa!”

Fraught with pain and guilt, Hans let his daughter’s words
sink in. He stared at the knife, remembering the day Old Bill pressed it into Jessica’s
hand, her smile of appreciation – gratitude he felt tenfold, truly understanding
the sentiment represented by . . . the silver anchor
screwed
to the
ebony handle!

Hell!

Why had he not thought of this?

The screws!

Surely he could use one of them to seal the puncture.

Everything suddenly made sense
.

Old Bill wasn’t stupid. He knew dilemmas like this were the
norm. He prepared us for the worst eventuality, not only with his kind words
but also with this gift from afar.

Hans set to work, using the filleting knife’s fine tip to
locate the screw’s slot and applying gentle pressure to turn it. Triumphant, he
held the small stainless steel fixing aloft, knowing their troubles would soon
be behind them. Leaning over the side, he pondered how to secure the screw in
place, or at least get its thread to bite into the raft’s rubber skirt. There
was no way he could mess this up. No way would he would let their last chance
at salvation end up in Davy Jones’ locker.

Hans clamped the head of the screw between his thumb and
forefinger, ignoring the intense pain to focus on locating the miserable little
hole. He scraped the brass point over the carapace in ever-decreasing circles until
he felt the point sink home. As he turned the screw, the thread bit into the
rubber and its beveled head began to rip through his shriveled fingertips. It
was a positive sign. The fit was snug. He switched to the filleting knife,
delighted when the screwface finally countersunk in the rubber.

Hans had a good feeling about the repair, a perfect union in
every sense. With no waiting for glue to dry, he began pumping up the tube,
experiencing a degree of contempt and flagrant disregard for the seriousness of
their predicament. The screw would either hold or it wouldn’t, and there was
not a lot he could do about it.

The tube plumped to near capacity, and despite feelings of recklessness,
Hans was content to stop there. A wave of nostalgia swept over him as he
remembered fixing the leaking planks in his daysailer as a teenager before putting
to sea for a test.

He crawled into the doorway to inspect the repair, his body
tingling with suspense.

Yes!

Not a single bubble.