The Gilgamesh Conspiracy (27 page)

One night Gerry woke up and heard Angela moaning in the bunk above her. It was not the first time but she had decided that she would say something. ‘Can you learn to do that more quietly, do you think?’

Instantly there was complete stillness from her cellmate. The next morning it was plain that Angela was highly embarrassed.

‘Sorry, but I had to say something,’ Gerry apologised.

‘I suppose you work it all off with exercise, you never do it.’

‘I’ve been in here for four years, and no amount of exercise is enough,’ Gerry replied. ‘I’m just, well, quiet.’

Three months later Angela heard Gerry weeping softly in the middle of the night and amazed that her tough cellmate would ever display such emotion she climbed down and asked her what was wrong.

‘It’s my daughter’s fifth birthday today,’ Gerry said.

‘Do you want to talk about it at all?’

‘Maybe I do. Sit down on the edge there, so I can talk quietly.’ Gerry described in vague terms how she had become pregnant, how her partner had died and how she had given birth in prison and given up her baby for adoption.

‘No wonder you’re so sad,’ Angela said. On a sudden impulse she lay down beside her on the narrow bunk and gave her a hug. Her arms lingered around her and Gerry felt an unaccountable urge. She reached up and cupped Angela’s breast. She felt her tense up but then she relaxed again. After a few seconds Angela asked ‘why are you doing that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Gerry replied. ‘Why aren’t you stopping me?’

‘I don’t know either,’ Angela replied. Gerry rolled over to face her. They stared at each other for a moment and then began to kiss. Angela felt Gerry’s hands on her bottom pulling them closer together.

‘We’re still not gay are we?’ Angela asked after a minute.

No, just sex starved.’ Then she giggled quietly when she felt a hand slide under her shirt.

‘Do you think we should stop?’ Angela asked quietly.

‘No I don’t,’ she whispered back.

As darkness fell she folded the canopy around her. ‘I’m like a Cornish pasty,’ she muttered, ‘or a pizza calzone. She lay back underneath the canopy and stared up at the sky and tried to go to sleep, but her lack of physical activity and anxiety stopped her from feeling tired. ‘Maybe I’ll count sheep,’ she announced quietly. Nobody answered.

‘I said maybe I’ll count sheep!’ she shouted.

‘There you go Gerry, nobody gives a shit,’ she said.

White lights flashing high overhead caught her eye. ‘Oh look there’s another aeroplane,’ she announced. ‘I hope you’re enjoying the flight madam. What would you like to drink? Diet Coke? Gin and tonic? Red wine? A nice big glass of cool water then? Sparkling or still? Sparkling perhaps, with ice and lemon. Something for dinner? Fillet steak? Seared Sea Bass? Chicken Jalfrezi? Caprese salad followed by Saltimbocca Romana? Double bacon cheese burger and fries? No nothing for me thank you, I’m not hungry. Though maybe you could give me a couple of paracetamol for my headache and then I think I’ll just stare at the stars and wait to die if that’s alright.’

She saw what appeared to be a star moving slowly overhead. ‘A moving star? That’s unusual,’ she muttered. ‘Must be a satellite, or maybe the international space station.’ She wondered what life was like in orbit. Definitely not as boring as floating in a raft. Probably more interesting than being in prison. Higher self-esteem, certainly; less personal danger, probably. She fell asleep.

Dawn the next morning proved to be a slow progression from a delicate white glow to the east followed by a steady brightening of the sky from starlit black through to dull blue until the sun hauled itself relentlessly clear of the horizon to shine with increasing strength. Gerry gazed all round at the cloudless sky and wearily put the canopy back up. She picked up the bottle and swigged back the brackish water. ‘That doesn’t taste as bad as I thought. Maybe that means it will do me some good.’

Rather to her surprise she needed to pee a little and decided to add it to the water that swirled round the edge of the raft. A sudden stinging sensation made her flinch and she examined herself. ‘That’s great; a urinary tract infection or something. Just to make my last days more interesting. Thank you God. That’s alright Miss Tate, take these antibiotics and drink plenty of water.’

She gave a little giggle. ‘Don’t forget; drink plenty of water. Yes doctor. Don’t forget…drink
plenty
of water. Don’t forget Miss Tate…drink
plenty
of water.’

‘
Plenty
of water.’

‘Plenty of water.’

‘Plenty…of…water.’

‘Plen……teeee.’

‘I’m cold.’ She shivered. ‘Why am I so cold? The sun’s gone down. No it hasn’t. It’s just turned cloudy. Over there, that grey mist beneath the cloud looks like rain. Shit!’

Summoning up her last reserves of energy Gerry hauled down the canopy and set it back up with the underside on top and formed into a funnel as she had practised. She had her bottles ready and her sweater and blouse laid out in case the funnel effect didn’t work. She sat there shivering hoping and hoping as the rain came towards her. At one time she thought it was going to pass her by but suddenly she was caught in a deluge. She filled up a water bottle and tried some. Yuk! Salt and chemicals. She filled it again; tried it and swore her foulest oaths at the taste. A third time and this time she drank and drank until there were two litres of water sloshing about in her belly. She began to drink some more but there was a warning twinge of pain deep inside her. She filled up the two water bottles and carefully stoppered them and then she lay back and let the rain wash over her laughing a little and occasionally mumbling ‘
plenty
of water.’ Then she doubled up in pain as her digestive system tried to cope with the sudden flood of liquid after days of deprivation, alternately hugging up her knees and then arching her back as she tried to alleviate the spasms.

Gerry groaned in exhaustion as she wrapped the canopy around herself. By the light of the moon her watch told her that the time was somewhere close to midnight. Her stomach had settled down and although she was no longer suffering from a raging thirst, she was miserably scared and lonely. She had spent many days in solitary confinement in prison for her multitude of misdemeanours, but the guards had always been close by and had provided some human contact. Back then she had defiantly decided that solitary confinement was easily endured, but now she realised the true meaning of solitude she realised how hard it was to bear. She tried to replay movies in her mind as a way to alleviate the tedium and occasionally sunk into bouts of fitful sleep as her memories took her off into dreams. The night slowly dragged on towards dawn and another day on the life raft began.

‘Wind - light; sea state - moderate; cloud - broken layer of stratus to the southwest; temperature - probably going to be hot.’ She reached for a bottle as the sun cleared the horizon and drank a quarter litre of water, then tensed her stomach muscles in anticipation of painful cramps. After a few minutes she relaxed and said ‘Well I seem to have got away with that; now what shall I wear today? Smelly underwear, sweaty and salty trousers, shirt and sweater slightly washed in rainwater or maybe nothing at all?’ She looked down at her body. Her skin was a strange mixture of even suntan and blotchy red sunburn, decorated further by fading bruises.  Her face still ached dully where she had been hit. She ran her tongue over her missing tooth and felt the crusty scab where her lip had been split. Then with misplaced satisfaction she saw that she had lost fat over her stomach and her abdominal muscles were once again displayed with a definition she had not shown for many years. Apart from that she felt physically in fairly good shape, apart from one small problem. She squatted down and tried peeing; she groaned but then on reflection decided the stinging pain had subsided. ‘Thank heaven for small mercies,’ she muttered.

She prodded the sides of the raft and decided that she could afford to work up a sweat using the hand pump to get it fully inflated again and afterwards she felt better for the twenty minutes of physical effort required.  She lay back on the canopy and as the body heat generated by her exertion subsided she folded the fabric back over herself for warmth and watched the dawn’s progress. After an hour the sun rose further until it began to shine into her eyes. She closed them and settled back further under the canopy and tried to decide if she should get dressed or raise the canopy into position and then she fell into a deep sleep.

The raft plunged down the side of a wave and Gerry rolled out of the folded canopy and slid down towards the end of the raft.

‘Help me Ali!’ she called out as she thudded against the side and grabbed for one of the straps. She looked around to check that he was alright until the last remnant of her dream was chased away by the memory of his death. The sea was behaving strangely; it was no longer the gentle swell of the last two days which she now barely noticed, neither was it the flat calm of her first day or the white capped spray of the storm.  Instead the waves seemed shorter and steeper. It felt like the sea sucked out from under the raft and then thrust it back upwards. She looked around to see from which direction the waves were coming and they seemed to be coming from two directions at right angles to each other. The clouds were a continuous layer of stratus that seemed to be moving with some speed overhead. Just then the wind tore a ragged split in the low cloud and through it she saw a chain of vast thunderheads with black centres split by lightning flashes. She stared up at them until the rip in the clouds passed by.

The raft lurched and she was thrown off balance even from her seated position. Spray crashed against the side, shot upwards and then drenched her as it fell. ‘Shit,’ she mumbled. A cold gust of wind lifted the loose edge of the canopy and she flung herself across and grabbed the flapping sheet before it could be carried away. Where were her bottles? By some good fortune still wedged in the corner. Where were her clothes? There, the soggy mass floating on the floor. She struggled into them. A sharp gust nearly pulled the sweater from her grasp as she lifted it over her head but eventually she was clammily dressed. She gathered one water bottle and the other raft equipment and then tucked them inside the canopy which she rolled up as tightly as she could and then secured to the raft with the straps. Then she tied herself on and clutched the other bottle tight just as the raft began to climb the side of a wave. She looked up to see the crest begin to roll towards her but the raft crashed through it before it broke.  She wondered what would happen if the raft was tossed upside down. Maybe there would be some air trapped underneath and she would hang down from the straps until she got a chance to climb back on top. Most likely she would drown. Oh well, who would miss her? ‘Nobody really,’ she muttered.

The raft began to climb the next wave and she felt her stomach heave, despite being empty. She felt a sudden looseness in her bowels; she gave way to it and briefly felt a new liquid warmth soaking the seat of her trousers. ‘Mostly water; should wash out with some bio powder,’ she mumbled. There was a sudden cold gust of wind that pulled her hair across her face. She swept it aside, looked up and saw the sky had turned black overhead. There was a blinding flash followed almost instantly by a huge crash of thunder and moments later she was pounded by heavy rain. The raft began its ascent up the next wave.

For hour after hour she lay there, alternately clutching a water bottle and a strap with each hand and trying to ignore the pain as her palms were rubbed raw. Quite suddenly it seemed to her fatigued mind that the wind had eased and the sky cleared to the west where the sun now hung quite low in the sky. The sea still tossed the raft around but she presumed it would take some time after the storm front passed by before the sea settled. She uncapped the bottle she had been clutching for hours and had a good drink of water. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well Ali, apparently we’re no worse off than we were before,’ she announced. She gazed around the horizon but there was nothing to be seen in any direction apart from the waves.

‘I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky, and all I ask is a tall ship and a what the fuck is that?’

A pale, sunlit orange triangle appeared briefly above the waves, disappeared, and then re-appeared.   

The bright sun softened as it sunk towards the western horizon. It was surrounded by a dull red sky that contrasted with the deep blue of the sea and the dark clouds overhead.  Steven Morris stared at the scene and then inspected the weather maps of the north Atlantic that he had just downloaded from passageweather.com. He glanced quickly but thoroughly around his sixteen metre yacht for any signs of storm damage, stuffed the map into the front pocket of his jacket and then hauled the mainsail back up to its full height. He waited for the yacht to heel as the sail took the wind and thought about setting the jib. The craft crested a wave and then pitched down into the next trough, the sea broke heavily against the fore peak sending a drenching mass of spray crashing down on top of the bows. Perhaps he should wait until the morning when the sea should have moderated. He ducked back down into the cockpit, checked that the global positioning satellite signal was good and adjusted the automatic steering so that his yacht was once more heading towards his destination on the east coast of the United States.

He was hungry. He pulled off his waterproof clothing and thrust it into the locker. He took one more look at the sky beyond the yacht’s stern. He could see distant flickers of lightning as the storm blew away to the east but according to the latest weather forecast he could anticipate at least four days of good weather before the next front would blow in from the west to offer a fresh challenge to his seamanship. 

Now the sun was so low that he could only see it when the yacht crested the waves, and with each successive peak more of the red disc disappeared until only a flickering red line remained. As he swung down into the cockpit he glimpsed a curious shape in the sea beyond the prow.  He grabbed the coaming and jumped up on to the thwart to keep it in view. The object crested a wave and as it caught the light of the setting sun it appeared to be a dull orange colour. It lay long and low in the water for a moment and then slid out of sight down the other side of the wave. He stared out into the darkening sea and as the last of the sun sank below the horizon he saw it rising sluggishly towards the crest of the next wave. He tried to fix its position against the clouds on the horizon and then altered course towards it. It was probably only some piece of flotsam but the picture he retained in his mind’s eye suggested that it might have been large enough to damage his yacht if he was clumsy and collided with it.

The moon was not due to rise for at least an hour. He took the flashlight from its bracket and shone it hopefully. The object was much too far away to be picked up by its beam. He replaced it and pulled out a single shot flare gun.  His body tensed as he pulled the trigger. There was a bang, louder than he expected and the firework trail of the projectile arced up into the sky. He shut his eyes for a moment as the flare burst into life. As the bright light descended on its little parachute it gave him a good sight of his target. He altered course slightly and then stood staring out to sea using the flashlight sparingly to preserve the battery life. After ten minutes he still had not spotted the floating object. He thought about firing off another flare but then he caught a glimpse of it at the top of a wave only about a hundred and fifty metres away off the starboard bow. He hurriedly altered course towards it and then winched the mainsail down. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered as he held his thumb on the engine auto start button. Ten seconds later he heard and felt the diesel motor rumbling into life in the bowels of the yacht. With one hand he steered the craft whilst playing the flashlight beam over the sea. Suddenly it was right in front of the yacht. He threw the engine into reverse but not in time to prevent the stem grinding against the floating object.

Steven put the motor into neutral with a curse and gazed out over the side. He was relieved to see a cylindrical fabric tube about a half metre in diameter rather than a rigid object that might have damaged the yacht’s bows. The flashlight revealed a large inflatable raft about ten metres long. It was curiously rectangular and flat at one end; it was not orange, but made from a dull silver fabric that had reflected the dying sunlight. He couldn’t see anyone aboard, but playing his flashlight at the far end he could see a bundled up sheet of heavy duty plastic fabric. What lay beneath it?

Somewhat reluctantly he unclipped a boat hook from the cabin roof and pulled the life raft hard up against the side of his yacht. There was a webbing strap fastened along the top of the cylindrical side of the raft and using the hook he manoeuvred it awkwardly along the boat until he could use the aft mooring line to tow it astern. He checked his battery condition indicators and then switched off the diesel motor. He examined the raft as best he could while leaning over the stern and playing the flashlight beam over it. Maybe someone was alive in the raft, sheltering under the plastic sheet?

‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Anyone aboard?’

He played his flashlight over, looking for any signs of movement.

‘Anyone in the raft there?’

Perhaps he should climb aboard and examine it more closely? A wave heaved the raft up towards the yacht. It then sank rapidly down and by some combination of their relative motion a jet of water erupted from between the two craft and soaked him thoroughly. He cursed his stupidity in not putting his waterproofs back on. He decided it was too dangerous to climb down into the raft in the dark with the sea in its current state; he pictured it breaking free while he was on board it and watching his yacht drifting away. He would do nothing more until morning by which time the sea should have moderated.  He looked up at the mast. There was no point in setting the sails. With the raft acting as a sea anchor, the yacht’s handling and steering would be problematic at best. He decided to ride out the night.

He walked into the saloon cabin, sat down in front of his computer and switched it on. As he waited for the satellite link to connect he gazed up at the bulkhead where the photograph of his late wife used to be fixed. Six weeks ago he had realised that he was spending too much time clutching a glass of whisky and gazing at her picture and tormenting himself with memories and he had taken it down and hidden it in a drawer.

He thought again about the strange design of the raft. That rectangular shape would make it awkward to manoeuvre or to tow and that curious raised flat end would make it less seaworthy. A series of low pitched bleeps told him that the internet connection was available.

After a few minutes searching the web sites of manufacturers of life rafts and their associated equipment he discovered what he had moored to the stern of his yacht must be a slide raft from an airliner. Usually it was packed into the lower half of a passenger door but if the door was opened in an emergency then the raft would erupt from its container and inflate into a rectangular shape that passengers could slide down if they had to escape from the aircraft when it was on land, or if the aircraft ditched into the sea then it could be detached from the side of the aircraft and became a life raft that could hold fifty people.

Steven read through the description of the raft and its features. Apparently all the newest ones were fitted with an Emergency Locator Transmitter that would broadcast a signal on the international distress frequencies for at least forty-eight hours before the internal battery was exhausted. He slowly folded down the screen of the computer. His own life raft was packed into a readily accessible box on the cabin roof and he knew it was fitted with an ELT. He wondered if the raft floating outside had been equipped with one and if it was working.  Maybe he should find out. He reached over to the radio set and switched it on. He selected the receiver to 406 MHz; there was nothing but a quiet hiss from the internal loudspeaker. He switched it off again and went outside to look at the raft. The moon had risen above the horizon and the raft was bathed in its silvery light. He listened as the waves slapped at the sides of the raft and gurgled under the flat end. He had read that it had been attached to the side of the aircraft on the door sill and when the door was opened it …that was strange; it seemed that the heap of fabric at the far end of the raft had shifted. He shone the flashlight beam over it. Perhaps the action of the waves on the raft had tumbled it into a new position. He heard a sudden movement behind him and began to turn round but as he did a savage blow to his head knocked him unconscious.

He woke up with a throbbing, aching head. As soon as he tried to shift his position he found his hands were tied together behind his back. His knees were bound and so were his ankles. He tried to straighten his legs but his hands were held to his feet by another length of rope. He had been attacked, knocked out and expertly tied up by an unknown assailant. He swore quietly under his breath. By his nature he was not a man much given to fear, and as an ex-Major in the Royal Marines he was mentally well equipped to supress panic. His most important conclusion was that if his unknown assailant wanted to kill him then he would already be dead, not trussed up.

He looked up and around and realised he was lying on the deck in the forward cabin of the yacht. Normally a sleeping cabin for two, he had turned it into a storage compartment. But hell! What had happened to him?

‘Fuck!’

The oath was called out in an irritated female voice. The woman must have been concealed on the raft under the plastic sheets. She had climbed on board when he was down below and then knocked him out. He was about to call out, but stopped. Who was she? An ordinary person would have called out to him as soon as he had found the raft. She would have cried out in the blessed relief of being miraculously rescued from near certain death, and hugged him in gratitude. She would not have assaulted him and tied him up. 

He looked around as best he could in the dark space. There were no rough metallic edges against which he could try to sever the binding ropes. He could call out and asked to be released. He could pretend to be deeply unconscious and hope that his captor might release him. He could cry out that he was in agony and ask that at least his hands be released so that he could straighten his legs. Maybe then he could find a way of freeing himself. He realised that he needed to relieve himself. In the old days in the Marines, even in training it was expected that you would just wet your pants. But he was not a young officer in the Marines any more, he was forty-seven years old, in his own yacht and he did not want this woman, even if she was a homicidal maniac, to find him with wet trousers.

‘Hey!’ he shouted’ and winced as the ache in his head suddenly intensified. He was about to call again but then he heard a stumbling of feet from the saloon and then a few moments later he heard the bolts being worked free and the door opened. He jerked his head sideways so that the door did not hit him.  The light from the main cabin made him screw up his eyes. He retained an impression of a face surrounded by long straggly dark hair peering round the door at him. He opened his eyes again and gazed up at the woman standing in the doorway. She stared down at him with brown bloodshot eyes; a yellowing bruise surrounded one of them; a thin scar led from beside her ear down her neck to her collarbone and her lips were cracked and swollen. Then her eyes darted down to inspect the ropes around his legs, and then looked around the cabin for a moment before staring at him. ‘So you’ve come round; I was afraid I’d hit you too hard; I didn’t mean to knock you out so much.’ Her voice was educated southern counties English, incongruous against her villainous appearance further enhanced by a missing front tooth.

‘I’m in pain! Can you release my legs? I’ve got awful cramp.’

‘What’s the password?’

This seemed a somewhat surreal question. He stared at the woman for a moment wondering if she had been driven insane by her exposure on the raft. He slowly became aware that she stank; a mixture of waterlogged clothing, vomit and possibly excrement. Suddenly she gave a short, irritated sigh. ‘For your computer!’

‘Oh! Its…I’ll tell you what it is after you’ve untied me.’

‘Bollocks!’ she replied emphatically. She stared at him for a moment before continuing in a more reasonable voice ‘Actually if I can use your internet connection to make a few inquiries then I can probably release you altogether. I just need to check a few things out.’

‘About me?’

‘You’re on the list.’

‘Will you be quick? I really need to go to the head.’

She frowned at him. ‘To the what?’

‘The loo, I need to go to the loo.’

‘Why did you say ‘to the head’?’

‘Because we are on a boat. That’s what they’re called on board a boat.’

Despite the bloodshot eyes and the bruising he thought he could see a hint of amusement on her face.

‘Give me the password then you jerk, and maybe you won’t have to wet your knickers.’

Bitch! Bloody pirate! She had assaulted him on his own yacht, now she was insulting him, demeaning him…and he was getting angry to no purpose. He must stay calm; see if he could get an opportunity to turn the situation around.

‘Ok, it’s “surprise”’

‘A surprise?’ She shook her head in amazement or disdain. ‘Go on then; surprise me.’

‘No! That’s it. The word ‘surprise’; it’s the name of my yacht.’

She looked at him with an expression of understanding and maybe even apology. ‘Oh I see! - thanks.’

She shut the cabin door and bolted it, leaving a strong odour behind her. Steven heard her shuffling back into the saloon. He wriggled about trying to relieve the pain in his right shoulder and right hip which had been carrying his weight since he had been tied up. Time passed slowly. He thought about his assailant, wondering how long she had been on the raft; had she been alone all the time? Had there been fellow survivors, now dead? Damn, his shoulder hurt. What kind of aircraft had she been on? Was she a passenger or one of the crew? What had happened to the rest of the passengers? That raft had been large enough to carry forty or fifty people. He thought back to the description of the raft in the web site. Why had the ELT not summoned a rescue mission to pick up survivors? Perhaps it had, and perhaps someone would soon come out to his yacht to take this mad woman off his hands and leave him to continue his solitary journey. His head ached; his shoulder ached; his hip ached and his bladder cried out for relief. He was about to call out when he heard the woman shuffling across the deck and moments later the door opened.