Dead in the Water Read Online Free PDF

looked straight ahead and turned the radio up ever so slightly. He seemed to know what was coming.
    At first glance Jeremy thought they’d all escaped. Then he caught sight of an arm fallen in the road. Jerking in spasms. The body attached to it hidden behind a pile of litter. And then, as the car moved on, a second boy, a thin ghost inside the deep blue of an oversize Chelsea football shirt, the shoulder stained dark with blood. The mouth opening and shutting. Unheard through toughened glass.
    Two children bleeding to death in the street. Five soldiers. He counted them, then glimpsed a football rolling down the hill.
    “ Stop. Stop. At least call an ambulance. We can’t just leave them.” But the driver had his orders.
    Two of the soldiers, barely out of their teens, stepped into the road. One brandished his rifle, pointing at the car, the other raised a hand. The driver, who slowed to a crawl, but never stopped, pointed calmly to his Ministry pass in the window. The soldier nodded and waved them on. The Mercedes gliding away from the incident, up towards Maiquetia; and then doubling back to the old industrial district, where Jeremy had a flat in a converted warehouse. He called the emergency services on his mobile; a young woman said she’d send an ambulance. He didn’t believe her.
     
    And now he can’t sleep. He’s used to stories of violence on the streets, but has never personally witnessed anything like that. He knows what people will say, even in the One World office: those kids knew about the curfew, they chose to take the risk. He should be hardened to it, but it hurts. People don’t want to talk about it, as if denying the country’s on the verge of civil war will hold the madness at bay. He should be like the foreign correspondents he frequently socialises with. He can keep up with them drink for drink but he can’t keep everything neatly in separate compartments the way they seem able to. They file their reports, do a stint in front of the cameras, look earnest, distraught, tearful even – whatever’s appropriate – then switch off, get drunk, get laid. That’s how you do the job. Think global, fuck local, as the saying goes. So why can’t I?
    But it’s not only the killing that’s keeping him awake. The thing with Rachel is becoming obsessive. Rachel Boyd, Mark Boyd’s daughter. Three months ago, in early February, Boyd called him and asked a favour. Nothing unusual in Boyd asking for favours – for years they were colleagues and the closest of friends. Rachel had registered for a PhD, and wanted to undertake a research project with an indigenous tribe in the rain forest. Could Jeremy arrange something?
    “ Mark, it’s not a good time. Things aren’t very stable here at the moment.” Three months ago that was a fair assessment, not a euphemism. It’s only in the past week that things have begun to get out of hand.
    “ I know,” said Mark. “But Rachel’s made her mind up. And she’ll go anyway.”
    So he agreed. And met her at the airport on April 7 th . An Iberia flight from London Heathrow via Madrid, arriving in Caracas 15:50 local time. It’s in his diary.
    The thing with Rachel. The ‘thing’. What thing? There was nothing. She laughed a lot, enjoyed his company, flattered him; maybe they both flirted a bit, teased each other. But they didn’t kiss, didn’t hold hands. They didn’t even do anything very exciting – he set up a meeting with José Dias; he took her to the Jardin Botanico , they had dinner together one evening. And he can’t stop thinking about her.
    Jeremy’s recommendation was good enough for José, who was confident he could find a welcoming community where she could base herself for her research.
    From Caracas they planned to travel to La Esmerelda, a small town on the upper reaches of the Orinoco where they’d work with the Forest People’s Alliance for a couple of weeks before heading into the rain forest. It was all a bit rushed, but a perfect