The Noble Path: A relentless standalone thriller from the #1 bestseller by Peter May (electronic book reader .TXT) 📗

by one, they buried their dead; bodies wrapped in sheets slipped over the rail to be swallowed for ever by the black angry waters of the South China Sea. Six refugees, including a child, and one American a long way from home. Tears were lost in the rain that fell now in sudden squalls.

Elliot watched as McCue’s slight frame, wrapped in its makeshift shroud, slid into the water. It barely made a splash. He remembered the night at the klong house; McCue’s surly and suspicious disposition, the pretty, open face of the Thai girl he had married. Sweet and sour. The baby in the back room beneath the mosquito net. A mother without a husband, a son without a father. Elliot had entered their lives and stolen their future. Ironic, he thought, that he should be the one to survive.

He replayed the events of an hour before. Five minutes of madness. Nothing had been gained, except for the loss of innocent lives. Their attackers had not allowed for armed resistance. Clumsy and brutal, they too had paid with their lives. By accident or design they had rammed the trawler in attempting to draw alongside, and holed her just above the waterline. And now, in the rising seas, they were shipping water. If the storm that threatened should break, there was every chance they would sink.

He felt an arm slip through his and looked down to see Ny peering up at him. The deck, he realized suddenly, was deserted. The others had slipped away in silence to take cover under the awning or in the wheelhouse, where the Chinese doctor had set up a makeshift hospital to treat the wounded. From below came the sound of men working in the hold to try to patch the breach in the hull. The trawler dipped sharply, and a huge wave broke across her bows. The spray drenched Elliot and the girl.

‘Sometime, Mistah Elliot,’ she said seriously, shouting above the wind, ‘people need someone. Just to hold. Just to be there.’

Did she mean him, or her? He took her in his arms and held her as the thunder crashed overhead, and a great fork of lightning turned darkness to light.

The storm broke with a terrifying ferocity, clouds three thousand metres deep, forming vertical air movement up to one hundred and fifty kilometres per hour. Great white-topped waves gathered into towering walls of water that broke, repeatedly, over the trawler, threatening to engulf her. The captain fought to keep his craft head-on to the wind. But it was an impossible task. The forward hold filled rapidly with water, despite the efforts of the refugees, and the boat yawed and slewed hopelessly under the furious onslaught of the storm.

The awning was torn away in the first hour, and the wheelhouse windows smashed by the force of the waves. It was impossible to stay dry, to cook, to do anything but be sick, and seek whatever shelter or security could be found. Most of the refugees lashed themselves to the deck, or the rails, or crammed into the wheelhouse. Not one of them believed they would survive. Death was inevitable.

For fifteen hours the storm vented its unrelenting anger upon them, retribution for their daring to seek escape in a world where freedom is as rare a commodity as wealth – a gift granted only to a few. Each time they plunged into yet another chasm opening up beneath them, it seemed impossible that they could climb back out. Miraculously, the very force which had drawn them down would throw them up again, a few moments of optimism before another trough of despair. One could not fight such power. Surrender was the only option.

It was the early hours of the following morning before, finally, the storm abated – a gradual process as though the sea had slowly tired of failure, fatigued by its efforts, anger spent. The trawler, which had slipped out of the harbour at Rach Gia forty-eight hours before with such optimism, was battered, bruised and slowly sinking. Listing badly to starboard, the forward hold was almost entirely swamped, and the crippled craft made erratic progress through the still heavy swell. Their maps had been ruined, navigation gear in the wheelhouse irreparably damaged. The sky remained black with cloud, no stars available to guide them. The captain, almost dropping from exhaustion, scanned the horizon constantly for their signpost in the sky – the gas flares of the oil rigs off Terengganu. But he saw nothing, and could only keep the boat head-on to the wind, in the hope that this was the prevailing westerly, and not some distortion of the storm.

By the time daylight crept over them from the east, the captain estimated that they would sink in less than six hours. Elliot lay huddled together with Ny, Serey and Hau where they had lashed themselves to a rail in the lee of the wheelhouse. Further weakened by constant vomiting, he could barely move. Two more men had been lost overboard, a child had died, choking on its own sick, and a woman three months pregnant had miscarried during the night.

Gradually, as the sky cleared and the sun beat down to steam-dry the deck and its litter of human cargo, hope germinated again from the depths of despair. Stoves were lit, and the smell of cooking carried on the smoke. Clothes and goods were laid out to dry. Families and friends regrouped. But the spectre of death still moved among them, and few words were spoken.

Elliot drew himself into a seated position, leaning back against the wheelhouse. Serey handed him a bowl of rice and fish. He ate with difficulty, fighting back the urge to let his stomach empty itself yet again. His shoulder ached and his head was pounding. Hau held out a water bottle and he took it gratefully, the warm liquid washing away the foul taste of salt in his mouth. He drained the container and sat gasping for several seconds. ‘I could