Sky Blue Sky

By Mark Warford

"IT'S LIKE SEVERING NERVES JUST TO WATCH THEM TWITCH..."

MARK WARFORD presents, 'SKY BLUE SKY' A NOVEL

Thomas Edward Shaw is no drifter. He flies cargo in the islands; he rides motorcycles in the desert. Shaw sails and he dives and...

Yeah, he’s that guy.

But life is about to kick him in the teeth. He’s gonna meet a monster. Pure evil. He’s gonna witness the darkest side of human suffering. And it’s gonna rock his world. And he’s gonna struggle with that.

‘Cause he’s that guy.

Embrace neither dream, nor memory - slavery exists. And one man is about to make a difference.

From the warm, opaline blue waters of the Caribbean, to the searing heat of the Sahara desert, Sky Blue Sky is a first rate, edge-of-your-seat thriller that scales the highest peaks of entertainment and awakening and love and adventure. At times brutal; at times wildly atmospheric, but more important, always unflinchingly honest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Warford
• Release date: Mar 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310353857

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction, the context in which it is set, is not. There is grand adventure here, and there is entertainment here, and there is relevance here, and even though I would like your pulse to quicken in the most poetic sense, I want so much more to intrude upon your heart.

Oscar Wilde said: Each man kills the thing he loves. If that is so, and considering that humankind is no slouch at abusing those it extends no compassion, or respect, or dignity to either, where does that leave the most innocent and vulnerable amongst us? How do you instill a society-wide moral imperative to intervene on behalf of those who are powerless, and how do you cultivate a communal instinct to repel those who would profit from another human’s exploitation?

The frailty of our cumulative conscience haunts me. That we, as a society, are not propelled beyond dumbfounded silence and cursory acts of acknowledgement when we’re notified of atrocities committed to children in the name of our (so-called) civilized existence, is an egregious and intolerable disservice to all of humanity. Where is the absolute outrage? Where is the line in the sand to be drawn? To exhibit a unified and somewhat tepid moral arousal regarding the issue of human trafficking is one thing, to witness the impact on a young child sold into forced labor or committed to an abhorrent reality as a sex slave or bound against their will as an indentured servant, is most assuredly another. Political compromise should not be considered in this conversation, nor should the inequities of the global economy or corporations’ financial jousting - they are loathsome realities when the sum totals of their initiatives are the destruction of the innocence of youth.

But for the will of humanity, the solution is upon us. We, as individuals, must assume responsibility where others choose to bow their heads. This is a disease we can cure. Your voice and your wallet are incredibly powerful tools. Educate yourself on this issue and stand for something bigger; something grander and I guarantee your life will be made that much more valid. Within each of us there is the power to intervene and to eradicate a defining issue for all of humankind.

Mark Warford

Los Angeles, CA

January 2016

The Universal Declaration of

Human Rights

Article 1

All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.

Article 4

No one shall be held in slavery or servitude; slavery and the slave trade shall be prohibited in all their forms.

For J, E and A.

SKY BLUE SKY

BY

MARK WARFORD

PROLOGUE

Kano, Nigeria. Present Day.

Adanya awakes to an impenetrable blackness.

She spins slowly.

On a chain.

Hung.

Like meat.

From twisting iron links, gouged and striated with age, flakes of orange rust frost her jet-black hair and settle onto frantic, fluttering eyelashes.

Adanya is oblivious.

For her, there is no up or down.

Just around and around.

Gravity’s little… bound… bitch.

Through a mask of tears and dirt and excrement, her bright, maroon eyes remain terrified and unblinking and the baby-soft skin of her cheeks, once flawless, like tiny balloons of polished ebony, swell and sweat and chafe against thinly boned shoulders. She inhales sharply and struggles in vain to arch her back, slipping and scraping tiny bare feet against a circular metal wall and in the sealed silence, darkness presses hard and tight against her skull. Deep within the recesses of her brain, neurons begin to flash - on and off and on again; the random flurries of fireflies setting a dark forest clearing ablaze – and without invitation, an army of indiscriminate, hysterical voices begins its advance.

The volume is rising. A single voice breaks through, repetitive and insistent and pleading:

"I didn’t do anything wrong".

Adanya probes the enclosure further, swinging her legs forward and back, brushing through empty air with extended toes, and again she makes contact with the corroded steel column. She braces her knees and shuffles swollen limbs to her chest, tearing at lacerated skin and wedging herself into an awkward, fetal repose as congealed scabs from wounds barely hours old crack and flow with fresh, dark blood. Biting down hard on salty lips, she presses her back firmly into the curved surround and heaves her body upward and for a brief moment, gravity’s incessant, greedy pull is staved. Ropes binding her wrists relax their stranglehold but remain firmly set into deep, fleshy grooves. With a slight twist of her arms, Adanya’s slim, malnourished body inadvertently recoils and the sudden movement causes shredded fibers of muscle and cartilage surrounding her displaced shoulders to retract with abrasive sounds of popping and grinding and nerve endings promptly fire angrily across her chest and back and the young girl cries aloud - a haunting screech that vibrates the thick, taught strings of saliva that line her gaping mouth.

But the sound is ejected to no one.

And to nowhere.

Above her head, muffled voices grow louder and stomps and yells intrude the chamber and they are frantic and Adanya shivers uncontrollably. A heavy wooden hatch opens with a reluctant crack and the whine of dry wood and the chalkboard screech of a rusty hinge fills the air with abstract melodies of hope and a blinding stream of light is draped about her shoulders. A gift from the…

sky blue sky.

Adanya shakes her head and blinks rapidly, fighting her blindness, searching for focus. Her movement prompts another slow and steady slide down the disease-ridden surface of the pipe and she sobs with barely a sound as the bindings once again bear her full weight, ripping and pulling at sleeves of healthy tissue to reveal delicate white bone. Her soft protest is greeted by high-pitched laughter and shouted rebukes in a language she does not understand.

Again she musters the energy to cry out, pleading; agonizing. A blurred silhouette appears above her. He screeches and growls like a rabid dog, then lifts his filthy robe and urinates forcefully into the hole. The warm liquid stings her eyes and seeps into her nose and mouth, forcing her to gag and spit as the hatch is slammed shut.

Blackness again.

In what may have been moments, or even days later, the hatch again squeaks open. Another figure looms over her lifeless, suspended form. She no longer has the cause or strength to raise her head. A tiny whimper escapes through dry, blood-welded lips, but soon fades. The man reaches down and plucks her from the pipe as though pulling a delicate rose in full bloom from a spring garden. He lays her gently on a rough, dirt floor and kneels beside her. He wears the dark blue robes of a Tuareg and smells strongly of the ocean. She feels his touch through the numbness of her skin as he drags a large, callous hand across her brow and his words are soft and comforting. For a moment she is a baby once more, cradled in the arms of her mother and she is bathed in the scent of wildflowers that float through an open window into the sanctuary of her nursery. The respite fades as starved nerve endings become engorged with new blood and the pain grows and the light recedes and she is cold.

And she is scared.

The hand leaves her skin and violence explodes around her and she feels a presence, someone lying close. She hears cries and pleas that she does not recognize as her own. And then she hears nothing. The final beat of her heart announces her to the blackness once more.

She has survived just long enough to die.

Adanya Adams: Exchange student.

Born: St. Louis, Missouri, USA

Age: 14.

Georgetown, Washington DC

In unison, heavy velvet drapes are pulled apart like the legs of a Park Avenue whore. The winter sun appears weakened and battle weary and indulges a rare break in an otherwise dismal and opaque cloud layer, spilling onto polished mahogany and illuminating the room with a sudden, ethereal grace. Adorned in a black tailcoat, a fussy little man moves his musty little body about an equally musty, oak-paneled dining room escorting six, high-backed chairs to their proper address. He moves slowly and he is quiet and decrepit with age and obvious annoyance as he attends to minute aesthetic details.

The spines of books are aligned and used crockery is gathered. A Samuel Marti clock with hands held high in surrender is reanimated with several laborious turns of a tarnished brass key and his tobacco-stained fingernails present a grisly, inelegant portrait against the subtle hue of the green metal. With springs energized once more, the pendulum is coaxed into motion and the glass door is gently refastened.

From a narrow writing desk, an original, cinnamon cloth, blind-stamped edition of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol is dusted and placed in a glass-topped display case that sits between a pair of mid-nineteenth century table lamps, with shades that are frayed and crooked and grip nervously to lifeless bulbs. Finally, and methodically, the attendant moves to the room’s imposing centerpiece, a grand and forlorn William IV dining table. He makes a slow circuit, dropping a single leather-bound portfolio ahead of each vacancy.

Embossed deep into the Merlot-hued grain of the folders is the Latin phrase, Vitam ante viventis (Life before living). As they land on the table with a soft thud, the sudden movement of air rouses slumbering dust mites from the dimpled and scratched finish. Their sudden and confused flight is immediately visible in the rays of winter sunlight streaming into the room and the atmosphere becomes murky and diffused and alive with matter. Surveying his work and satisfied all is correct; the attendant wraps two bony fingers around an ornate porcelain doorknob and exits the room with the sound of a single, tiny, click.

In time, the members enter the room. Numbering five in total, each participant draws back a chair and with little or no acknowledgement of the other, the padded folders are opened and digital tablets blink to life like street lamps at dusk, torch-lighting deeply creased and time-ridden faces.

A woman glides through the open doorway.

Moving through light and shadow, she is ghost-like and becalmed and remains silhouetted against the snow-covered windowpanes for the entire length of the room. She lowers her body into the remaining chair with caution and grace, as if an undisturbed contagion lurks in the folds of the tattered silk cloth binding the flat cushion.

She exhales deeply.

The room is heady with money and arrogance.

The woman speaks.

Formally.

Gentlemen, I present to you an affair of subversive action and seditious intent conducted across seventeen international borders. Following substantial investigation by US, German, Israeli, British and Chinese security services, no action has been deemed necessary to eradicate or even curtail the atrocities committed by the individual documented before you. We have established that he is a front line operative for a much larger controlling power - as yet unidentified. However, it is with this clarification of political self-interest and gross moral negligence exercised on behalf of our combined governments that I propose the mission to the extent that you have been informed. A single transfer, the sum of six hundred thousand dollars into the designated account, will signal your approval and commitment.

The woman’s hands are fine-boned and contoured with age. As she speaks, her index finger traces the deep indents of embossed lettering on the folder’s cover. The smooth, tactile feel of the leather is comforting. She wears a simple gold wedding band.

You will find a secure link already established for you.

Her voice trails off, devolving from officious to removed and distant.

If you have any questions..?

Seated directly across the table, a silver-haired man sits hunched and uncomfortable. He ripostes her sudden lack of formality by rapping twice on the table with a hand that at one time was certain to have been large and powerful and now lay curled and arthritic. He meets her gaze directly, runs a slithery tongue around thin, flaking lips and speaks, "…et le rendezvous?"

"La plate-forme pétrolière Forza, she answers in French and then repeats in English for the benefit of the others, the abandoned Forza Oil platform. One month from today."

He nods in understanding. "De sorte qu'il sera fait, he says. So it will be done".

Mirroring each other’s actions, the members smudge aged fingers across glossy LED screens, entering bank codes with careful and firm gestures that initiate digital transfers and in the blink of an eye, three million dollars of global currency becomes nothing more than ten thousand lines of digital code, bounced from satellites and coalesced uniformly within encrypted data banks on a remote Caribbean island.

The soft clap of folders closing signified all transactions were complete.

Offering no further comment, each member stands in turn and leaves the room.

The woman remains. With elbows resting on the table and hands prayer-like against her chin, she watches the individuals take their leave as one might survey a wedding party from the confines of a passing car. The curtain is coming down and she is spent. This is absolutely the end. She’s out.

Conscience clear and debt paid.

The attendant returns to the room carrying, with some degree of effort, a large black attaché case.

He struggles to remove a heavy rectangular device that taxes his weak, atrophying muscles and it lands on the table with a loud thump. At the flick of a switch, a low, electric hum is heard, mournful and monotonous, like a fine, horsehair bow being dragged across the strings of a double bass. He passes each portfolio across the device’s face and a powerful electromagnet hungrily and irretrievably erases all of the data within.

1.

Lake Como, Italy

‘Mack the Knife’ plays.

The sparkling silver Bentley blew from the tunnel inches ahead of the sleek, black Porsche. Fine-horned gravel from the abraded tarmac machine-guns onto glossy paintwork as the two vehicles tussle and incite each other with childish intolerance, evoking the swelling, cartoon-like arrogance of bullish locomotives competing for the same track.

Neither vehicle acknowledges the narrowing lane ahead.

400 yards.

Behind the Bentley’s smoked glass, the carnal, sensual whine of the powerful engine is indistinguishable from the lion’s roar of rushing wind and tortured rubber and the driver’s grip is loose and he drums his fingers in time with the shuffling backbeat.

Pulses racing; hearts racing; cars racing.

The Porsche blinks first.

He must be loved.

The Bentley driver senses weakness like a panther senses fear.

Wrapped in a bespoke cocoon of calfskin leather, he pushes the accelerator to the floor. The suede fabric covering the steering wheel compresses in soft grooves under his grip. Draped in Armani, his muscles tense and quiver as the smell of victory seeps through his pores and lays shiny and smooth on his skin. The end is near.

200 yards.

The Bentley eases her nose across the front of the Porsche.

Three feet; Two feet; One.., Contact.

Alloyed metals and carbon fiber fuse and crack and shatter in a twenty-one-gun execution. Sitting many inches lower, the Porsche’s leading edge belly-flops onto its suspension and collapses mercifully onto vacillating front wheels and the pungent aromas of fuel and exhaust fumes are vacuumed into the cabin through slotted vents.

The Bentley seizes the momentum and slams the smaller vehicle onto the shoulder and rocks and chunks of shale are swept up by the spinning tires and leave long gouges along the body panels like giant metallic fingernails scraping at the neck of an adulterous lover.

100 yards. Big man, little man.

In a final act of contrition, the driver of the Porsche stamps hard on the Brembo discs and rocks the steering wheel violently from side to side as his body slides further into the well.

Suffusing strong and sickly throughout the legendary car, the acrid smell of overheated brake pads signals the approaching defeat.

The Bentley ignores this piteous display of submission and steers relentlessly toward the two-lane tunnel. He can see inside the Porsche now. The driver is frozen in a silent scream, with mouth agape and eyes frantic and pleading and Bacardi-laced saliva showers the windscreen as he whips his head hysterically and searches the darkened windows of his adversary’s machine for any sign of compassion.

It is now that his bowels void. Rich, brown liquid bleeds through beige Chinos onto beige leather and fills the car with the smell of imminent death.

In a desperate act of vanity, he raises his arms to shield his contorted face.

At the moment of impact, the last sound the Porsche driver hears is the sleek, iconic hood raising at its hinges and sheeting backwards through the windscreen. In a hail of pebbled glass, the fractured leading edge rips his head from his torso, slicing bone and severing tendons as it Frisbee’s into the open, dipping and rolling and tumbling end over end until it comes to rest, laying like a child’s crumpled blanket in the middle of the carriageway seventy-five yards behind.

The Bentley driver plunges into the tunnel with a thunderous boom and a hundred fluorescent lights strafe the car and the windows descend with a quiet whirring sound that is soon engulfed by the reverberating whine of tires on tarmac. Twenty seconds pass and the victor explodes from the tunnel like a bullet from a sniper’s rifle and the cabin is immediately drenched in vibrant, yellow sunlight and the cool mountain air rushes in, expelling warm and fragrant cigar smoke out into the Italian countryside.

My road; my rules.

‘Mack the Knife’ plays.

2.

The Commonwealth of Dominica

The pitted, cherry wood blades screwed to the antique cast iron ceiling fan had become offensive in their duties. Whirling with nary a whisper throughout the endless confinement of the day, they now signaled repetitious lines of Morse code as they carved relentlessly through the golden rays of the sinking sun.

This annoyed Shaw.

The repeated pulses of light taunted his waning tolerance. ‘Dash, dash, dash, dash, dash’, he knew, equaled zero.

A great, big, fat ZERO.

He inches his chair backwards to escape the hypnotic flashes and with every squeak and scratch made along the dark oak floor, his patience contracts a little further and his sighs are exhaled a little deeper. Now, laughably cornered and held captive against the bookcases mounted along the eastern wall of his main conference room, he sat fully aglow, draped in a cloak of orange as the sun completed its downward arc.

This meeting would break him. He was sure of that.

If we can go over…? What if we…? Can we turn to page…?

An endless dance of compromise was the trademark of these over-educated punks. A good idea had come here to die by their soft, lily-white hands. Every contractual point, so painstakingly drafted over the course of six months, had been thoroughly stripped, lashed and redressed of its meaning. And to make matters worse, from his vantage point at the head of the table, he overlooks the vivid and inviting, aqua-blue waters of Toucari Bay.

Shaw’s mind wanders.

Paddling out to the break; diving deep.

He snaps back, but his attention is soon drawn to the activity of a maintenance crew swarming like honey bees over the canary-yellow seaplane pitching and rolling at anchor in the makeshift harbor below.

Endeavor.

If ever a name befits its vessel…

Riding high in the water, Endeavor tugged impatiently on her mooring line as she swung about a brilliant red buoy at the behest of a lazy, summer-evening breeze.

Again Shaw drifted.

This time, his mind wandered further.

He remembered everything and dwelt upon nothing. The events of the past, for all of their ambition and purpose, now lie weathered and adrift on a seemingly endless sea, colored only with the patina of memory and exorcised of all regret.

The lines on his face were his only tell.

But you had to stand really close to notice.

And few ever came that close.

Unless they had their hands in his pockets, or down his pants, and then odds are minds were otherwise occupied.

By his worldview, people rarely navigate the raging waters of life with any sense of purpose. Most simply conform, or worse, seek guidance and coaching as if unguarded passion and true conviction could be taught, at any price; as if a set of rules or a lifelong to-do list that confuses possession with substance, can deliver purpose-built versions of the American dream.

It never had and it never will.

For Shaw, these folks were easy to spot - which meant they were easy to avoid. From ten paces you could see their fading dignity being ejaculated from every pore in waterfalls of aimless discontent.

Across the boardroom where he argued, across the skies where he flew and the oceans where he dived and sailed; across the relationships he defended and the enemies he opposed, he wrestled constantly with others’ reasoning and motivation - but never his own direction.

He summons twice the stamina and carries half the waist size of his peers, and here, on this tiny, tropical island, the mirror looks upon him not unimpressed. Overall, the passage of time has proven to be more ally than enemy.

Come sun up, Shaw can be found rounding the point and striking out hard through the mostly forgiving waves of Douglas Bay, with powerful arms and legs propelling his lithe body across the surface with hardly a ripple - a smooth, reluctant torpedo. And not until the aerobic pathways shuttling oxygen to his limbs become overworked will he ease his stroke and head back toward land.

Knowing that the point of no return may have been lightly kissed fills his soul with a sense of deep satisfaction; a warmth that will be savored with each rhythmic and graceful stroke of the swim back to shore.

Tick tock…

Shaw pushed back from the conference table and stood up.

Amidst the pastel hues of Caribbean shirts and loud summer wear on display in the room, Shaw painted a less colorful, more steadfast portrait - more cattle drive, than Rodeo Drive. In classic white T-shirt, worn Levis and scuffed brown boots, he addressed the gathering with a broad, amiable grin that stretched wide across his face as he interrupted the flow of conversation.

Ladies and gentlemen, I think we can conclude our business for today.

He is immediately challenged by the lead counsel for his client, …but Mr. Shaw, there are three sections of the agreement we have yet to address?

Flying cargo for the resort chains in the islands may keep his company afloat, but enough is enough and Shaw cuts him down politely, but sternly.

We’re done. It’s pushing eight o’clock and dinner will be served promptly. And fair warning to you all, in my house we never displease the chef.

The lawyer pushes stubby, fat fingers through his notes and mumbles incoherently.

Shaw relaxes his tone.

Good, then let’s refer any lingering concerns to the folks in Miami. Their perspective over the next few weeks will better inform how we proceed.

My room; my rules.

The sound of papers rustling and chairs squeaking filled the room and the murmurs of his guests quickly rose in volume. Everybody was happy to move. Shaw gazed thoughtfully at the departing crowd - all summarily herded and milked of fact and opinion. Thankfully, tomorrow begins yet another journey.

With the room now vacated, he moves to his private office and drops into a seat behind a cluttered desk. He leans forward, elbows on knees, and scratches his head, which in turn snowballs into stifling a yawn and rubbing tired, bloodshot eyes. He rocks back in the chair, equally exhausted and elated, and grabs a small remote control.

Music suddenly fills the room as the Ramsey Lewis Trio warms up a version of ‘Slipping Into Darkness’.

Shaw drifts back in time. The melody conjures up memories that taunt him with their realism and their clarity: little red bikes; playground fights; summertime swimming pools and gut-busting laughter. In a flash of recollection, the radiance of these memories is unblemished. Concentrate too