The Head of the Viper

By Jordan Blaze

When his mother contracts a potentially fatal illness requiring expensive treatment, Jim leaves for the island of Nova Madeira, her Indian Ocean childhood home, to find the fortune his grandfather buried in the mountains. He falls for the dynamic, feisty and cheeky pro-independence activist and martial artist, Mia Monteiro. Mia's political views cost her her job, just as as a rebellion sweeps the island. On the eve of the island's independence, Jim and Mia flee to the far side of the island, where they begin their search for the treasure. They need to deal with Mia's jealous cousin, torrential rain, floods, landslides, and the encroaching rebel forces. Along the way, Jim learns about Mia's past, and witnesses first-hand the extraordinary lengths to which she will go for the independence cause.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jordan Blaze
• Release date: Dec 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005348540

Jordan Blaze

Jordan is a multilingual author and adventurer from Australia with a wide range of interests including entomology, ghost hunting, high-speed trains, cos play and snow sports.

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The Head of the Viper

by Jordan Blaze

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Copyright 2022 Jordan Blaze

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29 Epilogue

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Chapter 1

Audible gasps chorused around the cabin as my plane from Delhi hit the runway hard. A nearby overhead locker burst open, and a briefcase fell out, striking a woman on the head. Her scream added to the racket generated by the reverse-thrust roar of the engines. The plane slowed, but then there was a bang and a jolt that sent the machine skidding sideways. My head banged the window, and a purgatory of shouts and screams filled the air. I rubbed my head and looked through the perspex. Bits of debris trundled in eccentric paths across the runway, and sparks shot from the engine. Seven years after my father’s demise, my mother had encouraged me to live a little. For three months she’d nagged me about taking this job in Nova Madeira. I’d finally relented because nothing else came up. I applied at the last moment and was only accepted because a previous candidate dropped out. The plane slid into the grass at the side of the runway. As mud flew up and blocked my view, I was convinced of the wisdom of my resistance and the foolishness of my surrender. Instead of living a little, I was about to live only a little more.

My seat belt tore into my belly as we shuddered to a halt. More lockers burst open. Passengers leapt out of their seats, yelling, crying, trying to grab luggage and kids. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer and my armpits were awash with sweat. Without thinking, I vaulted over two rows of seats to the emergency exit. No one else seemed interest in opening it, but the Portuguese instructions stumped me.

Pull that cover off. I glanced at the source of the ice-cool voice, a pony-tailed, twenty-something woman in the next row. I obeyed, spellbound by her solitary abstention from the on-board anarchy.

It says to pull on the lever.

I yanked it down. Now what?

Remove the window and toss it out. A blast of Nova Madeiran air fresh from the Indian Ocean hit me as the window thudded onto the wing.

 Nice job, she said.

I barely had time to admire the row of white teeth she flashed at me before a beach ball of a woman dragging a howling brat shoved me back in the seat. A swarthy, sour-faced fellow followed, tossing the beach ball aside as he barged for the exit,

Jaco, said ponytail, her smile gone, shards in her eyes. You’re such an arsehole.

The man scowled. You wait. I’ll show you what I can do! He hopped over the kid bawling on the floor and disappeared through the exit.

The beach ball bounced up and grabbed the kid’s hand. She launched herself headfirst out of the plane, but lost her grip on the child, who plopped back on the floor.

She forgot her kid, ponytail said, giving me another broad smile as she straightened her collar. I blinked at her, wondering how she could be so cheerful when moments ago we’d nearly died.

I tucked the howling child under my arm and hauled him onto the wing. The fire trucks racing towards the plane out-wailed the kid.

Welcome to King George City.

No sooner had I read the sign on the terminal than I saw the fire hose pointing in my direction. A white circle of foam emerged from its end. The last thing I remember is that in a fraction of a second, the foam grew into a vast ghost-like sheet rushing towards me.

Seven years earlier

Reading that rubbish will never get you anywhere, Jimmy! I started to stand up, but my father snatched my dog-eared copy of On the Beach and hurled it across the living room. Go and do your maths homework. At least that will get you somewhere! Look at your brother, Claude! He was getting As for maths when he was in grade 12.

I knew not to take my father’s bait. I picked up the novel and went to my room. When he blew up at me, my father sounded like a hot head. In fact, he always knew precisely what he was doing. I’d watched him molly-coddle Claude in the hope that he would take over my father’s dental practice. I’d heard him telling Claude the answers to his homework. Every action he took was part of his grand plan to lift Claude up.

I lay on my bed, but my eyes couldn’t focus on the page. I thought back to how Claude had sailed through senior high school, thanks to my father’s help. I’d always thought Claude would fail his exams, since he’d done little work himself. I was shocked when he won a place in the University of Queensland’s dentistry course. My father was still at his clinic in downtown Brisbane when the offer arrived in the mail.

Claude had opened the envelope, waved the paper under my nose, and said, I’ll start believing in the tooth fairy if you can do this too, you little shit!

I heard Claude come home from uni and start talking to my father. He liked to hang out with his friends in the uni bar on Friday nights, and he sounded like he’d had a skinful. When he was in that mood, Claude liked to barge in and harass me. I picked up a wooden wedge and jammed it under my door. That usually kept him out.

I studied the calendar on my wall. As a seven-year-old, I’d been fascinated when the 1950s turned into the 1960s. Ten years later, I was on the cusp of another decade. But I didn’t think too deeply about the years ahead because the calendar also told me that my final exams started in four weeks. I allowed my mind to settle on the book.

The next day, Saturday, I woke early and finished the reading. I gave my mother a peck on the cheek as I left for my part-time job at a petrol station in Indroopilly. I felt pretty content as I parked my old Land Rover station wagon, which I dubbed Landy, out the back. My surfboard was already on the roof. After pumping fuel and checking oil for four hours, I headed for the coast. The sea was all chopped up by a northerly wind, so I lay in the back of Landy doing some study. As the sun set, I put up my tent. The next morning the winds and waves were more favourable. I’d planned to surf in the morning, then head home and hit the books in the afternoon. Lunch time came and went, and I kept telling myself I’d only surf one more wave. But dusk had fallen by the time I rolled back out onto the highway. The exhilaration of so many good rides washed away any guilt I felt about ignoring my study. I turned on the radio and sang along to the Beach Boys I can hear music. My father was a dick, and my brother was an arsehole, but I wound down the window, felt the wind tossing my ponytail about, and thought that life couldn’t get any better. And I was right, because the next day, life got a lot worse.

I saw the police car parked outside as I arrived home from school. Two police officers stood in the lounge room. I rushed over to my mother, bawling on the couch.

What is it, Mum? What’s happened? I sat down and put my arm around her shoulder. She tried to speak, but no words came out.

The taller of the two officers spoke. I’m sorry to say your father’s had an accident and passed away.

I looked at him. An acc…? My voice choked up.

In his clinic.

The details came out in the coroner’s inquiry. According to my father’s assistant, Connie, he was drilling an old woman’s tooth when Connie dropped the spittoon. My father slipped in the saliva, lost his balance, and dislodged the instrument tray. Mirrors, probes, and scrapers clattered to the floor as he fell. His death resulted from the rupture of his left ventricle by a periodontal scraper entering his chest cavity between his fourth and fifth ribs. The coroner observed that while the scraper had entered from the front, my father was found on his back. This he attributed to Connie turning my father over in a vain attempt to revive him. The police suspected foul play, but admitted they’d found no fingerprints on the scraper. I’d visited the clinic and seen Connie wearing latex gloves. Anyone could retrieve them from the wall-mounted dispenser. Yet I was incapable of taking the police suspicions seriously. Connie was an angel. She was in her early twenties and had a boyfriend. That hadn’t prevented me from fantasising about asking her out. Indeed, the sight of Connie in her dental assistant’s uniform sent my adolescent endocrine system into overdrive. She couldn’t be a killer. It was all a dreadful accident.

Somehow, I managed to get through the funeral and my exams. Mum had never been overly talkative, but for that whole period of about six weeks she hardly said a word. Claude, on the other hand, showed no sign of grief, and became more unbearable. He’d stomp around the house shouting at the two of us, thumping his fist on the table whenever I dared to contradict him, and slamming doors when he left a room.

The day after my final exam, Mum, Claude, and I went to the solicitor’s office for the reading of the will. I hooked my arm into Mum’s as we approached the building. Claude strode ahead, leaving the heavy glass door to swing back towards us.

We sat in a row in front of the solicitor’s desk. Mr O’Neill had a gentle face, and a pair of half-glasses over which he looked from one to the other of us as he spoke.

Now looking through all these documents you provided earlier, he said, It seems all the finances were in Mr Jamieson’s name – the bank accounts, the title to your house in St Lucia, and stocks and bonds. There’s a life insurance policy, with Claude as the beneficiary. All our eyes settled on Claude.

How much is it? Claude asked.

The solicitor ignored him and turned to Mum.

I understand you work as a cleaner. Do you have your own bank account, Mrs Jamieson?

Mum stared at him and shook her head.

What happens to your pay?

Mum pointed at the papers on the desk.

You gave it all to him?

She nodded.

Every pay day?

She nodded again. Mr O’Neill’s eyes closed a little. He pursed his lips, as if he was about to deliver bad news.

 Now when it comes to the will, I’ll skip the usual preliminaries, he said. My mother leaned towards the solicitor with her arms folded expectantly on his desk. The crucial part is down here. He glanced at us over his glasses, then read, ’I bequeath my entire estate to my son Claudio.’ Mr O’Neill placed the document on his desk with the sad finality of a man completing a jigsaw puzzle. I’m sorry, that’s all it says.

A strange snort broke our stunned silence. I glanced over to see Claude lolling back in his chair, with his hand over his mouth.

Is that it? I asked, looking back at the solicitor. I was sorely tempted to slap Claude’s face.

Without a sound, my mother lowered her head onto her hands. Her shoulders began to shake. Tiny, whimpering sobs leaked out of her.

There must be more, I said. Check on the back! I jumped up to confront Claude. You bastard! You put him up to this!

Shoving me back in my seat, he strode to the door, before turning to look at us.

Fuck, yeah! he said.

I rushed after him, grabbing his arm. What about Mum?

I didn’t see his fist coming. When I regained consciousness, the solicitor’s secretary was holding me against her bosom, while the solicitor shoved wads of tissue up my bloody nose.

For the next few weeks, the atmosphere in the house was poisonous. Mum went to her cleaning jobs every day but came home exhausted. She seemed to have lost the will to live.

Claude took every opportunity to remind me I was living in his house now. He’d shout as he passed my room in the evening. You’re gonna have to pay some fuckin’ rent, you freeloader!

Mum and I used our own money to buy food, but we never seemed to earn enough. I asked for more shifts at the petrol station, but without luck. Claude quit his part-time job. His classes had ended for the summer, and he strutted around the house, shouting at us, or lying on the couch watching television.

A week before Christmas, I sat down to talk to Mum. We have to get out of here.

Where can we go?

I’ve got Landy. Let’s find a caravan park and live in that until we find somewhere. With my part-time job and your cleaning money, we’ll get by.

Poor Mum had little fight left in her. She’d been hounded by my father for more than two decades. Somehow, she’d withstood that with her sanity intact. But my father’s will was the last straw. Her shoulders sagged and she looked off into the distance as if she hadn’t heard.

Let’s load up Landy with everything we need and leave tonight, before Claude kicks us out, I said.

She was only 41 years old, but she seemed as frail as someone twice that age. While I piled our gear in the back, she stared out the windscreen as if her life had already ended. I went through her room, taking as many of her belongings as I could. She didn’t have much: a few sad pieces of jewellery; five pairs of shoes; a carved wooden chest about the size of a shoebox, stuffed with dog-eared papers and faded photos. I held the photos of Claude over the bin but then put them back, since their fate was Mum’s decision. I found a file with her Portuguese birth certificate and Australian certificate of marriage. Her entire wardrobe only half-filled a medium-sized suitcase. I stripped her bed and rolled all the linen and the pillow into a ball.

I packed all my clothes and shoes, and the few documents that proved my existence. After I’d strapped my three boards on the racks, I checked that my tent and sleeping bag were still behind the passenger seat with my books. I packed all the food in the cupboards into a carton and stocked the esky with everything I could fit from the fridge.

 I’ll look after you, Mum, I said, as I crammed in the last few things. I locked all the doors and windows in the house, except the front door. Then I superglued all the windows and door locks from the inside. As I shut the front door, I squeezed glue into that lock as well.

We headed to a caravan park in Ashgrove, halfway between the city and the eucalypt forests of The Gap. As we crossed the Brisbane River, I tossed the tube of glue into the night. It glittered in the streetlights’ glow before disappearing over the guard rail, like a former way of life lost forever.

Chapter 2

Mum did most of her cleaning jobs in the Ashgrove area. Every morning I drove her to work and picked her up when she’d finished, to help preserve her strength, since she was still weak from shock. The manager of the caravan park said we could stay a month, so I had the mail redirected. On Christmas day we sat at a picnic table eating takeaway chicken and hot chips and throwing the over-cooked crunchy bits to the rosellas. At the end of the first week of January, I received a letter from the university entrance authority.

I’m going to teacher’s college, Mum, I said, as the rain started to pummel the shade shelter’s iron roof above our heads.

Teacher’s college, she said, and gave a rare smile. You’ll be a wonderful teacher, Jimmy.

Before enrolling, I changed my name to Marquez, my mother’s maiden name. As far as I was concerned, extinction was too good for my father’s line. I suggested Mum do the same, but she refused. No one calls me by my surname.

One day near the end of January, I dropped my mum off at a house in Red Hill. A woman let Mum in the front door as a Western Real Estate vehicle backed out the driveway. The car stopped and a man in a pair of well-pressed dress shorts, white shirt and a blue tie climbed out.

The man peered in Landy’s passenger window. Jim, isn’t it? Yes, your mother mentioned you a couple of times. I’m Bob Mountford. Look, we were quite worried about your mum a few weeks ago, but now she seems a bit better. I mean, there’s no problem with the house. Mary says she always cleans it beautifully, even though it takes her a long time. But she seemed in a dream. Is she OK?

I hesitated. I’d managed to talk the caravan park owner into letting us stay a second month, and I’d tried to convince myself we could manage on our own. But Mum had been sleeping in Landy, with stuff piled up on both sides, while I’d been in the tent, waking up wet most mornings as Brisbane waded through an unusually heavy rainy season. I hated to ask a favour, yet Bill seemed to care and genuinely appreciated Mum’s work, so I told him we were looking for somewhere to live.

We don’t have any references, so I haven’t been able to get a flat. Even a one-bedroom place would do.

Have you got a job?

I work two part-time jobs, but I also need to look after Mum and run her around. I’m going to teacher’s college next month. I might be able to get a student allowance.

Which college?

Kelvin Grove.

OK. Leave it with me. I’m sure I can find you something in that area. Here’s my number. Call me in a couple of days.

Bob kept his word. The following weekend we moved into a small furnished flat on Musgrave Road. Of course, I let Mum have the only bedroom, while I slept on a mattress that I stashed behind the couch during the day. The traffic rumbled past at all hours, but we only had to pay half the usual bond, thanks to Bob’s wrangling. When I got my first student allowance payment, I dropped a jumbo-sized box of chocolates into his office. I quit one of my part-time jobs. With my allowance and Mum cleaning three houses a week, we got by well enough.

One evening when I was preparing dinner, Mum was sitting at the table reading New Idea. Her skin had a healthy glow, and she’d had her straight brown hair cut in a fresh bobbed style that afternoon.

As I mashed the potato, she said, They used to hit me.

I stopped with the masher buried in the spuds.

What? Who?

Your father and your brother.

I put down the bowl and rested my hand on her shoulder, not fully comprehending what she’d said.

They hit me, she repeated, looking up from her magazine. Her eyes were misty, like the surface of Moreton Bay after a summer downpour.

Oh, Mum, I said, pulling her gently up from her chair. I wrapped my arms around her and, at the ripe old age of twenty-one, started to bawl on her shoulder.

Mum, I’m sorry, I said as she patted my back. I had no idea. If I ever see Claude again, I’ll kill him!

Don’t do that, dear. It’ll cause more trouble.

In fact, neither of us had seen nor heard from Claude since we’d run away at the end of my final year of high school, more than three years earlier.

We talked for a long time. She told me about the way they treated her. Sometimes she was hard to follow. All the incidents were jumbled in her head, but there was no doubt they’d abused her. I couldn’t believe how stupid, insensitive, and selfish I’d been. I hadn’t even noticed my mother’s plight. She’d always been so quiet and accommodating. All those years, she’d suffered in silence at the hand of the tyrant she’d married and his monstrous offspring. I hoped to God that Claude would soon follow his father into the hell they both deserved. I became more protective of my mother and determined to do the right thing by her.

I graduated at the end