Mirabella and Zuberto's cousin

All that morning Suarez had sat on the wooden bench behind the training ground. Laid out in front of him were the earthly remains of his beloved Mirabela. Her slim blue frame buckled, bent and bruised; the glistening wheels he loved to see spinning beneath him amputated from the frame. Their slim spokes that had glistened so brightly in the late autumn sun were now twisted or snapped.

Suarez leant forward and picked up Mirabela’s brass bell, he flicked the lever but there was only silence. Her chain was broken in four places and the soft white saddle ripped open so Mirabela’s insides were spilling out. They had only been together a few short months but Suarez could feel the loss carved deep into his heart. He dropped his head into his hands and began to weep for his lost lady.

The large hands of Don Blanco gently squeezed the shaking shoulders of Suarez who looked up into the Dons deep eyes.

“Do not worry Suarezito, I may have found a man who can help” as the Don pointed at the pieces of Mirabela in front of him.

A passer-by stopped and watched as the pair delicately, one by one, picked up the parts of the broken blue bicycle then placed them down with care onto of a soft Peruvian blanket that the Don had laid over the boot of his Lincoln Continental.

Don Blanco closed the boot and touched Suarez gently on the cheek.

“Don’t worry old friend, we will take care of Mirabela, you will see.”

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Old Zuberto’s Polish cousin Zbizek slowly made his way out of the workshop that had been his home for the last forty years. He could hear an incessant banging from the shutters at the front of the building.  Zbizek did not light guests, he preferred the company of his tools and broken down pieces of machinery to that of people. The thing Zbizek hated the most were uninvited guests and whoever this was he had certainly not invited them.

The shutters kept shaking as the uninvited guest outside hammered against them.

“We are closed” shouted Zbizek.

 A strange accent he could not quite place answered back. “My client requires your services.”

“WE ARE CLOSED, PLEASE GO AWAY!!”  There was a desperate tone in Zbizek’s voice now.

The man who hammered at the shutters seemed undeterred, “My client was sent here by your cousin Zuberto of Rio Grandé”

The old mechanic felt confused now, no one here in Poland even knew he had a cousin, albeit one he had not spoken to in over forty years. There had been a monumental fall out between Zbizek and Zuberto over a dubious offside decision. The result had caused the disintegration of relations between the two distant cousins.

Zbizek deliberated whether to let the man outside in for a few seconds, before reluctantly pulling up the shutters with a loud clatter.

Stood in front of the entrance to his workshop was the tall and toothy grin of Charles the Don’s Senegalese wing man and driver. Zbizek a stunned look on his face was rooted to the spot. He did not get many customers, mainly because he actively discouraged them but this was the first time in forty years he had opened his shutter to find an African man stood in front of him. He just watched as the man called Charles singing and chuckling to himself opened the door of the long white Lincoln Continental parked in the street.

Out of the soft leather seat stepped the impressive figure of Don Polvere Blanco, dressed in a Pacific blue suit with a matching Panama, sticking out from his huge moustache was a cigar that was throwing blue smoke into the air. He strode over and took the hands of Zbizek warmly in his own, planting a kiss on either cheek of the blushing mechanic.

“I bring greetings from Rio Grandé and from your cousin Zuberto, who told me he has long forgotten about the offside decision and sends all his love and wishes. He asked if you would do a kindness for him and help out his fellow Rio Grandeans in their hour of need.”

This was all too much to take in for Zbizek as he stood there in his oil soaked overall that hung awkwardly from his skinny body. A day had not passed in the last forty years where he had not thought of his cousin Zuberto and the terrible things he had said to him all those years ago.

Zbizek had spent a magical year as a twenty year old, high in the Rio Grandean Mountains with his cousin, who had shown him all the wonderful lakes, streams and rivers that ran through the lush green hills around the village. The day before he had been set to leave there had been a disagreement between the pair during a football match. It had been a trivial offside decision that he had not agreed with. He had said such unspeakable things to Zuberto that, on returning to Poland his shame had grown and grown year by year until he could not find the courage to try and make amends to his cousin Zuberto. Now here was someone from the land of his memories and regret stood in his tiny workshop. It felt as if the great footballing gods of old had answered his nightly prayers and were offering him a chance at redemption, from those years of shame and bitterness.

Zbizek stepped forward and bowed in front of Don Blanco.

“it would be my honour Signor, to help you, Rio Grandé and my dear cousin Zuberto. How may my humble workshop be of service to you?”

Don Blanco thanked Zbizek, turned and nodded towards his driver Charles. The Senegalese man walked around to the back of the car, opened the boot and beckoned the mechanic over.

Zbizek peered in the cavernous boot of the car, there laid out on a soft and colourful blanket were a number of broken pieces and parts of a beautiful blue bicycle. At once Zbizek could tell that this had once been a perfectly built machine. Whoever had constructed the bike must have spent years lovingly and carefully crafting each component. When it had been finished Zbizek suspected each part had taken on a life of its own.

The damaged looked as if it had been done intentionally, as if the frame had been buckled and bent with the force of a large motor vehicle that had been aiming directly for the bike. Excited by the chance to restore such an enchanting feat of engineering to its former glory, Zbizek hurriedly lifted the blue frame out of the boot of the car and carried the buckled metal into his workshop. He laid the body of the bicycle down on the rough and hewn wooden worktop, then lit two gas lamps.

Don Blanco and Charles followed the skinny mechanic with the dirty overalls into the narrow workshop and placed the other parts of Mirabela down where instructed to by the excited Pole.

His eyes gleaming Zbizek opened the leather pouch that lay on the worktop and ran his hand over the tool before choosing one (that looked to the Don and Charles more like a surgical implement than something they expected a mechanic to use.) and began to work.

Don Blanco placed his hand on the craftsmen’s shoulder “money is no object, I will pay whatever it takes”

Zbizek looked up from his patient and replied

 “ there is no need for money, I will do it for the people of Rio Grandé and my dear Zuberto”

The Don thanked him for his kindness, patted Charles on the back and the pair started to walk out of the narrow workshop. Zbizek called after them.

“What is her name?”

“Mirabela” said the Don without stopping to turn around.

The evening the match came and a blood soaked first half

It was early evening and the temperature in the western Polish city had cooled a little and the setting sun gave the whole place an almost Mediterranean air. Acosta bounded into the teams changing room wearing an exquisite pair of handmade blue and gold silken football socks a gift from his husband Xavier who was currently on tour with his flamenco band somewhere in India. The young winger struck a pose to show them off and his team mates wolf whistled.

Pastore was on the floor doing some last minute pre match press ups the powerful Argentine attacking midfielder looked stronger and fitter than ever largely due to the fact that under his managers advice he had practiced total sexual abstinence for the 3 months leading up to tonight’s game and the explosive right footed attacker was primed and ready to explode one way or another in the coming 90 minutes.

Mr Sempleton was stood next to Signor Robbiati wearing his spanking new suit and matching deerstalker in the colours of Rio Grandé. He had felt great honour when Signor Robbiati had told him that he had been appointed as a member of the coaching staff even though he was still struggling to grasp the finer details of the game and kept shouting lbw or Howzat during recent training sessions.

The English detective leant over and asked Robbiati who was busy fiddling about trying to pin the team sheet to the cork tactic board with little success, if they would be taking tea and cake at half time. Trying his best not to be irritable with Mr Sempleton he suggested to José his assistant manager that maybe he could take the Englishman with him to collect and count the half time oranges from the stadium canteen.

They retuned a few minutes later and José looked over at Signor Robbiati and said “Rolando these look like excellent oranges sweet and juicy I’d say.”

“Who is Rolando?” asked Mr Sempleton and José rolling his eyes skyward pointed at Signor Robbiati.

“Oh I see that is your name” said the English detective losing count of the oranges for the tenth time.

A huge cheer erupted around the dressing room as in cycled Suarez on the fully restored elegant blue Mirabella a grin spread across his face. The rest of the team sang “Viva Suarez, Viva Mirabella, Viva Rio Grandé, Viva Don Blanco.”

Signor Robbiati raised his hand and called for quiet and concentration as the minutes until kick off ran down. Pointing the long vintage Fidelito castrato cigar (a gift from the Don for winning the Coppa Della Magico six years ago) at the tactics board that he had finally with great effort managed to pin the team sheet to; he addressed his players.

“My brave brave Rio Grandeans,

Tonight the world will watch us as we fly like condors, twist and turn like the great rivers of Rio Grandé. We must flood the opposition with the beauty of óle football, yet not commit a foul as we must honour the life of Don Blanco and the people of our beloved nation who toil under the evil dictatorship of Generale Baratopolippo. Now go my boys and win for dear Don Blanco.”

Mr Sempleton stood back up and examined the team sheet a little closer, he thought he must have been imagining but there was his name on the team sheet in what appeared to be the wicket keepers position.

“Er ah hello Signor Robbiati it seems that you have made a mistake my name is in the wicket keepers’ position am I playing?”

Rolando touched the confused looking Englishman on the shoulder and said “goalkeeper that is the position my friend and yes I am afraid due to unforeseen circumstances we have no keeper, you will be fine.” Then handed the poor detective a pair of padded gloves and patted his bottom and sent him scampering after the other players down the tunnel. He lined up behind his new team mates in the narrow walkway that led to the pitch. There on the other side stood the impressive genetically modified figures that made up the mighty El Capitalisto’s. Their wealthy superstars started to fall about laughing when they saw the Englishman in the blue deerstalker struggling to put on his keepers’ gloves. They blew raspberries at the nervous and confused looking Mr Sempleton who tried his best to ignore the relentless teasing. Gargagno the tough but deeply spiritual defensive midfielder (who was due to play his final match for Rio Grandé before beginning the long journey high into the Tatra mountains to the Monasterio della Socrates where he was to take up a life devoted to spiritual enlightenment.) walked over and looked the English detective in the eye and with a kind smile touched his cheek. “Do not worry Signor Sempleton let the spirit of Santo Socrates guide and bless you.” Then as a deafening roar erupted around the stadium the brave Rio Grandeans found themselves on the newly laid green carpet of the pitch.

Torado looked around the huge stadium and up into the high stands that surrounded them on all sides “Santa Maria Zico” he said “there must be more than a million people here!”

None of the Rio Grandé players had ever seen anything like it before. High above almost in the setting evening sky were tall wooden towers and ladders made from old pieces of crate and driftwood. On them tens of thousands of cheering Rio Grandé teetered and rocked in the gentle breeze unsteadily. There were so many people packed in and around the stadium that the collective body heat of everyone made the players on the pitch feel as if they were at the bottom of a burning cauldron.

The referee called the two opposing captains over. Aromga stepped forward adjusting his hair band one last time. He held out a hand towards the El Capitalisto captain Christopher Overhairproducto who refused the offer of a handshake and simply spat on the ground in front of Aromga before calling him a traitor to the great Generale Baratopolippo.

The crowd saw the incident take place and boos echoed around the far end of the stadium where the Rio Grandé fans stood packed together like baby mackerel in fishing net. People from far corners of the globe who would sat glued to their transistors, shook their fists at the radio as the commenters described the unfolding scene in hundreds of different dialects.

The whistle blew.

Aromga quickly found the silk socked young winger Acosta with the deftest of flicks but before the golden haired young wide man could show the crowds his delightful dribbling skills; one of the bulging legged El Capitalisto’s clattered into him, sending his slight frame flying high into the air.

No whistle. As Acosta crashed to the ground his Rio Grandé team mates swarmed around the referee protesting his decision to give no foul. Gonzalo pointed at the blood that was now staining the young wingers Acosta’s handmade socks as if to illustrate the severity of the challenge.

The next 25 minutes of the match continued in a similar vein and just half an hour into the game over 7 of the Rio Grandé team sported bloody wounds on various parts of their anatomy. Gilberto and Gonzalo the defensive greats were some of the few Rio Grandé players to escape injury during this brutal period. This was mainly down to the fact that the mighty El Capitalisto players genuinely feared the mythical stories of the strength the two centre backs possessed. This had caused great relief to the Brazilian and Argentine defensive partnership as they had been rather preoccupied with keeping the ball as far away from Mr Sempleton as possible. Who for some inexplicable reason kept turning around in his goal to face the wrong way.

In the 41^st minute disaster struck! Gargagno limping stud marks all up his thighs found himself surrounded by the menacing figures of five El Capitalisto’s with nowhere to go he was forced to lay the ball back to the English detective in goal. To everyone’s amazement Mr Sempleton who for the briefest of moments was actually facing the right way collected the ball comfortably  but the as Gargagno cried out “Noooooooooooooooo” the detective picked the ball up and hurled it into his own net before shouting out “Howzat”

Signor Robbiati watching from the side lines threw his hands in the air an act of sheer exasperation and stated to laugh.

He turned to his assistant manager José and smiled. “That Englishman is a wonderful gentleman but Don Blanco was right he is truly an idiota.”

The game had barely restarted when the referee blew for halftime 3 minutes early ignoring the protestations of the Rio Grandé captain Aromga.

Towers of Salmon at an empty festival

Sir Monty had spent the months following that fateful day when their orders temple was desecrated by those vile Rio Grandeans locked in his opulent office at the pink hippopotamus’s rowing headquarters. But on this day as he pulled out the pink mask from his mahogany desk he felt his powers return as he placed the mask over his beetroot face. Tomorrow would see the start of the festival of golden oars the single biggest boating event in the world and this year it would be bigger than ever. Billions had been spent to ensure its success and the town was in a state of feverish excitement as it awaited the champagne guzzling hordes that were due to arrive at daybreak the following morning.  Leaving nothing to chance Sir Monty had sent an elite squad of blonde pitch diggers to find dig up and destroy every football pitch they within a thousand leagues of them. Tomorrow morning the whole world’s eyes would be firmly fixed on Sir Monty’s gala of wealth, power and rowing.

He looked down at the official check list that lay on his desk.

 6 million cases of champagne ordered, delivered and already chilled.

500 tonnes of willow smoked salmon.

80 million kilos of strawberries.

And lastly and most importantly 20 million gallons of Pimms summer punch.

“yes” Sir Monty said to himself chuckling by the end of this week there will not be a soul in the world who will not have heard of the mighty Pink Hippopotami .

The next day came, Sir Monty and his order were joined by the crème de la crème of the town folk. They all lolled about on the river bank in the morning sun. Vast blue and white striped tents stretched as far as the eye could see along the banks of the river. Champagne corks were being popped every second the men guffawing and the women giggling as they awaited the throngs of people who were expected to flood into the town but no one came.

Midday came and went the sun high in the sky shone down on the empty riverside and its exclusive restaurants.  The townsfolk had waited expectantly for the crowds to charge of the specially arranged trains and coaches then down to the river where they would gorge themselves on an orgy of alcohol, smoked fish and summer fruits but still no one came. Sir Monty anxiously commandeered a phone form a young bouffant haired barman who was busy filling vats of summer punch with freshly hulled strawberries and telephoned the station master.

Everyone turned around as Sir Monty roared into the tiny mobile telephone “what an earth do you mean man! Are you trying to tell me that not one person has stepped off a train this morning?”

Sir Monty threw the phone in a fit of anger into the vat of summer punch, pulled the pink hippopotamus mask back over his face and marched through the tents until he found himself in one of the caterers’ kitchens. He looked around and saw many of the world’s finest and most mercenary chefs busily milling around, their hands delicately adjusting and perfecting elaborate creations of smoked salmon. Then from the corner of his eye he caught sight of one man who appeared to be doing no work whatsoever. There in the pot washing section was a dark haired olive skinned man, who instead of washing up was jabbering to himself in some god forsaken language as he held a portable radio to his ear. Every few seconds he would shout out “óle, magnifico, viva viva”

Sir Monty stormed over, snatched the radio from the kitchen porter’s hand and flung it into the sink that was full of dirty oily water and salmon skin.

“Hey whyaya you do that amigos” shouted the washer upper.

Sir Monty took a swipe with his fat hands and sent the kitchen porter crashing to the floor.

“Now listen here you filthy immigrant why aren’t you working?”

José the kitchen porter got to his feet and rubbing his bruised jaw just laughed.

“Hee hee you not a know, today in Poland is big big match, greatest football match in a da world Rio Grandé óle they play the gigantico El Capitalisto’s.”

Sir Monty’s pink mask visibly turned ashen white, he stumbled out of the tent sending pots, pans and Michelin starred salmons clattering and splattering around him.

He ran back out onto the river bank shouting like a madman “ready the private jet, call the airport, send word to Generale Baratopolippo we must go to Poland at once and stop this outrage.”

The spearing of Rio Grandé

Suarez crept or rather limped as silently as he could through the tangled undergrowth of river weeds and broken willow branches. Every so often he had to stop and hold his nose to try and stop the sickly fumes of a fruit based cocktail overwhelming him. Hearing voices he crouched down and looked through a small gap between two thorn bushes. Their branches scratched at his arms but Suarez stayed as quiet as a stalking Rio Grandean mountain goat. He sat and watched as a truly terrifying ritual took place before his disbelieving eyes. Suarez searched his mind for an idea to help him rescue his friends but no matter how hard he tried he could not see any way he could save them, if only Mirabella was here he thought she would know what to do. Then from above him came the sounds of snapping branches and shuffling feet, Suarez adjusted his body to try and see where the noise was coming from. At first all he saw was a pair of thick shaven legs and a bulge coming from a tight pink swimsuit, he craned his neck and then saw a pair of lifeless eyes and a thick mop of ash blonde hair at that instant a plan formed in his head. The plucky Uruguayan playmaker waited until the man in the swimsuit was close enough and then with one single deft movement took the driftwood crutch Mr Sempleton had fashioned for him in his right hand and struck the man as hard as he could in his willito. There was a yelp of pain but before the blonde monster had time to cry out the mercurial striker deftly struck him across the face rendering the blonde giant unconscious.

The man lay motionless on the floor in front of Suarez. Asking Santa Socrates for forgiveness for what he was about to do Suarez removed his own clothes and then tentatively started to undress the sleeping giant, he pulled the top part of the swimsuit down revealing a smooth chest with the tattoo of a hippopotamus by the man’s left nipple. Then with trepidation he pulled the suit down further where the bulge had been bales of cotton wool fell out of the Lycra leotard. With a shudder Suarez pulled the costume of the man’s thick legs and pulled it over his own.

He stood there for a moment in the tight fitting costume and thought about the teasing he would be subjected too if they ever got off the island but he knew that the life of Torado and his friends would be worth the humiliation.

Donned in the ridiculous outfit Suarez then gathered as many thin yellow willow branches as he could find and made himself a blonde wig then covered his flowing jet black with the yellow thatch which he balanced as best he could on the top of his head.

Don Blanco kept reaching inside the pocket of his cashmere suit looking for the ivory handle of his pistola, that was now somewhere resting on the riverbed, there was no way out now he thought.

The fat man in the pink suit and the hideous mask stepped forwards and eyed Mr Sempleton up and down pointed at his deerstalker and laughed.

“You are an Englishman are you not?”

Mr Sempleton’s eyes stared straight back but he said nothing.

“Answer me” roared the masked man

Still the English detective said nothing. This clearly enraged the hippopotamus masked monster who struck the Englishman across the face and dragged his long nails down the cheek of Mr Sempleton causing blood to trickle down. But still the detective kept his silence; he just gritted his teeth and thought about the article on surviving interrogation techniques that he had read in the previous issue of Spy kids magazine.

The man fuming turned around and marched back to his retinue of naked women. They two women linked their arms into his and he turned back to address his followers and the captives.

“We had one Rio Grandean, now we have 4 and one foolish Englishman. Tonight they will burn and as their flesh chars on the fire we will celebrate the moment that we sounded the death knell for the uncivilised game of football.

Soon my people the regal sport of rowing shall take its place at the altar to be worshipped by the world and the name of the order of the pink hippopotamus shall ring out around the earth.”

The man’s speech was all Don Blanco needed to confirm his long held suspicion that the entire island of Britain was populated by insane tea drinking idiots. If he was to die in this forsaken place he would die fighting for Rio Grandé.

Torado still weak from starvation felt his eyes slowly start to come back into focus as he surveyed the scene unfolding around him and it was then that he noticed that one of the pink leotarded soldiers appeared to be winking at him. This particular one looked even more ridiculous than his fellow pink swim suited wearing comrades. He had the most buffoonish blonde hair that looked as if a birds nest of blonde twigs had landed on his head.  He kept winking more and more feverishly at Torado. What did he want? “Oh my god” thought Torado maybe he wants to make me his sex slave suddenly death seemed a more attractive proposal.

Torado tried his best to ignore the amorous advances but the winking became more and more obvious. He started to notice odd things about his suitor he seemed far shorter than the other men and his frame had the elegance of a skilful footballer about it suddenly he recognized the face “Suarez” he mouthed silently the winks turned to a nods.

Gilberto and Gonzalo felt Torado nudge them and whisper “Suarez, Suarez”

“He is on the boat” replied Gonzalo

“No look Suarez he is here”

The two defenders followed the Mexican midfielder’s eyes until they saw a slight man in a pink leotard with a pile of yellow twigs on his head. Gilberto seeing the skin tight Lycra outfit had to stifle a laugh and wished he had bought a camera so he could have documented Suarez dressed in the swimsuit to show the rest of their team mates.

The masked master of the pink hippopotamus order had started to launch into another diatribe against the beautiful game of football.  Suarez looked around at his fellow leotard wearers their eyes were all staring directly ahead as if transfixed by their leader’s words. He spotted a large cauldron in the middle of the clearing full of an orangey pink liquid and floating tropical fruit, sickly sweet fumes rose from it engulfing the island. The man in the mask continued to address his audience Suarez didn’t  follow the words but when the fat man in the pink suit raided his hand in the air and roared “ladies and gentleman.” Suarez seized his chance and began his charge.

He ran toward the cauldron then with all his strength tipped the huge cast iron pot over sending the sticky cocktail of alcohol and fruit flooding out over the ground. Suarez plunged the wooden spear into to the ground tore of his impromptu wig of twigs and screamed out

“Viva Rio Grandé, aim for their willito’s boys.”

The fat pink hippopotamus spun around and shouted “get him; get him he is one of them.” Before losing his footing and slipping head first into a sticky pool of summer punch that had now spread over the whole clearing. The men in the pink leotards tried to give chase but kept sliding and tumbling over each other the women too their see through white gowns stained pink by the liquid that had now formed into a small lake where the clearing had been. It all looked like some kind of bizarre Roman orgy as pink leotards, white dresses and limbs lay entwined on the ground as they wrestled each other trying to get back to their feet. The few still standing pink swimsuit wearing guards charged towards the Rio Grandeans but were met by the iron fists and feet of Gilberto and Gonzalo.

Don Blanco threw his Panama hat high into the sky, so it span like a flying saucer “make for the “he shouted. Two of the blonde giants were just about to grab the drug lord when his hat came spinning back knocking them to the floor before coming to a rest on the Dons head.

Gilberto and Gonzalo ran towards the trees using their years of defensive experience and powerful shoulders to clear a path for Torado who followed behind them panting for breath still weak from his months of captivity. The bushes scratched and stuck their bony fingers out trying to grab them as they made for the edge of the island where the lock keeper and the harbourmaster, having heard the commotion had already untied the boat from its mooring and had the engine spluttering.

Mr Sempleton grabbed Suarez who was limping badly now having injured his bad leg again during his act of heroism, the pair struggled their way arm in arm into the undergrowth.

Don Blanco was still in the clearing on the ground his cashmere suit now stained orange as he grappled with several men at once in pink leotards.

Breathing heavily Gilberto, Gonzalo and Torado collapsed into the boat. They looked up to see Suarez and Mr Sempleton slowly limping their way towards the river bank and urged them on. They had almost reached the boat when a deafening sound filled the air

 “HALT YOU ANIMALS!!!”

Suarez and the English detective stopped dead then slowly turned around. Not twenty metres away was the man in the hippopotamus mask his fat legs planted firmly in the ground in his hand was one of the wooden oar shaped spears they watched as he flung it high into the air.

As if frozen to the spot the Englishman and the Uruguayan watched as the spear arrowed its way towards them.

From the boat Torado, Gilberto and Gonzalo looked on in horror as the spear span and whistled its way ever closer to the heart of Suarez and that of every Rio Grandean. Then from nowhere cam the hulking figure of Don Blanco, blood on his face and summer punch dripping from his tailored jacket. With an almighty cry he threw his body in front of Suarez, the spear stopped spinning and plunged into the reformed drug lord’s chest.

Torado let out a scream like a wounded animal “nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo”

Suarez fell to his knees, Mr Sempleton tore of his Harrison tweed jacket bent down over the Don and wrapped the ripped pieces of material around the wound desperately he tried to stop the blood that flowed out.

Don Blanco tried to wave him away “leave me you English fool.” He pulled the detective close “do not let our effort be in vain, get on that boat Santa Socrates leave this forsaken place, you must keep the spirit of Rio Grandé alive. I have done many dark deeds in my life; the footballing gods of olé football have given me this fate and I accept it willingly with the pride of being able to call myself a true Rio Grandean, now go!!”

Mr Sempleton ignored the Don’s words and the mass of onrushing leotarded warriors who were drawing ever closer and with a hitherto unseen strength threw Don Blanco’s wounded body over his shoulder, pulled Suarez to his feet and made for the fishing boat. He lifted the Dons body gently onto the boat and pushed the boat out into the water before diving into the river as a shower of spears flew towards him. The harbourmaster pushed the throttle down and Mr Sempleton gripped onto the side of the fishing boat his legs flailing about in the water as they sped away from the island under another barrage of wooden oar shaped spears.

The last cigars of Don Blanco

Don Blanco urged the harbourmaster to try and find some more power in the small fishing boats engine as it chugged its way out of London town and upstream towards a quiet empty stretch of river. Mr Sempleton finally fully recovered from the Fisherman’s Friend incident emerged from the boats small cabin adjusting his deer stalker.

“So what’s happening chaps, ooh what a jolly pretty stretch of river reminds me of Wind in the Willows.”

Don Blanco jumped up and lurched toward the English detective, grabbing him by the lapels and shaking him violently.

“Listen you idiota, my friend is going to die if we do not reach him soon and all you can talk about is the scenery Santa Maria Socrates help me.”

Suarez intervened taking Don Blanco by the arm and then he spoke.

“Torado is my dearest oldest and sweetest friend, if we cannot reach him in time I too shall surely die because by heart will break and shatter into a thousand pieces but we must remain strong and calm.”

Sadness descended over the boat, even the harbour master though he did not really know these men or their kidnapped compatriot Torado felt the pain that had ached in the words of Suarez.

Mr Sempleton walked over to Don Blanco and wrapped an arm around him and in a voice full of kindness and care apologized.

“Don Blanco you must accept my apology, I have not quite been myself ever since those blasted Fisherman’s Friends. Do not worry I will do whatever it takes to release Torado from the clutches of these animals that smear the name of my country so.”

The Don thanked him for his kind words then turned to address Suarez, Gilberto and Gonzalo.

“We must find a quiet stretch of river, it is about 20 miles upstream where the banks are full of weeping willows, there Signor Robbiati told me is a long haired man of the river. He guards a pair of giant wooden doors in the middle of the water and he will take us to this dreaded island.”

Then he grabbed the bulging biceps of Gilberto and Gonzalo.

“Be ready to fight boys!”

The huge footed Brazilian and the swarthy Argentine defender gave a deferential nod towards the Don.

The boat continued on up the river, the day was mild and the trees that dotted the riverbank were starting to show the first small green buds of the approaching spring on their spindly branches.

At one point they passed some huge carefully manicured laws as green as the greenest Rio Grandean avocado, towering up from the lawn was a magnificent grey stone castle.

“What is that?” asked Gilberto pointing at the castle.

“That” said Mr Sempleton “is Windsor castle the residence of our great Queen Elizabeth.”

“Santa Domingo Socrates Rolando Cristobal” shouted Gilberto “if I knew we were going to see the queen I would have changed my slippers.” And then pointed at his once purple velvet slippers that were now caked in a combination of dried mud and sea kelp. Everyone laughed and just for a second the men’s tension, worry and fear slipped away. They were at that very moment just six men enjoying a day out on the river Thameses.

As the boat continued its journey chugging its way upstream across the borders of each new shire the distance between the houses along the riverbank grew. Each house seemed larger than the one before like gigantico Hacienda’s thought Don Blanco.

Mr Sempleton piped up. “I know this stretch of river, my grandpapa used to take me crayfish poaching here as a little boy.”

“These houses are huge, who an earth owns them?” asked Suarez pointing at a huge faux Gothic monstrosity on the riverbank

“No Rio Grandean that’s for sure” laughed Gilberto

“These” replied the English detective “are the properties of England’s elite classes my friend. Bankers,  Estate agents, Rowing coaches, Rotary club members and crooked politicians.”

As the fishing boat floated past one of the huge mansions that hung over the river, Don Blanco saw two white wooden signs poking up from the manicured lawn. One read Keep of the Grass the other said Rowers do it better footballers don’t do it at all. Incensed by the sign Don Blanco pulled out his ivory pistola and deposited the whole clip in the sign leaving it riddled with bullet holes. Suarez snatched the gun from the Don’s hand “tranquillo Don Blanco,tranquillo amigo.”

Then a short beetroot faced bald man, emerged from the ostentatious doors of the mansion and marched across the lawn shaking his fist at the occupants of the boat.

“What is the meaning of this bloody outrage.” As he stared at the gaping holes of his precious wooden sign, he eyed the faces of the men on the boat and seeing the deep olive skin of Don Blanco, Gilberto, Gonzalo and Suarez began to hurl xenophobic abuse in their direction.

“Bloody Immigrants, layabouts haven’t you been told Britain is closed to the likes of you, don’t you know?”

Don Blanco grabbed his pistola back from Suarez refilled the clip and fired four shots into the air, then at the top of his lungs shouted “Viva Rio Grandé, Viva Torado”

The bald beetroot shaped and coloured man fearing for his life jumped into the river and howls of laughter erupted from the boat as the man’s bald pate emerged from the water with a Mallard nesting on his head , mistaking the round shape of it for an un hatched egg than needed incubating.

The man shouted angrily as the boat and the laughter drifted off upstream.

It took another 3 hours to reach the lock that was just a few miles downstream of the temple, by now it was mid-afternoon and the sky had taken on a dark grey hue that was neither pleasant nor reassuring. The lock keeper seeing the small boat approach, put down his ukulele that he had been strumming in an absent minded manner all day, stood up pressed the button spun the metal wheel, the huge wooden gates to the lock began to open and the small fishing vessel navigated its way skilfully through the opening doors.

The harbourmaster and Suarez tied the ropes to the metal ringlets on the bank by the boats aft and stern; Don Blanco skipped off the boat up the stone steps, removed his panama hat, pulled out a Fidelito Castrato cigar and struck a match against his gunpowder scarred cheek.

The lock keeper looked at the giant figure in the Cashmere suit and then down into the boat at the swarthy figures of Gilberto and Gonzalo and the strangely tweed suited deer stalker wearing figure of the English detective Mr Sempleton. He closed his eyes, he was sure he must have been having one of his acid flashbacks but when he re-opened them the same bizarre motley group of men were still staring back at him.

The Don stuck out his huge leathery hand “My name is Don Blanco, these men” he pointed at the fishing boat “are my most trusted allies and you are Mr Pottering I presume?”

The lock keeper almost entirely lost for words stuttered “er… erm… er yes, may I ask how... er… you know my name Sir?”

“you know a certain lady? A Signora Robbiati no?”

Christ thought the lock keeper; I thought my therapy sessions were supposed to be confidential. He started to think of all the secrets he had revealed to the Latina therapist who had become like a surrogate mother to him. Then a strong feeling of nausea started to overwhelm him. Did this man know that his very first erotic awakening had involved a pop-up book about the HMS Nelson and a particular page which had shown a detailed drawing of two sailors being flogged?

He tried to gather himself “Yes Yes She is my therapist, why?”

“Well you see my friend” said the Don “we are close friends/colleagues of her only son Signor Rolando Robbiati the famed manager of Rio Grandé”

“Viva Rio Grandé” came a shout from the boat.

“Er…ah…ok right, please to meet you” said the lock keeper feeling more confused than ever and at that point made a solemn promise to himself to never touch another drop of Olde Man Mindfuck again.

Don Blanco becoming increasingly impatient with the niceties expected of you when greeting the English gave the astounded looking river man a very brief synopsis of Torado’s kidnap.

“Now you my friend must lead us to this island and its temple at once!”  And just to show the lock keeper that this was not a request but an order, he unbuttoned his cashmere jacket so the long haired man could see the ivory handle of the pistola.

However there had been no need for this demonstration as the lock keeper overwhelmed with happiness that his long held conspiracy theories had been confirmed and tiring of his life opening the river doors for the rich and privileged ; simply grabbed his tatty canvas bag and ukulele tore of his Thameses river agency sweater and leapt into the boat.

“Shall we go then?” he said grinning.

Drinks at the Three Sails

Artur and Mikhail the ship captain were propped up against the bar of the only hostelry in town that looked like it might welcome sea faring men such as themselves. The Three Sails pub consisted of two small wood panelled rooms that you entered through a small door off a long narrow hallway. The building was right in the centre of the small, pretty yet sinister town that they had moored up at, not two miles from the terrifying temple that both men were now desperately trying to wipe from their mind with the help of drink.

They should have been in a celebratory mood, after all they would now be rich men when they returned home but neither man could bear to look at the white suitcase wedged between their two barstools. Artur’s stomach still felt sore and empty from vomiting though it did not stop him from downing shot after shot of rough cheap rum. There were much finer brands of spirits on display behind the smart polished oak and zinc bar where they were sat and with their pockets full of money both men could have bought any drink they wanted.  But the glistening gold decorated glass bottles were not an appropriate drink for men of the sea or for the occasion.

At the same time Outside the black and white fronted hostelry the lock keeper leant his red rusty bicycle against the low window ledge that looked out onto the road. On his back was a worn blue cloth rucksack, sticking out of the tightly pulled drawstrings at the top was the neck of his beloved ukulele. The instrument that had been forged high in the Grenadian hills. Above his head the painted sign of The Three Sails pub creaked gently and swung back and forth in the winter breeze.

He peered through the window; where there were tables full of well to do patrons eating tiny portions of elaborate food on gigantic white plates. The scene filled him with sadness and anger in equal measure, everything had changed. The pub had once been owned by a friend of his, then it had been a haven for folk of all types. Every evening the bar had been full of steamer captains, river pirates and asparagus smugglers all rubbing shoulders together, whilst fiddle music filled the air. The old pirates would tell long forgotten tales of river heroes and rogues as gypsy women danced and stamped on the hardwood floor. It was only these memories that had kept him coming back to this place, well that and the ale and the hope that one day he might spot a face from the days when the river and their folk had been full of life.

He stepped into the long galley like passageway that ran all the way down to the stern of The Three Sails. The flaked white painted wood always made him feel as if he was in the bowels of an old tea clipper headed out into the ocean for India.  None of the fixtures of The Three Sails were ever quite straight, a painting at an angle a crooked lamp on the wall it all added to the atmosphere of a ship lilting as it crashed through the waves. The lock keeper approached the frosted glass door that led to the public bar, pushed it open and stepped in, the door swung shut behind him causing the glass to rattle. He scanned the room out of hope more than anything for a familiar face but saw none, just table after table full of estate agents, bankers, wealthy rowing coaches and their jewel encrusted women. He gave a silent sigh and walked over to the bar leaning on a spot that the bar keeper was furiously trying to polish. A small smile came across the lock keepers face when he saw the barman who had given up trying to polish the spot on the bar where the lock keepers elbow was now resting and had moved on to rub the enamel badge on the ale pump of the months guest beer

“Old Man Mind fuck” a strong dark malty ale with alleged hallucinogenic qualities and the lock keepers personal favourite. He threw down two sovereigns onto the bar “pint of Mind Fuck please.”

The Lock keeper was half way through his second pint of Olde Mindfuck and the room was already starting to spin like a carousel in his head  finally his eyes came to a rest on the faces of the two strangers he had seen on the river earlier that day.

The two men were slumped over the bar; both faces were a stony grey, drained of life but their eyes were still wild like a rough swell in the sea and clearly unnerved the other patrons who were giving the strangers a wide berth.

He felt an instant kinship with the two foreigners sprawled over the bar, not only were they outcasts but they too were men of the waters of the world. He pulled up a stool next to them, took of his yellow windcheater and with a thud placed down his pint of Mindfuck on the polished wood bar, its mind altering foam running down the side of the glass. The lock keeper checked his watch there was still two hours until the appointment with his therapist, plenty of time to get drunk.

Artur and the Captain looked up as the long haired man shuffled himself onto the stool next to them. By the foot of the man’s stool was a dirty old canvas bag with the neck of a mahogany coloured musical instrument poking from the top. Artur nodded as the man turned to him raised his glass and gulped down the brown liquid before wiping the foam from his moustache and grinning at the sailor.

“Ahoy there” said the lock keeper “you are them men from the boat that barely squeezed through my lock today, so what brings you to these lands, riches? And gave a wink.

Artur did not answer but turned to his Captain, after all he had always told Artur to keep their business to themselves lest they fall foul of the authorities. He got no answer for his superior was lying with his face flat on the bar; intermittently loud snores came from the Russian’s mouth.

Artur watched as the lock keeper drained yet another pint of the sickly smelling brown ale.

“Aaah Mindfuck it hits the spot every time” said the man with the long hair smacking his lips together “so tell me, what brings you boys so far from the Baltic?”

Artur felt as if an elevator had just dropped 3 floors in his stomach. How did this ma know they usually plied their trade in the Baltic seas, he wondered if the man also knew what him and Mikhail had been party only a few hours ago? The face of Torado peering out from between the wooden bars of his island cage flooded Artur’s mind, the blood that dripped from the swans feathers that were wrapped around the dainty women it was all too much for him, his face went white and he unsteadily started to rock back and forth on the stool. The room started to spin as if he was suffering land sickness, every so often the spinning stopped and he would find himself staring at a large gold framed mirror guilt, fear and shame staring back at him.

The lock keeper just about managed to catch the young sailor before he crashed from his stool onto the pine deck of the hostelry, he perched the sea farer back onto his stool as if he was righting a toy boat in a bath and refilled the young man’s shot glass.

Artur in need of a friendly ear and completely overwhelmed by the day’s events let the whole terrible tale tumble from his lips. He told the lock keeper about the child thrown in the icy waters of the Baltic, their sinister blonde employers and finally taking a deep breath explained the terrifying scene he had witnessed on the island.

The lock keeper leant close his shoulders hunched down listening intently to the stories of kidnap, rendition and occult worship. Periodically he poured the cheap rum from the bottle with the anchor label into the sailors shot glass. The tale he was told by the young Polish sailor confirmed many of the lock keepers long held conspiracy theories about what was happening to his sacred river and the island that had once been occupied by an ancient order of Franciscan monks.

The men sat at the bar together for another hour drinking but not saying a word, Mikhail the captain was still asleep his face now in a bowl of peanuts, the lock keeper and Artur deep in mists of rum and Mindfuck ale. The lock keeper checked his watch he was late for his appointment with Signora Robbiati the therapist, he downed the dregs of his pint bade the sea farers farewell and stumbled out into the night.

A Black ship slips into the Thames

Condensation slowly worked its way like snails down the hot water pipe and then onto the neck of Torado, the cold droplets tickling him before running down his back where they were dried out by the heat being emitted from the pipe the Mexican midfielder was shackled to. The room was dark now but out of the porthole window he could see thousands of diffused lights they appeared to be hanging in the sky, glowing orange behind the fog that curled and wrapped itself like a cloak over the estuary of the Thames. As the black ship slipped silently through the water toward the city; huge power stations along the river bank jutted up high above the boat spitting poisonous smoke into the air, turning the sky completely red. In the distance a clock towers bell rang out and clanged twelve times. Torado tried to move his left leg. It had fallen asleep and when it finally awoke it started to tingle as if it had been wrapped in a blanket of green nettles. The ropes that bound his legs loosened a little as he shuffled his body; just enough to let the blood start to flow back down his leg awakening it from its slumber.

In the distance he heard the bells of a clock tower chime, the clang crossed the still waters and shroud of fog before reverberating twelve times around the engine room of the boat, the pipes ringing back in response. There were more lights coming through the small round window of his cell now and as the billows of fog parted for a second, he saw a foreboding looking building that loomed over the banks of the river. Torado did not know that this was the seat of British government but the scene reminded him of a painting of London that his school teacher Signor Bolivar had once shown him. In the painting was a similar looking building he could still hear Signor Bolivar’s voice telling him and the rest of the class the tragic story that accompanied the picture. The demise of a heroic character called Guy Fawkes, they had all decided in the class that day that this man was a true Rio Grandean at heart.

He watched as the ship started to pass the building that was pushing its chest out over the river with a colonial arrogance. Torado thought of Guy Fawkes, his old teacher Signor Bolivar, the classroom he had sat in as a child that looked out over the hills of Rio Grandé. He thought of his beloved Papito’s avocado farm where he and Suarez had played as children, then of his friends and team mates and the homeland and life he had been torn from. He felt a vacuum of loneliness engulf him, pulling his memories from his mind, at that very moment he knew he was to die completely alone.

Alone in the floating cell, only the hum from the engine to break the silence Torado craved companionship even a moment would do, just another human being to remind him he still existed. He thought of the young ship mate Artur who had bought him the delicious soup with the feather light dumplings, the kindness the young man had shown and how Torado had hoped he would see him again. But no one came and as the ship started to leave the city behind in its wake, the lights become fewer and fewer their glow starting to fade until they started to twinkle and then blink on off winking at Torado; he felt his eyes start to lose focus and his head became groggy. His eyelids shut pulled their shutters down and one by one the lights were flicked off in the jumble aisles of Torado’s mind until all became quiet and visions of the Rio Grandean hills floated behind the Mexican midfielder’s eyes.

The sound of the ships horn awoke Torado with a start, he would have jumped up if he his arms and legs had not been bound to the water pipe. a rhythmic tapping came from the glass of the porthole window, it was daylight now a steady rain was falling outside and clattering against the walls of the engine room of the ship. Torado felt the boat come to a standstill, he could still here the propellers running below though, churning up the murky green Thames waters. A huge bird squawked and beat its wings as it flew past the small round window , Torado watched as its long yellow beak snapped itself around the tail of a small squirming fish.  From above his head on the ship deck he could hear the muffled sounds of raised voices, then silence. After a minute or two from somewhere on the riverbank came the unmistakeable lilting sounds of a Spanish guitar. The music sounded both mournful and defiant at once, Torado cocked his ear to hear more clearly, the sounds of the strings reminded him of home of Suarez of everything he loved; a single tear wound its way down his cheek like a small tributary searching for its river. The ships engine roared into life, the horn sounded and the sounds of the guitar were drowned out by the humming that filled the engine room. Torado’s aquatic prison lurched forward and they were on the move again. The boat must have not moved forward more than 100 yards before it came to an abrupt halt again, the engines were killed and once again the sounds of the guitar drifted through the window, Torado listened as each string struck filled the empty void of the four walls of his prison.

Across the frozen seas

The figures on the beach started to fade behind the bank of grey cloud that hung over the coastline until it was impossible to distinguish whether they were people or just jets of strange shaped strata hanging over the black sands. The ship carried Torado out further into the choppy waters of the Baltic, the Mexican stood there alone on the deck bound and gagged, his heart shattered into small sharp pieces that scored his skin from the inside. A malevolent mist sunk down and enshrouded the ship, he thought of his friend Suarez back there on the beach, the friend who he was sure he would never see again. Torado stayed there on the deck for hours his legs tightly bound unable to move, thinking about the many evening he and Suarez has spent together.  They would sit there watching the moon float high up above the Rio Grandean lakes and rivers together, bathed in comforting silence as they held their bamboo fishing rods and looked out on the still shining waters.

Night fell but there was no moon that night as the black ship lilted and rocked with each crash of the wave against its rusting hull. A fierce rain storm swept over the vessel depositing at least 3 inches of ice cold salt stained Baltic water over the deck. The freezing water covering Torado’s bare feet and biting at his ankles. His whole body shivered, his feet felt numb and the rocking of the ship had turned Torado’s face an unpleasant green. Waves of nausea swept over the Mexican midfielder. The pink silk gag that had been stuffed and tied tightly round his mouth on the jetty made it impossible for Torado to catch his breath and he started to be overwhelmed by a sense of dread and panic. He bit down hard on the gag tearing at it with his teeth until at last the silken strands started to rip and the gag came loose. He opened his mouth wide and inhaling sharply filled it with the sea air taking it down deep into his lungs; then he started to vomit and losing any sense of equilibrium keeled over and crashed down into the lake of water that covered the ship’s deck. Torado tasted the wet salt on his lips and coughed and spluttered as he tried to keep his nose and mouth above the ever rising tide.

One of his captors stepped out of a large blue iron door and onto the deck, his yellow windcheater flapping about like a distressed albatross in the gale force wind that lashed at the ship. He saw Torado on the floor and grabbed him by his legs dragging his body through the metal door and down the long Iron staircase bashing the Mexican midfielders head on each step deep into the bowels of the vessel. The man in the yellow windcheater opened another stiff rusty door and pulled the vomiting Torado into the room tying the Mexicans arms behind a long red metal pipe that snaked its way up to the ceiling then left the bruised and sea water covered midfielder alone, with only the aches and groans of the ships pipework for company. Exhausted and destroyed Torado succumbed to sleep.

A few hours later sunlight began to filter its way through the tiny porthole into the engine room. The light dappled and danced over the Mexican’s eyelids, the sun god Tonatiuh trying to wake the Mexican as gently as possible.  Torado opened his eyes, winced with pain his head bruised from the previous night’s trip from the deck to the engine room. He looked around his new prison cell, the room hummed with the noise of the ships engine and the heat had dried out Torado’s clothes which were now starched stiff from the sea salt. The pipe he had been tied against was so hot that he no longer shivered but started to sweat as the pipe burned at his back. A groaning noise came from the other end of the room and the heavy iron door slowly started to open revealing the face of a young looking man he did not recognize.

In the hands of the young man was a large bohemian patterned bowl, steam was rising up from it and a smell so earthy and sweet drifted across the room that Torado’s stomach started to grumble for attention. The young man, who was no more than a boy really, stepped nervously closer towards the wild eyes of the man bound to the water pipe, then knelt down and offered the prisoner the steaming hot bowl, gently lifting it to Torado’s lips.

The hot purple broth scolded Torado’s mouth as he tried to greedily drink it down.

“Slowly” said the boy “it is good beetroot, will make you feel stronger, settle your stomach”

The young seaman blew on the soup to cool it and Torado took another gulp, the soup tasted so good, sweet and sour all at once, he could feel its restorative properties going to work as it slid down his throat. The boy who called himself “Artur” plunged a spoon into the broth and fished out a pale coloured dumpling and popped it in Torado’s mouth, the pastry membrane quickly dissolved filling the Mexican’s mouth with the delicious taste of fatty pork and sugared cabbage and for the first time since he could recall Torado smiled. The innocent face of Artur smiled back “I know you, you are a footballer, a Rio Grandean no?” then dug the spoon in his hand back into the bowl offering the midfielder another delicious dumpling. Torado savoured the sweet roasted pork meat once again and as the flavour filled his mouth he realised that this young man was the first person to have spoken to him since his abduction.  He swallowed the silky pastry down and looked at the naïve face of the man-boy and nodded. “Yes my name is Torado it is a pleasure to meet you.”

The young man set the soup bowl down.

“I am Artur the ships mate, the four men who boarded the ship with you, say you are a dangerous terrorist, I do not think I believe this. The men are cold and unfriendly I do not trust them but my Captain says they pay us big money, so no questions.”

Torado still ravenous pointed at the blue flower covered bowl and Artur lifted it back to the mouth of the midfielder who drained the rest of the now less scalding broth down his throat then thanked the ships mate for his kindness.

Young Artur stood up and winked at Torado “there is no need to thank me; it is an honour to serve my mamuska’s beetroot soup to such a footballing legend” 

Torado smiled with embarrassment and looked out of the porthole, where in the distance he could see the snow-capped spires of a city that appeared to look as if it was floating on the now calm grey sea. He asked Artur what it was.

“That is Copenhagen; my captain tells me there is a restaurant in that city, where people pay big money to eat Christmas trees and seaweed, crazy huh?”

Torado nodded in agreement and then asked the young seafarer if he knew where the ship was bound for.

“Tomorrow evening” said Artur “we will land on the shores of England but where I do not know; only the men in the silly hats and the Captain know the exact location and none will tell me.”

Then the boy picked up the empty soup bowl and started to walk towards the door. He stopped and looked back at the sad eyes of the Mexican and then with another wink said, “I shall try and find out for you my friend.” Then pulling the huge iron door closed with a screech young Artur was gone. Torado could hear his footsteps racing up the metal staircase.

He sat there alone once again and looked out at the city that the ship slowly drifted past. He imagined somewhere in one of the buildings fine folk sitting in a sparsely decorated white restaurant. Dressed in dinner jackets and elegant evening gowns, efficient waiters dancing around the room presenting the patrons with bowls full of sugar coated pine needles. The crystal glasses on the table being refilled with a golden liquid. The thousands of tiny bubbles working their way up the glass; before bursting into the air to join the laughter that filled the dining room. The snow falling steeply outside the huge windows that looked out onto the cobbled streets.

The black ship and the boy in the Baltic

The train eased to a halt about 5 miles outside of the port near Gdansk. Don Blanco heaved the seized window open and looked from the unmoving train, the railway tracks appeared to lead to then disappear at a long flat grey vista that Signor Blanco assumed was the sea. Growing impatient with the unscheduled stop the Don unlocked the train door and stepped out onto the tracks. His companions followed as they started to walk along the train line past the empty fields that months ago must have been full of an abundance of wheat or corn. Mr Sempleton lagged behind desperately struggling with the pile of board games he insisted on bringing, whilst complaining about the abrupt curtailment of the scrabble game, victory unfairly torn from his grasp. The Don unable to bare the whingeing of the Englishman a moment longer walked back toward him and held out his hands as if offering to help with the transportation of the board games.

“Oh why thank you Signor Blanco” said a surprised looking Mr Sempleton piling the games into the arms of the Don. The thank you was however a short lived one as the English detective looked on aghast as Don Blanco with an almighty hurl sent the collection of games spinning and twisting high into the sky, before they crashed and spilt out over the trampled and frozen remains of the field’s long dead crops.

Mr Sempleton felt a furious anger swell up inside him, his mother had sent him those board games to play with after he had told her about his new friends and their proposed train trip. She would be appalled that they were now lying in some frozen nameless part of northern Poland.

Mr Sempleton marched on behind his four companions, silently simmering with rage. The grey horizon started to come into focus before disappearing as the men were enveloped in a shroud of mist and hard salty rain. By the time they exited the cloak of mist the five travellers found themselves at the edge of a jetty that was being buffeted by waves. Gilberto’s velvet slippers were soaked through and had turned from a vivid purple to a dull mud colour and squelched with each giant footstep he took. Don Blanco’s cigar was so sodden that no matter how hard he tried to relight it, the wet tobacco would not catch fire; he abandoned the futile attempts and dropped it into a puddle. Suarez looked down to see the plaster cast covering his broken leg disintegrate and dissolve  in front of his eyes as the sodium filled rain hammered against it. Muffled cries came from the frothing waters below the jetty and in the distance no more than a hundred yards from the spit of land that protruded out into the sea to the west was a ship. It was slowly fighting its way through the Baltic swell, seeing this Suarez started to run towards it.

Don Blanco made his way along the jetty trying to locate where the muffled cries had come from; he stopped at the sight of a burst leather football that lay ripped and wheezing for life at his feet and then looked out over the waves that were gathering energy before taking another charge at the rusting jetty. Again from under the screams of the wind came the cries of a small child, there about 100 yards away were the flailing arms of young Michal, the child was frantically thrashing amid the thunderous waves, his arms barely above the water, life slowly starting slip from him. Without a second thought the Don threw his cashmere jacket on the wet ground and dove head first into the torrent of churning grey water.

Gonzalo (a youth swimming champion in Rio Grandé) was in these same freezing waters, puffing as he fought his way through the ten foot high swell towards the unconscious figure of the harbour master, whose body was being thrown up and down in the sea, as if it was no more than a balsa light piece of driftwood.

Mr Sempleton and Suarez were making their way towards the spit of land and the escaping ship. Suarez had abandoned his crutches; his plaster cast had now entirely melted away and he ignored the searing pain in his leg as he sprinted along the beach so fast that Mr Sempleton, holding onto his prized deerstalker could barely keep pace.

Don Blanco cut through the water with his powerful arms and reached the boy not a moment too soon. Little Michal could not fight any longer, his eyes had started to close and his aching arms went rigid as he started to sink under the water, when he felt a strong grip on his arm. Whatever had grabbed him lifted him high out of the water and onto its back. The boy now delirious and barely breathing looked down in amazement as he rode on the back of the giant walrus that took him back to the safety of the shore. The huge mammal deposited the coughing child onto the black sands of the beach; it was only then that the boy realised the bushy moustache of his saviour was that of not a walrus but a fierce looking foreign man.

The man with the face of fire, took of the blue silk scarf that was around his thick neck and wrapped it around the shivering body of little Michal and headed back to the waves to help Gonzalo haul the body of the boy’s unconscious grandfather up and onto the seaweed littered beach.

Suarez had reached the slither of land surrounded on all sides by the ominous waves first. The spray from the water stung his eyes and the Uruguayan rubbed them, slowly his blurred vision came into focus. There no more than two football fields’ distance from where he stood was the black ship. He could see the huge emblem of a pink hippopotamus on the vessels stern each time it rose up above a wave. On the deck stood five men whose faces he could not clearly make out. Then he saw the eyes! The unmistakeable eyes of his dearest friend Torado staring back at him full of fear; yet at the same time sadness. They burned into Suarez all he could see now were those eyes, the ship, the sea the beach all faded from view leaving nothing apart from the huge eyes of his oldest friend. Suarez yelled out “TORado” but the noise of the fierce Baltic and the ships engine quickly drowned him out. He ran into the sea desperate to reach the ship and his friend but was beaten back by the angry waves. Suarez tried once more but this time was held back by Mr Sempleton who had finally managed to catch up. He held on tight to Suarez whose leg was now bleeding profusely and gently lowered the screaming Uruguayan striker to the ground, comforting his new friend as Suarez knees sunk into the sand and the player wailed a lament that was carried by the winds to the black ship and the ears of Torado, who started to cry when he heard the beautiful voice of his best friend.