Hitchhiker's Child

Robin Baker

Description

A man gives a lift to an unusual hitchhiker, a woman who has been thrown bound and naked from a car. On the journey he hears the bizarre but intriguing story of her predicament. It seems that there is nobody who could be the father of her child, least of all her rich powerful and vindictive husband.Mark de Vries has a passion for studying lions and for several months each year he teaches Zoology at an English University. The rest of his time he spends with his research team in a tiny settlement in the remote Kalahari Desert amidst a group of tribal Tswana. Against his will, Mark is drawn into the mystery of the hitchhiker's child - until a sequence of murders, rapes, intimidation and blackmail means that his livelihood and even his survival depend on finding the answer. But it takes a brave experiment by him and his research team to finally discover the truth, an experiment that they have no choice but to conduct on themselves. When the mystery is solved it becomes clear that what happened to the hitchhiker could - without the person's knowledge -happen to anybody. And it is not only women who might suffer the consequences.Set partly in the stifling atmosphere of English academia and partly in the dangerous and endangered wilderness of the Kalahari Desert, THE HITCHHIKER'S CHILD is a story of murder and mystery, love and sacrifice. At its heart are a love-affair between Mark and two of his students, an alternative life philosophy, and an escalating conflict between two very different men.Robin Baker, author of the international best seller SPERM WARS, is an acknowledged authority on sexual biology and psychology. As in his previous two novels, PRIMAL and CABALLITO, the innovative sexual science behind THE HITCHHIKER'S CHILD is real and one day everybody will, and for their own sake must, know of it. But they don't know it yet.

Sujets

• Adventure (Guyana)
• Adventure

Informations

• Publié par: HARD NUT Books
• Date de parution: 04 janvier 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9788461621132
• Langue: English

Extrait

TheHitchhiker’s Child
By Robin Baker
Copyright © RobinBaker 2013
www.robin-baker.com
Robin Baker has asserted his right under the Copyright,Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Firstpublished in English in 2013
Robin Baker is represented by:
TheSusijn Agency
3rdFloor, 64 Great Titchfield Street, London, W1W 7QH, UK
www.thesusijnagency.com
ISBN 978-84-616-2113-2
Cover
Tunnel photo by George Hodan
( http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=21809&picture=tunnel)
Published by HARD NUTbooks
Email: [e-mail]
Also by Robin Baker
Fiction
PRIMAL
CABALLITO
Non-Fiction
SPERM WARS
BABY WARS
SEX IN THE FUTURE
FRAGILE SCIENCE
Details: www.robin-baker.com/books/
Dedication:
To maverick scientistseverywhere
Tableof Contents
TheHitchhiker’s Child
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
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Appendix  – for scientists only
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
In a dimly-lit corner of the empty car park I switched off thecar lights, reclined my seat, and closed my eyes. Only twenty minutes I toldmyself – but I didn’t manage even one. Just as I was drifting off I was joltedawake by a banging on the window, then startled by the sight of a bruised and bleedingwhite face only inches from my own. I froze and stared in shock and the person backedaway. Now I could see. The pale figure was a woman, hands behind her back, agag in her mouth, naked.
I peered into the dark to see if anyone else was lurking nearbybut the car park seemed deserted. So I eased out of the car then advanced slowly,sensing how afraid the woman was. I tried to reassure her saying I would helpif she would let me; that she had nothing to fear. Did she want me to untie thegag and her wrists? Because if she did, I would need to come close. I would needto stand behind her. She wavered, then slowly turned.
Close-up her long hair smelled of petrol. The knot was tiedtightly and incorporated thick strands of her hair. At the front it was pulled hardback between her teeth. I could neither untie it nor slide it up or downwithout pulling out her hair. As for her wrists … My rapidly cooling fingers coulddo nothing to free her. She was shivering violently, her skin freezing to thetouch.
‘Best get in the car,’ I said. But she squealed and shookher head. ‘You’ve no choice,’ I continued. ‘You need warmth and I need light. Ican’t see what I’m doing.’ Again she squealed, so I moved around to face her, hopingthat she could see enough of my eyes to trust me. ‘I won’t hurt you, I promise.You’re safe with me. I’m a doctor – of sorts. You’ll be hypothermic if you stayout here.’
She appeared to calm down – or maybe accepted that she hadno other option – and I helped her awkwardly into the passenger seat. Then Irummaged in the car-boot for a knife; a blanket too, which I draped over her. Assoon as I cut away the oil-soaked gag, the woman spat out the taste. Her hands weretied with what looked like piano wire which had begun to cut into her flesh. AsI sawed at the bonds she gave tiny cries of pain. ‘Sorry,’ I said at each whimper.
Once free she examined her wrists, wincing as she rubbedthem. ‘I need a shower,’ she said.
‘But …’
‘I need a shower. Now! Can’t you smell me? They had matches.’She burst into tears and began to rock backwards and forwards holding her headin her hands.
I placed my hand on her bare back but she shrugged me away. ‘Sorry,but I need my phone?’ I said gently.
‘What!’
‘My mobile. You’re sitting on it.’
‘Phone! Why?’
‘The police.’
‘No! Not the police. Not anybody. Promise me. My husband …’
‘But …’
‘No! Just a shower. That’s all. Please!’
***
I loaned her my tracksuit, pulled from my weekend bag, thetrouser-legs and sleeves way too long. With no spare footwear to offer, I foundher the least dirty pair of my socks. Then with her face wiped as clean ofblood as I could manage, she stayed at a distance while I booked us into theservice-station motel.
‘Where’s your room?’ she asked, standing framed in the doorwayto her own.
‘Next one along. I hope your shower works.’
‘So do I. I will pay you back. Honestly.’
‘I should hope so. Call if you need me. Or bang on the wall.Don’t worry about the time.’
She began to close her door, but opened it again. ‘What’syour name?’
‘Mark.’
‘I’m Mia.’
***
Next morning, we travelled back north along the M1 to theservice station where Mia had been attacked, grabbed from behind whileunlocking her car, then bundled into a large white van. She told me that much atleast as we drove. But when we searched the parking area her car – a red MG midgetconvertible – had gone, and with it her overnight case. So I bought her some clothing,the minimum she needed to be comfortable and not attract attention. Then we wentto the restaurant for breakfast.
‘Do you work out?’ Mia said. ‘You look as though you do.’
‘Occasionally. When I’m in England. Not the rest of the time.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’
‘Long story.’
‘Oh … OK,’ and for a while we ate in silence, Mia needing toconcentrate. ‘You have beautiful eyes,’ she said eventually. ‘Kind – and very …’She winced, and I winced with her. The weeping cuts on her lip and cheek lookedraw and painful.
‘Maybe best not to smile. ………… Very what?’
‘I was going to say very brown.’ She put her pale anddelicate hand with its long and painted fingernails to the corner of her mouthto deal with a pastry flake. ‘Much like the rest of you. I mean – that’s eitherone terrific tan or … Are you English?’ Suddenly she flushed. ‘Oh, sorry! I didn’tmean … Of course not. But isn’t that a slight accent?’
I smiled. ‘No need to apologise. And yes, I am English … Atleast, according to my passport. My mother was English you see. But I was bornin Zimbabwe after my father escaped there from South Africa – and even now Ispend half my time in Botswana. Maybe that’s the accent. So – you’re right – thiscolour is partly the African sun. But you’re right about the other bit too. Myfather’s father. Seems my grandmother was married to a Boer but also had amoment of racial unity – with a Zulu, so I’m told. And quite a lot seems tohave surfaced in me.’ A look of discomfort flickered across Mia’s face. ‘Does thatbother you?’ I asked.
‘Me? No! Of course not. A Zulu … Wow!’ She hesitated,staring at me as if studying my face. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind taking mehome?’
***
‘Unusual way to thumb a lift,’ I said as we drove down themotorway towards London.
‘Not my choice.’ She glanced at me. ‘What’s your address? SoI can send you a cheque? Pay you back all this money you’ve spent on me.’
‘Oh, it’s not so much – but I won’t say no. Just rummagearound in there.’ I indicated the glove compartment. ‘You should find abusiness card or two. Unless I gave them all away over the weekend.’
She found a card and studied it for a moment. ‘So that’swhat you meant by “sort-of.”’
‘Afraid so. But the doctor bit worked didn’t it? Isn’t that whenyou began to trust me?’
‘Not sure that it was. I think it was more that you knew theword “hypothermic”. ………… By the way … Have I said ‘thank you’ yet?’
‘Not exactly. But did I have a choice? I could hardly just leaveyou, could I? Anybody would have done the same?’
‘Would they? I’m not so sure. But … Tell me. Honestly. Wouldyou have been such a Samaritan if I’d been a man? Or ugly? Or even just wearingclothes?’
I didn’t answer – just smiled – then broke off fromconversation for a minute or so while I overtook a two-carriageway string oflorries. ‘Now … What about you?’ I said eventually. ‘Are you ready to tell mewhat happened yet?’
For a few moments it seemed that she wasn’t. But then: ‘Theydidn’t rape me you know. If that’s what you thought.’
That was what I thought. ‘So why did they strip you?’
‘For the other reason. There is only one isn’t there? That Iknow of any way.’
‘Is there? What’s that?’
‘To humiliate somebody. Break them. Get information fromthem. It’s the first step. And if stripping doesn’t work …’
‘… you tie their wrists with piano wire, pour petrol over theirhead and threaten to light a match, eh? My God! Who are these people? And what werethey trying to get out of you? It must have been important to merit that. Did itwork? Did you tell them?’
‘I couldn’t tell them. Because I don’t know. And it’sprobably just as well I don’t.’ She pointed at a large hoarding. ‘Can we stop?At this Service Station? I need the loo. Do you mind?’
She also seemed to need time on her own. So I sat at a tableand let her wander the shops for a while, occasionally glimpsing her in thenewsagent, flicking through magazines. She was very petite, very graceful inher movements; in her mid-twenties I would guess. I tried to imagine her as aspy, or an undercover policewoman – but couldn’t. Eventually she joined me andbegan sipping the cappuccino I had ready for her.
‘Are you married,’ she asked. ‘Children?’ Her look wasquizzical, her swollen upper-lip making her mouth lop-sided. ‘My guess is no.’
‘Your guess is right. Just a girlfriend or two. And whatabout you? I mean, I know you’re married and … OK. Here goes. My guess is that youdo have a child. Am I right?’
‘Yes … Ha. How did you know?’
‘A size-eight with stretch marks?’
She spluttered into her drink. ‘Oh my God … Do they showthat much?’
‘It’s the car light. It’s weird. Highlights things likethat. I noticed them while I was putting the blanket over you last night. So... Where is he? Or she? Your child?’
‘He. Lex.’ She fell silent, cup to her mouth but notdrinking. And when I saw