Hurricane Gold (3 page)

‘Get off me, you filthy brute,’ King snarled and he pounded the animal against the wall. He managed to hoist himself up on to the top of the wall, his lower half still dangling into the snake pit.

He shook his trapped leg and felt a slight lessening of the grip, and then, with an almost inhuman effort, he wrenched it free.

The snake had to be satisfied with his shoe, which it proceeded to mangle in its coils. The shoe had been handmade in Italy and cost more than the average Mexican peasant would earn in a month.

King didn’t stay around to watch, though. He struggled to his feet, and then winced from a fresh pain as he tried to walk.

He had twisted his ankle trying to get it away from the snake, which now meant that neither of his legs was much use to him.

He yelled every foul insult he could think of up at El Huracán, who was busy taking money off those men who had lost bets so far.

‘You’d better hotfoot it to the other end, Señor King,’ El Huracán called down to him. ‘Because when you see what I have cooked up for you next you are not going to want to stay for dinner.’

‘What are you talking about, you reptile?’

King looked around him, trying to work out where the next threat would come from.

The floor of this section of the rat run was made entirely of riveted iron plates. The sun was burning down and had heated up the metalwork. King could feel it through his sock.

Well, at least there wouldn’t be any animals around. It would be too uncomfortable for them here
.

King hobbled forward, the floor seeming to get hotter with every step.

He spotted a series of vents along one side of the alley. Smoke was seeping out.

And then he understood.

The floor wasn’t just getting hotter from the heat of the sun.

There was a fire down below.

El Huracán’s men were deliberately heating the iron plates. If he didn’t get out of there fast he was going to be fried like a shrimp on a griddle pan.

But moving quickly wasn’t possible with a badly cut foot and a twisted ankle; he could only shuffle along like one of the walking wounded from a battle.

Soon the heat had burnt through his sock and there was nothing to protect the skin of his foot. He tried to run, but only managed five steps before he stumbled. He put out his hands to break his fall and, as they pressed against the red-hot metal, he screamed in agony. When he tried to pull them away they were stuck fast. He gritted his teeth and pulled hard, leaving two grey handprints of flayed skin behind.

Somehow he got to his feet again and staggered on, the smell of cooking meat filling the air.

He wondered what sort of twisted mind could dream up such a place. What sort of mind could take pleasure in the pain and suffering of others? But he knew the answer. A mind like his own. A mind like all the men on this island possessed.

A heartless, criminal mind.

He was delirious with pain now, his vision blurring, his heart racing, his breath scalding his lungs. The heat was so intense it burnt the sole off his remaining shoe and through the sock. Both of his feet were now naked and each step was a fresh agony.

He just made it to the end of the hot plates before he passed out, and flung himself into the water-filled trench that divided this section of the rat run from the next.

The water felt deliciously cooling, and for a moment he didn’t care what creatures might be lurking in it.

‘Congratulations, Señor King, you have made it as far as Kinich Kakmo, the sun god. You are nearly halfway. But I wouldn’t stay too long in your bath, that water is teeming with leeches.’

King floundered across the trench and flopped on to the other side. He saw an ugly black leech attached to the skin of one hand, but he ignored it. Compared to what he had been through a leech was nothing to worry about.

‘Who has bet that he would get no further than Balam-Agab, the night jaguar?’ asked El Huracán and several men nodded.

‘Few men get further than this,’ said El Huracán, his black eyes shining.

Even as he said it a door slid open in one wall and a deep animal growl came out from the chamber behind it.

King added a long sad moan of his own and managed somehow to stand up. His legs were like lead weights, but he forced one aching foot in front of the other, plodding along like a ninety-year-old man.

He heard a movement and glanced back to see exactly what he had been expecting to see: a big black cat, sleek and hungry-looking, its yellow eyes fixed on him. It was creeping forward in a low hunter’s crouch.

King glanced ahead, his senses sharpened by fear. The door at the other end of the alley didn’t look too far away.

But what was the point? What was the damned point? On the other side of the door would be something else, something worse.

The will to live is powerful, though. No matter what terror awaits, no matter what fresh torture, if there is a slim chance of life, of escape, most men will reach for it.

‘You can do it,’ King mumbled through cracked lips. ‘All you got to do is get to the end, you can do it … Go on … Run!’

Miraculously he was running. His legs pounding on the hard stone. Maybe the jaguar was behind him, maybe even now it was getting ready to jump on his back and sink its teeth into his neck …

Then suddenly he was no longer running. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t feel any part of his body. The pain had all gone. He could hear the steady drip of blood.

Strung taut across the alleyway were thin strands of narrow flattened wire, their edges razor sharp. Distracted by the jaguar, King had run straight into them.

One wire was at the height of his neck, another at his stomach, one more at his thighs. He stood there, held up by the wires buried deep in his body; twitching, growing cold, as the life drained out of him.

The men above watched in silence as King slowly stopped moving. They held their breath as the jaguar crept up to him and pulled him off the wires with its claws. Then it began to drag him back to its lair.

It was all over. In the end death had come fast and King had got less than halfway through the rat run.

These were tough men; they had all seen some terrible things in their time. Most had seen their fill of blood, and smelt its rusty stench. Most were killers.

None of them had ever seen a show like this before, though, and they were left stunned and awed and just a little unsettled.

What had they become? What were they turning into on this beautiful island in the Caribbean?

‘Gentlemen,’ said El Huracán, cheerfully clapping his hands together, ‘let us settle our bets and then I would like to invite you all for cocktails on my terrace, where we can watch the sun set.’

Eton College
Windsor
England

My dear James,

The weather here is as grim as usual. Just look at me! I have been in England too long. I have become English. Unable to talk about anything except the weather. But, dammit all, an English winter is a terrible thing and I do not think that I shall ever get used to it. I am more jealous of you being in Mexico than you can imagine. I went home to India at Christmas after our adventures and it was lovely to see blue skies and sunshine and bright colours again, and to eat some decent sock.

After the excitements of the last half it is all back to normal here at Codrose’s. The food is as awful as ever and Codrose is as bad-tempered as ever. Actually, if anything, he is even worse (if that is possible) since the fire and the break-in. The building still smells of smoke. Katey the maid never really recovered from the shock of bumping into the intruder, and she has left. Joy of joys she has been replaced, not with another old crocodile but with a young Irish girl called Roan. She is rumoured to be only seventeen and everyone is in love with her. Even me. And I have never really seen the point of girls before. The thing is, you can talk to her as a friend. I am sure you will like her.

Actually, I say things are back to normal, but they are not. The new Library are a bunch of pirates. There was too much going on last half for us to really notice, but now that you are not around and things have quietened down, it has become clear that the boys in charge of Codrose’s are the most bloodthirsty, uncaring gang that the House has ever had to put up with. They lord it about the place like a bunch of little Mussolinis. The worst of them all is Theo Bentinck. He has beaten so many of us, often for no reason at all, that he has been nicknamed Bloody Bentinck (although some boys call him worse). He seems determined to make our lives a thorough misery. I feel if you were here to stick up for us lower boys things might be a little different, as it is we are all timid and scared of our own shadows. We stay in our rooms and keep the noise down and try not to be noticed. Hurry back, please. We need our James.

Our sporting achievements have been pretty dismal this half. Despite Theo Bentinck threatening to beat everyone if they don’t win, the lower boys in the House have been lost without you. Everyone has been lost without you. I saw your friend Perry Mandeville the other day, and he said that even the Danger Society has been quiet. He said they have started work on restoring your Bentley, though. I think they had some foolish idea that they might have it ready for your return, but I do not think this will happen. Perry seems to like talking about things more than actually doing them. By the way, he has been going about the place showing off and bragging about his involvement in the Fairburn incident and your part in it has almost been forgotten. (Knowing you, though, I think that is how you would want it. You always hate getting too much attention.)

In short, we all miss you and look forward to your return. I fear that you are the only one who can sort out the gang of mobsters who have taken over Codrose Library. So please try not to get involved in any more adventures while you are away. Get plenty of rest as you will need to be fit and well. When you return we want you back in one piece not missing any arms or legs, or wearing an eyepatch like Lord Nelson!

I will write soon with more news.

Yours,

Pritpal S. Nandra

3

Angel Corona

James stuffed the letter into his pocket and smiled, leaning back against the cabin of the fishing boat and feeling the throb of its diesel engine. Eton felt like it was on the other side of the world. Part of another life. He pictured it as cold and wet and grey. Mind you, it was turning grey here now. The day had started warm and bright and sunny, promising so much, but it had broken its promise and turned sullen.

He squinted towards the horizon. Heavy clouds were building to the east, where they hung low over the dark water, so that it was impossible to tell where sky ended and sea began. There was a yellow flash and he heard the distant grumble of thunder.

Somewhere far out in the Gulf of Mexico a storm was raging.

Here, though, the sea was calm and flat.

‘Too calm, and too flat,’ Diego Garcia, the skipper, had said. Indeed, the day felt dead, as if time had stopped. James watched as Garcia squatted down, leant over the side of the boat and dipped his hand into the water.

He frowned.

‘The water is too warm for the time of year,’ he said and licked the salt from his fingers. ‘Currents from the south.’ Garcia was a big, strong man who always had a broad grin on his handsome features. They had been travelling slowly down the coast from Tampico, and, when he had time, Garcia had shown James the secrets of sea fishing. They had caught nothing today, however.

‘Is why the fishes are not here,’ said Garcia, who for the first time since James had met him was not smiling. ‘Usually they are here. But today, no. The water is too warm. We must hurry, there is going to be a big storm.’

The shriek of a seagull broke the eerie silence, and they looked up to see a large flock circling the boat.

‘Is wrong,’ said Garcia, shaking his head. ‘The birds should not be here. They confused.’

He narrowed his eyes and peered towards the mainland, which was a distant, hazy strip of grey to the west.

‘We are at least an hour out,’ he said. ‘It will be difficult to outrun the storm completely. But I think I can do it.’

James felt the boat rise up on a swell, as if the sea had suddenly woken from a deep sleep, and a blast of cold wind whipped across the deck, followed by a spray of icy rain. He shivered and got to his feet as Garcia shouted an order to his crewmen in Spanish.

The ominous band of black to the east was spreading, like a dark blanket being drawn across the heavens.

The boat lurched as a second big wave caught it.

‘Better get below,’ Garcia shouted to James. ‘She is coming fast.’

James clambered below deck to where his Aunt Charmian sat studying a map in the tiny cabin with her guide, Mendoza.

‘I think it might get rough,’ said James.

‘Garcia’s a good sailor,’ said Charmian.

‘I don’t fancy getting caught up in a storm,’ said James.

Mendoza shrugged. ‘It is in the hand of God,’ he said.

James smiled. He had been travelling in Mexico with his aunt since January and he was getting used to the fatalistic ways of its people. Everything that happened was down to God, or Jesus, or the Virgin of Guadalupe, or any one of the lesser gods, demons, saints, sinners and weird magical figures the locals believed in.

The amazing sights and sounds and smells of this new country had put all thoughts of England out of his mind, but Pritpal’s letter had reminded him of home and all that he had left behind.

Christmas had been a quiet affair. James had been allowed out of hospital three days before but had still been weak and in need of sleep. He had hurried round Canterbury on Christmas Eve and found some presents for Charmian: a pair of leather gloves, a book on birds and a pretty brooch he spotted in a second-hand shop.

They had eaten a fine fat goose together on Christmas Day and unwrapped their presents after lunch. Charmian had given James a Fu Manchu novel and a telescope, and was very pleased with her presents.

James had slept for most of Boxing Day and was awoken on the following day by a ring on the doorbell. There stood Mr Merriot from Eton. He was James’s classical tutor, and was responsible for his schooling.

Merriot and Charmian had talked for hours in the sitting room while James went for a long walk in the fields. His arm was in a sling while his broken collarbone knitted itself back together, and the wound in his shoulder caused by a large splinter of wood was very sore. He knew that it would all heal in time, but the emotional scars might take longer. He had seen some awful things. He needed mental as well as physical rest.

At teatime James returned home and was met by the adults.

‘We don’t think you should go back to school just yet,’ said Charmian. ‘Not until you are fully well. People will have questions to ask about what happened with Mister Fairburn, and we think it’s best to let things die down a little.’

‘When school life has returned to normal and you are strong again, we’ll have you back,’ Merriot added.

‘I’ll make sure you keep up with your school work,’ said Charmian. ‘After all, I taught you at home before you went to Eton; it won’t be so very different.’

‘What about when you go away?’ James asked. ‘To Mexico.’

‘We’ll see how you are at the time,’ said Charmian. ‘Then you can either go back to Eton or come with me. The sea air on the voyage out would do you good and Mexico would be an education in itself.’

‘What say you?’ asked Merriot with a friendly smile.

‘I shall miss my friends,’ said James. ‘But I think a few weeks’ rest would do me good. I do feel pretty feeble still.’

‘Pretty feeble, he says!’ barked Merriot. ‘Do him good! Let’s hope so, eh? We don’t want you getting in to any more scrapes, do we, lad? I seem to remember the last time I was down here with the Head Master he said very much the same thing – keep your head down and your nose clean – and just look what happened.’ He grinned at James. ‘I shall expect Eton to return to its peaceful old ways with you out of the picture.’

Now, five weeks later, there was just a dull ache and a slight stiffness in his shoulder and for the most part he felt fit and well. He had filled out on solid Mexican food, full of beans and cornflour and fiery hot chilli peppers, and had adjusted to the slow pace of life.

They had docked in Vera Cruz and taken a train to Mexico City, where Charmian had spent several days talking to some professors at the university. She was an anthropologist, and was hoping to make contact with an ancient Mayan tribe in the southern rainforest that was apparently unchanged since the time of the conquistadores. From Mexico City they had flown to Tampico, where many Indians lived. They had left their homes and villages and travelled here to find employment in the oilfields. Charmian spent several evenings in the bars and
cantinas
talking to them and finding out all she could about the people and places she would be visiting. It was in a bar that she found Mendoza. He had been working as a scout for an oil company and he knew Mexico well. She chose him to lead her expedition.

The Tampico stores and suppliers had all the equipment and provisions she needed for the trip. She had chartered Garcia’s boat, loaded it with all her things and they had headed south. James was not going all the way, though. She had arranged for him to stay with an American family in Tres Hermanas while she went into the jungle.

James sat down next to his aunt and looked at the map.

‘Here’s where we’re going tonight, Tres Hermanas,’ she said, pointing to a small town on the Gulf coast with a pencil. ‘Then I’ll continue on to Carmen.’ She drew a line down the coast. ‘From there I’ll get another boat to take me upriver towards Palenque.’ She extended the line inland, following the twisting shape of a river into the heart of the rainforest. ‘That’s where I’ll pick up the rest of the expedition.’

James focused on the tiny dot on the map that represented Tres Hermanas. It looked like the middle of nowhere. He had enjoyed travelling around with Charmian, helping her to get everything ready for her adventure. What would there be to do in that sleepy fishing village?

Garcia was true to his word. He managed to keep just ahead of the storm. But the sky was darkening as they pulled into the busy harbour and tied up for the night.

Tres Hermanas was larger and livelier than James had expected and the locals were getting ready for a carnival the next day. The town was busy with tourists and Mexicans from outlying villages. The locals were busy decorating floats. A huge effigy of a grumpy-looking man had been built in the main square, ready to be burnt. A stage had been built opposite and a ragged brass band was rehearsing. There were flags and banners and colourful papier-mâché figures strung up across the streets, and noisy, excited men scurried across the rooftops preparing fireworks.

James and Charmian took a coffee in a small
cantina
in the square, looking out at the activity and occasionally glancing up at the darkening sky.

There was a gloomy, tense feeling; the familiar sense of doom that you get before a thunderstorm. The air was charged and heavy. A group of locals at the bar were arguing about whether to take down all their carefully hung decorations or risk them getting ruined. What had been intended to be an explosion of music and colour and dancing now looked like it was going to be an explosion of thunder and lightning and rain. Some men just shrugged and put it down to fate. If God wanted to rain on their parade then that was his choice, there was little they could do about it.

Charmian, who spoke Spanish well, listened in to their conversation. ‘We’d better shake a leg,’ she said, finishing her coffee. ‘If God does decide to empty his bathwater on us I’d rather be safely indoors when it happens.’

As they stepped out into the square, though, it started to rain. Big cold drops of water pattered down all around them.

‘Ah, well,’ said Charmian, unfurling an elegant umbrella. ‘Perhaps the storm will pass over quickly and tomorrow will be bright and clear. I must say I’m sorry I shall be missing out on all the fun, but I will need to set off first thing.’

A passing Mexican in a sharp suit winked at her and said something approving. Charmian smiled politely, though coldly, back at him, and said good afternoon.

James had become used to men staring at Charmian and making comments. As an unaccompanied, single woman she was considered fair game, and as an attractive, single woman she excited the macho passions of the Mexicans.

The comments were mostly harmless, and the men, in their way, were only being gallant. Charmian was a seasoned traveller, who had spent time in some of the remotest parts of the world. She had known from the start how to deal with Mexicans.

They left the main square and squeezed into a narrow street that was crammed with people. James had to fell back behind his aunt as they forced their way through the crowds.

Charmian was carrying a large leather saddlebag, her travelling bag, which she always took with her when she went away. It had originally been made for an Argentinian gaucho and was scratched and worn from years of use. It was large enough to carry everything she needed; her purse, a first-aid kit, maps, a compass, field glasses, bottled water, toilet paper and countless other essential items.

As they struggled down the street, James saw a boy of about his own age slip in behind Charmian and keep pace with her. He thought nothing of it until he noticed a small, quick movement. It happened so fast and was so unexpected that at first he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d seen. Had it even happened?

Yes.

The boy had pulled out a knife and cut through the shoulder straps of Charmian’s bag. Before she had even realised what was happening, the boy had snatched the bag, turned and run, brushing past James as he went.

For a moment James was too surprised to do anything. He was left standing there like an idiot and marvelling at the boy’s neat handiwork. But then he snapped out of it. All of Charmian’s life was in that bag: her money, her passport and all her documents. If she didn’t get it back she would have to cancel her trip.

‘Hey!’ he yelled, and, without thinking, set off in a sprint after the boy who was dodging through the crowds 20 feet ahead.

James shoved a couple of people out of his way. He knew that if he lost sight of the boy he would never see either him or the bag again. But he was a fast runner, and, as the thief ran, he cleared a path through the milling people, making it easier for James to keep up.

James shouted again and watched as the boy ducked into a side alley.

James barged in after him.

The boy pounded down the alley, a silhouette in the darkness. The other end opened out into a small, dingy, courtyard overlooked by tall buildings. There was a well in the centre surrounded by flies. Washing hung down on all sides and the stuffy air smelt of food.

James put on a burst of speed and grabbed the boy’s shoulder. He wheeled round, slashing his knife in a wide arc. James just managed to jump back out of the way.

The boy smirked, holding the knife out in front of him.

James glanced round the courtyard. There was no other way out.

He’d fallen for a trap. The boy hadn’t come in here to try to escape. He’d come in here to get rid of James.