As ever, Pedro was already moving. Matt followed him as he plunged into a maze of narrow streets and passageways, none of them paved, all of them covered in rubbish and other debris. Only now that he was in the middle of it all did Matt see that less than half the houses were built of brick. Most of them had been made of cardboard, corrugated iron, straw mats, plastic sheeting or a mixture of all four.
They came to a sort of square where a group of old women in bright shawls and bowler hats squatted beside a rusty oil drum that had been turned into a makeshift oven. They were cooking some sort of stew, in evaporated milk cans that they had beaten flat and made into pans. A few scrawny chickens pecked hopelessly at the rubble, and a dog – it was hard to be sure if it was alive or dead – lay stretched out in the sun. There was a terrible smell of sewage. Matt covered his nose and mouth with his hand. He was amazed that anyone could live here, yet Pedro barely seemed to notice it.
Matt was aware of the women looking at him curiously. He wondered what they must think. He was grubby and dishevelled, but even so, his clothes were new and expensive … certainly compared to what they were wearing. In their eyes, he would be a rich, European kid and he doubted that many of those showed up around here. He nodded at them and hurried on after Pedro.
They were climbing further up the hillside. The effort was hurting Matt’s chest – he could feel his ribs aching – and he was beginning to wonder how long he could keep going when they arrived at a small, brick building, with two windows covered from the inside with some sort of sacking. Pedro cupped a hand, gesturing him to come in.
Was this where he lived? Suddenly apprehensive, Matt followed him through the doorway. There was no door. He found himself in a square, box-like space and as his eyes got used to the lack of light, he made out a wooden table, two chairs, a Primus stove – the sort of thing he’d use to go camping – a few tins and a low, narrow bed. Then he saw that there was a man lying on the bed. Pedro was squatting beside him, talking excitedly. Slowly, the man sat up.
He was about sixty years old, wearing a suit that looked about the same age. He had slept in it and the material was terribly crumpled. Nearly all the buttons were missing and his shirt hung outside his trousers. He was unshaven, with grey stubble spreading around a mouth that was thin and rather cruel. The man’s eyes were bloodshot and sly. For a long minute he said nothing at all, looking at Matt as if he was weighing him up, trying to work out what he might be worth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowed. Then, at last, he spoke.
“Welcome,” he said.
It was the first friendly word of English Matt had heard since he had been separated from Richard and he felt a flood of relief. But at the same time, examining the man, he began to wonder if his troubles were yet over. Certainly this wasn’t the saviour he had been hoping for.
“Pedro tells me that you are American,” the man said. His English accent was unattractive. Or maybe it was the suspicious tone of his voice, the way he drawled the words.
“No. I’m English,” Matt said.
“From England!” The man was amused. “From London?”
“I flew from London. But I live in a place called York.”
“York.” He repeated the word but had obviously never heard of it. “Pedro says that you are alone. That you were beaten by the police. That they were going to arrest you.”
“Yes. Can you thank him for helping me?”
“He does not need your gratitude. What makes you think he wants anything from you?”
The man reached down beside the bed and produced a bottle, half filled with some transparent liquid. He drank and as he lowered it, Matt caught the whiff of alcohol. Next he took out half a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it. All the time, his eyes never left the new arrival.
“Pedro says you have money,” he said.
Matt hesitated – but once again he knew he had no choice.
He took out the ten-pound note and gave it to the man.
The man turned the note in his hands, then slid it into his jacket pocket with a twitch of the lips that might have been a smile. A moment later, he snapped something at Pedro. Pedro scowled. The man waited. Pedro slipped Matt’s watch off his wrist and handed it over.
“What is your name?” the man asked.
Once again, Matt hesitated. What name should he use? But there was no point trying to pretend he was someone he wasn’t. The fake passport had already proved itself to be useless. “I’m Matt,” he said.
“And I am Sebastian.” The man blew out smoke. It hung in the air, silvery grey. “It seems that you need help, my friend.”
“I haven’t got any more money to give you,” Matt muttered angrily.
“Your money and your watch will buy me food. But right now, I think, they are of no use to you. If you want them, take them and go. You will probably be dead, or in jail, before the sun comes down. But if you want my help, be polite to me. You are in my house. Remember that.”
Matt bit his lip. Sebastian was right. The money was irrelevant. “Who are you?” he asked. “What is this place?”
“This community has a name,” Sebastian replied. “The local people call it Ciudad del Veneno. In English, you would say … Poison Town. They call it that because of the amount of disease that there is here. Cholera. Bronchitis. Pleurisy. Diphtheria. None of us has any right to live in this place. We have stolen this land and built our homes. But the authorities never come here. They are too scared.”
Matt looked around, almost afraid to breathe.
“Don’t worry, Matt.” Sebastian smiled, showing two gold-capped teeth. “There is no illness in this house or in this street. And nobody understands why. Nine of us live here. And there are seven more next door. We have nothing … but we have our health.”
“Does Pedro live here?”
Pedro glanced up, hearing his name. Until now, he had been examining Matt with a look of mistrust. But he had shown no interest in what was being said.
“He sleeps on the floor, right where you are standing now. He works for me. He and the other children. But why are we wasting time, talking about him? There are a million kids like him in Lima. They live. They die. They are of no use at all. But an English boy in Poison Town, that is another matter. How do you come to be here, Matt? Why are the police looking for you? You must tell me everything and then we will see how we can help. If we can help. If we want to…”
Everything?
Matt didn’t know where to start. His story was so huge. It had swallowed up his life. And where did he begin? With the death of his parents six years ago, or his involvement with Raven’s Gate and the Nexus? It was hopeless. Matt knew that. He could talk all day and this man wouldn’t believe a word of it.
“I can’t explain it all to you,” he said. “I came to Peru because something bad is about to happen and there are people who thought I could stop it. There were two of us. Me and a friend. His name is Richard Cole and he’s older than me … twenty-five. Neither of us wanted to come here but we were sent.”
“To stop this thing from happening.”
“Yes. I have no passport. The passport I was given is a fake. It was meant to protect me. But the moment I arrived, I was attacked. Richard was kidnapped and the police tried to arrest me. There was a police captain. He said he was working for someone called Diego Salamanda.”
Sebastian had been listening to all this with a look of puzzlement and disbelief. The mention of Salamanda was the first thing to provoke any real reaction. His eyes narrowed and he allowed a trickle of cigar smoke to escape from the corner of his mouth. “Salamanda!” he exclaimed. “Do you know who he is?”
“Some sort of businessman.”
“One of the richest men in South America. Certainly the richest man in Peru. They say he has more money than the rest of the population put together, with his mobile phones and his newspapers and his satellites.” He rapped a few words in Spanish at Pedro, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning
against the bed. Pedro shrugged. Then Sebastian turned back to Matt. “If I was going to have an enemy, he is not the man I would choose.”
“I think he chose me … not the other way round,” Matt said. Then, “Where can I find him?”
“Why do you want to?”
“Because I think he must have been the one who kidnapped my friend. He knew we were coming. He got Richard first, and then he tried to get me.”
Sebastian raised the bottle to his lips and swallowed some more. The alcohol must have been strong. Matt could smell it from where he was standing. But Sebastian drank it as if it was water.
“Salamanda News International is based here in Lima,” he said. “They have offices all over Peru. What do you want to do? Do you want to visit all of them? It doesn’t matter because you won’t find him there. He has his main research base near the town of Paracas. That’s south of here. But he spends most of his time at a farm – what we call a hacienda – near Ica. He is never seen in public. It is rumoured that he is very ugly, that maybe he has three eyes or something wrong with his face. If you want to talk to Señor Salamanda, you go to Ica. I’m sure he will be delighted to see you.”
Matt ignored the sarcasm in Sebastian’s voice. “Can you help me go there?”
“No.”
“Then maybe I’m wasting my time talking to you.”
“Is that what you believe?” Sebastian stared at Matt and now he was angry. “Well, let me give you some advice. Don’t you worry about your time. Time is cheap here.” He stubbed out the cigar. “I must leave you,” he went on. “There are things here I do not understand and there are people I must talk with. Maybe I will help you and maybe I won’t. But right now, I would say you need food and you need sleep.”
“Can I sleep here?” Matt asked. He was too tired to eat.
“You can sleep on the floor. There are blankets. Not the bed, you understand? The bed is mine! You will be safe in this place. Later today, we will talk again. And we will see what we can do.”
Sebastian said something to Pedro. Pedro nodded.
The two of them left the building.
It was evening when Matt woke up. Without his watch, he had no idea how long he had been asleep and the jet lag didn’t help. In England it could have been breakfast time, dinner time or whenever. It took him a couple of minutes to work some life back into his muscles, which were cramped from lying on the hard floor. At the same time, he tried to make sense of what had been happening. But that wasn’t so easy. He was on his own, thousands of miles from home, stuck in a squalid room in a town that was, even by name, poison. He was the guest of a man he didn’t much like and a boy who had recently robbed him. The richest man in Peru wanted him dead and it seemed that the police were only too happy to help him achieve that aim.
It was all too much. Matt closed his eyes and groaned.
And yet that was another strange thing. He was suddenly aware that the pain in his head had gone. He sat up and ran a hand over his chest. His ribs and his stomach were unhurt. It was as if the beating he had received had never happened. Was this another instance of his powers? Had he in some way managed to cure himself? Matt stood up and stretched. He was starving. He wished now that he had accepted the food he’d been offered. But apart from that he had to admit he felt fine.
Weird.
There was a movement at the doorway and Pedro appeared, carrying a steaming tin of food and a spoon. He handed them over, his eyes never leaving Matt’s face. He was examining him, searching for something.
“Thank you,” Matt said. He was feeling increasingly ill at ease.
The tin contained some sort of stew. A lot of beans and very little meat. In normal circumstances, Matt might have sniffed it suspiciously – but right now he was too hungry to care. He wolfed the food down, being careful not to look at it too closely. Whatever the meat was, it certainly wasn’t lamb or beef. He tried not to think about the dog he had seen lying outside.
When he had finished eating, Pedro produced a battered metal jug of water and handed it to Matt to drink. It tasted warm and brackish and Matt wondered where it had come from. Did Poison Town have wells or water pumps? Did it even have electricity? There were all sorts of questions he wanted to ask but there was no point until Sebastian returned. Pedro understood nothing.
About ten minutes later, Sebastian came in, carrying a bundle of old clothes. From the moment he entered the room, it seemed to Matt that the man was more alert, more nervous. He put the clothes down and lit another cigar, almost burning his fingers, and threw down the match.
“I have been speaking to people,” he said. “There is a great deal happening in Lima, and none of it is good. You must leave here very soon. You do not have a lot of time.”
“They’re looking for me,” Matt said.
“The police are everywhere. They are asking questions and they are not being very polite. You understand? They have big sticks and they have tear gas. They are searching for an English boy. They say he is a terrorist and they are offering a large reward –” He held up a hand before Matt could speak. “Only a few people saw you enter Poison Town and they won’t talk. We have no money. We have no possessions. Maybe that is why we value the things we do have … loyalty and friendship. Nobody will talk but even so the police will come here, looking for you. They will tear the place apart. Maybe they’re already on their way.”
“I have to find my friend,” Matt said.
“You’re wasting your breath. I already told you. If Salamanda does have him, he could be anywhere. He could be in Lima. Or he could be floating face down in the ocean. If you ask me, that is more likely.”
“What about this place that you told me about? This farmhouse or whatever you called it.”
“The Hacienda Salamanda. I do not believe you will find him there.”
“I still want to look.”
Sebastian thought for a minute. Then he nodded. “It doesn’t matter to me where you go,” he said. “The only important thing is that you do not stay here. And Pedro must go with you. I have already explained to him. He attacked three policemen so now they are looking for him too. They will kill him if they find him.”
“I’m sorry,” Matt said. “This is my fault.”
“No. It’s his fault. If he’d been smarter, he would have stolen your watch and your money without waking you up. I always said he made a lousy thief. But it’s too late to worry about that now.” He paused. “There is something else. Your appearance. We must change that.”
“What do you mean?”
“A white boy with a white boy’s clothes! It doesn’t matter where you go in Peru, you’ll be seen a mile away.” Sebastian gestured at the bundle he had brought in. “Give me everything you’re wearing.”
“What…?”
“Now!”
Matt was too dazed to argue. He stripped off his jacket, his shirt and his jeans and gave them to Sebastian. He had no doubt that they’d all turn up in some market the next day.
But that wasn’t enough. “Your shoes and socks too,” Sebastian ordered.
He slipped them off and stood in the middle of the room, dressed only in his boxers. Sebastian had produced a bottle and handed it to him. “Rub this in,” he commanded. “Your arms, your legs and especially your face. Pedro will do your shoulders and back.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a dye made from nuts. It will stain your skin for many weeks. We must also cut your hair.” Sebastian took out a pair of scissors. Matt hesitated “Your hair is nice,” the man said. “And it will look good at your funeral. But if you want to live, you must look like one of us. We don’t have time to argue.”
In a short while, Matt stood wearing his new wardrobe. His hair had been cut in the shape of a pudding bowl with a straight fringe above his eyes. His entire body was dark brown. There was no mirror in the room so he had no idea what he looked like but he felt disgusting. His “new” jeans were stained, shapeless and came to an abrupt halt high abo
ve his ankles, revealing bare legs and feet. He’d been given a green Adidas T-shirt, full of holes, filthy and faded. And instead of shoes, he had a pair of sandals, made of black rubber – the same as Pedro’s.
“They’re made from tyres,” Sebastian told him.
Matt felt his skin trying to shrink away from the clothes. He could imagine that several people had worn them before him and they had probably never been washed. He noticed Pedro watching him with a half-smile. “What’s so funny?” he asked.
Sebastian translated the question into Spanish and Pedro answered. He spoke softly and only uttered a few words.
“He says, now you know how a Peruvian boy feels,” Sebastian replied. “But you are still too tall. You must learn to walk in a crouch. Make sure you are never higher than he is. And from now on, you will not be Matt. You will be Matteo. Do you understand?”
“Matteo!” Pedro repeated the word. He seemed amused by Matt’s transformation.
But Sebastian was completely serious. “You have to leave Lima,” he said. “If you take my advice, you will go south to Ayacucho. I have many friends in the city who will look after you. Perhaps the police won’t look for you there.”
“I still want to go to Ica.”
“You are stubborn and you are stupid – but you care about your friend and that, I suppose, does you credit.” Sebastian spat. “Very well. You can stop in Ica if you think it will do any good. The first bus leaves tomorrow morning at six o’clock. It is almost certain that the police will be watching the bus station and we will have to think about that.”
“I just want to find Richard and go home,” Matt said.
“That would be the best thing for all of us. It is a pity that you came in the first place.”
Matt nodded. Suddenly he felt awkward. From the moment he had met Sebastian, he had sensed a sort of hostility between them – without knowing why it was there. “Can I ask you something?” he said.
“What?”
“You obviously don’t like me very much. So why are you helping me?”
“You’re wrong. It’s not true that I don’t like you very much. I don’t like you at all. The police are crawling through the shanty towns, thanks to you. They are asking questions, making arrests. Everything is going to be difficult until they find you.”
Evil Star Page 11