Jet Skis, Swamps & Smugglers

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘He needs to sit still while I’m doing his splinters,’ Napua said. ‘Leave the kid alone for two minutes! Now, Ross, lean forward. There’s a couple of big ones and it’s going to sting, OK?’

  Robin’s filthy hands gripped the edge of the dining table and tears welled as Napua tweezered a five-centimetre splinter out of his shoulder blade. Diogo decided to call Emma and try getting some sense out of her.

  But as he scrolled down his contacts list, Diogo saw a headlamp flash through the frosted glass in the front door. When he opened the door Marion and a young woman with an infant charged through the rain across the jetty between the beach and The Station.

  ‘Diogo, it won’t stop screaming,’ Marion gasped, water dripping out of her hair as she ran inside. ‘Do you have any idea how to work a baby?’

  16. THE BEARD GRABBER

  Robin went to clean up so his wounds didn’t get infected. The good news was that Diogo’s solar water system was less likely to strip skin after sundown, the bad was that showering outside in a thunderstorm was weird, and the shampoo stung when it found the cuts on his back.

  ‘Doing OK in there?’ Napua asked sympathetically, from the other side of the shower’s wooden privacy screen.

  ‘Ain’t dead yet,’ Robin answered.

  ‘I’ve left your towel and some tracksuit bottoms inside the door.’

  Once the soap ran away, the hot water was soothing. Robin took his time because he’d heard Emma and Neo arrive in their Delta Rescue dinghy. He didn’t feel like facing them, and briefly considered a bonkers plan to climb up to the roof and sneak through his bedroom window.

  But Napua was waiting to dress his wounds, and as Robin reached for the towel, he could already feel a fresh trickle of blood.

  ‘Hello,’ Robin said meekly as he stepped back inside, avoiding eye contact with Emma and Neo.

  Everyone was so busy that Robin barely got noticed as he sat sideways in a dining chair so that Napua could stick on two dressings that she’d already cut to shape.

  Diogo, Neo and the baby stood in the kitchen area down by the balcony. The big biker was childless, but he’d looked after baby sisters from his dad’s second marriage so he wasn’t out of his depth.

  He’d calmed the tiny dark-haired boy by giving him sips of water, then he’d sat him in the sink to wash his filthy body and folded his best dish towel into a nappy to reduce the risk of getting peed on.

  Emma and Neo had brought feeding bottles and infant formula, and now Diogo stood by the sink, trying to stop the little guy from yanking his beard, while Neo read instructions on how to mix and heat the powdered feed.

  ‘He knows you’re making his food,’ Marion said, from the opposite end of the open-plan space. ‘Look at his little arms waggling!’

  While Diogo and Neo dealt with the baby, Marion, Emma and the runaway sat on floor cushions.

  The runaway spoke a little English, and once Marion plugged the girl’s battered smartphone in to charge, she used an Indonesian–English translation app to help tell her story.

  Marion got a pen and paper and had written two pages of notes before Robin came back from his shower.

  The runaway was fifteen years old. She was from Jambi in Indonesia and her name was Srihari. She’d left home with her brother after they were promised well-paid work in a garment factory, but after a few days in a crowded dorm all the men were dragged out by thugs and forced to sign contracts for work on a remote construction site.

  The women left behind were loaded onto a large freighter. They were at sea for a month, with little food and a crew that beat anyone who complained. They’d been transferred to the smaller fishing boat for the last two days of their journey.

  Srihari had made friends with the baby’s mother during the journey. The boy’s name was Bejo and he was seven months old. But other women warned Bejo’s mum that her baby would be taken away and sold to rich people for adoption when they arrived at their destination.

  At this point in the story, Srihari opened her phone’s photo gallery to a selfie she’d taken a couple of years earlier. She was dressed in an orange swimming cap and had five medals around her neck.

  Marion was amazed as Srihari explained how they had used two life vests and part of a cushion to make a floating crib. Then Srihari dived off the boat with Bejo and swam expertly to the wharf while the baby stayed dry.

  Emma Scarlock had a lump in her throat as she caught up on Srihari’s story by reading Marion’s notes.

  ‘You and Bejo are safe with us,’ Emma assured Srihari, as she rubbed the girl’s arm. ‘You are so brave. I’ve brought fresh clothes and personal items for you. We’ll take you to a place where you can rest and get seen by a doctor.’

  ‘And we’ll try to find where they’ve taken Bejo’s mum,’ Marion added.

  Srihari nodded, though she hadn’t understood everything.

  Marion cracked up laughing as she looked across the room and saw Bejo guzzling his formula in Diogo’s arms, while still keen to pull out his beard. The laughter evaporated as her phone vibrated with Mum on the screen.

  Marion had been putting off replying, but knew Indio would keep calling.

  ‘Hello, Ma,’ Marion said warily.

  ‘Emma told me you’re safe, thank God!’ Indio blurted.

  ‘I’m good,’ Marion agreed. ‘Robin’s a bit battered.’

  ‘I am so mad at you two,’ Indio snapped. ‘You both sat in Will Scarlock’s office and swore to me that you would never run off again. You used to be the sensible one, Marion. Now you give me more sleepless nights than all your brothers combined!’

  ‘Mum, it was important,’ Marion said determinedly. ‘Did Emma tell you we’ve got video of this whole corrupt Customs and Immigration thing? And we rescued a girl and a tiny baby.’

  Indio ignored this. ‘Maybe you and Robin need to be kept apart.’

  ‘Stop blaming Robin,’ Marion said. ‘I’ve got my own brain.’

  Robin glanced around in shock, because Napua was in the room and they were supposed to be Ross and Mary in front of outsiders.

  ‘I know you both mean well. But I . . .’ Indio tailed off and gave a big sigh. ‘Do you know what, Marion? I am so tired right now, I don’t know what I think . . .’

  ‘Mum, I am sorry that I made you worry,’ Marion said. ‘But I saw some horrible things at that wharf. We took a risk, but if we hadn’t, we’d never have found out about those poor women. I’ll take whatever punishment you dish out. But I’m not sorry for what I did.’

  ‘You just turned thirteen!’ Indio said tearfully. ‘It’s too young.’

  Hearing her mum cry made Marion well up and they ended up sobbing at each other.

  ‘Let me speak to her for a second,’ Emma said softly, as she took Marion’s phone away. ‘It’s 2 a.m. and you’re a mess. Get ready for bed. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.’

  Marion wasn’t sure how her mum would react to Emma taking the phone away, but she felt bad for upsetting her family, dumb for blurting Robin’s name, sick of being in itchy wet clothes and too tired to fight anyone.

  As she ran upstairs to get clean clothes and a towel, Napua looked at Robin.

  ‘It doesn’t matter that she said it,’ Napua told him. ‘I figured you were Robin Hood when I got the tracksuit pants from your room.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Robin asked.

  ‘Archery gear, books about hacking computers and I read an article when they sent your dad to prison, so I recognised him in the picture beside your bed.’

  Neo stepped up close to Napua and sounded serious. ‘Robin is in serious danger if Guy Gisborne finds out where he is.’

  ‘Just spent an hour patching this kid up,’ Napua pointed out. ‘I’ll have wasted the effort if I snitch on him.’

  Robin smirked and gave Napua a fist bump.

  ‘Also, I’m a blackjack dealer at Stone’s Casino on Skegness Island,’ Napua continued, sounding sour. ‘Last time I saw Guy Gisborne, the creep spent all nig
ht ogling my chest, won six thousand at my table, but left me with a lousy ten-buck tip . . .’

  PART III

  17. OLD MA BULLCALF

  Dino Bullcalf slid a bowl of sausage rigatoni onto a serving table and wheeled it up to his mother’s high-backed armchair. She’d lost most of her hearing, so the gardening show on TV was at max volume.

  ‘What’s this?’ the ninety-seven-year-old asked, squinting and pushing glasses up her nose.

  ‘It’s from last night,’ Bullcalf shouted over the TV. ‘I warmed it up in the microwave.’

  His mother tutted and turned away.

  ‘Doctor said you lost another two kilos! Take a mouthful and make me happy.’

  As his mother’s trembling hand grabbed a spoon, Bullcalf felt his phone vibrate in his trouser pocket.

  ‘Let me take this call,’ he said as he strode into the kitchen, away from the blasting TV. ‘I’ll bring you a nice glass of lemonade, but eat some pasta first.’

  Bullcalf didn’t recognise the number on his phone.

  ‘Dino?’ the woman on the other end said.

  ‘Who is this?’ Bullcalf spat back. ‘If you’re from Hampden Life Insurance, I told you to stop calling.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if this was still your number,’ the woman said. ‘It’s Alison Smith.’

  Bullcalf scratched his bald dome. ‘Refresh my memory, sweetheart.’

  ‘I’m the tech at Extant Labs. I ran DNA samples for you a few years back. You were seeking a man who kidnapped a drug dealer.’

  ‘Alison, of course!’ Bullcalf said, his tone warming. ‘I’m sorry, I hear a lot of names.’

  ‘It was four years ago,’ Alison said. ‘I’m not that memorable.’

  Bullcalf laughed as he glanced into the living room and was delighted to see his mother tucking into the pasta.

  ‘I’m told you’re looking for a young man on behalf of Guy Gisborne,’ Alison continued. ‘A kid who’s fond of shooting arrows . . .’

  ‘I might be,’ Bullcalf said cautiously.

  ‘How’s that working out?’

  Bullcalf sounded irritated. ‘I’m stood in my ma’s kitchen, so not exactly hot on the kid’s trail.’

  ‘I’ve got information,’ Alison said. ‘But I’m risking my job, so it’s got to be five thousand up front.’

  ‘Five grand is a lot.’

  ‘So is the bounty Gisborne put on Robin Hood,’ Alison replied sharply.

  ‘What will the money buy me?’

  ‘We had a guy from CIS turn up in reception,’ Alison persisted. ‘He brought two items in for DNA testing.’

  Bullcalf sounded suspicious. ‘CIS have their own forensics. Why use a private lab?’

  Alison laughed. ‘He paid cash and said he didn’t want paperwork.’

  Bullcalf gave a sly laugh. ‘Must be more crooks working for CIS than in Pelican Island prison.’

  ‘It was two beat-up motocross helmets. I found traces of DNA from nine individuals who’d worn the helmets at various times. I ran samples against the national crime database. Only one matched a suspect. Robin Hood – wanted by Locksley Police Department for attempted murder, armed robbery, computer hacking, common theft, resisting arrest, destruction of police property and causing a riot.’

  ‘Is it a decent sample of DNA?’ Bullcalf asked.

  ‘I found Hood’s hair and saliva, along with fresh skin flakes,’ Alison answered. ‘The helmet was found ten days ago, and I’d say that’s when he last wore it.’

  ‘Do CIS know?’ Bullcalf asked.

  ‘The match has gone no further than my desk. The items came in CIS evidence bags, with tags showing the location where they were found and the name of the officer who bagged them.’

  ‘CIS won’t find out you made a DNA match with Robin Hood?’

  ‘Not unless you want them to.’

  Bullcalf smiled as he took a pen out of a kitchen drawer. ‘I think we have a deal, Alison. Give me your bank details and I’ll make the transfer straight away.’

  18. PUNISHMENT SMORGASBORD

  Robin and Marion had rescued Bejo and Srihari and unearthed a sophisticated people-smuggling operation, but the grown-ups still felt the pair had to be punished for lying and running off.

  Everyone agreed both kids would have all electronics taken away and be grounded at The Station for one week. Indio cut off Marion’s allowance for the rest of the summer and Diogo took away their dirt-bike privileges and made Robin pay for his lost helmet and the headlamp he broke when he crashed.

  Finally, once their grounding was over, Emma suggested she could keep Robin and Marion out of mischief for a while by making them go to the church hall in Boston and sort out a room full of clothes and junk that people had donated to Delta Rescue.

  Rain pelted the hall’s metal roof as Robin stumbled over mounds of bags, holding up a child’s tricycle with a wheel missing.

  ‘What joker would donate this?’ he complained, as he sent it clattering onto the trash pile.

  ‘I know,’ Marion said, catching a nose full of mothballs as she ripped open a bin liner filled with clothes. ‘Most of this stuff should have gone straight to recycling.’

  ‘Probably people who don’t like refugees,’ Robin suggested.

  ‘Like my dad,’ Marion said. ‘When I told him about Bejo and Srihari, he grunted and said, Just what we need, more bloody immigrants.’

  ‘He’s the leader of a motorbike gang,’ Robin pointed out. ‘They’re not exactly renowned for tolerance.’

  ‘True.’ Marion sighed. ‘When I pointed out that if you gave citizenship to every refugee living in Sherwood Forest, they wouldn’t even fill half of the empty houses in Locksley, Dad said I’d spent too much time listening to my mother’s tree-hugging hippy-dippy crap and had no idea what I was talking about.’

  The next bag Robin opened strained from the weight of books. They were of no use to Delta Rescue, but they were in decent condition so he put them in a pile that would be taken to a charity shop. When he burrowed deeper, he was pleased to find half-decent clothes. Some still had labels and would be ideal for newly arrived refugees.

  ‘Holy macaroni!’ Marion blurted dramatically. ‘This must be worth a fortune!’

  Robin turned excitedly as Marion gawped into a tatty backpack. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Antique clock – it’s absolutely stunning.’

  Robin stumbled over junk, but when he looked into the backpack, he saw a tangle of socks and bras.

  ‘Sack whack!’ Marion yelled, as she slapped Robin between the legs.

  ‘Oww, you psycho!’ Robin said, moaning as he crashed backwards into a mound of black donation bags, cupping his balls. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘I told you I’d get you back . . .’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Last time we were here, you dropped ice cream down my back.’

  Robin gasped. ‘That was two weeks ago.’

  Marion beamed. ‘I didn’t say when I’d get you back.’

  ‘Not funny,’ Robin protested.

  As he stumbled to his feet, coughing, they heard tense voices in the main hall. Marion opened a door to peek out and saw a uniformed cop glowering at a woman dressed in a green polo shirt and chef’s apron.

  ‘I know you nutters are helping refugees in here,’ the cop said cockily.

  ‘I’m making lunch for the pensioners’ club,’ the woman answered. ‘You’re extremely welcome to look around our hall.’

  Robin and Marion kept watching as a lad with masses of ginger hair in a net came from the kitchen holding a pamphlet.

  ‘Officer,’ he began cheerfully, ‘have you considered your relationship with God? Would you like to read good news from the Church of New Survivors?’

  ‘Get away,’ the officer snapped, wagging his finger. ‘I’m letting you religious weirdos know we’ve got our eye on this place.’

  ‘You’re welcome to join our club,’ the chef said. ‘Some of my ladies dance after lunch, a
nd they’d love a little waltz with a man in uniform.’

  The calmer the chef stayed, the more wound up the cop got.

  ‘You’re all nutters,’ the officer said. ‘What about the end of the world, eh? Wasn’t it supposed to have happened already?’

  He turned and stumbled out of the hall.

  Marion grinned at Robin. ‘You don’t see that every day.’

  ‘That cop was drunk, right?’ Robin asked.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ the chef told the pair as he stepped towards them. ‘Just our weekly dose of police harassment.’

  ‘I picked up one of those New Survivor pamphlets,’ Robin told Marion, once the chef was gone and they’d resumed their sorting. ‘They’re weird as. Stuff about building an ark to save humanity, and the world ending in a nuclear war.’

  Marion nodded. ‘They’ve got a giant underground compound in Sherwood Forest, out west, close to Lake Victoria. There are rumours that they pick up people in the forest and brainwash them.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Robin said. ‘I’ll google that later.’

  ‘The New Survivors I’ve met seem harmless though,’ Marion said. ‘Pensioners’ lunch club, mother-and-toddler group, stuff like that. And Delta Rescue is always broke. They donate to the refugee welcome centre and let Emma use this room and the office for free.’

  ‘Sounds all right,’ Robin said, then sighed as he turned away from the door and saw that they’d sorted through twenty bags in an hour but had three hundred more to go.

  19. PRESIDENT MARJORIE

  The chef offered Robin and Marion a free lunch with the pensioners, but after a week of being grounded they craved the outdoors and got lunch from Boston’s seafront fish-and-chip shop.

  As their food sizzled in the deep fryer, Marion rolled a coin along the glass countertop and half-watched the wall-mounted TV.

  ‘Hey, there’s your big brother,’ she whispered.

  Robin glanced up from his phone.

  The TV was showing the one o’clock news headlines. Robin’s sixteen-year-old half-brother John lived with his mother, Sheriff Marjorie. The volume was muted, but there was a clip of John and Sheriff Marjorie looking respectable as they strode through a rose garden at Sherwood Castle.