by Ryan, Chris
Zak hesitated. Then he nodded. ‘It’s a risk we’ll all be taking.’
Smiler looked at the ground. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t have much to live for. I’ll do whatever you ask. Sudiq and Señor Martinez are bad men. I see that now. They need to be stopped. What will I have to do?’
‘I don’t know yet. It depends what we find when we get to Banjul. For now, can you show me where the money is?’
Smiler nodded and got to his feet. ‘Follow me.’
He led Zak to one of the iron-roofed huts. The camp looked different in the daylight, and it was only once they’d entered the hut itself that Zak realized this was where Cruz had stuffed him into his own coffin. He banished that memory with a shudder, and focused on another coffin in the middle of the room.
The lid was leaning against the box. It was carved with a horrific image: a gruesome face with eyes that wept blood. The coffin itself was stuffed with cash: thick wads of hundred-dollar bills. Zak was surprised at how little room just over two and a quarter million dollars took up. He reckoned he could fit it all into a couple of large carrier bags if he wanted to. Or, at a push, into the rucksack he had over his shoulder.
He stared at it. Then he turned to Smiler.
‘Go back to the others,’ he said. ‘Wait for me there. If anyone asks where I am, tell them I’m sealing the coffin, then checking the other East Side Boys have dispersed before we leave.’
Smiler glanced first at the money, then back up at Zak. ‘Is that really what you’re doing?’ he asked.
Zak gave him a piercing look. He didn’t reply.
‘Do you know what the picture on the lid means?’ Smiler asked.
Zak shook his head.
‘In the Vodun religion, it means death. Nobody will open that coffin, once it is sealed. People will not talk about Vodun, but they believe it.’ He paused. ‘I believe it.’
‘It’s just a picture.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
Zak breathed in deeply. It had suddenly grown a little colder in the hut, and he didn’t like it. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next few hours, Smiler,’ he said. ‘But whatever comes, you need to trust me. Can you do that?’
Smiler nodded, and Zak felt a quiet pang of guilt. He was pulling the wool over this boy’s eyes, and over the eyes of his Guardian Angels too.
But something told him he was about to make the right call.
At least, he hoped he was.
Their farewell to Latifah had been quick and abrupt. It needed to be. Half of Zak felt anxious leaving her in charge of those vulnerable kids. The other half told him that she’d proved herself to be pretty capable so far. Maybe they’d be OK. Maybe.
Having trekked through the jungle for two days, it was easy to follow the beaten path that led from the camp through the vegetation to the river. The river bank itself was covered in high mangroves, but there was a small clearing, only about ten metres deep, which formed a mini-shore where two wooden boats were beached.
They were ramshackle, to say the least, but ready to be used. Each had a ten-horsepower outboard motor and a spare jerry can of fuel. They were wooden, and had once been painted white, but now the paint was mostly peeled off. They looked watertight, though, and each was big enough for eight people – or four people and a coffin, which meant that Zak, Gabs, Raf and Smiler would only need one of them.
‘I never knew two million, three hundred and forty-six thousand, six hundred and twenty-five dollars could weigh so much,’ Raf said sarcastically. They were carrying the coffin awkwardly on their shoulders, like pallbearers at a funeral. Slowly, they lowered it down onto the beach. Gabs examined the two boats, before selecting the one on the left and stealing the second fuel can from its partner. Zak rubbed his painful shoulder. Then, at a nod from Raf, he took one end of the coffin and placed it lengthways inside the boat. He found himself averting his eyes from the picture on the top.
‘Let’s get this boat in the water,’ Raf said. Zak nodded. Together, they pushed the stern of the vessel and the hull slid across the marshy bank and into the still waters of the river. Raf stood, feet immersed, holding the boat. Zak looked back at Smiler. He hadn’t moved, but was staring at the boat itself with obvious anxiety.
‘It’s just a picture, mate,’ Zak said quietly.
Smiler gave him a piercing look. ‘It’s not the picture that I’m worried about,’ he said. Then he pushed past Zak, jogged down the bank and scampered into the boat where Gabs was already sitting. Zak followed and climbed in after him. Still holding the hull, Raf waded out another couple of metres, then hurled himself into the boat. It rocked ominously, but stayed upright as Raf cranked up the outboard motor, then lowered it gently into the shallow water. The boat sped off from the shore. As the water became deeper, he let the motor sink to its full depth. Within a minute, they were roaring up this broad lazy river with water spraying all around them.
They travelled in silence. Raf was fully focused on steering the boat, Smiler stared nervously at the engraving on the coffin, and Gabs and Zak scanned the river and its banks. They were the only people in sight, and there wasn’t much sign of wildlife either. Now and then a bird rose from the dense mangroves on either side of them. Occasionally, Zak saw something break the surface of the water ahead. A fish, or something else? Zak couldn’t tell, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
After so long in the jungle, it felt strange to be under open skies. Zak couldn’t help feeling weirdly exposed. The mangroves could hide all manner of threats – he couldn’t help imagining images of naked East Side Boys crouching in the bushes, waiting to attack him – but Zak had to remind himself that they’d have other things on their minds. Moreover, Cruz didn’t know he was being pursued.
Cruz. He found that his lip was curling at the thought of him. There was a time when Zak had thought he could save his former friend. Turn him back into the kid he used to be. But as they sped upriver, he realized he no longer thought that. Cruz was too far gone. His actions had long been those of a mad man. And a bad man. It had taken a long time for Zak to accept it. Now he knew they had to do whatever it took to stop him. And to stop Sudiq.
Sudiq. The expression on Zak’s face grew fiercer. He looked at the AK-47 that Gabs was still carrying. Then he looked at the coffin.
Zak had never killed a man. He’d always done whatever he could to avoid it. But if Sudiq was here, now, what would he do?
He didn’t know.
PART THREE
19
BANJUL
The Palace Hotel, Banjul, The Gambia
Molly Middleton was enjoying her holiday, and didn’t want it to be over. She knew that her mum and dad didn’t have much money. She also knew that the cost of the plane tickets to The Gambia had been expensive, and so had the hotel room that she was sharing with them. She knew that it might be a long time before they went on holiday again. So she was determined to make the most of her last day.
After breakfast, the three of them had walked down to the pool. Mum had laid down on a sun bed where she was staring at the screen of her pink mobile phone. Probably playing Angry Birds, Molly thought. Dad had got into the water with her and played for a bit. Now he was drying off in the sun, flicking through his book on bird-watching. Dad was a keen ornithologist. That was one of the reasons they’d come here – so he could spot birds that were rare in other parts of the world. Molly stayed in the water. The pool was very crowded with lots of people splashing around and squealing. That wasn’t Molly’s style. She was happy just to bob around, avoiding the noisy kids, and watching what was going on around her.
There was a high stone wall surrounding the hotel, which meant you could only see the beach from the rooms on the second floor. It wasn’t the kind of beach, though, where you’d want to spend much time. The sand was hard and muddy and the water had some kind of green scum floating on the surface. On her first day here, Molly had seen some fishermen pull an enormous, wriggling eel out of the water. So
she and her mum and dad had been happy to stay by the hotel pool, and Molly had got to know the faces – and in some cases the names – of all the hotel staff.
Or so she thought.
Because now, as she trod water in the deep end, she saw someone in the same green jacket that all the staff wore. She knew she hadn’t seen him before, because she would have remembered the lines on his face. There was a thin, pale scar on each cheek, leading from the edge of his lips up to each ear.
He was young. Fifteen, maybe, which would make him only about three years older than Molly herself. And he wore a deeply unpleasant scowl as he stood with his back up against the exterior wall. He was half hidden by a palm in a large pot, but Molly saw that he was carrying a plastic bag. As he looked around the pool area, Molly knew, with a flash of insight, that he was looking for somewhere to hide it.
Suddenly, his head turned. He was looking directly at Molly, and his eyes seemed to pierce her. Molly instantly dropped below the surface of the water. The screams of excited children became muffled. Through her half-closed eyes, the world was a blur. She stayed there until her lungs burned. When she broke the surface of the water again, she quickly wiped her eyes and looked back to where the boy had been standing.
He was gone.
She looked around, her sharp eyes scanning the pool area. He was nowhere to be seen.
Nor was the package he’d been carrying.
Molly climbed out of the pool and trotted over to the beds where her mum and dad were asleep in the sun. She wrapped herself in a towel and slipped on her crocs. She was about to go and have a look around for this strange boy and his strange package, when her mum opened her eyes.
‘Put some more sunscreen on, love, if you’ve finished in the pool.’
Molly blinked. Sunscreen. Right. She looked around for the bottle. ‘I think it’s up in the room,’ she said.
Her mum sat up and fumbled in the bag for her key card, which she handed over to Molly. ‘Go and get it then,’ she instructed.
Molly knew it was no good arguing. Her mum was obsessed with sunscreen. She took the card and headed away from the pool area, into the hotel and towards the lifts.
Their room was on the third floor. She pressed the ‘up’ button and waited for the clunky old lift to arrive.
Its doors hissed open and Molly’s heart stopped. It was not the same boy from the roof who stood in the lift, looking out. But he had the same markings on his face, and he too carried a bulky plastic bag.
He stared out of the lift. Molly felt her face going red.
‘I, er . . . sorry, I’ll wait for the next one . . .’
But the doors were already closing. The boy disappeared and the lift went up.
When it returned two minutes later, it was empty. Molly stepped inside and pressed the button marked ‘3’. The lift juddered up. A minute later she was stepping into the room she shared with her mum and dad.
It had a sea view. Molly had enjoyed watching the sun set over the horizon as the locals congregated on the beach to fish and chat. Now, as she looked around for her sunscreen, she noticed something else. A group of three boys, standing together and pointing at the hotel.
Dad’s bird-watching binoculars were on a little table by the window. Molly grabbed them and put them to her eyes. Everything was blurry, so she adjusted the little knob between the lenses and the boys’ faces came into sharp focus.
She couldn’t help a little gasp from escaping her throat. These boys were not wearing the green uniform of the hotel. They were wearing bandannas, sleeveless jackets and army trousers. But they all had the same markings on their cheeks: the thin pale scars. They were discussing something to do with the hotel – there was no doubt about it. Molly lowered the binoculars and sat down on the edge of her bed. She told herself that she was being silly. Her mum always said she was a worrier, and she knew it was true. After all, what had she really seen? Nothing.
That was what there was to worry about: nothing.
She took a deep breath, and started to rub sunscreen into her arms. She would forget about the boys with the scarred faces, she decided, and concentrate on important things. Like sunbathing, and enjoying the last day of her holiday.
The residence of the Gambian president was larger than every other house in Banjul, and in much the nicest area. Unlike the rest of the small but sprawling town, the buildings in this quarter were not dirty, ramshackle concrete blocks with tin roofs and poor sanitation. They sat in broad, spacious streets lined with palm trees. Almost all the houses had a Mercedes parked outside. Admittedly, most of these were at least ten years old, but they were still a lot finer than most of the cars in the country, which were held together by bits of string and imaginative welding.
There were more policemen here too. Some strutted up and down the street, impressed with their own uniforms and with pistols swinging by their hips. Others sheltered from the sun in the shade of the palm trees, smoking cigarettes. Outside the president’s residence itself there were three soldiers. Everybody knew that meant the president was at home. When he left, two of the soldiers would go with him, leaving only one to guard the tall iron gate.
It was an important job, guarding the president. A job only given to the most trusted members of the small army of The Gambia. More than ten years ago, the president had seized power in a coup. Nobody had died. It had been easy, but the president knew that if he could do it, somebody else could do it to him. So the soldiers were even more heavily armed than the policemen. They carried MP5 sub-machine guns and wore sturdy body armour.
The presidential guard carried their weapons like trophies. Nobody dared come near them. They were untouchable, and a little arrogant. So they barely even saw the two boys who walked, shoulder to shoulder, past the presidential residence. They certainly didn’t notice the searching way both boys stared in their direction, noting how many of them there were, and where they were standing.
Nor did they notice the thin scars on each boy’s face.
One of the policemen did notice them, however. Unlike some of his colleagues, he was not resting under a tree or trying to look cool. He was a conscientious officer, with a family to care for. Moreover, he saw the markings on these boys’ faces. He had heard the rumours – that a few of the West Side Boys from Sierra Leone had formed their own splinter group. That there had been sightings of these boys all around Banjul over the past week.
That there had been unexplained deaths whenever they’d cropped up.
Which was why he was following them now, past the presidential residence that they seemed so interested in.
Past the grand houses and the Mercedes cars.
Past the other policemen who wouldn’t have stopped these two boys even if they had been suspicious.
‘Boys?’ he said. They had reached the end of the street and were on the point of turning left into the broad, busy main road. Cars thundered past: white bush taxis, pick-up trucks with smoke billowing out of their exhaust pipes. ‘Boys?’
The two boys stopped and slowly turned to look at him. He had a better view of their faces now: of their thin white scars, and spiteful expressions.
‘What are you doing in this part of town, boys? Let’s see some identification, hey?’
They boys didn’t move. They just stared at him, their cold faces unpleasantly amused.
‘Come on, you heard me. Some ID.’
‘Sure, boss,’ said one of the boys. He wore a red and white bandana that matched his bloodshot eyes. His reached inside his baggy khaki top.
The policeman saw too late that the ID he was fetching was of the gun-metal grey kind, with a barrel and a trigger. He instantly felt for his own gun, but his fingers hadn’t even reached it when he heard the shots.
The first felt like a heavy blow in his stomach. It knocked him backwards about a metre. He looked down in shock, to see blood gushing through his pale grey shirt. Then he looked up at the boy who had just shot him.
The boy fired again. The second b
ullet entered the policeman’s body about five centimetres above the first and he collapsed to the ground unable to breathe. In a corner of his mind, he wondered if anybody would come to help. But the sound of the gunshots was drowned out by the heavy traffic and he knew nobody was coming.
He tried to speak. To tell the boys that he had a little daughter at home, who needed her dad. But he had no breath. Instead, he reached out his right arm, begging the boys to show him some mercy.
But they weren’t in the mercy game. The boy with the gun bent down. The policeman’s eyes were growing dim, but he could see the beads of sweat on his killer’s nose.
‘Congratulations,’ the boy rasped. ‘You’re the first one to die here today.’ He had a menacing glint in his eyes, and seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘But don’t worry,’ the boy continued. ‘You won’t be the last.’
He fired a third shot, and the policeman’s world went black.
The communications tower on the edge of Banjul airport was a tall, concrete structure. It was 750 metres from the large white terminal building where, in the summer months, tourists crowded on and off international flights.
The tower had a large, rotating radar dish on the top. At ground level was a single entrance. A flight of steps led to the control room itself. This was circular, with curved windows all around giving a 360-degree view over the airport and the surrounding area. During the daytime it was guarded by a middle-aged Gambian man called Robert who’d had this job for ten years. He liked it. He could sit in the sunshine all day and watch the planes landing and taking off in the distance. One day, he even hoped to get on a plane himself, but he needed to save up more money first.
Nobody ever approached the communications tower except the people who worked there, and Robert knew them all by name. There were air-traffic-control personnel, and guys from the mobile phone company. There was a government man who never told Robert his business but was friendly enough. They all had passes to enter the tower, but Robert never asked to see them. That would be ridiculous, after all these years.