Hurricane Gold

by Charlie Higson

  But the boy was only seven, and James didn’t even know if he could swim.

  ‘Don’t give up, JJ,’ he said bitterly, choking back hot tears. ‘Don’t give up…’

  James felt utterly useless. Twice he had lost the boy now. He had let him down badly. He made a promise that if JJ lived he wouldn’t sleep or eat or think about himself for one moment until he and his sister were safe and well.

  But would JJ live? He watched the little boy’s head being carried away down the street. Every so often it would sink from view and James would hold his breath until it appeared again, but each time it stayed under longer.

  Then he saw someone step out into the raging flood, which was almost up to his chest.

  It was Garcia.

  He stood there, battling the water that was trying to push him away, and snatched JJ from the torrent. James saw that he had a rope tied around his waist and he used it to get them back to safety.

  James wept with relief.

  James stayed on the window ledge for half an hour while the flow of water gradually died down. Then he heard someone sloshing along the alleyway, and there was a very miserable-looking Precious.

  He jumped down from his perch. There was still a sizeable stream flowing, but he could stand up safely without fear of being washed away.

  ‘Where is he?’ said Precious, fear cracking her voice.

  ‘He’s all right,’ said James.

  ‘Oh, thank God.’ Precious collapsed into tears and James took hold of her.

  ‘He’s all right,’ James repeated. ‘We’ll find him.’

  Precious seemed numb. James told her what had happened and took her to the spot where he had seen Garcia pull JJ from the water.

  They found the two of them on a balcony. Garcia was wiping the boy’s forehead and drying him in the sun. JJ was awake but very feeble. Precious hugged him and kissed him, and babbled about how worried she had been. JJ responded well to this mothering. He sat up and smiled and started talking feverishly about his adventures ‘on the boat’.

  The strip of dress he had been wearing as a bandage had been torn off in the water and his cut leg was exposed.

  The wound looked red, raw and ugly. The two sides were not healing. Garcia inspected it, a frown on his dark, handsome features.

  ‘Be brave,’ he said. ‘You must hold on. Everything is going to be all right. I fixed up my radio. I was coming here to find you and tell you the good news.’

  ‘What good news?’ said Precious.

  ‘Your father is all right,’ said Garcia with a reassuring smile. ‘He landed safely in the jungle near Palenque, but his plane is damaged. He is stuck there.’

  ‘Did you speak to him?’ said Precious.

  Garcia shook his head. ‘He made contact with the port authority in Vera Cruz. I spoke to them, and passed on a message telling him that you had come to Puente Nuevo.’ Garcia stood up. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we will need to find something to clean the wound. James, you come with me, we will see what we can find.’

  James followed Garcia down a flight of steps to the street.

  Garcia put a hand on his arm. He looked serious.

  ‘The boy IS not well,’ he said. ‘His leg is becoming infected and he swallowed a lot of dirty water. We cannot get to the mission now. The flood will have taken the bridge. We must find medicine and clean water on this side.’

  ‘I’ll go and see if I can find what happened to the car,’ said James. ‘I might be able to salvage something.’

  ‘Good,’ said Garcia. ‘I will meet you back here.’

  James found the car about 100 yards down the street, on the outskirts of town, lying on its side, wrecked. He felt sorry that such a beautiful thing had been spoilt. There was no sign of the suitcases. They had been ripped from the sides. The food was ruined, but one of the water canisters was still in the luggage box on the back. He unscrewed the cap and drank some water. It was warm and tasted horrible, but he knew that it would do him some good.

  He looked in the glovebox and found a pair of sunglasses and a soggy map. He stuffed the map into his pocket and put the sunglasses on. The sun was harsh and bright this morning and he had the beginnings of a headache.

  He lugged the water back up the road to the house, but when he got to the balcony, Precious and JJ had disappeared. He called out their names and looked around, but there was no sign of them. He wondered whether Garcia had got back before him and taken them to safety, but when, a few moments later, the Mexican showed up, carrying a bottle of neat alcohol and a roll of clean bandages, he said that he had no idea where they were.

  Then Garcia spotted a cigarette butt, still smouldering on the floor of the balcony.

  ‘That was not here before,’ he said. ‘Someone has come.’

  ‘Maybe someone’s helping them,’ said James, hopefully, though there was a cold feeling of unease in his guts.

  ‘Would the girl go without saying anything?’ said Garcia.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ said James. ‘I’m not her favourite person in the world.’

  ‘We must find them,’ said Garcia.

  ‘They can’t be long gone,’ said James. ‘Maybe if we split up. They didn’t go down the main road away from town because I would have seen them.’

  ‘And they did not come up towards the main square either,’ said Garcia. ‘They must have gone down one of the other streets.’

  They walked back up to where the three streets joined and James and Garcia took one each.

  James hurried along, glancing into side streets as he went. A few people were beginning to emerge from their houses and survey the damage. James stopped and asked a couple in a mixture of pidgin Spanish and dumb show if they had seen an American girl and boy. On the third time of asking, an old peasant pointed James in the direction he was already headed.

  He ran on and, as he rounded a bend, he came to a small square. There was an arcade around the edge and a few tatty trees stood in the middle. He saw Precious and JJ sitting in the shade of a tree and was just about to call out to them when some sixth sense told him to hold his tongue.

  He looked again.

  There was a familiar truck parked nearby, with its bonnet up. On its back was Mr Stone’s safe, and standing around it, peering at the engine, were the American gangsters.

  James backed into the shadows and jumped as someone clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  He spun round, ready to fight, but it was only Garcia.

  ‘It’s them,’ said James, putting a finger to his lips and shrinking deeper into the shade. ‘The people who came to the house.’

  ‘Do they know you?’ asked Garcia.

  James shook his head.

  ‘None of them saw me last night,’ he said. ‘Except maybe the one I pushed out of the window. Manny, I think he was called. He may have got a look at me, I don’t know. But there’s no sign of him.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What will we do?’ James asked.

  Garcia looked him up and down and pushed his hair back from his face.

  ‘Pretend you are with me,’ he said. ‘We will call their bluff. We cannot leave children with them.’

  So saying, Garcia strode into the square with James tagging along behind. As they got nearer, Garcia plastered a big stupid grin on his face.

  ‘Hola,’ he said, exaggerating his accent. ‘You have a problem? Your engine, he not work, eh?’

  The three men and the woman straightened and turned warily.

  ‘You know about engines?’ said the short, square one, his voice harsh and grating. There was a battered look about him. Like he had been in one too many fistfights.

  ‘Sí,’ said Garcia, cheerfully. ‘I know about engines. You like I fix him for you?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the short man. He had a slight squint so that it was hard to tell exactly where he was looking. But now he seemed to be looking at James for the first time. James smiled back at him and he frowned, flicking his focus from one eye to the ot
her.

  ‘Don’t I know you?’ he said after a while.

  ‘I no think so,’ said Garcia. ‘He is my cousin.’

  One of the other men looked over. It was the skinny one with the big ears.

  ‘Whatzat?’ he said, his large Adam’s apple bobbing in his stringy neck. ‘What you sayin’, Strabo?’

  ‘I recognise the kid from somewhere,’ said the short one, loudly, almost shouting.

  ‘Sure you do,’ said his skinny friend. ‘He’s the kid we saw the local coppers nabbing in Tres Hermanas.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s right,’ said Strabo.

  ‘My name is Angel Corona,’ said James, with an attempt at a Mexican accent. It didn’t sound at all convincing to him, but he prayed that it would fool the Americans.

  ‘What happened to you?’ said Strabo, who had evidently bought it. ‘They let you go?’

  ‘I escaped in the storm,’ said James, growing more confident. ‘The jail was broken.’

  ‘I heard that,’ said Strabo, and he laughed. ‘Good on you, kid, you put one over on them dago flatfoots.’

  James laughed now and Garcia joined in.

  Precious and JJ were looking at them in complete bemusement. James took off his sunglasses for a second and winked. To the gangsters it would have appeared to be just a show of macho cockiness, but he hoped that Precious would take the hint and keep her mouth shut for once.

  ‘So what is wrong with your engine?’ said Garcia.

  ‘Damn thing keeps cutting out on us,’ said Strabo. ‘You fix her up, we’ll pay you well. And if you can get us out of this stinking place we’ll pay you even better.’

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ said Garcia, grinning more widely then ever. ‘Angel will help me.’

  ‘That’s fine with me,’ said Strabo. ‘He’s one of us, after all.’

  ‘Where you wanna go?’ said Garcia.

  ‘Back to civilisation.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Garcia.

  Strabo glanced over at the safe on the back of the truck.

  ‘We’ve got us a rather precious cargo, though,’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ said Garcia again and he walked over to inspect the engine.

  Throughout all this, the blonde woman, Mrs Glass, had been smoking a cigarette and watching. Her face showed nothing beneath the wide brim of her hat.

  ‘Can we trust them?’ she said finally.

  ‘All Mexicans care about are greenbacks,’ rasped Strabo. ‘So long as we pay him, he’s one happy greaser.’

  ‘We don’t want any trouble with the law,’ said Mrs Glass.

  ‘Who does?’ said Garcia, looking up from the engine.

  Mrs Glass sniffed.

  ‘You cause us any trouble,’ she said to Garcia and James, ‘and I will personally shoot your eyes out and use your heads as bowling balls. Comprende?’

  ‘Sure,’ said James, imitating Garcia’s stupid grin. ‘You tough guys, huh? Bang bang, you dead.’

  ‘The toughest,’ said Strabo, and he put an arm around James’s shoulders.

  ‘I like your style, kid,’ he said. ‘You and me are going to get along just fine. Welcome to the gang.’

  Part Two: One of the Gang

  Regent’s Park

  London

  England

  Dear James,

  Greetings from the Danger Society. Sadly, as you will soon learn, this will be the last-ever letter from the Soc. We are no more! And you will see from my address that I have left Eton and am back home at Mandeville Mansion in Regent’s Park. But I am getting ahead of myself, as usual. As you know, I am not a big one for letter writing, but the tale must be told. At least with a letter you don’t have to put up with any of my blasted stammering.

  Actually, I have no idea if you will ever get this letter. I don’t suppose the Mexican postal service is up to much. I cannot imagine what it is like out there. I picture you in a big sombrero, riding a donkey and strumming a guitar. If I remember, you are not very musical so I am glad I am not there to hear your efforts.

  There has been much excitement at Eton, and you will kick yourself that you were not here to be a part of it. Actually, to be brutally honest, I think you are better off out of it, old thing. So, come along, Perry, spill the beans!

  By the way, I saw your messmate Pritpal before I left (it was he that gave me your forwarding address). He was limping about the place and clutching his backside. A beastly boy named Bentinck seems to have instigated a reign of terror at your House. He has beaten Pritpal twice, if you can believe it. Once so hard with a piece of rubber tubing that he was bleeding for two days afterwards by all accounts. And what heinous crimes had he committed? Being too noisy at breakfast, and eating in the High Street, the second of which was a wholly trumped-up charge. Pritpal is the most law-abiding boy I have ever come across. I am sure in all your travels in Mexico you will not meet anyone as thoroughly nasty and brutish as Theo Bentinck.

  But back to the meat of the letter. As I say, the Danger Society is no more. It all started when I allowed a new member to join, Alistair Seaton. He had been begging me all half. Fool that I am, I finally gave in. Well, the sap boasted to his older brother all about it on long leave and his brother blabbed to his parents. They were horrified to find out that their darling son, in whose mouth butter wouldn’t melt, and all that rot, was the member of a secret society dedicated to danger, risk-taking and generally breaking the law of the land. They went to the Head who stamped about the place huffing and puffing and kicking up a mighty stink. He hauled me and the rest of the chaps up before him and grilled us. I, of course, kept mum. He couldn’t crack me.

  The upshot of it was, however, that I decided to shut things down for risk of being found out, but not before we had carried out one last daring exploit. An act of defiant revenge!

  I really am a born fool, James. If only you had been here I am sure you would have talked me out of it and made me see sense.

  It went off like this. First of all we kidnapped a flock of sheep from a field near Eton Wick. Do you kidnap a sheep? Or do I mean we rustled some sheep? Well, anyway, we borrowed some sheep. And it wasn’t really a flock, if truth be told, unless you count five sheep as a flock. I’m no farmer, so don’t ask me. Well, we shepherded them back to school and got them up into the Head’s room under cover of darkness while he was in chapel. (Gordon Latimer had magicked up a key from somewhere.)

  So we installed the flock in his room, unscrewed all the light bulbs and made good our escape.

  Picture the scene as the Head returned, tired and cold, from chapel. He enters the room. No light… but what’s that noise? Egads! There’s some kind of fearsome beast in here! No. There’s hundreds of them.

  I imagine he must have been pretty terrified. And then, of course, pretty angry, particularly as the sheep had eaten some rather valuable furniture.

  I hadn’t thought through the consequences, though. ‘Who?’ thinks the Head, ‘would be rash enough to try a stunt like this?’

  Answer – Perry Mandeville.

  The beaks caught me red-handed trying to brush wool off my coat back in my room. They threatened to expel every member of the Danger Society if I didn’t make some sort of confession. So I fell on my sword to protect the others. I took all the blame in return for nobody else being punished.

  That, then, was the end of my illustrious career at Eton. My father is sending me as far away as he can manage, to some godforsaken place called Fettes in Scotland.

  So long then. Spare a thought for your old pal Perry, but don’t shed any tears. I will endure.

  Adios, amigo!

  Perry

  10

  The Whipping Post

  El Huracán stood on his balcony overlooking the main square of Lagrimas Negras and lit a cigar. A Cuban brand, El Rey Del Mundo – The King of the World. He drew in the warm smoke, filling his mouth with the taste of spices and chocolate, wood and nuts. He smiled. It tasted of success.

  The King of the World? Wel
l, he was certainly king of this world.

  From below rose a gentle hum of voices as men strolled in the evening air and chatted to friends. They all wore expensive handmade suits and some had a woman on their arm. The women were all the same, young and beautiful – their dresses shimmering in the soft glow of candlelight coming from the coloured glass globes that were placed around the square. More twinkled from the trees and among the bougainvillea or were hung from the grape vines and jasmine that clothed the mellow stone walls.

  People sat at tables outside the three bars taking a drink before dinner under the stars. Soon the others would settle down to eat at one of the restaurants. Already, waiters in crisp white shirts were setting places, polishing glasses, arranging silverware, and putting champagne on ice.

  A mariachi band was playing ‘La Adelita’, one of El Huracán’s favourite songs. He hummed along to it, letting out a cloud of cigar smoke and stroking his short white beard.

  He sat down in a big wicker armchair and took a sip from the chilled glass of fino sherry that had been left out for him on a marble-topped side table. He looked at the tray of antojitos, tasty appetisers, which had been prepared for him: tostadas, sopes, empanaditas and guacamole con totopos. He picked at the guacamole. He wasn’t really hungry. He rarely was these days and had only a small appetite. There had been parts of his life, though, when he had been so hungry he had eaten rats and bugs to survive.

  There came the sound of a cork popping and a little burst of laughter from one of the bars.

  The square was a place for fun and relaxation. The men enjoying themselves down there were bank robbers, extortionists, kidnappers… Here they could feel safe and enjoy themselves to their hearts’ content. They had nothing to fear from policemen, governments or honest citizens. There were no honest citizens here. This was the ultimate hideout, the original den of thieves.

  In the lazy, carefree atmosphere of Lagrimas Negras the men soon forgot their violent ways and they all looked forward to the evenings when they could show off their expensive clothes and enjoy the fine food and drink that El Huracán laid on.