by Ryan, Chris
But the coffin kept moving.
Zak was sweating, yet his body felt ice cold with fear. Minutes ago, he had been preparing himself for a swift death. An easy death. Now, he understood that Cruz had planned for him the worst death imaginable.
He wanted to scream, but there was no breath in his lungs . . .
All he could hear now were footsteps crunching on the ground outside. He couldn’t tell which direction he was headed in, but after a couple of minutes he heard voices speaking an African dialect he didn’t understand. There was a scraping sound, and Zak pictured the main gate of the compound opening up.
More movement. He knew he was in the forest now. It wouldn’t be long.
Five minutes passed. His body was bruised and battered, his throat tight with fear.
The movement stopped.
Silence.
Suddenly he was falling. Only for a couple of seconds, but it was enough to leave his stomach behind.
Then: impact. Zak felt as if every muscle in his body took a hit. The coffin landed with its head end tilted downwards. For a split second, Zak felt his head crack against the head end of the coffin. There was a moment of sharp, all-encompassing pain. He thought he might vomit . . .
But then, before he could even cry out for a final time, the nausea increased threefold. He felt a bright, stabbing pain behind his eyes.
Then he blacked out.
14
EAVESDROPPING
02.30HRS
Latifah trembled.
She was not normally weak, like this. But when that strange boy had climbed into the camp, and terrifying Señor Martinez had threatened to shoot her, all her courage had dissolved. Now she huddled up on the floor, just by the door of the hut where the other worker-children were kept. The East Side Boys had thrown her back in here half an hour ago, and she hadn’t moved since.
She was so hungry. They hardly fed them anything here. The last time she’d had a decent meal was the night the two East Side Boys abducted her from her village. That was, what, three months ago? In that time she’d seen seven of the other children die. Or was it eight? She could no longer keep track.
Her limbs were so thin that it hurt to move them. But she forced herself to sit up.
Which was when she saw her captors’ mistake.
The door of the hut was slightly ajar. Just a few centimetres. They’d forgotten to lock it.
Latifah knew perfectly well that none of the other children would dare to escape – they’d had all the fight beaten out of them. She wasn’t even sure if any of them were awake. They lay, exhausted, on the floor, all of them keeping a good distance from the corner of the hut that they had to use as a toilet.
She quietly pushed herself up to her feet and looked around.
No movement in the hut. She didn’t think anyone was watching her. She edged towards the door and peered out.
The door of the hut was about ten metres from the wall of the camp. Twenty metres away in the opposite direction was the back wall of another hut. She had peered into it once, and seen piles of wooden coffins. Ever since that day, she had avoided it. Now, though, having checked that none of the awful, scar-faced East Side Boys were around to see her, she ran towards that building and pressed her back against the wall while she caught her breath.
What was she doing? She didn’t really know. Just looking for a place to hide, she supposed. The guards never counted the prisoners, so she didn’t think she’d be missed. If she could remain hidden for long enough, perhaps she’d get a chance to escape the camp.
She edged slowly round the side of this building, keeping carefully to the shadows. After a couple of minutes, she found herself by the open door. She could hear voices inside. They were speaking English, which Latifah understood.
‘Listen carefully.’ The voice belonged to the older man that the East Side Boys called Boss. ‘You two are my most trusted lieutenants, and now I have valuable work for you to do. Señor Martinez and I have prepared everything very well, so you must do exactly what we tell you, OK?’
Latifah told herself that she should keep away. But she had always been a curious girl. Maybe if she kept on listening, she’d hear something that could help her. She edged closer to the hinged side of the door. Through the crack she could see four people. Boss was there. So were two of the more brutal East Side Boys. Latifah, in her head, had named them Puncher and Kicker, because that was what they liked to do.
And Señor Martinez. The very sight of him made Latifah feel sick, and cold.
Puncher and Kicker were murmuring their agreement, their faces filled with pride.
‘Later today, someone will arrive to take away the final batch of dolls that the children have been stuffing with Señor Martinez’s product. They will leave money – two million, three hundred and forty-six thousand, six hundred and twenty-five US dollars.’
Latifah’s eyes widened at the sum.
‘The money needs to be placed in one of these coffins. I have carved a Vodun symbol onto it. Nobody will dare to open it.’
Latifah suppressed a shiver. Vodun meant witchcraft, and she, like the rest of her village, believed that its symbols brought bad luck.
‘I should warn you that if a single dollar is missing from the coffin, the person responsible will regret it. Understood?’
‘Understood, Boss,’ the boys replied.
‘When that is done, Señor Martinez no longer has any use for this place. We will leave eight of you here. Your job will be to kill the child-workers, then bury them. Is that understood?’
Latifah gasped, then quickly put her hand over her mouth to silence the noise.
‘What about the rest of us?’ asked Kicker.
‘The rest of you,’ purred Señor Martinez, ‘will come upriver with me and your boss. We are heading into The Gambia, to the capital Banjul.’
Latifah didn’t know much geography, but she knew about The Gambia, of course – a small, sausage-shaped country entirely surrounded by Senegal.
‘You see,’ Señor Martinez explained, ‘this method of getting our product into Africa is slow and inefficient. It would be much better if my ships could simply arrive at the port of Banjul, unload there without any problems, and my people could distribute the drugs in an orderly, efficient fashion. Don’t you agree?’
Puncher and Kicker agreed. But then, who would disagree with a person like this?
‘We have tried to bribe customs officials,’ Señor Martinez continued, ‘not to mention politicians, and even the president of The Gambia himself. But with no success.’
‘So . . . what are you going to do?’ Kicker asked tentatively.
‘It is quite simple. If one president will not do as we ask, we will have to install a new president.’
Latifah blinked. Even inside the building there was a moment of silence.
‘It sounds audacious, I know. But The Gambia is small and its armies are weak. What is more, we have a secret weapon.’
‘What?’
‘The boy Malcolm.’
Another silence.
‘He looks like a weakling,’ Puncher said.
Señor Martinez laughed. ‘Don’t be fooled, my friend. His body might be weak, but his mind isn’t. There is a communications tower near the airport in Banjul. Malcolm has the skills to tamper with it. He can bring down all cellphones and radio communications in the city. If they are unable to communicate, the president’s pitiful army will be next to useless. There are already a hundred East Side Boys in Banjul, preparing the ground, waiting for us to arrive. We have boats waiting on the river near here. It will take us a few hours to get there. The coup – for that is what we are planning – happens tonight.’
A pause. Latifah felt her heart beating fast. Her English was not perfect, but living in this part of the world she knew what a ‘coup’ was – an attempt to bring down, and replace, the government of a country. Sometimes they were non-violent. Mostly, they were very violent.
‘I have a special job fo
r you,’ Señor Martinez continued. He was addressing Puncher. ‘There are many tourists in The Gambia. We don’t want to encourage them to keep coming. In fact, I want the rest of the world to avoid the country completely. While the coup is taking place, I want you and several others to plant bombs in a tourist hotel. I want as many casualties as possible. I want the news outlets around the world to call it an atrocity. I want them to see pictures of injured westerners. Of women and children dying. Of blood and amputated limbs. It will make people realize that Banjul is no longer a safe place to come. Can I trust you with this?’
Another pause.
And then: ‘Yes, of course,’ said Puncher.
‘Good. I shall explain more as we travel.’ He turned to Kicker. ‘Your job is to stay here and eliminate the children once the final batch of dolls has been picked up and the money safely delivered. That will happen later today.’ A thoughtful look crossed his face. ‘We need all the weapons we can put our hands on in Banjul, so we will just leave you a couple of rifles. That will be enough for the job. The children are thin and unable to fight back.’ He paused, thinking for a moment. ‘I want you to make that kid called Smiler do it. He looks weak. I want him to be toughened up, and to know that I have his absolute loyalty. If he refuses, kill him and stick him in the ditch with all the others.’
‘And with your friend who tried to climb over the wall?’ Kicker said.
Señor Martinez’s face darkened. ‘Yes,’ he spat. ‘With him.’ He paused for a moment, then snapped back to the conversation in hand. ‘As soon as the children are dealt with, burn this place down and follow us up the river. Bring the coffin containing the money with you. And remember, just in case you are thinking of stealing it, know this: if even a single dollar – a single cent – of that money fails to reach me, I will hunt you down and cut your throat.’
Silence, as Señor Martinez allowed that to sink in.
‘Explain to the rest of your friends what is happening. By nightfall, The Gambia will have a new president. I’m sure he will see fit to reward you boys handsomely for your role in his appointment.’
‘You haven’t told us who it’s going to be,’ said Puncher.
‘Who do you think?’ Señor Martinez said contemptuously, as though it were a very stupid comment. He held one arm out to the older man called Boss. ‘Gentlemen, meet the new Gambian president. Serve him well and I imagine he’ll see to it that you’re well rewarded.’
There was a moment of silence. Then the two East Side Boys doubled over with laughter. With a casual, arrogant swagger, they started walking towards the door. Latifah quickly scrambled to the side of the building and stood there silently, holding her breath.
‘You get the best job,’ she heard Puncher say to Kicker. ‘These kids get on my nerves. I’d love to watch Smiler shooting them.’
Latifah didn’t get to hear whether Kicker agreed. They had walked out of earshot, leaving her – breathless and terrified – to think about what she had just heard.
She should be scared, she realized. These brutal people who were keeping her enslaved were about to kill her and all the others. Somehow, though, it just made her more determined. Braver. Because if she was going to die anyway, she had nothing to lose.
She had to get out of here. To find help. All she knew was this: at some point in the next couple of hours, Señor Martinez, Boss and half the East Side Boys would be leaving the camp. That meant they would have to open the gates. If she was hiding nearby, maybe she could slip out.
It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best she had.
Breathing deeply but calmly, she edged back along the side of the building. Once she was at its corner, she had a direct line of sight to the exit. It was a hundred metres away. A direct run. To the left of the gate was a small timber shelter where the guards could protect themselves from the midday sun. But she couldn’t see any guards in there now. Nor any manning the gates themselves.
Should she run? Would the darkness of the night cloak her? Would anybody see her? If they did, it would all be over.
They would probably kill her there and then.
But if she didn’t, they would kill her anyway.
A flinty, determined expression crossed her face.
She ran.
Even though she was doing her best to tread lightly, her footsteps still seemed horribly loud. She winced as she crossed the ground, sure that the patter of her feet was going to rouse the whole camp. But she kept her eye on the prize: the gate, and the shelter. If she could hide behind it, maybe – just maybe – she could escape.
She stopped. Her stomach knotted in terror. One of the East Side Boys had stepped out from behind a hut. He was just fifteen metres away. And he was staring straight at her.
Like a rabbit caught in headlamps, Latifah froze.
What should she do? Turn back? Beg this boy not to hurt her?
She looked at his face. She’d never seen this one before. He was very young. His eyes, she thought, did not look unkind. Not like the other East Side Boys. The scars on his face were very new. Very sore. They glistened slightly in the moonlight.
Slowly, Latifah raised one finger to her lips. As if to say: Will you keep quiet? Then she inclined her head. As if to say: Please?
The boy looked uncertain. His eyes darted left and right. But then they fell on Latifah again.
He nodded.
Then, with his head down, he walked back the way he had come.
Latifah breathed again. She continued running. Ten seconds later she was by the gate.
She looked over her shoulder. There was movement in the main area of the camp. Figures hurrying around. She didn’t think they’d seen her so she scrambled towards the shelter. There was a small gap, no more than a metre or so deep, between the shelter itself and the perimeter wall. Latifah wormed her way into it. Then she crouched down, head low. She could see the gate, but if she wanted to remain hidden she knew that she would have to stay very, very still.
Very, very quiet.
And hope that the young East Side Boy with the fresh scars did not turn her in.
Apart from that, all she could do now was wait.
Malcolm did not know how much time had passed. It was only when he saw a watch on the wrist of one of his guards that he realized it was five in the morning. His brain, normally so focused and logical, felt like cotton wool.
He barely even knew where he was.
He felt empty.
Alone.
His mind kept replaying the moment when Cruz had murdered Matilda. The noise of the gun. The explosion of blood. The way her body had slumped to the floor.
It was the first time, he realized, that he had ever felt sadness. He couldn’t understand how other people lived with it.
He looked up. The door of the hut in which he had been sitting had just opened. It was getting light outside. Cruz stepped in and walked up to him.
‘You promised she would be safe if I brought Zak to you,’ Malcolm croaked.
‘I lied,’ said Cruz. ‘I do that quite a lot.’ He knelt down so he was face to face with Malcolm. ‘But I promise you I’m not lying now. You’re coming with me. If you even think about not doing as I say, I’ll do exactly the same thing to you as I did to your cousin.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Malcolm. And it was true. He didn’t.
Cruz’s eyes narrowed. He pulled a gun and placed it to Malcolm’s head.
Malcolm closed his eyes. He wondered what it would be like to die like this. Would it hurt? Would his brain stop working the moment the bullet pierced his skull? Or would there be a few seconds while the computer shut down? He knew he was smart – that his brain was different to other people’s. It seemed impossible that the neurones would stop firing, the calculations he was always making grind to a halt, the facts disappear. He was proud of his mind. Proud of his ability to out-think other people.
To out-think other people.
A thought struck him. Why was he still alive? It must surely m
ean Cruz must really need him for something. Which put Malcolm at an advantage.
He could out-think this madman, surely. And if he could out-think him, maybe, he could make him pay for what he had done.
He opened his eyes.
‘Please don’t,’ he said.
Cruz smiled and lowered the gun. ‘I knew you’d come round,’ he said.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll find out.’
‘Where is Zak?’
‘Dead. Like his stupid friends.’ Cruz looked over his shoulder at the armed guards who had been keeping an eye on Malcolm all night. ‘Bring him,’ he instructed. Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the door.
Before he knew what was happening, Malcolm was being lifted to his feet by two of the guards, and dragged outside.
Cruz was standing in the centre of the camp. Nine or ten of his scar-faced boys were milling around him, and so was the older man with dreadlocks. They were all armed. Many of them had bandoliers and bullet belts draped over them. They looked ready for action.
‘Let’s go,’ Cruz shouted. ‘Today’s the day you rule a little bit of Africa, my friends. But you have some chaos to cause first.’
The armed boys grinned. One of them pushed Malcolm in the back and forced him to walk towards the gate, along with the others. The gates were opening now, revealing the misty jungle morning beyond. Malcolm stumbled towards them, while the boys whooped and hollered, pointing their guns up in the air. One of them even fired a shot, which echoed loudly and sent crowds of birds flying up from the trees.
None of them seemed to be paying much attention to the gates. Which was perhaps, Malcolm thought, why they didn’t see what he saw. It was the slight figure of a small girl, creeping out from behind a small wooden shelter, slipping out of the gates and disappearing, cat-like, into the forest beyond.
‘Move!’ hissed one of Malcolm’s guards, pushing him again. Malcolm joined the others, and passed through the gates. He looked round, his eyes searching. He couldn’t see the child, but he knew she was there. Somewhere. Watching.
