by M. G. Harris
Text copyright © M. G. Harris, 2012
The right of M. G. Harris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her.
eISBN 978-1-909072-14-5
A CIP catalogue record for this work is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical or otherwise, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express prior written permission of Harris Oxford Limited.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Gareth Stranks
www.themgharris.com
The Joshua Files series trailer
For Josie and Lilia
Any life is made up of a single moment:
the moment in which a man finds out,
once and for all, who he is.
Jorge Luis Borges
Contents
Beginning
The Joshua Files series trailer
Chapter One
BLOG ENTRY: WALKING CONTRADICTION
BLOG ENTRY: THE JOSHUA FILES
BLOG ENTRY: AEROMEXICO PILOT FILMS UFOS IN CAMPECHE!
Chapter Two
BLOG ENTRY: FOUR MISSING DAYS AND A MURDER
Chapter Three
BLOG ENTRY: THIS IS A LOW
Chapter Four
BLOG ENTRY: RAIDERS OF THE LOST CODEX!
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
BLOG ENTRY: LEAF STORM
Chapter Seven
BLOG ENTRY: A FIFTH CODEX OF THE MAYA
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
BLOG ENTRY: DECIPHERMENT!
Chapter Ten
BLOG ENTRY: CAPOEIRA O LE LE
Chapter Eleven
BLOG ENTRY: THE DOLPHIN HOTEL
Chapter Twelve
BLOG ENTRY: SISTER ACT
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
BLOG ENTRY: CHECHAN NAAB
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
BLOG ENTRY: OUR LADY OF THE HIBISCUS
Chapter Twenty-Five
BLOG ENTRY: THE WORLD DOESN'T JUST DISAPPEAR WHEN YOU CLOSE YOUR EYES, DOES IT?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
BLOG ENTRY: VIGORES AND ME
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
BLOG ENTRY: IN THE SHADOW OF TOMORROW
Acknowledgements
Josh’s Guide to Pronunciation
Invisible City Copyright Page
About MG Harris
The Descendant Alternate Reality Game
The Joshua Files on the Internet
Praise for The Joshua Files
‘Ek Naab’ Map design by Megan Evans from Birmingham, winner of the Joshua Files “Design a Map” competition
At least it’s after the Olympics…
An ancient prophecy that the world will end on Dec 22, 2012, was on the minds of visitors to an archaeology exhibition in Mexico this week. Visitors to the Museum of Anthropology in Jalapa, Veracruz, Mexico, were astonished by a display that claimed to be part of an ancient Mayan machine.
“It was just incredible,” said Angela Winstone, a schoolteacher from Brownsville, Texas. “I always suspected that the Maya were more technologically advanced than we’ve given them credit for. This totally confirmed that for me. And it really makes you take that 2012 prophecy a whole lot more seriously.”
The exhibition, which closed just two days after opening, included two large fragments of metallic material inscribed with Mayan hieroglyphic writing.
“The Maya weren’t supposed to have developed such advanced metal-working,” added a British visitor, anthropology student Marcus Tennant. “This is either a very clever hoax, or else there’s a lot more to the Maya than we ever knew.”
Photographs of the exhibits have not been made available. Deputy Director Dr Adriana Velasquez commented, “It’s not clear at this time how the pieces came to be included in the exhibition, which was meant to only display artefacts found in the Orizaba region of Mexico. The Mayan kingdom didn’t even stretch as far as Orizaba, here in Veracruz. Obviously, this is someone’s idea of a joke.”
We weren’t able to speak to the museum’s director as, in a rather unusual move, comments from Dr Xavier Bernal have been embargoed under an order from the Mexican government.
Oxford University professor Andres Garcia, a renowned Mayan scholar, told this paper, “From what I’ve heard within the museum, staff simply took material from the relevant storeroom without checking. Nobody knows how those metal objects got there. I haven’t seen the alleged artefacts, so can’t say whether they’re real or not. It seems unlikely, though. I’m certainly surprised that the Mexican government has become involved.”
The ancient Maya, whose empire of pyramids and stone-built cities stretched from Mexico to Guatemala, Belize and Honduras, reached the height of their civilization around 900 AD … and then disappeared mysteriously, abandoning their grand cities, falling back into the jungle.
Their “Long Count” calendar ends on 22 December 2012.
Is this the Mayan date for the end of the world?
Some within the “new age” community disagree. “22/12/12 is about rebirth, the dawning of a new era of consciousness,” claims Gabe Goodge, author of 2012 – Preparing for Rebirth.
Hoax or not, should the worst happen … at least we’ll still get to enjoy the London Olympics, which take place in July 2012!
BLOG ENTRY: WALKING CONTRADICTION
I need a place where I can get rid of all these things going on in my head. Things you don’t want to talk about. Things your friends, your family don’t want you to talk about.
Hence this blog.
I didn’t use to be like this, mooching around on my own, writing down my deepest, darkest thoughts. It wasn’t even that long ago that it happened – a couple of weeks back, I was just another guy at school. OK, probably not the cleverest or strongest, definitely not the best-looking or most popular, but apart from that I don’t think I had a single complaint in the world.
The thing was, I didn’t know it. I thought my problems were a big deal.
Well . . . I had no idea.
There was this phone call and people are telling me I need to go home early. So I’m on my skateboard and down the road.
Never thinking it through. Never guessing that somewhere up the street, a storm was brewing. I sailed towards it, practically singing.
Innocent.
Stupid.
It’s capoeira night. Capoeira is this cool Brazilian martial art that I’ve been learning for almost two yea
rs. Our teacher, “Mestre” Ricardo, takes a call on his mobile and calls me out of the roda – a circle we make around the two players who “fight”. He tells me to get my stuff, to go straight home. At the time I don’t really notice, but later I remember something about the look in his eyes.
Mestre Ricardo is a former soldier. Not an easy guy to worry would be my guess. The way he looks at me is something I’ve never seen from him, never dreamed I’d see: pity.
I remember every detail about the skateboard ride home, over the bridge, the college towers behind me, big puffs of marshmallow cloud in a blue sky reflected in the lead-paned windows. It’s the last memory I have where I’m really happy.
I arrive home to find my mother perched on the livingroom sofa. Jackie from next door, she’s there too, holding Mum’s hand. As soon as Mum stands up, I can tell she’s been crying. Her face is a colour closer to grey than her normal English-rose pink. There’s a smile of affection on her lips – it looks forced. The ends of her hair are wet, like she’s just washed her face. She tries to kiss me, and I shrink from her touch, pull back to look into her eyes.
She’s actually shaking, won’t even look at me.
She can’t.
A chill seeps into my blood. Dread floods through me. A suspicion grows, a tiny seed of horror in the deepest recesses of my mind. It’s such a heart-stopping idea that I can’t even bring myself to take it seriously.
Mum begins. “Josh, sit down; there’s some bad news, I’m afraid. Terrible, terrible news.”
She doesn’t get any further, though; she’s overwhelmed by tears. Her palms go up to her face, cover her eyes. She sinks back down on to the sofa. Jackie takes hold of both my hands, which feel rough, cold and huge in her small fingers.
Between Mum’s sobs I make out, “The Cessna plane your dad was renting in Mexico. It went down. And . . . Josh, I’m so sorry. So sorry, but . . . he’s dead.”
Then it’s like I’m disconnected from the moment. Bodily I’m still there, holding hands with my middle-aged neighbour, nodding slightly. But somewhere deep inside I begin a scream of rage and disbelief. I can hear that Jackie is talking, but she seems distant, remote. Mum’s face is nothing but a blur as I struggle to grasp what I’m hearing.
Then the screams in my head finally catch up with my mouth. It’s as though I’m possessed. I start shouting: “What? What?!”
Both women try to hug me, but I shake them off. I can’t take it in. Then I’m punching the living room door, yelling at them, “No, no, no, no, no.” For an instant I catch the fear in Mum’s eyes at my sudden violence.
But within seconds I’ve stopped, already exhausted. I feel sick. My legs actually buckle slightly underneath me. I slump on to the couch. When I glance up, I notice a shimmering haze around Mum and Jackie. I’m shocked, trembling, numb. Mum grabs hold of me, holds on tight, but all I can think is how her arms aren’t long enough for a proper hug. And I wonder: how it would have been if Mum, not Dad, had died? Would Dad’s arms be long enough? At the thought of losing Mum too, I burst into tears.
Yet there’s this hard little kernel of me that’s still ticking over. Still able to look on the bright side.
Wait a bit . . . what if it isn’t him?
I’m full of questions. How can they be sure it’s my dad? Maybe Dad changed his mind about hiring that plane. Maybe it’s some other bloke.
“No, Josh, no,” Mum murmurs. “The detective who came round – DI Barratt – says the Mexican police are sure it’s him. Your dad hadn’t been seen for three days, since he hired this plane.”
I shake my head, thinking furiously. Trying to find any loophole. “No. Not Dad. Just cos he’s gone missing . . . he could be camping near some ruins. They can’t be sure without proof. Have they got proof? What is it they do – they look at dental records, don’t they? Yeah, I’ve seen it a million times in films. I bet the dental records will show it’s not my dad.”
“I’m sorry, love,” Jackie explains kindly. “It wasn’t that simple. Wish it was, poppet.”
“What . . . why not?”
Mum holds my hand. They exchange a look. Mum nods at Jackie. Very slightly.
“Your dad’s plane hit a tree. A branch. Would have shot through the windscreen at God knows what speed. He had no chance, Josh. No chance at all.”
“What?! Just tell me,” I insist, through my tears. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Jackie straightens up; her voice steels, becomes faint, distant, cold.
“He was decapitated,” she says. “In the plane crash. There is no head. Just your poor dad’s burned, broken body.”
I take a few moments to absorb that. I’m already beginning to join Jackie in that remote place.
That’s where I need to be now. Somewhere else. Anywhere.
Death would have been instantaneous, she’s quick to assure me. Better hope so. The thought of something like that happening slowly is unbearable.
There was no sign of foul play. No severed fluid lines, nothing suspicious. The best guess from the Mexican police is that he fell asleep at the controls, lost altitude, plunged to his doom.
My emotions start to shut down. Movements become purely mechanical. Would I like some tea? I’m nodding, asking for milk and two sugars.
Like it matters.
I wish I could stop the TV scenes that begin to play through my head. Two sympathetic policemen at the door, the phone call from the hospital, the phone call from abroad. On TV, I’ve seen bad news delivered lots of ways. Now it’s my turn.
Jackie seems to know just what to do. She has nerve; in the midst of our little storm, she holds firm. She’s all gentle Irish humour as she makes us hot buttered toast. She serves us thick slices with mugs of sweet, milky tea. She turns on the TV. We watch a whole film, but later I don’t remember a single detail. I keep glancing at Mum, wondering what we do now. Am I supposed to hug her? Or what?
I know what Dad would say: Son, you take care of your mother, you got that?
Mum’s eyes look glazed, staring. After my initial outburst, things are calm. We take it quietly then.
Later, when I go to bed, I get to thinking. I can’t stop wondering about something Jackie said; something I hardly noticed at the time.
So far, the Mexican police haven’t actually found his head. The rest of his body was burned beyond recognition. They are sure of two things: it was the plane Professor Andres Garcia rented, and his luggage was found thrown clear of the crash.
That’s where it begins, that’s the root of the matter. Call it what you like: doubt, suspicion, a hunch.
I don’t believe it. Not “can’t”. I’m pretty sure that I could if it only felt true. But something doesn’t feel right. Dad has only been flying for three years. I know he’s still cautious, plans every detail.
There’s no way he’d fall asleep at the controls.
There has to have been some horrendous, monumental mistake.
BLOG ENTRY: THE JOSHUA FILES
So here’s the thing – everyone thinks I’m crazy.
Well, it’s weird. When people reckon you’re going a bit barmy, they don’t actually use words like barmy, crazy, or even psycho. They say things like normal grief response and therapy.
What’s really baffling my mum and her friends is that I’m not even getting “barmy” right. Maybe she’d prefer it if I were crying loads, or just sitting staring into space. But it’s like there’s a sign taped to my forehead: Does not fit the textbooks.
All I’m doing is looking at the circumstances of this plane crash and asking a few questions that don’t seem to interest anyone else.
1. Dad told Mum and me that he was going to Cancuen in Guatamela. Some Mayan king was murdered there hundreds of years ago. So . . . why was Dad’s plane found hundreds of miles from where he’d rented it and hundreds of miles from Cancuen?
2. Why did the local newspaper not have a single witness who saw the plane come down?
3. Why did that same local newspaper carry
eyewitness reports of a major UFO sighting close to where they said his plane had come down?
Seems to me, you get some information like that, you should ask some serious questions. Maybe wonder about the truth of statements like “Dr Andres Garcia crashed his Cessna in the jungle of southern Mexico and suffered fatal injuries on impact”.
Why am I the only one wondering about this? Seems totally normal to me. But the more I go on, the more Mum thinks I’m losing it.
What is it with UFOs, anyway? Why are you automtically a headcase just because you say you’ve seen a UFO? So many people nowadays have – it’s not hundreds of people; it’s hundreds of thousands. From all backgrounds, all ages, all types of braininess. UFO sightings are rampant; you can’t ignore something that so many people see.
I took those three facts about my dad’s plane crash and I put them together like this: what if that body belongs to someone else? What if Dad wasn’t in the crash at all? What if he was abducted by the UFOs? What if he isn’t dead, just missing?
Mum’s first reaction, I have to say, was very reasonable. She said, “OK. Let’s assume that there really was a UFO. What about the body in the plane? What about the luggage? No one else was reported missing, just your father.” Then she gave me a big hug and said, “I understand, sweetheart; you don’t want this to be true. Neither do I. It’s unthinkable, unbearable.” Then she slowly began to cry, and it was me who had to comfort her.
Which I can do, because now I’m not so sure that he’s dead.
