by M. G. Harris
I smile at her. “Yeah. I guess we can’t really do that while we’re on the run.”
Camila stretches out an elegantly-manicured hand, seeking my own. When our fingers meet, she squeezes my hand. I can’t say anything, but I squeeze back, waiting for Fernanda to pick up. I pass on the instructions and hang up.
Ten minutes later we slow down, turn off the road and through the gates of a smart-looking hotel. “I’m a member of the health club here,” Camila explains. “And for a few weeks now, I’ve had an emergency bag packed, ready to go. In case of exactly this eventuality.”
I follow her as she jumps out and marches up to the door of the Mil Suenos Health and Spa.
“A few weeks?”
“Yep,” she replies. “Father murdered, husband locked up in jail for something I know he didn’t do, no one believing my story, strange sounds on my telephone, engineers in front of the house at odd times of day, a guy in a blue Nissan who follows me. . . What, you think I’m a moron? How could I not be suspicious?”
“Well, when you put it like that. . .”
“Right,” she says, taking a key from a chain around her neck. She uses this to open her locker, where she has a tan-coloured Louis Vuitton backpack. She removes this, as well as a pair of black-and-tan Skechers trainers. Then she changes into the trainers, takes off her rings, bracelets and earrings, stashes them in the locker and turns to leave. The whole operation takes less than five minutes, and as we leave Camila pulls a Fendi baseball cap low over her face.
When we reach the car park, instead of heading for her yellow Beetle, she turns towards a red Dodge Stratus.
“The Stratus?”
Camila nods. “Right again. Everyone in Chetumal knows my Beetle. So I bought this car two weeks ago. Been keeping it here ever since. Like I say, just in case.”
“Wow,” I murmur with admiration. “You’re really good.”
“Had a lot of time to think, bro. Lot of time on my own.”
“It’s a good plan.”
“Not really,” she says. “It depended on one thing – you. Only I didn’t know it. I didn’t expect that you’d be the one to put me on the road to Becan. And now you’re here . . . well, I didn’t bring anything for you.”
“Oh,” I say, not knowing what to add.
“S’OK,” grins Camila. “We’re brother and sister; we’re supposed to share. There’s enough food, money and water for both of us.”
We pull out of the hotel’s driveway. I stare into the dusky road ahead. The sea’s already turned a flat mauve colour. A warm breeze drifts across the bay, rustling through the fronds of coconut palms. In the distance are faint sounds of tropical music playing on someone’s car stereo. I lean an elbow out of my window and enjoy the sensation of rushing air as we turn west, head for the interior, towards the jungle ruins of Becan. I know I should be scared, worried about my friends.
But I’m not. As my sister and I drive into the shadows, I feel alive, energized, free.
Highway 186 stretches out ahead of us, plunging deep into the depths of the jungle. Any minute now we’ll pass the state line of Quintana Roo and enter the state of Campeche. I feel the jungle closing in behind us, thick shadows encroaching on either side of the road. Every few minutes the trees give way to a small lagoon or a mangrove swamp, black holes of water that shimmer reflections of a purple, moonless sky.
I rummage through the contents of Camila’s backpack. There is a sealed water bottle, a dozen high-energy snack bars, a waterproof torch, a Swiss Army knife, spare batteries, matches and cotton wool (sealed in a plastic bag), water purification tablets and ten thousand pesos in cash – around £500. And a pink iPod. “In case I got bored,” Camila admits, smiling. “I didn’t know I’d have you along for company.”
Where was she planning on going?
Camila was prepared for anything. Me, on the other hand, I wasn’t prepared at all. I had no idea what I was getting into. I have all the preparedness of a kid out on a jaunt with his big sister.
“Don’t you wish we’d known about each other before?”
“Uh huh,” I reply.
“No, but seriously. It’s sad to be an only child. I’d love to have grown up with a little brother.”
I can’t imagine growing up with an older sister. That world of teenage girls, lip gloss and hair straighteners, pink trainers, pin-ups of Orlando Bloom and Brad Pitt. I’ve had glimpses when visiting my mates with sisters.
“It’s so cool that you actually chose to stay at the same hotel as Andres.”
“Not cos of the jazz,” I point out.
“No, but still, you chose it. And so much of you is like Andres. The way you roll your eyes when you don’t believe what you’re hearing. The way you eat with your hand in front of your mouth. How you scratch your sideburn when you’re happy.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Sure you do,” she says with a wry grin. “You’re doing it now.”
“What makes you think I’m happy?”
“You don’t have to play it cool with me. I’m not Ollie, after all.” She arches an eyebrow as she says this. I pretend not to notice. “You like her, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Too bad,” Camila says, shaking her head.
“You don’t like her?”
“It’s not even that. It’s just that – there’s something strange about a girl like her being so interested in a kid like you.”
“Cool, isn’t it?” I grin. “I think maybe the mystery about my dad made me interesting.”
Camila frowns. “I’ll bet. How old is she? Like, twenty?”
“She’s only sixteen,” I say, laughing. “She just knows how to look fine.”
“Hmmm.”
“No offence, but – why are you bothered?”
Camila turns to me with a sly grin. “Just looking out for my hermanito.”
For a few minutes, there is silence. Then Camila says, “Plug in my iPod. Might as well have some music.”
I dock the mp3 player. The car fills with yet more jazz.
I groan. “Not you too?”
“That’s right.” She’s grinning from ear to ear. “I grew up apart from our father my whole life, and yet what do you think is my favourite jazz album of all time?”
“I dunno. Kind of Blue by Miles Davis?”
“Way to go, kiddo,” she says, giving me a little shove. “Not such a space cadet after all.”
“I lived with him, remember? He must have played that CD every week.”
“Well, when we listened to it together for the first time he got tears in his eyes. Seriously. It was quite a moment.”
Another silence.
She asks, “What do you most miss about our father?”
I take a few seconds to think it over. There are so many things, but the one that hurts most when I think about it, is knowing that when the phone rings it will never again be him. Calling from his college, saying he’ll be home late. Calling from Mexico, in the middle of nowhere.
“Not hearing his voice on the phone,” I reply.
She releases a long, slow breath. “Just the same as me. It’s like in the song: A telephone that rings, but who’s to answer?”
When she puts it like that, I get a little shiver. I’d never thought of it quite that way, but. . . “That’s exactly it.”
Camila grips the driving wheel a little tighter. “Well . . . I guess none of us know the time or place. That’s why you have to live with death at your shoulder.”
Maybe she senses that our cheerful mood is in danger of slipping, because she adds smartly, “But you know what? Next time you miss his voice on the phone, you call me. Deal?”
I gulp slightly, nod.
“Good. Got your cell phone?”
I dig my UK mobile phone out of my pocket. She dictates her number and I punch it in.
“Put me in as ‘Camila, Call Me!’ Or ‘Call Me! Camila!’ Either way it’s with a C.”
And eventually she as
ks, with delicacy, “How is your mother?”
“Not great.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She’s on the mend,” I say. “In fact, when we get five minutes I’ll call her again. The news about you will be a big help.”
“Should have called earlier. It’s getting kind of late in England.”
I look at my watch and realize she’s right. It’s eight thirty local time – the middle of the night in England. I feel a pang of guilt. I really should have phoned my mum, put her mind at rest about Camila. Somehow the whole afternoon has passed in a blur.
And it isn’t over. The last traces of dim light remain in the sky, but the road ahead is gloomy.
Then, in a quite different tone, Camila asks me this: “Tell me, Joshua, did Andres ever tell you about his dream?”
“The one about his father? The one where he watches him die in some smoky straw hut? Summon the Bakab Ix?”
“That’s the one,” she says. “Did he tell you?”
“Nope.”
“I thought not.”
“But he told you.”
“Once. He told me he dreamt the words ‘Summon the Bakab Ix’. And that it was about our grandfather. The rest of it, well, I dreamt it myself.”
I stare at her, stunned. But Camila doesn’t take her eyes off the road. Very simply she says, “You’ve had it too, haven’t you?”
It’s a few seconds before I can reply. “How’d you know?”
“Since Dad disappeared, am I right?”
“Yes.”
She nods thoughtfully, as though considering the matter from many angles. “Figures.”
You know what it means?”
“I think so. It’s like a telepathic message. Someone saw our grandfather die, all those years ago. And they’re sending out a message to the next of kin. Now, that’s us.”
I give a loud chuckle. “You’re kidding, right?”
Her eyes grow huge. “No way. That stuff goes on here in Mexico. Lucid dreaming – entering people’s dreams. There are Olmec Indians who can do those things. Really.”
I’m still laughing as I say, “So you think our grandfather died in front of an Olmec Indian?”
“Could be.”
“You tell Dad that?” I smirk.
“Well, hotshot, what’s your theory?”
I shrug. “Simple. Dad told us about his dream. You remember him telling you, I don’t, but I must have forgotten. And our subconsciouses took all those elements, turned them into a crazy dream.”
Camila doesn’t smile. “Laugh it up, fella,” she says. “But the way I see things, it all connects – the Bakab in the Calakmul letter. Then there’s the dream of ‘Summon the Bakab’. And finally – Dad’s final trip to Becan.”
“I really can’t see how.”
“Me neither,” she admits. “But I sense it. And I have a great nose for these things.”
As lights appear behind us, Camila checks her mirror a couple of times.
“That car’s been behind us for a little while now,” she notes.
“When did it join the road?”
“I didn’t see,” she says. “I think it just caught up. Now it won’t overtake.”
Camila keeps checking her mirror. She hasn’t said anything for five minutes and I don’t think it’s because she’s wrapped up in the Jamie Cullum track that’s playing on her iPod.
“You think we’re being followed,” I venture.
Now that she’s worried and deadly serious, Camila’s eyes look like my dad’s more than ever.
“I’ve slowed down quite a bit. And they just match my speed.” She turns to me briefly. “Sorry, bro. I think they’re on to us.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Well,” she says, “We’re gonna be in Becan pretty soon. There isn’t much choice in hotels. If they want to follow us right to our door, they easily can.”
“Why don’t we go somewhere else? Lose them further away, then double back?”
“Not a bad idea, kiddo. OK. Let’s keep going.”
So we drive. Watching.
Then the car behind begins to gain on us. Until now, it’s maintained a nice distance, far enough back to make it impossible to identify the car. As it gets closer, I hear Camila’s voice fill with dread as she says, “Oh no.”
Her knuckles are white as she grips the wheel. I look behind, get a good view of the car.
“It’s the blue Nissan,” she says. There’s genuine fear in her voice now. “This guy’s been hanging around me for weeks.”
“You’re sure it’s the same guy?”
Camila explodes, yells at me, “Of course I’m sure, what, you think I’m making this up?”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” she screams. “How should I know?”
I figure I should stop asking stupid questions. If the NRO guys have been in position since Dad died, then they’ve probably had a tail on her all along.
The blue Nissan finally starts to overtake. I twist around, try to catch a look at the driver. I see only shadows of his face lit by the dashboard. Then, with a sudden swerve, Blue Nissan rams our car. We veer horribly for a second as Camila leans hard on the pedal and pulls us out of the start of a spin.
Within seconds we’re up to eighty miles an hour. Blue Nissan’s speed increases too, and he’s about to catch up. Camila takes us up to a hundred. Blue Nissan speeds up again. But Camila’s car has the edge now. She goes even faster. I even see the beginnings of a triumphant grin on Camila’s lips as we start to pull away from Blue Nissan.
And then we hear a shot. Camila almost jumps out of her skin, and for a second I think she’s about to lose control of the car.
“Slow down!”
“Are you crazy? They’re shooting at us!”
Another shot rings out. This one hits the car, somewhere in the trunk. We both yell, then duck. More shots follow. I’m flooded with electric panic. Camila’s foot pounds even harder on the accelerator. But it can’t be fast enough for me – the instinct to run, to get out of there, is overwhelming.
There’s a part of me that knows that it’s practically suicide to drive that fast in the dark. But as bullets start to hit the road around us, it’s hard to take any notice.
“They’re going for our tyres,” Camila shouts.
And a second later, we’re hit again.
There’s a hideous explosion on the lower-right-hand side of the car as a tyre blows out. We spin violently to the right and within a second, we’re off the road. Our car crashes through metre-high grass, then for a split second, we’re flying. I’m screaming, watching the rush of looming black water.
My last thought before we hit the water is a desperate prayer that this is a small mangrove swamp, not a lagoon.
The car plunges down with terrifying speed. The airbags inflate on impact. I struggle to comprehend the fact that we aren’t stopping. The car submerges completely, and water begins to churn in through my half-open window. The airbag pins me into my seat, and only when the car comes to a violent stop against the bottom of the lagoon am I able to move.
Adrenaline takes over and I fumble for my seatbelt. The water’s already up to my thighs. I find the buckles and release my belt, then Camila’s. But when I look up at her, I freeze. Her eyes are closed; she’s not moving. There’s a small wound on her head. As I wipe the blood away, I’m still trying to work out where she could have hit her head. And then I stop. I remember.
There’d been a second explosion, coming almost on top of the first. The rear windscreen has shattered. A bullet’s come straight through the car. I’ve no idea if she’s dead or alive – and there’s no time to check. In less than a minute the car has filled with water. My head is about to go under. I take a huge lungful from the last remaining bubble of air, and I try to yank Camila out of her seat.
But it’s no good. She’s all tangled up in the airbag. Without her help, there’s no way I can get her out. My chest is stinging to release some carbo
n dioxide and I blow a few bubbles out. I probably only have seconds left. I drag uselessly at Camila for a few more seconds. But in my own mind, I’ve already made the dreadful calculation.
And then, some cold, mechanistic part of my brain takes over. I’m like an appalled bystander, watching myself grab the backpack, wriggle out of the open window, and use the last ounce of air to swim as far away from the car as possible. My lungs are ready to explode when I surface. I’m already thinking about Blue Nissan, who’s sure to be looking out for us. The water is warm, deep. I keep my head underwater as much as possible, surfacing only occasionally and with as little noise as I can manage. I’ve no idea where I’m going, and I’m amazed at how long this lagoon goes on. Finally I reach the edge. I stop, turn around, bury myself deep amongst the reeds, and gaze backwards.
One of the lights of our sunken car still beams out along the bottom of the lagoon. It casts an eerie, hollow light on a sickening scene. My breath comes in short, desperate gasps. I can just make out the dark shadow of a man shining a torch down into the depths. Then he flashes the torch upwards, in the water surrounding the submerged car. The torch moves further away, tracing a path along the edges of the lagoon. It’s almost upon me when I take a deep breath and duck down. I stay down for almost two minutes, my eyes open, looking up through the water.
By the time I’m desperate for air, the torch beam has gone. The water finally seeps into enough of the car’s systems to blow the headlamp fuse, and under the water the light blinks out. It’s as though Camila’s life-force has just been extinguished. For now, I can only register this as another bizarre fact: a guy in a Blue Nissan has shot us off the road; lungs need a few practice breaths to stretch before you can take a really long-lasting breath; my unconscious sister just drowned.
It doesn’t hit me even then. I manage to remain calm for quite a bit longer, treading water. Slimy creatures that I badly don’t want to see brush against my arms and legs. The shock hits me later when I climb, exhausted, out of the lagoon. I drop, soaked, muddy, bedraggled, on to the shore. Clutching Camila’s backpack close to my chest, I begin to shake violently.
