The Joshua Files - a complete box set: Books 1-5 of the young adult sci-fi adventure series plus techno-thriller prequel

by M. G. Harris

  “Really. . .?” I can hardly believe my ears.

  Montoyo nods. He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, squeezes once. “That sound OK for you, Josh?”

  “Yeah,” I manage. “That sounds amazing.”

  The party winds down. We walk back along the beach to the hotel. Ixchel catches up to Tyler and me.

  “Josh, is there something wrong?”

  Tyler throws me a knowing look and then hangs back, leaving me to walk alone with Ixchel.

  I make myself look at her, as vaguely as possible. “Nothing wrong,” I answer shortly.

  We walk along in silence for a few seconds. Beside me, I can sense Ixchel tensing.

  “You’re mad because of what I said,” she begins. “About not changing the past.”

  Yes, Ixchel, and so much more. . .

  But all I say is, “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

  Ixchel reaches out, takes my arm. “Stop it, Josh.”

  “Stop what?”

  “This. I’ve never seen you like this before. Cold. Angry. Just because I warned you not to do something that could be incredibly dangerous?”

  I stop moving, facing her. “What did you think I was going to use the Bracelet for?”

  A confused expression comes over Ixchel’s face. “I don’t know . . . maybe I didn’t think it through properly either.”

  Challenging her, I say, “You didn’t think I’d ever fix it.”

  “Well, sure! It’s still a long shot.”

  “I know the formula of the Key. And I know they probably have the Crystal in Ek Naab. One way or another, I’m going to fix the Bracelet, Ixchel.” I pause, enjoying the look of unease on her face. “With or without you.”

  She looks hurt, withdraws her hand from my arm.

  Get mad at her.

  “So this is how you get when people don’t agree with you, is it?”

  “That’s right.” I nod, staring directly at her. “This is how I get.”

  In the artificial glow of the beach lights, I notice tears glistening in her eyes. I don’t allow the shock of what I’ve done to register on my face. A cool wave of relief seems to pass through me. When it’s gone, I feel numb.

  Controlling her voice with difficulty, Ixchel says, “Well, I’m glad I found out.”

  I can only nod. “Uh huh.”

  She turns and slowly walks back to where Benicio, Montoyo and my mother are ambling along in a leisurely fashion. Tyler picks up speed, jogging slightly until he’s alongside me again. I’m already walking even faster than before.

  He asks, “What happened?”

  “Oh, she’s just having a strop.”

  “What about?!”

  “That’s between me and Ixchel.”

  Tyler pauses. “At least Benicio’s got the guts to own up to liking her.”

  Now Tyler’s annoying me, too. “This has nothing to do with any of that.”

  “No?”

  “No, this is about. . .”

  “What?”

  But my voice trails off. Suddenly it hits me that by pushing Ixchel away, I’ve lost the one person I trusted to help me work out how to use the Bracelet.

  I’ve left myself totally alone in my quest – again.

  Well . . . OK. Good.

  Trust no one.

  I sleep fitfully that night. At least twice I’m stirred awake, certain that I’ve heard my mobile phone buzzing underneath my pillow. I don’t answer it, of course. It costs a fortune to take a call from someone in the UK. And there’s really no one there I want to talk to right now. The second time it happens I turn the phone off. And then I think I even dream that the phone is buzzing.

  I don’t let myself think too much about Ixchel, or Benicio, or Montoyo.

  Instead I focus on the next steps in fixing the Bracelet. First I need to understand that fifteen-letter chemical formula. Then I need to work out who Arcadio is – and if there’s any way of contacting him.

  Unless I decide to patch things up with Ixchel, I’ll be doing it alone. Which suits me fine.

  What worries me slightly is this: what if Ixchel decides to tell Montoyo about my plans for the Bracelet? Montoyo has been after the Bracelet of Itzamna since the day I met him. If he finds out that I’ve got it, he’ll take it from me. It’s as simple as that.

  Next morning we all meet for a quick breakfast in the reception area. Tyler, Ixchel and I are all wearing the matching yellow and green Brazil-flag T-shirts that Montoyo bought at the beachside stall. Tyler and I think it’s funny but Ixchel seems a bit miffed to be dressed in matching outfits. She’s about to go and change, but Montoyo tells her it’s too late: the dune buggies are here.

  Stepping on to the beach outside we meet our buggy drivers – the bugeiros – tanned guys in their twenties who wear uniform white T-shirts made of football-shirt fabric. They stand beside two stocky, squat-looking buggies with chunky wheels. A scent of sweet, alcohol-blended petrol hangs over the vehicles. They look something like beefed-up Mini cars with the roofs sawn off. An overhead bar sits across the middle of each car, from which a plastic tarpaulin sheet hangs, protecting the front seat passenger and driver from the sun. For passengers in the back, though, there are no seat belts and zero shade, just the cool of a racing breeze to keep them from frying.

  Mum chooses to sit in the shade at the front of the red buggy. She straps herself into a front seat with the only safety belt. Tyler and I sit up on the back of the roofless, brightly painted car. We grip the overhead bar in front, our sandalled feet on the plastic-covered, cushioned bench at the back.

  Benicio and Ixchel do the same in the back of a second, silver-coloured car, whilst Montoyo takes the front seat.

  We take off, racing over the cobbled streets of Natal behind the hotels, up to the highway and then along the main beach road. It’s only nine a.m. but once again the sun pelts down from a deep blue sky. A wind whips through the buggy, refreshing, exhilarating.

  After about twenty minutes of careering through the city, our drivers leave the main road. We head for narrow chaos in the backstreets of hillside fishing villages. We cross a redtinged river on wooden rafts punted by muscular villagers. They laugh and joke with each other, talking in laid-back, slangy-sounding Portuguese.

  The buggies storm through another couple of villages, splashing through mud and cloudy puddles of last night’s rain. Then the bugeiros veer off-road. We cut across damp, brick-red sand and shallow mangrove swamps, towards a golden mountain – the beginning of the giant sand dunes.

  Up there, it’s like being in a ski resort – except instead of the gleam of white powdery snow it’s just pinkish-yellow sand as far as the eye can see. Behind the dunes in the distance, a line of deep blue – the sea.

  We climb out of the vehicles, stretch our legs and take some photos. A young girl approaches, holding a plump green lizard along her arm. Ixchel, Tyler and Benicio are immediately drawn to the lizard girl, cooing over her exotic pet.

  A third buggy pulls up beside ours. The driver is short and squat, his mouth a straight line under wrap-around sunglasses and a baseball cap. His green uniform shirt looks too tight for him, stretched thin across thick shoulder muscles. Four male passengers climb out, snap a couple of photos, swig from water bottles. Three of them are probably Brazilian; strong-looking guys accompanying one fair-haired European – or maybe Canadian? He looks kind of familiar, although behind his dark glasses I can’t be sure. Seconds later the passengers climb back in. Their buggy pulls away sharply, disappears down the nearest slope.

  I stroll away some distance, gazing out over the sands. I notice then that Mum has followed me.

  “Josh . . . you’ve got to stop sulking. It isn’t fair on your friends, or me.”

  I’m stunned. Sulking?

  She continues. “Ixchel was crying last night. She was very quiet, but I heard. What did you say to her? It’s really not on to be horrid to your friends, just because you’re upset about your performance.”

  I draw myself
up to my full height. Something feels ready to explode inside me. I wish Mum would just shut up.

  “And Carlos mentioned that you were a bit stroppy with him too. . .”

  “What, suddenly I’m surrounded by all these telltales?” I say coldly. “But you, Mum; you don’t understand anything. You don’t know anything about me at all!”

  “If I don’t, it’s because you don’t tell me anything! Josh, be careful. Or you’re going to grow into one of those cold, distant men. It won’t make your life easy, I promise you.”

  The explosion feels very close now. In disbelief I say, “Easy. . .?”

  “Yes. You should be more open. None of us can read your mind, you know.”

  “Easy. . .” I repeat, even more amazed. “You think my life is easy now? Well, it’s not!”

  “You’re still upset about your father, aren’t you?”

  I stagger. “Upset. . .? Mum . . . are you kidding . . . upset?”

  “I should have insisted you see a bereavement counsellor. I’m sorry, that was my oversight.”

  That does it.

  “A counsellor? You think you can just fob me off on some counsellor and it all goes away? Like back when I was the only one who refused to believe that Dad’s death was an accident? You never listen to me!”

  Mum tries to touch me but I push her hand away. “You don’t listen to me,” I repeat, “and you know what, Mum? What I’ve learned is this: I can’t count on anyone but myself. When I needed you, you couldn’t help me. You couldn’t think about anyone but yourself. Maybe if you’d listened to me, things would have been different. Maybe I would never have ended up on that mountain.”

  There’s a long, agonizing silence.

  In a voice that trembles slightly, Mum says, “I don’t pretend to understand everything in your life, no, but I do try my best to be supportive. As for everything that’s happened, Josh . . . you must learn to accept things. To let things go.”

  Now I’m trembling too. Maybe a part of me – a tiny part – can see the sense in what Mum says. But that part is swamped by raw anger.

  I hate that Mum is so wrong about me. I hate that she is so right about me. I hate that I can’t control anything – outside of me or inside. That I just want Mum to hug me and make it better but she can’t, ever, and I can’t rely on anyone but myself.

  “I can’t . . . let things go. I won’t. Because everything in our life is wrong – can’t you see that?”

  But I can fix it. . .

  Mum’s tone becomes disappointed. “I’m sorry that you feel I’m such a failure as a mother. . .”

  I give a bitter laugh. “That’s right; try to guilt trip me.”

  With that I storm off, right past the red buggy and into the silver one, where I sit fuming in the back.

  Ixchel approaches. “I think you’ve really upset your mother, Josh.”

  I squint up at her in dazzling sunlight. “What’s it to you?”

  Ixchel shakes her head. “Wow. You have a real mean streak, don’t you?”

  To that, I don’t reply, just glare back at Ixchel. After a second or two she picks her bag out of the silver-coloured buggy. “I’m gonna ride with Eleanor. This isn’t a nice way to treat her. You’re lucky to still have a mother.”

  With that, Ixchel walks over to the red buggy, where Mum is standing, dabbing at her eyes.

  I almost give it up right there and then, go over and apologize. But what would I say? I wouldn’t know where to begin. This has all somehow spiralled out of control. All because of this . . . thing . . . I have for Ixchel. What kind of an idiot does that make me?

  This is too complicated. I’m not going to have everyone feeling sorry for me just because I’ve gone soft – over a girl who likes someone else.

  Better that they think I’m moody, angry, whatever.

  So I stay put, blinking in the intense light because, stupidly, I’ve left my baseball cap in the other buggy. The way things are now, it would just be too undignified to fetch it. Then I notice that Ixchel has put my cap on. She turns around and glares back at me, shadowed under the peak of the cap. Daring me to come and get it. But I won’t.

  Eventually Montoyo, Tyler and Benicio gather around the silver buggy.

  Tyler gives me a steady look. “You want me to ride with you, mate?”

  I shake my head. “Stay with them, Ty.”

  He looks thoughtful. “OK.”

  Montoyo’s expression doesn’t alter. He doesn’t even glance at me, just sits in the front seat and straps himself in. Benicio resumes his seat in the back, next to me. We both avoid each other’s eyes, saying nothing.

  I can almost hear Benicio’s mind whirring away. If Tyler guessed, then so will Benicio. I exhale very slowly, fix a blank gaze on the nearby slope of the dune.

  If this is what love feels like, then . . . you can keep it.

  Ahead, a valley of shimmering sand stretches across our entire field of view – a view which might easily belong to the Sahara. The dunes are dotted with a few other buggies. Their riders screech with pleasure as the buggies tumble down the slopes like giant sledges. But even that thrill is going to leave me untouched. The weather may be sizzling hot, but inside there’s a cold front sweeping through me.

  Oblivious doesn’t even come close.

  The bugeiros are probably wondering why their fun party of dune-surfers has suddenly turned so cold. As they rev up the buggies to tackle the first slippery slope, we’re all a bit po-faced. But once we start hurtling down the monstrous sand hills, even I perk up.

  It does feel amazing.

  The drivers seem to have the curves of the dunes etched into their minds. From the top, the craters at the bottom of the dunes seem terrifyingly distant. The expanse of sand is so bright that staring at it, I lose all sense of perspective. The next patch might be wildly steep or loose, require a hard bank to the left . . . or to the right: who knows? As a passenger you can hardly predict where you’ll be going next, which gives a mad exhilaration to the ride.

  Soon enough, we’re all whooping as we zigzag across the landscape. It’s as much as Benicio and I can do to hang on to the overhead bar. A couple of times we’re actually lifted off our seats. It only adds to the thrill.

  Holding on takes concentration. We’re aware of the other buggies on the dunes, but don’t pay much attention to their positions.

  So what happens next really takes us by surprise.

  Apparently from nowhere, a metallic-blue car leaps through the air in front of us. It lands between our silver buggy and the red one that carries Mum, Ixchel and Tyler. Our driver curses loudly to himself but doesn’t alter his course. For some reason the blue car’s driver was desperate to overtake us in the craziest way, scrambling across a patch of trees and scrub to cut in.

  Now we’re one of three buggies in a row. The red one carrying Mum, Tyler and Ixchel; then the weirdo-blue buggy; then us in the silver.

  Between catching my breath as we swoop down and up those sandy hills, I begin to catch glimpses of something odd happening ahead. I don’t speak Portuguese, but from his tone, I can tell that our driver is getting irritated with the driver of the blue vehicle in front. He keeps muttering under his breath until Montoyo asks him something – I’m guessing it’s “What’s going on?”

  Our bugeiro gestures wildly towards the blue car.

  Benicio shouts into the wind, “What’s up?”

  Montoyo turns unsteadily in the front seat. The buggy jumps slightly. Montoyo’s head bounces against the soft tarpaulin sun shade.

  Still wincing, Montoyo tells us, “That driver . . . he’s being very aggressive . . . trying to force them off the hills.”

  I look around, puzzled. There’s sand for at least three hundred metres in either direction.

  “Force them off . . . into where?”

  Montoyo shrugs blankly. He turns away and faces forward again, rubbing his head. I glance at Benicio. Both he and Montoyo go very quiet. I sense there’s something they’re not say
ing. I stare at the red buggy. The blue one is right behind it.

  No doubt about it – red is in trouble.

  The crest of the last slope looms ahead, fleshy pink against the white-flecked, navy blue of the sea. A three-hundred-metre sheer drop, straight into the Atlantic Ocean.