by Steve Cole
“Plenty of fuel!” Digger Man yells. “Yep, all good to go!”
“Get off!” Emanuel swats Digger Man’s hands from the throttle. “It’s not yours.”
Digger Man shrugs and switches off the engine. The ticking in the sudden silence is somehow just as noisy as the engine’s hungry rumble. “I guess your brother planned to use this for a quick getaway,” Digger Man says.
“Then why bury it?” I ask. “Doesn’t make sense. You can’t go anywhere quickly if you have to dig up your getaway vehicle first.”
“Whatever,” says Emanuel, inspecting the bike. “This bike has got to be, like, fifteen or twenty years old. How much is it worth?”
Digger Guy looks it up and down like it’s an animal at market. “In this state, maybe eight hundred cedi. If I do it up well, I might get fifteen hundred cedi for it.”
It sounds like a fortune to me. But for some people in Accra that’s not even a month’s salary. This can’t be the treasure that Morgan buried. He was marked for death by two gangs for what he stole. Fifteen hundred cedi can’t be worth a life – can it? My magnet didn’t even stick to the handlebars, so the metal must be bad, or else it’s plastic or something.
Emanuel starts arguing with Digger Man. “What do you mean, you might get fifteen hundred?” he says. “You’re not getting anything for it. I paid you to dig it up. Now it’s mine.”
“You’re just a kid!” Digger Man replies. “How will you smarten up this heap to get the best price? How are you gonna sell it to anyone?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Emanuel insists. “I need that money.” He pauses. “My brother’s counting on it.”
“Yeah. Well,” Digger Man says, looking between us. “We should talk to Mr Ghazi about who’s counting on the money.”
“You talk to him,” Emanuel snarls. “I’m taking my brother’s bike. I’m done with all this.”
“Whoa, chill,” I tell Emanuel. “I’ve got a stake in this too, remember.”
Emanuel sneers, “Like hell you do.”
“It was me who worked out what the map meant!” I say.
“It was Gifty,” he argues.
“I took you to Gifty,” I remind him. “You could never have paid this guy if you hadn’t stolen from her. You said you’d pay her back and you have to pay me too.”
“Boys, boys! Relax,” Digger Man says. “You’ve got nothing to fight about.” He smirks at us. “Your bike is in my lockup. That makes it mine.” He crosses to the door and opens it. The night outside is as black as burners’ smoke. “Now, get out of here. Go on, scram. I need to see Mr Ghazi.”
“We’re not going,” I tell him.
Digger Man grabs me by the arm and Emanuel by the collar and hauls us outside into the stinking darkness. I blink, my eyes trying to adjust.
“Get off!” I shout, and try to squirm free of his grip. “You can’t just steal that bike.”
“It’s stolen already,” says Digger Man. “Finders keepers.”
“You would never have found it without me!” Emanuel cries.
That’s what I tried to tell you, I realise. Did I sound as whining and weak as he does now?
“Let the grown-ups take care of this, OK?” Digger Man says. He pushes us both away and turns his back on us. “Go crawl back down whatever hole you came out of.” He’s no more than a shadow in the silvery smog of the moonlight. He starts to push shut the door to his lockup, reaching in his pocket for the key.
That’s when Emanuel brings down a rock on the back of Digger Man’s head. Digger Man’s forehead bounces off the corrugated metal door and he sinks to his knees, leaving a dribble of blood smeared on the metal.
My stomach has twisted into a tight knot. Emanuel stands there, panting for breath.
I crouch beside Digger Man in the pale moonlight, searching for the split in his skull. I put a hand on his arm and he falls backward, eyes shut. There’s a nasty cut on his forehead as well.
I look up at Emanuel. “He’s still breathing,” I whisper.
“Pity,” says Emanuel. He’s trying to sound cocky, but he looks like he wants to be sick. “Come on, Theo. We’ve got to get the bike away from here.”
“Oh, so now it’s ‘we’, huh?” I say. Slowly I stand up, glaring at him. “Now you want my help – now you’ve half-killed this guy and know he’ll have the cops on you when he wakes up!”
Emanuel shrugs. “He didn’t see who hit him. I’ll tell any cops that you did it.”
“Me!” I stare at him, outraged.
“You just can’t trust him, kid,” comes a voice from the darkness. “He lies. He cheats. He squirms. Just like his big brother Morgan.”
I feel frozen to the spot as Sammy steps into sight.
Two more big guys are standing behind him. They’ve got Mr Ghazi, who’s hunched up between them. One of his eyes is swollen shut and his nose is bust open. Blood and spit bubble from Mr Ghazi’s lips.
“I think it’s time we all had a talk,” says Sammy, showing us the knife in his hand. “Don’t you?”
CHAPTER 10
Things Kick Off
I glance at Emanuel. He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are fixed on Sammy’s blade, which is made sharper by the moonlight glinting on its silver edge.
“Mr Ghazi told us he’d been helping you boys find Morgan’s treasure,” says Sammy. “He thought he could sell it back to us. Bless.” He turns and rubs Mr Ghazi’s head fondly, like Mr Ghazi might rub mine. “He actually thought we would pay him for finding it.”
“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Mr Ghazi splutters, a thick strand of bloody spit dangling from his mouth. “Take it. For free. I won’t tell.”
“Course you won’t tell,” Sammy says. “If you do, you’re a dead man.” He turns back to Emanuel. “Speaking of dead men, how’s your brother, kid? We’d really like you to put us back in touch.”
“I can’t,” says Emanuel. He’s screwed up his eyes. He looks like he’s going to cry. “I can’t put you in touch.”
Sammy raises the knife. “Sure you can, kid.”
“I can’t,” Emanuel hisses, eyes still shut. “You called it just now. Morgan is dead.”
No one speaks for a few seconds.
All I can think is, You said he was sick. You said he needed the money to get better …
Sammy snorts and nails Emanuel with a single word: “Liar.”
“It was last year,” says Emanuel. “Morgan’s lungs gave up. He couldn’t breathe.” The words start to run from him like the snot from his nostrils. “He was hiding out, couldn’t go to the doctor. My ma was looking after him – he told her about the treasure. He wanted her to get it … but she didn’t want to get mixed up in stuff.”
I’m still as a statue, watching Emanuel. He’s not lying any more – I know it. What I’m hearing is the truth at last.
“Then my ma died too,” Emanuel says, sucking in a breath and then out it shakes. “Last month. I found Morgan’s map when I was selling her clothes. I figured I didn’t have much to lose, trying to find the treasure myself.”
Sammy glances back at his big buddies and smirks. “You got that wrong,” he says. “If I can’t get satisfaction from Morgan, maybe I’ll take it out on you.”
“For God’s sake,” Mr Ghazi says, struggling against his captor. “He’s only a child—” He breaks off with a shout as one of Sammy’s boys smacks him on his broken nose.
Now Sammy looks at me. “Get the bike, kid,” he tells me.
“It’s …” I’m so scared I can hardly speak. “It’s not even worth that much.”
“I want it,” Sammy insists. “So get it.”
I look at the door to the lockup, standing ajar. Digger Man is still out of it on the ground. His key hangs from the lock. What if I closed the door, turned the key and threw it into the dirt and darkness where it couldn’t be found?
But even as I think it I know I don’t dare. I’m no hero.
Mr Ghazi is looking at me. He nods.
I turn, cros
s to the lockup and heave open the door. The Yamaha stands inside. I grip the handlebars and kick back the stand so I can wheel it forwards. It’s so heavy, I nearly drop it.
Emanuel stares at the bike as I slowly wheel it outside. Sammy’s smiling, slow and ecstatic. He’s got everything now. He’s got it all.
Then fierce white lights snap on, blinding me. I let go of the bike as I cover my eyes, and it tumbles to the ground. I hear Sammy and his mates swear and shout as a heavy engine roars into life.
Next thing I know, Digger Man’s digger is hurtling forward. It sweeps between Sammy and the guys who’ve got Mr Ghazi and smashes into a pile of old computer monitors beside the lockup. The digger’s headlights dim as it’s half-buried in a white plastic avalanche.
Screens and casings clatter down. One hits Sammy on the leg and he shouts out, the sound loud as the engine stalls and dies.
I try to see who’s driving. Mr Ghazi is shoved to the ground as Sammy’s two buddies pull the driver out, their fists raised and ready to crush him—
Her.
My heart balloons in my chest.
Gifty was driving.
She’s trying to protect her face from the guys about to hit her. “Leave me alone!” Gifty yells. “I called 191. Police are coming.”
“What the hell are you trying to do?” Sammy says, back up on his feet. He swats his buddies away from his cousin so he can grab her himself. “Have you gone crazy?”
“I didn’t know it was you, Sammy,” Gifty says. She’s wide-eyed and shaking. “I swear. I saw these kids in trouble and I thought …”
She stops now as the low growl of another engine cuts through the air.
Emanuel is on his brother’s bike. While we were all staring at Gifty, he picked it up and got it started. The headlight flickers like it’s winking. Now the Yamaha speeds away, shooting past me like a rocket, swerving around the path, leaving us all behind.
“Get after him!” Sammy screams.
He’s not talking to me, but I’m already on it. My tattered trainers pound the ground. Emanuel doesn’t know the place like I do. He’s fast on the bike, but he’s taking the main road that the trucks and lorries use for unloading – a road that winds past the endless piles of rubbish. I can take a quicker path.
Climbing up scrapheaps and scrambling down the other side, I reckon I can make it to the main gates out of Trashland before Emanuel does. And then – what? Do I block his way and beg him, Take me with you, Emanuel, or do I knock him off and take the Yamaha for myself? Leave this dump and everyone in it behind me?
Panting for breath, I reach the towering, rusty railings of the main gates. They stand wide open. A short dirt track leads on to the main street, busy with traffic as always. Taxis, cars and buses speed along. All with places to go.
Me and Emanuel, we could go places too.
But how long till he takes off again without me?
I think of Mr Ghazi, beaten and bleeding in the dirt. I think of Gifty, looking so terrified.
The two of them are the closest I have to chances to make more of my life. They’re not much. But they’re real. The treasure isn’t.
I wanted a quick way out of poverty. Emanuel’s bike isn’t even the quickest way out of Trashland.
I hear the thrum of the motorbike as Emanuel comes around the corner. The bike jolts over every pothole as he heads for the exit. He’s staring at the dials, focusing, trying to figure out something. He hasn’t seen me.
It’s my last chance to decide what I’ll do.
Then I hear the pound and skitter of feet climbing the scrapheap behind me. Sammy’s mates have come the same way as me. I’ve led them here the fast way.
They’ll get Emanuel.
The first of Sammy’s mates reaches the top of the heap and scrambles over. It’s the one who was holding Mr Ghazi. He hasn’t seen me, and as he jumps to the ground, I push him hard. He falls on his face.
Emanuel is slowing down as he nears the gate. The ground is uneven – the bike’s harder to control.
I run out into his path. “Faster!” I scream, and point out the second guy climbing down the scrapheap beside us. “Get out of here!”
Emanuel nods, accelerates and nearly runs me down as he shoots past the gates of Trashland. He races along the dirt track to the main road, ready for the real world.
But Sammy’s second friend is pelting after him. He’s got something gripped in his fist. Looks like a brick. Even as he runs, he throws it with horrible accuracy.
The brick hits Emanuel on the back of the neck and his head jerks back. The front of the Yamaha lifts.
For a second I think that Emanuel is pulling a fantastic wheelie, a final Screw you! to his pursuers.
But no. He’s falling off the bike.
Emanuel bumps and rolls out into the traffic. A bus is travelling past. The Yamaha smashes against its side and spins away.
Emanuel disappears under the bus’s wheels.
CHAPTER 11
Treasure
Time slows as the bus’s brakes scream and the cars behind it honk, skidding to a stop.
I run towards the crash scene. I pass the guy who threw the brick. He’s running back the other way, shouting to his friend I pushed over. Scared, maybe. He wanted to stop Emanuel, but now …
I reach the battered bus. There are people swarming round it like ants drawn to sugar, shouting and crying. I see Emanuel lying in the filthy road. One arm is bent all the wrong way and his right leg …
I think I’m gonna be sick. There’s only thick dark mush below the knee.
I turn away, my head pounding with the urgent shouts of the first responders:
“Kid’s still alive; it’s a miracle.”
“Call 193!”
“He needs a tourniquet on that leg.”
“Can’t wait for an ambulance. I’ll take him to hospital.”
My stomach is still turning. I can hear sirens as I cross to the bashed-up Yamaha lying twisted at the side of the road. In the shock of Emanuel’s accident, no one’s even thought about the bike. Another random victim.
I grab the twisted frame and start to drag it back onto the dirt road leading to the dump. The wheel looks like someone’s folded it in half, the tyre’s rubber torn half away. The axle is crushed, split nearly in two.
That’s when I see something. And it makes my heart flip.
I crouch to take a closer look and then straighten up sharply at the sound of sirens. Blue lights flash wildly in the dark as two police cars swing round onto the dirt road leading to the dump. Gifty really did call them.
And once the police cars have vanished, wailing, into Trashland’s shadows, I hear her voice: “Theo!” Gifty yells. “Are you all right?” She hurries across the road to me, sees the dead Yamaha. “Oh my God, what happened? Where’s Emanuel …?”
I feel strangely calm as I tell her about the crash and how it happened.
“That explains why Sammy’s friends have scurried away like the rats they are,” Gifty sneers. “Sammy went with them.”
I nod. My eyes are still glued to the crushed axle. “And Mr Ghazi? Is he OK?”
“I think so, now the police are here. But he’ll be too scared to squeal on Sammy and won’t want to admit he was planning to sell stolen property.” Gifty puts her hands to her head and sighs. “What a mess. What an absolute, total mess.”
“Look here,” I tell her. “Tell me if I’m crazy.”
I point to where the chrome paint has scraped away from the crushed axle. Underneath it a deeper colour gleams, a warmer shine.
“What does that look like to you?” I whisper.
She stares and speaks slowly: “It … looks like … gold.”
“Yeah. But it can’t be,” I tell her. “Can it?”
“Do you have your magnet?” Gifty holds out her hand as she says it. I pull the magnet from my pocket and give it to her. She places it against the gleaming axle. The magnet doesn’t stick.
“See,” I say. “It’s no
thing.”
“It’s proof,” she corrects me. “Gold isn’t magnetic. Oh my God, Theo. Emanuel’s brother melted down the gold – maybe he made it into bike parts?”
I nod slowly. “It’s a perfect way to smuggle the gold out of his factory. Emanuel said he was always riding different motorbikes, so no one would notice him bringing out parts …”
Gifty holds the magnet to different parts of the bike to see if the magnet sticks. My heart is rising up my throat with excitement. The gear lever and brake lever on the handlebars – we scratch the paint with a stone and underneath there’s gold. The wing mirror stems are gold too. So are the foot pegs.
“Morgan never meant to make a quick getaway on this,” Gifty realises. “This was the getaway.”
I notice something under one of the bike’s cracked side panels and open the clasp. “Gifty, this bike comes with a tool kit! Maybe we can use it to take off the gold parts …”
I remove the storage pocket and tip the contents onto the ground: pliers, double-ended spanners, spark-plug socket, screwdriver … But there’s something not right. These tools are rough, unfinished.
“I think they’re solid silver,” Gifty whispers. “Maybe even platinum.”
We look at this fortune just lying on the ground.
And I look up at Gifty. And I say, “What do we do now?”
CHAPTER 12
Dreaming
Six months later
It’s taken me a long time to learn how to sleep without the chickens close by. I still worry about them. I hope whoever’s living in my shack is guarding them as well as I did. Or maybe the chickens have gone now. Maybe the whole shack’s been knocked down.
Stuff does happen, doesn’t it? And some of it’s crazy.
Home now is a room above a shop on Hansen Road, in the middle of the vegetable market maybe a quarter of a mile from the dump. (I was going to say it’s just a stone’s throw away, but I remember Emanuel that night and … no. Just no.)
