Stowaway

by Pam Withers

  Finally, both free, they stumble to their feet. The captain unbuckles his belt and lets its buckle end fly. Arturo winces as it hits him — so do I. He attempts to run away, but his boss’s hooked elbow closes around his neck and tosses him easily to the deck again.

  I feel my jaw tighten as the captain proceeds to whip the shit out of Arturo, who looks all too practised at rolling into a ball and protecting his head with his arms.

  “Stop it!” I shout, lifting the hatch cover and leaping up to my curled-up friend.

  I reach him in time to see the captain’s hand raised and a full contingent of schoolboy witnesses behind him, their heads moving from the open, empty safe to the scene in front of them. Something about the expression on their faces makes me think they’ve seen the captain beating his employee before.

  The captain’s hand lowers. The belt slides back around his big waist.

  “Get the hell out of my sight, all of you!” he roars.

  The boys back up quickly, all but Pequeño, who is staring at Arturo with a trembling lip.

  “Help me, Pequeño,” I say, my hands on Arturo’s welt-covered arms.

  • • •

  ARTURO

  They got all the money, but did not find anyone. They would have killed Captain and me if Captain had not caved. He told me where the key to the safe was when they had him hog-tied with a gun in his face. Now it suits the big man to deny it. For the favour of saving Captain, me, and the boys, I get a beating.

  Belt leather slices into my back like electric shocks. I feel welts rise and sting like hot coals. I bite my tongue, roll into a ball, and refuse to make a sound. Again and again come the needle-sharp slaps. Previous scars offer pads of protection, while hits on my unscarred skin rip the flesh like sharp fingernails. But the swats to my unhealed skin are the worst, like pressing salt into an open wound.

  As I count to ten, I forgive him because I have no choice, and because I know how he grew up: with violent parents no different than my stepfather and the street-gang leaders of my childhood.

  “They pounded me within an inch of my life every week,” Captain once told me. “But at least I got their money when they died.”

  We understand each other. We’re from the same world.

  Another strike. I hold my breath to keep from crying out. The difference between Captain and me, I remind myself while ignoring the electricity in my body that says to show Captain my own fists, is that he has long since grown into his parents’ fists, whereas I vowed never to do that. I swore to be the broken chain. And succeeded with my street kids. Even if I failed them in the end.

  The clients think I’m weak, but they don’t understand that an occasional session of violence is far easier to take than the piercing pain of hunger and constant fear on the street.

  Anyway, who am I to dream of a private schoolboy’s life, with all its options? And in the end, what Captain does to me, he is less likely to do to them. You should thank me, you soft-bellied bastards.

  The session would have gone on longer if not for the brave and stupid interference of the stowaway.

  “Stop it!” he orders, standing in front of the silent clients.

  “Get the hell out of my sight, all of you!” Captain bellows.

  Most of them scatter fast.

  I would disappear, too, if I could move. I wince as Owen and Pequeño cup their hands under me and carry me down to the bed in the second stateroom. The only two people on board half safe from Captain’s temper.

  I gasp as they remove my sweatshirt, press wet cloths to the dried blood, and apply ice to my face and shoulders. I don’t fight when they lift my head to help me swallow water and aspirin. But I squeeze my eyes and throat shut, as their kindness threatens to unleash tears.

  “Nothing is broken,” I mumble. They did not find anyone. They did not kill anyone. And I am just bruised, no broken bones. Three things worth celebrating, if only to myself. They got Captain’s gun, but he has another one hidden in the locked drawer of his stateroom.

  I struggle to lift myself on one elbow; I need to do chores or ask Captain what I can do. I’m his first mate and he has been robbed. But Captain is not calling me, my attendants are shushing me, and I am starting to drift off.

  “Thank you,” I mumble to Owen and Pequeño. Then I jerk to attention. Owen. Pequeño. Not a good combination. What has gone down between these two? And what is the stowaway thinking? I look into Owen’s face and know he knows. It cancels out the rest of the celebrations and haunts the half sleep I fall into.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  OWEN

  Our decidedly un-jolly captain steers Archimedes into a puddle-size harbour with a less-than-stylin’ huddle of buildings. He spends an hour anchored well away from the public dock, whacking away at his keyboard and barking into his cellphone. Clearly just wanting a wireless connection.

  The boys sit like concrete statues around the table with pale faces and grim mouths. They don’t speak to each other or to me. They don’t ask the captain if they can take the dinghy into the village and walk around or get supplies. No one makes coffee or scrounges for food. No one pulls out any of the board games stacked on a shelf.

  I spot an atlas and tote it to the table.

  “Looking for Nanaimo?” Danillo asks. His nasty tone takes me by surprise.

  I turn and look at him.

  “None of us is going where we were going,” he states, eyes narrowed. “Get over it already, stowaway.”

  The other boys look away. I dare not ask Danillo what he means. But he has obviously overheard something from the captain’s conversations.

  Worst-case scenario is that the captain will now see me as trouble. He doesn’t know it’s probably too early for Officer Olsen or anyone else to sound an alarm on me. But when my officer friend does, the Coast Guard will be on alert, the last thing the captain needs. And he’s between a rock and a riptide; if he dumps me alive, I could report his operation. If he doesn’t, the search will heat up. Shit. I’m in the mother of all pickle sandwiches.

  “Danillo!” comes the captain’s shout.

  And then Danillo is gone, up to the bridge.

  “How’s Arturo?” Lucas asks while wiping the lenses of his glasses, but somehow it doesn’t sound like he really cares.

  “Pequeño is looking after him,” I reply before rising and walking toward the lower companionway. If I leave the salon maybe they won’t see the sweat that has broken out all over my body.

  A glance back reveals the boys huddling closer and speaking in low tones. They’ve switched to Spanish while I’m within earshot, but it doesn’t stop me from detecting the fear in their voices.

  When I reappear in the second stateroom, Pequeño nods and heads upstairs to join his schoolmates. Arturo is tossing and turning. His swollen-shut eyelids are purple and blue. His lips are puffed and split.

  Dozens of questions crowd my brain, number one being will the captain drop me off somewhere? He doesn’t know I know the setup.

  Illegal immigrants. Under eighteens, known as minors. And me in the middle of an operation. I wrack my brain for any illegal-immigrant interception stories Officer Olsen has told me. He likes sharing such accounts as much as I like hearing them. And the Canadian Coast Guard gets boatloads of illegals now and then. The coyotes get arrested and the would-be immigrants get processed. Some of the smuggled get permission to stay; some get sent home. It’s all pretty orderly and humane. It’s rare for the passengers to get hurt or locked up, especially not minors, as far as I know.

  That is, if they’re lucky enough to get rescued by the Coast Guard. The gnarly stories are the ones where shyster coyotes swindle a group. They demand more money, abandon them to die, even murder them once they get their pay. Put them in leaky, overcrowded boats. Leave them in the trunks of cars on a hot day. Guide them into the desert and then disappear. And worse. But those are mostly stories from Europe or the U.S.-Mexico border. This is Canada. Nasty stuff like that doesn’t happen here, does it?


  Well, I could make sure it doesn’t. I could help these boys. All I need to do is pick up my cellphone and call Officer Olsen. Hmm, what cellphone? Or sneak up to the bridge and use the radio. I have to get someone to chase after the guys who just robbed us, anyway.

  Us? What am I thinking? I’m not part of this, and I should be looking after my own arse. I don’t know how many of Arturo’s injuries are from the robbers and how many from the captain, but there’s sure no uncle-nephew thing going on there. And if the captain starts looking cross-eyed at me, I’m in way bigger doodoo than what skipping school today will cost me. No one even knows where I am! Not Mom or Dad, not Officer Olsen. Okay, I’m up for Dumb-Ass of the Decade. Totally deserve it.

  Gregor, what should I do?

  Dude, list the options.

  I could hide. I could swim away. Or I could take my chances and pretend everything’s cool.

  Or?

  Arturo stirs beside me, moans in his sleep. The red imprint of the captain’s fist is on his cheek. I saw it being applied. He needs rescuing, I think. So do the boys. There are enough of us that we could mutiny. Lock the captain up so he can’t pull anything. Then I could steer them all back to Horton Island. I’d be a hero. Officer Olsen would be proud of me. I just need to organize it.

  Mutiny. Cool, bro.

  I walk back up to the eating nook. Conversation freezes as I draw near. Everyone but Danillo is here.

  “Hey guys,” I say, looking at Pequeño, since he’s the friendliest. “Want to come downstairs and make a plan?”

  Pequeño looks at the others, then at the floor. Someone rolls his eyes. Someone coughs. The others glance toward the bridge, then stare at me, not in a friendly way.

  “Come on. We’re all in this together,” I say, wishing I could shove the words back in my mouth as soon as they’re out.

  I turn and walk down to Arturo. To my surprise, the boys file after me, padding silently down the companionway. We arrange ourselves around Arturo’s sleeping form.

  “You think the captain’s delivering you to somewhere nearby and everything’s going to be cool, don’t you?” I address them.

  “Not anymore,” Sebastian grumbles.

  “Like he has told us,” Gabriel says. “And like we’d tell you if we knew.”

  “What do you know?” Lucas challenges me with a tight face.

  “I know how these operations work,” I lie. “The coyote’s always in it for himself.”

  They just glower.

  “I know how to launch the dinghy. We could all get to shore and I’ll get you help. Arturo, too,” I add, watching the closed eyes and deep breathing of the first mate. “Help to stay in Canada,” I add when no one says anything.

  “Do you have a cellphone?” Gabriel asks.

  “No.”

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Get Danillo down here,” Sebastian orders Pequeño.

  I give Pequeño a nervous nod.

  The door bursts open a moment later. It’s Danillo with the captain and Pequeño on his heels.

  The captain’s face is almost as smashed in as Arturo’s, but it seems more puffed up from anger than swelling right now.

  “Private conference, is it?” he snarls, eyes burning into me.

  “Conspirando para escapar,” comes Arturo’s voice, startling me. Uh-oh. How long has he been awake and listening? I don’t need his words translated to understand conspiring to escape. My gut tightens to a hard ball. Betrayed! And I was about to help rescue Arturo. Stop trusting any of them, I order myself too late.

  “He thinks we’re your prisoners, not paying customers,” Sebastian says with a shaky chuckle. “Thinks you’re the boss, not us.”

  “He thought Arturo might like to come, too,” Lucas says with a laugh.

  “Doesn’t have a phone or gun, though,” Sergio informs the captain. “So he says.”

  “You still letting him off at Nanaimo?” Danillo inserts, but without the ridiculing tone of the others.

  Pequeño studies the floor and half hides behind Danillo.

  “Arturo!” the captain snaps.

  “Yes, Captain.” Arturo sits up in bed, wavers for a moment like he’s dizzy, then stands and waits. He’s a pathetic sight, welts on his back and chest, his mashed face the colour of meat gone bad.

  “Show Owen the engine room. Demonstrate how we keep a tight ship around here.”

  What does that mean?

  “Danillo and the rest of you, help Arturo if he needs it. For your own good.”

  I feel arms grab mine. I’m half led, half dragged to the salon, where they open the hatch door to the engine room. Below me, squeezed in beside the mechanical works, is a very large, empty dog cage. Big enough to fit a St. Bernard or Great Dane.

  • • •

  ARTURO

  Thinks he’s as intelligent as a raven? Maybe he should compare himself to a dodo bird instead.

  Anyway, he cooked his own goose. I wish I could have warned Owen, but what was the use? At least Captain is done being mad at me for now.

  Owen reminds me of a baby-faced social worker named Jaime who used to risk his life to roam the streets of Guatemala City. A save-the-world type straight out of college, he wore carefully ripped jeans, expensive skateboard shoes, oiled hair, and an overconfident smile.

  He thought he could rescue abandoned kids, tame gang leaders, and outwit crooked police with his smarts and charm. But I knew he was different than other social workers the day he showed up by himself with a hamper of bread and blankets.

  “I’m celebrating one year on the beat,” he said. We had never met a social worker who’d lasted more than two months.

  “Don’t need blankets,” one of my kids insisted, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

  “Yeah, you can’t make us go to the shelters,” said another.

  “Of course I can’t,” he replied. “You think I don’t know that gang members force you to join up when you sleep in the shelters? That’s why you need blankets — for sleeping outside, away from them.”

  My mouth gaped like the others.’ “And you’re not telling the police where we are?” I challenged him.

  “I trust them even less than you do,” he stated, holding my eyes.

  As the other kids took the blankets and bread and moved away, he gestured for me to sit beside him. I did, though I had the buzz that made me ready to leap up and run at a second’s notice.

  “You’re different,” I finally said.

  He smiled. “You’re different, too. Like a dad to these kids. Wish there were more like you. But …” And then I got the lecture about how some schooling would lead us all to better things, and how a friend of his had started a program to educate street kids.

  I listened for a few minutes, then rose and sprinted away. He didn’t try to grab me. Didn’t follow. The police didn’t come looking for us that night.

  So we let him hang with us sometimes after that. We took the food he offered. Soup, tortillas, bananas. He explained to me about breaking the chain of violence. It took a few months to convince me, but finally I decided to try the program he kept on about. With my group.

  We were due to meet Jaime the morning the guards chased us to the dumpster. Sometimes I wonder if he’s still working the streets of Guatemala City, pondering where I am. And I torture myself endlessly with the question of whether Freddy and the boys survived.

  CHAPTER NINE

  OWEN

  Shouldn’t have tried to be a hero, Gregor tells me.

  “Why not? You told me to. And you were one.”

  Too little too late. And I’m a bad influence on you, remember?

  I don’t answer that. I don’t want him here in the cage with me. I jump as the engine kicks up. Okay, we’re off to somewhere. My ears are ringing and sweat pours from my armpits. Here in Archimedes’s innards, the reek of diesel invades my nostrils. The heat builds up and the yacht rocks as it negotiates its way through swells. Good thing I have a sail
or’s stomach.

  My right side presses against the metal wires as I try to curl up in the cage. The question surging through my brain is what’s going down next? I pull off my shirt and wrap it around my head to mute the engine’s violence on my eardrums. The din quiets as the yacht settles down to cruising speed. Hours tick by, marked only by the occasional footfall above in the salon. My stomach gnaws, my throat feels like sawdust, I long to see or hear another human being. The thirst grows until I can hardly swallow.

  Shuffle, shuffle. Am I sharing the engine room with a large rat? No, I spot Pequeño squirming toward me. I realize he’s small enough to access this place from the chain locker through the tunnel-like space where the cables run. My heart leaps at seeing him.

  “Here, I brought you water,” he says, squeezing a small paper cup between the wires of the cage, spilling precious drops in the process.

  “Thanks,” I reply, trying not to pour it all down my gullet in one go.

  “They’ll give you food later.”

  “Good.” Then, “How’d you get on this boat, Pequeño? Why do you want to move to Canada without your family?”

  He offers a weak smile and looks around, as if expecting someone to be listening in. “We’re the lucky ones.”

  I wait for him to go on.

  “The pandillas in our country — the gangs. They make kids join them.”

  “Make them?”

  He pulls himself up until he’s sitting cross-legged beside my cage. He doesn’t respond immediately.

  “My older brother was in a gang once,” I say to encourage him.

  “My older brother, too,” he says with a sigh. “Your brother still is?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “They kill him like mine?”

  I bite my tongue, grip the sides of the cage. “No. He decided to get out.”

  Pequeño’s eyebrows slant downward in disbelief. “In Guatemala, you don’t decide anything. They decide if they want you. They shoot you if you don’t join them. They shoot you if you want to leave after you join.”