Hurricane Gold

by Charlie Higson

  It was fun, the two of them working together. They could pretend that it was all just a game. The fire had come back into Precious. She was toughening up and getting stronger, the muscles were hardening in her arms and legs. Her eyes were bright, her hair glossy and her skin clear. Each night they crawled into their beds, dog tired but feeling that they had achieved a little more, and as their heads hit their pillows they fell instantly into a deep, refreshing sleep.

  During the day, James worked as hard as he could with the repair gangs, swinging pickaxes and sledgehammers, hoisting sacks of sand and cement, digging, lifting, hammering, chopping. Building up his strength and his stamina. He would have to be perfectly fit if he was to have any chance of surviving the run.

  He had quickly created the impression that he was an energetic, reliable worker; the first to volunteer for the more unpleasant jobs and last to quit work in the evenings. Morales grew to trust him and gave him his own key to the big stone shed where all the equipment was kept. Every type of tool imaginable was stored in the shed. There was even a strongroom at the back for explosives, which were occasionally used to break up big rocks.

  Metal chests containing sticks of dynamite and neat coils of fuse wire sat on concrete shelves, ready to be used. James remembered Whatzat showing him how to use the stuff back at the abandoned oilfield and a plan started to form in his head.

  After work, he would carefully clean all the tools his gang had used and return them to their proper places. He always left the shed immaculate. He wanted to be Morales’s star labourer. He didn’t want anyone to suspect what he was up to.

  One evening, after their training session, as they sat on the beach cutting shapes out of some pilfered steel sheeting, James was idly scratching his shoulder where the botfly maggot had made its home. It was still covered with the tape that the doctor had put on it.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ asked Precious.

  ‘Not nearly as much as it did,’ said James, ‘but it itches like mad.’

  ‘Do you suppose it’s dead yet?’ said Precious.

  ‘It must be,’ said James. ‘I can’t feel it moving around any more.’

  ‘Let’s look,’ said Precious excitedly.

  ‘It might be pretty horrible.’

  ‘So?’ said Precious. ‘I like horrible things. Come on, I’ve been dying to see.’

  ‘All right.’

  James ripped off the bandage and carefully peeled back the strip of blackened bacon beneath it. There was the white head of the grub, nestling in a hole in his flesh. James was too disgusted to do anything more.

  ‘Let me,’ said Precious, and with a look of mixed horror and delight she pressed the edges of the wound together until the dead maggot was squeezed out. She flicked it into the sand where a crab quickly scuttled over, picked it up in its claws and popped it into its mouth.

  ‘Eurgh,’ said Precious. ‘That’s revolting.’

  She paused a moment and then asked if she could do the one in James’s back.

  When she was done she suddenly leant over and kissed him.

  ‘What was that for?’ said James.

  ‘For luck,’ said Precious.

  ‘Luck?’

  ‘We can’t put it off any longer,’ said Precious. ‘We’re as ready as we’re ever going to be. I’m beginning to think about it too much, and if I do that I’m liable to change my mind. What about you?’

  ‘I’m ready,’ said James, jumping up and brushing the sand off his trousers. ‘We stick to our plan, yes?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Precious.

  ‘All right,’ said James ‘It must be about eight o’clock. There’s one last thing I have to do. Get yourself ready and I’ll meet you in the plaza in an hour.’

  James watched Precious go and then walked into the trees. About 50 yards back from the beach was a hollow under a tree covered with a pile of dead branches and palm fronds. He moved them aside and took his stuff out of hiding. He checked it all and double-checked it before setting off towards the entrance to the tunnels.

  It was a Saturday night. The busiest night of the week. The plaza was packed with people. A mariachi band was playing lively dance music. Trumpets blared, guitars strummed, strong voices sang out in unison. There was an air of fierce jollity among the guests. It was another night, another party, a party that would never end.

  James turned up at nine, as arranged, and looked for Precious. As he was pushing through the crowd milling in the square, he bumped into Mrs Glass. She was wearing a gaucho outfit, with loose trousers and a wide hat. The ring of golden hair that showed beneath the hat was immaculate as ever, but she looked older. She had put on a little weight. Her face was puffy. The soft life was not suiting her. She appeared to be drunk.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t James Bond,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know Huracán allowed the help to mix with the guests.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can say that will upset me,’ said James. ‘Because I’m getting away from here.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘There’s no way off this stinking island.’

  ‘Not for you, maybe,’ said James. ‘You’re condemned to rot here for the rest of your life, I’m afraid. But I’m off. Maybe I’ll send you a postcard.’

  Mrs Glass laughed. It was a shrill, bitter, grating sound, like an angry gull.

  James stepped closer to her. ‘Take a good look around you,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Tell me if you see any old people,’ said James.

  Mrs Glass scowled at him, but did as he suggested. ‘What of it?’ she said.

  ‘Why do you think there are no old people here?’ said James.

  ‘Dunno.’ Mrs Glass shrugged. ‘Don’t much care. Never given it any thought.’

  ‘What do you think happens when you run out of money?’ said James and Mrs Glass narrowed her eyes at him.

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’ve seen them,’ said James. ‘The old people. The ones who’ve been here too long and run out of money. El Huracán works them to death on his farm. Enjoy your stay.’

  Without warning, Mrs Glass grabbed James by the throat.

  ‘I should strangle you right here and now,’ she said. ‘You’ve been nothing but trouble for me.’

  James held her wrists and tried to pull her hands away, but she held on with an unbreakable grip. James couldn’t speak. He could hardly breathe.

  He realised it was useless trying to release her hands and decided that attack was the best form of defence.

  He kicked her shin.

  She snarled but still didn’t let go. She was smiling now, and there was a wild gleam in her eyes.

  James swung hard at her face and she took a hefty backhanded slap across the cheek that whipped her head round and swept the hat off her head.

  Mrs Glass screamed and let go of James as if he had suddenly grown red hot. She glanced desperately around for the hat, which had flown into the crowd.

  James saw for the first time why she always kept her head covered. The ring of immaculate hair that always showed beneath her hat was all the hair she had on her head. Above it she was completely bald. And not only bald. The pale, hairless skin on the top of her skull was ridged like a ploughed field.

  James remembered the story of how she had been strafed by machine-gun fire. It had obviously raked across her head and left it creased and naked.

  He felt sorry for her. She was a pathetic figure as she scurried among the guests looking for her hat. And the guests were starting to laugh and point.

  These were not people with any shred of kindness in their hearts. They liked nothing more than to see a fellow human being in distress. They were bored too. Nothing ever happened on the island. This crazy, bald woman trying to find a lost hat was just about the funniest thing they had seen all year. A man snatched the hat up and held it out to her, and as she reached out to take it, he tossed it in the air. A second man caught it and played the same trick on her again. There
now began a ghastly game of piggy in the middle, with Mrs Glass running sobbing from one laughing man to the next, as her hat was sent spinning in all directions. One man even patted her on her bald lumpy dome, which sent up a great guffaw of merriment.

  Someone had tipped the band off and they started to play the jaunty Mexican hat dance. Men took up the gag and sang along.

  James couldn’t stand it. He went over and joined the ring of men, and, when he got the chance, he caught the hat and passed it to Mrs Glass.

  If she was grateful she didn’t show it. Too much damage had been done. She tried to compose herself and regain her defiant look. James saw, though, that she was broken. She had always seemed like a woman with no weaknesses, but in the end everyone is vulnerable.

  She put the hat on, turned away from him and walked off without a word, followed by jeers and catcalls from the men who had gathered to mock her.

  James found Precious sitting in the shadows near the band sipping a glass of iced soda water. He sat down next to her and gripped her hand.

  ‘Have you got everything?’ he asked and she nodded, showing him the two letters she was holding. Both folded as small as they would go.

  James knew what the letters said; he had written one of them, after all.

  One was signed by Precious.

  Please help me. My name is Precious Stone. I am being held prisoner here on Lagrimas Negras. Take this note to my father, Mr Jack Stone of Tres Hermanas, Mexico. He is a rich man and will reward you for your help. With the same message written underneath in Spanish.

  The other was signed by James and was nearly identical.

  They waited patiently for the band to take a break. They played tirelessly for an hour longer, one lively tune after another, until two waiters brought over trays of food and drink for them and they stopped for a rest.

  James studied the musicians. They were all blind, just as El Huracán had said. They stayed apart from the guests, and talked quietly among themselves. When James got a moment he drifted over and slipped his note into a trumpeter’s pocket. Precious, meanwhile, was pretending to be a waitress. She moved among the band, picking up drinks and James saw her slip the second note to the singer.

  When she returned with the glasses, James said simply, ‘That’s enough,’ and they moved off into the crowd. Finally they said goodnight to each other and went back to their separate dormitories.

  The plan had been put into action. The ball had started rolling.

  Now all they could do was wait and see if everything played out as expected.

  28

  Run, Rat, Run

  James was too tightly wound to sleep at first. He lay in his bunk and stared at the ceiling.

  All the events of recent days were coming back to him. The flood in Puente Nuevo when JJ had nearly drowned. The gruelling journey in the truck through the flooded lowlands. The battle with the soldiers. The time at the abandoned oilfield and the deaths of Whatzat and Garcia. He remembered Sakata taking JJ to safety and poor, crazy Manny with the hole in his head, and their time in the jungle. He remembered the chicleros. He still had the gum, stuck to the underside of his bed. If he ever made it out of here it would be a good souvenir.

  And he thought about Precious, how she had changed. He thought about how different people were when you got to know them properly.

  Around him he could hear the other men snoring, mumbling, turning in their bunks. He longed for home, for the little cottage in Kent. He longed for the luxury of cool, crisp sheets and lying in his own bed on a calm, safe English night.

  Slowly sleep crept up on him, or something like sleep. He fell into a half-waking, half-dreaming state that was interrupted in the dead of night when three armed guards came bustling into the dormitory. The other men woke and cursed, but the guards ignored them. They went straight to James’s bed and hauled him out.

  He just had time to put the gum in his mouth before they dragged him out of the dormitory.

  It had begun.

  ‘I told you! You know the rules. You cannot escape. It was a foolish and a childish thing to do. But then, I was forgetting that you are mere children.’

  James had never seen El Huracán show any emotion before, but now he seemed hurt and angry. Like a schoolteacher who had been let down by a favourite pupil, or a father let down by his son.

  They were in El Huracán’s dining room. Precious was there, looking as tired and glassy-eyed as James felt.

  ‘Did you really think this would work?’ said El Huracán, tossing the two notes down on to the table. ‘Did you really think that a hundred men have not tried something similar before?’

  James kept quiet. The simple answer was ‘no’. He had not seriously thought for one moment that the musicians would take the notes to Mr Stone. That wasn’t the point.

  ‘It was worth a try,’ said James.

  El Huracán sighed. ‘You have disappointed me,’ he said. ‘I have been watching you, James. My men give me daily reports. You are a good worker, but you are clever also. I was thinking that you were wasted in the repair gang. But now this!’

  He picked up the notes again and then threw them into James’s face. They fluttered harmlessly to the floor. He then turned to the window and looked out at the night. It was cloudy and the sky was pitch black.

  ‘What am I to do with you both?’ he said.

  ‘There’s only one thing you can do,’ said James.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll have to put us into La Avenida de la Muerte.’

  El Huracán’s eyes went wide and then he frowned and shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not that.’

  ‘I thought you had a rule,’ said James, ‘that anyone caught trying to escape must be punished.’

  ‘Not this way.’

  ‘Rules are rules,’ said James. ‘Without rules what do you have?’

  ‘I make the rules,’ said El Huracán angrily. ‘If I say you are not to be put into La Avenida, then you will not be put in there.’

  ‘Then we’ll tell everyone,’ said James. ‘Tell them that the great El Huracán has gone soft, that he changes his rules to suit his mood.’

  ‘Silence,’ El Huracán barked, and then he caught himself and smiled. He sat down at the table and poured himself a glass of rum.

  ‘Sit,’ he said.

  James and Precious sat.

  ‘My plans for you need not change,’ said the old man softly. ‘I will make you an offer,’ he said, looking straight at James. ‘You are brave and resourceful and clever, and I see you have a streak of iron in your soul, like me, James. I will not punish the two of you. And I will not ask you to stay here as servants.’

  ‘Slaves, you mean,’ said Precious, and El Huracán chuckled.

  ‘I am a very busy man,’ he said. ‘I need good people around me. I need an assistant. Someone I can train. I will not be here forever and it would be good to know that I could pass Lagrimas Negras on to a reliable pair of hands. Who knows, perhaps those hands might belong to you.’

  ‘Are you saying I could grow up to take your place?’ said James.

  ‘I have sons, James,’ said El Huracán, ‘but they are lost to me. Part of another life I have left behind. I was never good at keeping a family together. You are an outsider. You are not a criminal like these other men. You could one day rule here, and rule well. What do you say?’

  ‘What do I say to becoming a jailer?’ said James. ‘To becoming the nursemaid to a lot of thugs and murderers? I say “no”. I am not what you think I am. You’ve lived here too long. You’ve forgotten how ordinary people think, how they behave. I won’t be your apprentice, and I’ll spend every minute of every day trying to escape from this hellish place. You have no choice, El Huracán. You have to put me and Precious into the rat run.’

  El Huracán looked sad. His brown eyes moistened. ‘You do not know what you are saying.’

  ‘I do,’ said James. ‘Trial by ordeal. We go in the run, and if we make it to the
end, then you have to let us go.’

  ‘Nobody has ever got to the end,’ said El Huracán.

  ‘There’s a first time for everything,’ said James. ‘We demand the right to go through the run, and if we make it, we demand that you let us go free.’

  El Huracán’s face hardened. ‘I was wrong about you,’ he spat. ‘I thought you were clever. You are not. You are stupid. And you will die stupid.’

  He called his guards back into the room. ‘Take them to the cells in the ruins. Let them sleep. Then feed them well. I want them to give us a good show. At noon they will go into the run.’

  He paused and looked at each of them in turn.

  ‘Adios,’ he said.

  It was eight hours later when the metal door slid open and James and Precious squinted into the bright light that was flooding into the rat run. James squeezed Precious’s hand.

  ‘Ready?’ he said, his mouth dry, the word sticking in his throat.

  Precious nodded, too nervous to speak at all. Behind them two Indians stood waiting to prod them out into the run with their spears if they hesitated.

  But they were not intending to linger. They had worked out that the best way to approach the run was to move through each obstacle as quickly as they could.

  They walked out into the sunlight. There was a cheer from above, and a couple of gasps. There were about twenty men watching. They had obviously not been warned that today’s victims were going to be two children. This would test their cold-heartedness to its limits.

  El Huracán had no doubt chosen these spectators carefully. The rat run was not just for their entertainment, it was also for their education. El Huracán wanted to show what would happen if any of them disobeyed his word. Maybe these men had been complaining, muttering rebellious thoughts, questioning El Huracán’s authority.