Actually, I say things are back to normal, but they are not. The new Library are a bunch of pirates. There was too much going on last half for us to really notice, but now that you are not around and things have quietened down, it has become clear that the boys in charge of Codrose’s are the most bloodthirsty, uncaring gang that the House has ever had to put up with. They lord it about the place like a bunch of little Mussolinis. The worst of them all is Theo Bentinck. He has beaten so many of us, often for no reason at all, that he has been nicknamed Bloody Bentinck (although some boys call him worse). He seems determined to make our lives a thorough misery. I feel if you were here to stick up for us lower boys things might be a little different, as it is we are all timid and scared of our own shadows. We stay in our rooms and keep the noise down and try not to be noticed. Hurry back, please. We need our James.
Our sporting achievements have been pretty dismal this half. Despite Theo Bentinck threatening to beat everyone if they don’t win, the lower boys in the House have been lost without you. Everyone has been lost without you. I saw your friend Perry Mandeville the other day, and he said that even the Danger Society has been quiet. He said they have started work on restoring your Bentley, though. I think they had some foolish idea that they might have it ready for your return, but I do not think this will happen. Perry seems to like talking about things more than actually doing them. By the way, he has been going about the place showing off and bragging about his involvement in the Fairburn incident and your part in it has almost been forgotten. (Knowing you, though, I think that is how you would want it. You always hate getting too much attention.)
In short, we all miss you and look forward to your return. I fear that you are the only one who can sort out the gang of mobsters who have taken over Codrose Library. So please try not to get involved in any more adventures while you are away. Get plenty of rest as you will need to be fit and well. When you return we want you back in one piece not missing any arms or legs, or wearing an eyepatch like Lord Nelson!
I will write soon with more news.
Yours,
Pritpal S. Nandra
3
Angel Corona
James stuffed the letter into his pocket and smiled, leaning back against the cabin of the fishing boat and feeling the throb of its diesel engine. Eton felt like it was on the other side of the world. Part of another life. He pictured it as cold and wet and grey. Mind you, it was turning grey here now. The day had started warm and bright and sunny, promising so much, but it had broken its promise and turned sullen.
He squinted towards the horizon. Heavy clouds were building to the east, where they hung low over the dark water, so that it was impossible to tell where sky ended and sea began. There was a yellow flash and he heard the distant grumble of thunder.
Somewhere far out in the Gulf of Mexico a storm was raging.
Here, though, the sea was calm and flat.
‘Too calm, and too flat,’ Diego Garcia, the skipper, had said. Indeed, the day felt dead, as if time had stopped. James watched as Garcia squatted down, leant over the side of the boat and dipped his hand into the water.
He frowned.
‘The water is too warm for the time of year,’ he said and licked the salt from his fingers. ‘Currents from the south.’ Garcia was a big, strong man who always had a broad grin on his handsome features. They had been travelling slowly down the coast from Tampico, and, when he had time, Garcia had shown James the secrets of sea fishing. They had caught nothing today, however.
‘Is why the fishes are not here,’ said Garcia, who for the first time since James had met him was not smiling. ‘Usually they are here. But today, no. The water is too warm. We must hurry, there is going to be a big storm.’
The shriek of a seagull broke the eerie silence, and they looked up to see a large flock circling the boat.
‘Is wrong,’ said Garcia, shaking his head. ‘The birds should not be here. They confused.’
He narrowed his eyes and peered towards the mainland, which was a distant, hazy strip of grey to the west.
‘We are at least an hour out,’ he said. ‘It will be difficult to outrun the storm completely. But I think I can do it.’
James felt the boat rise up on a swell, as if the sea had suddenly woken from a deep sleep, and a blast of cold wind whipped across the deck, followed by a spray of icy rain. He shivered and got to his feet as Garcia shouted an order to his crewmen in Spanish.
The ominous band of black to the east was spreading, like a dark blanket being drawn across the heavens.
The boat lurched as a second big wave caught it.
‘Better get below,’ Garcia shouted to James. ‘She is coming fast.’
James clambered below deck to where his Aunt Charmian sat studying a map in the tiny cabin with her guide, Mendoza.
‘I think it might get rough,’ said James.
‘Garcia’s a good sailor,’ said Charmian.
‘I don’t fancy getting caught up in a storm,’ said James.
Mendoza shrugged. ‘It is in the hand of God,’ he said.
James smiled. He had been travelling in Mexico with his aunt since January and he was getting used to the fatalistic ways of its people. Everything that happened was down to God, or Jesus, or the Virgin of Guadalupe, or any one of the lesser gods, demons, saints, sinners and weird magical figures the locals believed in.
The amazing sights and sounds and smells of this new country had put all thoughts of England out of his mind, but Pritpal’s letter had reminded him of home and all that he had left behind.
Christmas had been a quiet affair. James had been allowed out of hospital three days before but had still been weak and in need of sleep. He had hurried round Canterbury on Christmas Eve and found some presents for Charmian: a pair of leather gloves, a book on birds and a pretty brooch he spotted in a second-hand shop.
They had eaten a fine fat goose together on Christmas Day and unwrapped their presents after lunch. Charmian had given James a Fu Manchu novel and a telescope, and was very pleased with her presents.
James had slept for most of Boxing Day and was awoken on the following day by a ring on the doorbell. There stood Mr Merriot from Eton. He was James’s classical tutor, and was responsible for his schooling.
Merriot and Charmian had talked for hours in the sitting room while James went for a long walk in the fields. His arm was in a sling while his broken collarbone knitted itself back together, and the wound in his shoulder caused by a large splinter of wood was very sore. He knew that it would all heal in time, but the emotional scars might take longer. He had seen some awful things. He needed mental as well as physical rest.
At teatime James returned home and was met by the adults.
‘We don’t think you should go back to school just yet,’ said Charmian. ‘Not until you are fully well. People will have questions to ask about what happened with Mister Fairburn, and we think it’s best to let things die down a little.’
‘When school life has returned to normal and you are strong again, we’ll have you back,’ Merriot added.
‘I’ll make sure you keep up with your school work,’ said Charmian. ‘After all, I taught you at home before you went to Eton; it won’t be so very different.’
‘What about when you go away?’ James asked. ‘To Mexico.’
‘We’ll see how you are at the time,’ said Charmian. ‘Then you can either go back to Eton or come with me. The sea air on the voyage out would do you good and Mexico would be an education in itself.’
‘What say you?’ asked Merriot with a friendly smile.
‘I shall miss my friends,’ said James. ‘But I think a few weeks’ rest would do me good. I do feel pretty feeble still.’
‘Pretty feeble, he says!’ barked Merriot. ‘Do him good! Let’s hope so, eh? We don’t want you getting in to any more scrapes, do we, lad? I seem to remember the last time I was down here with the Head Master he said very much the same thing – keep your head down and your
nose clean – and just look what happened.’ He grinned at James. ‘I shall expect Eton to return to its peaceful old ways with you out of the picture.’
Now, five weeks later, there was just a dull ache and a slight stiffness in his shoulder and for the most part he felt fit and well. He had filled out on solid Mexican food, full of beans and cornflour and fiery hot chilli peppers, and had adjusted to the slow pace of life.
They had docked in Vera Cruz and taken a train to Mexico City, where Charmian had spent several days talking to some professors at the university. She was an anthropologist, and was hoping to make contact with an ancient Mayan tribe in the southern rainforest that was apparently unchanged since the time of the conquistadores. From Mexico City they had flown to Tampico, where many Indians lived. They had left their homes and villages and travelled here to find employment in the oilfields. Charmian spent several evenings in the bars and cantinas talking to them and finding out all she could about the people and places she would be visiting. It was in a bar that she found Mendoza. He had been working as a scout for an oil company and he knew Mexico well. She chose him to lead her expedition.
The Tampico stores and suppliers had all the equipment and provisions she needed for the trip. She had chartered Garcia’s boat, loaded it with all her things and they had headed south. James was not going all the way, though. She had arranged for him to stay with an American family in Tres Hermanas while she went into the jungle.
James sat down next to his aunt and looked at the map.
‘Here’s where we’re going tonight, Tres Hermanas,’ she said, pointing to a small town on the Gulf coast with a pencil. ‘Then I’ll continue on to Carmen.’ She drew a line down the coast. ‘From there I’ll get another boat to take me upriver towards Palenque.’ She extended the line inland, following the twisting shape of a river into the heart of the rainforest. ‘That’s where I’ll pick up the rest of the expedition.’
James focused on the tiny dot on the map that represented Tres Hermanas. It looked like the middle of nowhere. He had enjoyed travelling around with Charmian, helping her to get everything ready for her adventure. What would there be to do in that sleepy fishing village?
Garcia was true to his word. He managed to keep just ahead of the storm. But the sky was darkening as they pulled into the busy harbour and tied up for the night.
Tres Hermanas was larger and livelier than James had expected and the locals were getting ready for a carnival the next day. The town was busy with tourists and Mexicans from outlying villages. The locals were busy decorating floats. A huge effigy of a grumpy-looking man had been built in the main square, ready to be burnt. A stage had been built opposite and a ragged brass band was rehearsing. There were flags and banners and colourful papier-mâché figures strung up across the streets, and noisy, excited men scurried across the rooftops preparing fireworks.
James and Charmian took a coffee in a small cantina in the square, looking out at the activity and occasionally glancing up at the darkening sky.
There was a gloomy, tense feeling; the familiar sense of doom that you get before a thunderstorm. The air was charged and heavy. A group of locals at the bar were arguing about whether to take down all their carefully hung decorations or risk them getting ruined. What had been intended to be an explosion of music and colour and dancing now looked like it was going to be an explosion of thunder and lightning and rain. Some men just shrugged and put it down to fate. If God wanted to rain on their parade then that was his choice, there was little they could do about it.
Charmian, who spoke Spanish well, listened in to their conversation. ‘We’d better shake a leg,’ she said, finishing her coffee. ‘If God does decide to empty his bathwater on us I’d rather be safely indoors when it happens.’
As they stepped out into the square, though, it started to rain. Big cold drops of water pattered down all around them.
‘Ah, well,’ said Charmian, unfurling an elegant umbrella. ‘Perhaps the storm will pass over quickly and tomorrow will be bright and clear. I must say I’m sorry I shall be missing out on all the fun, but I will need to set off first thing.’
A passing Mexican in a sharp suit winked at her and said something approving. Charmian smiled politely, though coldly, back at him, and said good afternoon.
James had become used to men staring at Charmian and making comments. As an unaccompanied, single woman she was considered fair game, and as an attractive, single woman she excited the macho passions of the Mexicans.
The comments were mostly harmless, and the men, in their way, were only being gallant. Charmian was a seasoned traveller, who had spent time in some of the remotest parts of the world. She had known from the start how to deal with Mexicans.
They left the main square and squeezed into a narrow street that was crammed with people. James had to fell back behind his aunt as they forced their way through the crowds.
Charmian was carrying a large leather saddlebag, her travelling bag, which she always took with her when she went away. It had originally been made for an Argentinian gaucho and was scratched and worn from years of use. It was large enough to carry everything she needed; her purse, a first-aid kit, maps, a compass, field glasses, bottled water, toilet paper and countless other essential items.
As they struggled down the street, James saw a boy of about his own age slip in behind Charmian and keep pace with her. He thought nothing of it until he noticed a small, quick movement. It happened so fast and was so unexpected that at first he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d seen. Had it even happened?
Yes.
The boy had pulled out a knife and cut through the shoulder straps of Charmian’s bag. Before she had even realised what was happening, the boy had snatched the bag, turned and run, brushing past James as he went.
For a moment James was too surprised to do anything. He was left standing there like an idiot and marvelling at the boy’s neat handiwork. But then he snapped out of it. All of Charmian’s life was in that bag: her money, her passport and all her documents. If she didn’t get it back she would have to cancel her trip.
‘Hey!’ he yelled, and, without thinking, set off in a sprint after the boy who was dodging through the crowds 20 feet ahead.
James shoved a couple of people out of his way. He knew that if he lost sight of the boy he would never see either him or the bag again. But he was a fast runner, and, as the thief ran, he cleared a path through the milling people, making it easier for James to keep up.
James shouted again and watched as the boy ducked into a side alley.
James barged in after him.
The boy pounded down the alley, a silhouette in the darkness. The other end opened out into a small, dingy, courtyard overlooked by tall buildings. There was a well in the centre surrounded by flies. Washing hung down on all sides and the stuffy air smelt of food.
James put on a burst of speed and grabbed the boy’s shoulder. He wheeled round, slashing his knife in a wide arc. James just managed to jump back out of the way.
The boy smirked, holding the knife out in front of him.
James glanced round the courtyard. There was no other way out.
He’d fallen for a trap. The boy hadn’t come in here to try to escape. He’d come in here to get rid of James.
For the first time, James got a proper look at him.
He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and loose, wide trousers. His hair was black and oiled and he had a faint fuzz of hair on his top lip. He was almost exactly the same height as James and, but for the fact that he had brown eyes instead of blue, the two of them could have been brothers.
The boy raised his knife higher, taunting James.
James was unarmed, and he knew never to get into a fight with someone who had a knife. The damage that even a short blade could do was appalling.
‘Give me back the bag,’ he said calmly.
The boy said something defiant in Spanish and cocked his chin at James.
‘The bag,’ said James, nodd
ing at it.
The boy held it in his free hand. Without its straps it was heavy and awkward.
‘Americano?’ said the boy.
‘English,’ said James.
‘You like I should cut you, Ingleesh?’ said the boy. ‘So you always remember the name of Angel Corona?’
James said nothing, but held Angel’s gaze and tried to appear neither scared nor angry. He wanted to do nothing to provoke the boy.
It made no difference, Angel lashed out at him anyway, and once more James had to jump back.
Angel advanced on him.
‘I slit you belly and spill you guts, yeah?’ he said, and smiled widely, showing his perfect white teeth.
James held his palms up towards the boy and kept on slowly walking backwards. He knew that in a few paces he would have his back against the wall and there would be nowhere for him to go.
‘You are stupid,’ said Angel. ‘You should never have chased me, Ingleesh.’
James had to agree. He had acted without thinking.
He sensed something above him. It was a bed sheet, hanging from a line. He thought quickly. It might be his only chance. He raised his arms higher in a gesture of surrender and as his fingertips brushed against the cotton sheet he grabbed hold and tugged hard. The sheet flapped down on to Angel. It was just enough to distract him. James kicked hard at his wrist.
He was wearing a pair of stout English-made shoes with hard leather soles and toecaps. He connected with the underside of the Angel’s wrist and the force of his kick knocked the knife flying.
Angel was furious. He tossed the sheet to one side and hurled himself at James.
But James had the advantage now; without the knife and weighed down by the bag, Angel was no threat to him.
James brought up his forearm and smashed it into Angel’s throat as he ran at him. Angel croaked and fell back, dropping the bag and clutching himself. He spat out a curse and came back at James in a roaring scramble. James stepped to one side and raised his knee at the same time, driving it into the boy’s stomach. As Angel doubled over James grabbed him around the neck and, holding him tight in the crook of his elbow, marched him over to the well and shoved his face under the water.