Black Coke (32 page)

‘A hundred grammes,’ the junkie said. ‘Five thousand US dollars street value.’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘From him.’ The junkie nodded at his comrade’s body.

‘And where did he?’

The junkie shrugged.

‘What are you doing down here?’ Nathan said as he pocketed the cube.

‘I live here.’

‘How long?’

‘Seventeen years.’

‘Get me out of here and I’ll let you live.’

The junkie studied him with his good eye, as though weighing up Nathan’s worth. Nathan gripped the screwdriver. If the junkie wasn’t willing to lead him to the exit, he’d have to force him.

‘You’re not with the death squads,’ the junkie said. ‘The cops must be after you.’

‘Get up and show me the way out.’

The junkie scrambled to his feet. He glanced at his comrade’s body, then back at Nathan.

‘He’s dead,’ Nathan said.

The junkie rummaged through his friend’s pockets. He pulled out another black cube, this one half chipped away. He grunted triumphantly and reached for the makeshift crack pipe that was lying next to his dead friend’s head.

‘No time.’ Nathan swiped the crack pipe from the junkie’s hand, sending it clattering into the darkness. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

The junkie glared at him, then scrambled off, jumping over gaping holes and clambering over rocks with the ease of a rat, glancing back every so often with eyes mixed with menace and fear. The tunnel sloped upwards, then twisted and turned seemingly randomly. Other tunnels led away from it. Nathan shone his light on the stalactites, then grimaced. They were formed of excrement.

They kept walking for ages, down steps leading deeper underground, past junctions with corridors leading in all directions, through large rooms dripping with waste. Occasionally, they passed other street people, who scurried away and hid in the darkness. They came across a cardboard city: dozens of dwellings made from discarded boxes, sheets of corrugated iron, piles of rocks and bricks. It was empty.

‘A death squad attacked last week,’ the junkie said over his shoulder. ‘Nobody dares come back.’

They waded through more knee-high sewerage. The junkie stopped and crouched. He put his hand to his ear.

‘Listen.’

Nathan paused. ‘Can’t hear anything.’

The junkie shrugged and started walking again. They reached a wall of cement bricks with a crack at the top. Just enough for a person to slip through.

‘Give me your cube,’ Nathan said.

The junkie hesitated.

‘Hand it over.’ Nathan held out his hands. The junkie plonked the cube in them.

‘You go first,’ Nathan said. ‘No clever tricks or you don’t get your drugs back.’

The junkie scrambled through the crack. Nathan went straight after him, scraping his back against the ceiling. On the other side, the tunnel continued into the darkness.

The junkie was studying Nathan with a sinister expression. Nathan was about to speak when a faint sound trickled through the crack in the wall behind them.

The junkie’s eyes widened.

The sound appeared again: voices echoing through the tunnel.

The junkie lunged at Nathan, his fingers going for the eyes. Nathan stumbled, suddenly off balance. The junkie rammed into him, but Nathan shoved him backwards, pinned him against the wall and pushed the screwdriver to his neck, drawing a sliver of blood.

‘What did I just say?’ Nathan said.

‘Get off me.’

‘Next time, you die.’

‘We have to get out,’ the junkie gasped. ‘The voices. death squad.’

Bogotá, Colombia
14 April 2011

‘H
urry up then.’ Nathan shoved the junkie ahead of him. ‘Keep going.’

The junkie stumbled forwards, tripped, regained his footing. He glanced over his shoulder at Nathan with a look of such hatred that Nathan found himself clenching the screwdriver and preparing to strike at the slightest wrong movement.

But the junkie kept walking, straight ahead. His drooped head was hunched into his bony shoulders. He skipped over rocks and holes with an unconscious dexterity borne of years underground. After what felt like ten or so minutes, he stopped and just stood there, arms limp by his side, staring at the ground, like some kind of automated toy whose batteries have gone flat.

‘What is it?’ Nathan said, keeping a few steps away. He swung the torch around. A few metres away was a small pile of rubble with rods of metal sticking out. Further along, the passageway led into darkness.

The junkie crouched and rubbed the ground.

Nathan frowned. Was this another trick?

‘What you doing?’ He shone the torch into the junkie’s face, who blinked and frowned.

‘The exit.’ The junkie shielded his eyes with his left hand. ‘I marked the spot, here, on the ground.’

‘So where is it?’

‘There.’ The junkie pointed to the wall to their left.

Nathan shone the torch. ‘There’s nothing.’

The junkie took a step towards the wall. Nathan tensed, but the junkie just put his hands out and patted the crumbling cement and stone.

‘Here,’ he said, pointing. ‘Small steps. In the wall.’ He looked up and pointed upwards. ‘The exit’s up there.’

‘Okay, move back.’ Nathan studied the wall. The junkie was right. There were small holes, just enough to put an inch of fingers or toes. He shone the torch up. The ceiling was much higher here. It was made of blocks of stone and cement unevenly stuck together, with dark patches where large chunks had fallen out.

‘There’s no exit,’ Nathan said, then he stopped. ‘Wait a sec. You’re right. That looks like a manhole. Where does it go?’

‘Ciudad Bolivar.’

‘Damn.’ Ciudad Bolivar was the largest and poorest slum in Bogotá, in the south-western part of the city. A violent district controlled by drug gangs. Definitely not the best place for a lone white Brit to go wandering around.

‘I’ll help you get out if you pay me.’

‘You first.’ Nathan lowered the torch. ‘No tricks.’

‘You’ll never survive in Ciudad Bolivar without me.’

‘Get moving, mate. We’ll sort that out once we’re out of here.’

‘You have dollars?’

‘Does it look like I’ve got a suitcase full of cash?’

The junkie scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘Then how do we do it?’

‘I have friends. Now get up there.’

Behind them, more shouting erupted. This time it was closer. Nathan spun round, but the tunnel behind them was empty.

He was turning to face the junkie when a sharp blow between his shoulder blades made him stumble forwards, his breath shooting out of him. Another blow. He grunted, crumpled to his knees, head spinning, vision blurred. He dipped his head, felt a rush of air as something swept past him. He fell forwards and rolled to his side until he hit the other wall. He glanced up. The junkie had one of the metal rods in his hand and was about to swing it straight at Nathan’s face.

Nathan rolled off sideways, the metal rod grazing him. He struggled to his feet, took a few steps back, and shook the confusion from his mind. He got ready to fight back. This time there would be no mercy.

The torch was lying on the ground where he’d fallen, its light casting long shadows among the rubble.

But the junkie had gone.

Bogotá, Colombia
14 April 2011

N
athan grabbed the torch and shone it upwards. The junkie was scrambling up the wall like a spider. Nathan put the torch between his teeth and hauled himself up, slowly, painfully. There was a clanging sound above him. He looked up, twisting his head to shine the torch at the ceiling. The junkie was trying to shove the manhole open with his shoulders. He was pressed against it, grunting and swearing. It wouldn’t budge.

Shouts echoed through the tunnels.

Closer.

Nathan yanked himself up another two metres. Rock climbing had never been his strength, but desperation and fury drove him further upwards. Stones rained onto his head. The junkie was kicking the wall, trying to dislodge rocks.

One of Nathan’s feet slipped. Then the other. He was hanging in mid-air by his fingers. More stones fell around him. He pulled himself close to the wall, scratching at it with his shoes, frantically trying to find footholds.

A rock hit him on the head, stunning him. His fingers slipped, one by one, inexorably, painfully, the skin tearing off his fingertips, until he was falling. He hit the ground hard, his knees buckling underneath him. He rolled to the side.

He must have been dazed for a few seconds, because suddenly he was opening his eyes, staring at the darkness overhead. He groped around for the torch. He curled his fingers round its metal handle and shone it upwards.

The junkie was still pushing against the manhole and banging it with his fists. Bits of earth rained down. The junkie let out a cry of triumph. The manhole lifted. Warm air poured in. The junkie pushed the manhole away and put his hands up to lift himself out.

Nathan staggered to his feet. He looked up again.

Two silhouettes appeared against the light of the moon.

A dog barked.

The junkie shrieked.

Nathan threw himself backwards. A flood of liquid poured down the manhole and splashed onto the floor. But it wasn’t water. It was petrol, its stench filling the tunnel and making Nathan gasp. Suddenly, he realised what was happening.

There was a whoosh of air. Then a thump. The junkie’s burning body hit the hard ground. Flames erupted around him, crackling, licking at his clothes, his hair, his skin. The junkie lay still for a second, then began to writhe, his arms and legs thrashing around.

Nathan pushed himself flat against the wall. He raised his arms to his face against the heat. He slid sideways, inching away.

The junkie gurgled and screamed.

Nathan looked around for the torch, but couldn’t find it. He must have dropped it again. The flames were lighting the corridor, revealing a passageway that kept going into the darkness. Nathan pushed further back, ignoring the dozens of rats that scurried past and congregated in a circle around the burning body. They kept just out of reach of the flames and stared at the junkie with sinister fascination, their eyes gleaming.

The junkie let out a final scream, his legs and arms flailing out to the side like a morbid, disfigured phoenix flapping its wings. Then he lay still.

Nathan swallowed hard. His anger at the junkie double crossing him faded. Nobody deserved to die in such a horrific way. He headed down the corridor, forcing the pain and the terror from his mind. The crackling of the flames faded. Laughter echoed into the tunnel from up above. Gunshots ricocheted off the walls.

There was excited shouting from behind him. He spun round. A group of heavily armed men was approaching the burning corpse. They crowded round it, kicking the rats away. One of them fired a round from his rifle into the junkie. Then he high-fived a comrade and shouted up to the manhole.

Were these Front men or just a regular death squad who happened to be on a cleansing mission?

Nathan didn’t want to wait around to find out. He hurried further down the corridor, grateful for once for the darkness. The crackle of the flames covered the sound of his feet. He reached a bend, the receding light casting fleeting shadows on the walls.

He glanced round. One of the members of the group had pushed forward and was staring straight at him.

It was Amonite.

She pointed at him and shouted. Rifles took aim.

Nathan rushed round the bend just as bullets bit the ground where he’d been standing. He raced into the darkness, stumbling over bits of debris, arms stretched ahead. He whacked into something.

A wall.

He groped around, trying to find which way the corridor had turned.

Another wall.

He spun round, stepped forward.

Again, a wall.

Then it struck him.

It was a dead end.

Bogotá, Colombia
14 April 2011

L
ucia and Alberto staggered out of the bar and hailed a yellow cab. Alberto stumbled into the back, spreading his obese body all over the backseat. Lucia shoved him further in, until he was slouching, his cheek pressed against the window. She’d barely closed the door behind them that he’d already fallen asleep.

Lucia pressed her fingers to her eyelids. She’d tried not to drink much, but five gin and tonics was still enough to make her very tipsy.