‘Huh?’ he said, uncertain for a moment where he was. ‘Wass happenin’?’
‘I think we’re here,’ said Xian Mei, her voice hushed as if in reverence.
‘Already?’ muttered Sam.
‘You been out for two hours, man,’ said Logan. ‘Regular Sleeping Beauty.’
Sam rubbed vigorously at his face with both hands to wake himself up and stretched to relieve the stiffness in his back. Turning his head to peer between the front seats and out through the windscreen, he saw that the jungle had been cut right back on both sides of the road, and the wide and dusty clearing was flanked by a haphazard collection of houses. Most of the houses were stout, wood-framed, one-storey buildings, though a number had been erected on stilt-like timber pilings, either for reasons of status or as a preventative measure against the intrusion of snakes and poisonous insects. The walls were insulated with dried packed mud, which was pale grey, almost white in colour, and the roofs were thatched with thick sheaves of grass baked yellow and dry by the sun.
Untethered goats and wild fowl wandered nonchalantly among children and adults performing a variety of tasks in the open air. Sam saw women weaving or grinding corn or washing clothes. He saw men mending or making various household implements; one even tinkering with an ancient rattletrap of a motorcycle. As they drove past, nearly everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at them. Most of the people were wearing a rag-tag collection of western clothes that looked as though they had been donated by some charity or other. However, a few — mainly women — wore flowing, brightly coloured garments, which they had clearly either made themselves or bought locally.
The overall impression was of a people on the cusp of modern society, a community with one foot in the technological age and one still firmly planted in ancient tribal traditions.
‘So how do we find this Mowen guy?’ asked Logan.
‘I suggest we ask someone,’ Purna replied.
‘Why don’t we try here?’ said Xian Mei, pointing at a building coming up on their left.
It was a ramshackle wooden homestead with steps leading up to a long canopied porch. It reminded Sam of some of the houses built way out on the bayou back home, houses reputed to be populated by voodoo priests and priestesses, and surrounded by constantly dripping trees which loomed from ’gator-infested swamplands. This particular building, however, had a sun-bleached sign that simply read STORE dangling on rusty chains from its wooden canopy. Another sign — this one metal and screwed to the door — was emblazoned with the proud boast WE SELL COCA-COLA.
Purna shrugged and pulled up next to a pale blue flatbed truck that looked as if it might have been new back in the 1950s. The five of them climbed out, stretching and groaning, still uncomfortably aware that they were being candidly and silently assessed by the local population, but trying to ignore it.
Logan sidled up to Sam. ‘Hey, man, ever feel like a virgin at a rapist convention?’
‘Hush up,’ Sam hissed, glancing anxiously across at Jin.
Realizing what he had said, Logan clapped a hand to his mouth. ‘Sorry, man, I forgot,’ he mumbled.
They trooped up the steps into the store, Purna in the lead. Though he knew it wouldn’t have exactly made a great impression, Sam felt a little nervous about leaving their weapons in the van.
The interior of the store was surprisingly well stocked. There were tinned goods, boxes of over-ripe fruit, various dried meats beneath a sheet of trans parent plastic to keep the flies off, and an upright drinks cooler, which did indeed contain cans of Coca-Cola, as well as Sprite, 7-Up and lemon Fanta. There was even a creaky old paperback spinner stuffed with dog-eared books that looked as though they had been transported here from the 1970s. Flipping through it briefly, Logan recognized authors his parents used to read — Harold Robbins, Nevil Shute — as well as a novel
Standing behind the counter was a gangly old black man with a halo of white hair and a thick fuzzy beard. His arms were so thin that they made his work-calloused hands look huge. He watched them warily, saying nothing. Purna smiled and walked up to him.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You speak English?’
The old man simply stared at her.
‘We’re looking for someone,’ said Xian Mei. ‘A man called Mowen. You know him?’
The old man frowned a little.
‘Mo-wen,’ repeated Logan, drawing out the name, emphasizing each syllable. He held up his hands and grinned. ‘It’s OK. We’re friendly.’
‘Don’t do that, man,’ muttered Sam. ‘Makes you look even more of a psycho than you already do.’
To their surprise, Jin suddenly stepped forward and spoke a few words to the old man in a language they didn’t understand. The old man responded with a few words of his own, then turned and stuck his head around a ratty blue curtain covering an opening at the back of the counter.
He shouted a word that sounded like, ‘Afreela.’
‘What’s he doing?’ said Logan.
His question was answered a moment later by the appearance of a boy of twelve or thirteen. The family resemblance was obvious. The boy was as gangly as the old man and the bone structure of his face gave him the same pinched nose, hollow cheeks and strong jaw. The boy tensed as soon as he saw the new arrivals, his eyes becoming wide and wary. The old man spoke a few rapid words to him, one of which was ‘Mowen’. The boy gave a brief nod, sidled cautiously around the counter, then darted out of the shop, as if he expected to be challenged or pursued.
Jin spoke a few more words to the old man and he grunted in response.
‘What did you say?’ asked Purna.
‘I told him we’d wait outside.’
‘Tell him we’re not here to cause trouble,’ said Purna.
‘I already did. I don’t think he believes me.’
Logan bought sodas and they stood in the shade of the front porch, drinking them while they waited for the boy to return with Mowen.
‘Why are they all fucking staring at us?’ Logan said nervously, glancing up at the large number of local people who were still sitting or standing around nearby, watching the newcomers with a kind of deadpan curiosity.
‘Have you
Logan frowned and stared round at Sam and the others, then at their mode of transport, as if seeing them all with fresh eyes. He realized that to someone who had no idea what had been going down, the crumpled, dented, blood-covered van and their equally gore-stained appearance must have been a pretty alarming sight. The five of them and their trusty vehicle looked as if they had just emerged from a medieval battlefield.
‘See what you mean,’ said Logan, and then nodded at Sam, a twinkle in his eye. ‘You’re talking about that dumb bandanna, right?’
Not for the first time Sam showed him the finger. Logan laughed.
It was twenty minutes before the boy returned with a tall, rangy black man in his early thirties. The boy jabbered a few words to the man and then cast a fearful look in their direction, before skirting round them in a big circle and scuttling back into the shop.
‘Hey, kid,’ Logan called after him, ‘we ain’t gonna hurt you. We’re not as bad as we … aw, what’s the use?’
‘He think you cursed,’ said the man who had accompanied the kid, his voice heavily accented. ‘They
‘But you don’t?’ Purna said.
The man pursed his lips, as if partly amused, partly insulted. ‘I a civilized man. I know better.’ He flicked his head at Purna, as though throwing out a question. ‘You want speak to me?’
Purna nodded. ‘A man called Ryder White sent us to find you. He told us you have a boat, and that you would take us off the island and over to the prison.’
Mowen may not have thought them cursed, but he regarded them with the same candour as the rest of the