The Jaguar: A Tale of Gods, Ghosts and Gangsters

By A. T. Grant

David's life is spiralling out of control. To put a past relationship behind him, he goes on holiday to Mexico. Meanwhile, on the US-Mexican border, brothers Luis and Alfredo fight to maintain their family’s drug-trafficking empire. Alfredo is forced to flee, and Luis takes on the most feared of all the cartels. Reunited in the Yucatan Peninsula, the brothers temporarily outwit their pursuers. As David and an eclectic mix of fellow travellers stumble through the jungles of ancient Maya, powerful spirits are stirring. Events long past are brought to the fore. Tourists, traffickers and Mayans combine and nothing is quite as it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jul 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781785382529

Book preview

Manwaring.

Act I: The Tourists

Chapter One

Bristol

It was only a little thing, barely an accident really, but the wreckage lodged stubbornly in his mind. David was edging forward in a queue of traffic when the car in front stopped, unexpectedly. His didn’t, equally unexpectedly. Time slowed as the small, sensible Citroen slipped on black ice and into the rear bumper of its neighbour. David felt different - connected - as though the sudden jolt had completed some intricate circuitry in his brain. He was aware of things he hadn’t previously noticed: a rear window full of football regalia took his attention from the emblem of a leaping jaguar. David realised he was in love and in love in a way he had all but forgotten. He melted into the all-consuming, exotic smell of her, the warming rush of electricity as her fingers fell gently across the back of his hand.

For once David was wide awake and greedy for new adventure. Shock coursed through him as he was confronted by an angry man in possession of a now slightly warped vehicle. How was he going to respond, not to the driver, but to the girl whose life felt so far from his own? He didn’t know, but was desperate not to lose the connection. Maybe that explained why he lowered his window and said what he did - and why the man hit him.

David’s euphoria turned into panic. He was a revolving storm coursing across the countryside, spitting out familiar things like homes and cars and furniture. And people. He worried about the people. People are unpredictable. Even the driver was now offering a handkerchief and mumbling concern in response to the cut dribbling blood from David’s ear. The roar of the whirlwind and the tinnitus in his ear became one and the same, driving out rational thought and leaving him in a semi-conscious stupor that made him spin faster. Any loss of control is difficult to deal with at forty, and being forty was just one more chunk of debris littering David’s emotional wasteland. He returned the handkerchief, with just a hint of a conciliatory smile.

His tattooed assailant stood transfixed, flexing a forearm mechanically. A snarling feline imprinted there seemed to be grinding its teeth. Events had not panned out quite as the driver had anticipated. He turned on his heels, stomped back to his car and sped off through a red light.

David watched him go, still unaware of the impatient tail-back behind him. CDs full of basic Spanish were strewn across the front passenger seat. Desperate now only for routine, he fumbled for a disc and managed to still his trembling hand just enough to insert it. Automatically he started to drive and to respond to each linguistic prompt. The knot in his stomach began to slacken and his breathing to subside. He thought again of a girl he hadn’t seen for twenty years. His fingers dabbed absent-mindedly at the damp side of his face, oblivious both to the blood patterning his white cotton shirt and to the well enunciated exhortations to escuchar y repetir emanating from the car stereo. Five minutes before his mind had been so clear. Five minutes before he had experienced an emotion so surprising it had lifted him completely from his everyday life. Now the accident - he was a careful driver and had never had one before - only added to a sense that he was dreaming.

David was back in familiar territory on the outer Bristol ring road: a purposeful strip of semi-ordered, semi-exciting, semi-detached intensity, which crowded out his deeper thoughts and feelings. David relaxed and was aware again of foreign phrases, each hanging momentarily in the overheated, exhaust-tainted air around him. He was almost cheery as he recalled his assailant’s apology and appeal to call it quits. At least there would be no insurance claim.

His attention was drawn to a slip road pulling away to his left. Two roads diverged... The phrase from a near forgotten poem would lead him away, but it was a hollow, passionless cliché - the strength to veer from his daily routine had died with his non-accident. David tried to avoid the features staring back at him from the driving mirror. What would she think of him now, anyway?

Chapter Two

London

London that day wore its usual grey winter jacket, the collar pulled up over the tallest towers, fingers of cold rain spilling from each arm. Inside those towers the finance industry wound through its daily routine, fleecing the country of any remaining assets and scattering its loose change to the most proximate few. London was still a playground for the super-rich, strings of bright-lights marking their progress from one well-manicured fantasy to the next. The gloss hadn’t completely worn off, but perhaps that was the problem: the city was a caricature and the country a cultural theme park - so thought Marcus as he stared from a window on the twenty-second floor, at Tailwind Adventure. There was a knock on the door. He swung his legs from the window-ledge then clumsily tightened his tie.

Come in.

Laura walked in, nervously smoothing the sides of the narrow, pencil skirt beneath her matching wool jacket. She glanced at Marcus and ventured a smile, but couldn’t help but be drawn to the expansive panorama receding over his left shoulder. Marcus turned again to follow her gaze.

Magnificent, isn’t it? Do, please, sit down.

As Laura complied she felt the plastic tag of the new skirt digging uncomfortably into her waist. Yes, it is. Sorry, I’m from the Somerset Levels. London’s quite a contrast, she stuttered.

They fell silent. Both followed a jet slipping through clouds in a holding pattern for Heathrow Airport. Laura was convinced her nerves were already making her sound like the inconsequential lost sheep she secretly believed herself to be. She bit her bottom lip, staring hard at the aircraft as though hoping it might crash.

However, Marcus continued, oblivious to her internal machinations, your CV suggests you’ve a good head for heights.

Laura relaxed just a little at Marcus’ bland repost. I love the mountains. It’s not so much the scenery or the physical challenge; more about climbing beyond my worries.

Well, you obviously haven’t neglected your studies: your qualifications are pretty impressive for a twenty-three year old.

Laura tried not to look suspicious, covering her pause with a slight cough into a diminutive, half-clenched fist as she considered why Marcus was sounding so positive. She took a surreptitious deep breath and decided to continue.

"An ex-boyfriend used to sneer and tell me all I did was work - that I had Good Girl Syndrome. He was right, really. I was brought up by my dad and was always afraid of letting him down.

Is your father academic? Marcus enquired.

Laura relaxed some more as she sensed she might safely say anything vaguely relevant. Sort of: he manages a computer network for an engineering company. My mother worked in a bank when I was very young. Then she became a veterinary nurse. That made her really happy - for a while.

Marcus remained quiet; studying Laura’s face with a newly attentive expression. She reminded him of someone: someone familiar and much missed. Her face, at first the simplest of landscapes, came alive when she spoke. He remembered that same transformation and the same haste to get through her words from his cousin, Isabel.

I’d like to offer you the job.

Are you sure? Laura was incredulous and suddenly short of breath.

Marcus was no less surprised. Someone else must have articulated the words for him. He knew that he meant it, but he also knew he had just made a complete hash of the interview.

"Look, forgive me. I am sure, but I can also be a little impulsive. This was too personal a tone, he knew, but his priority now was to slow down. Can I get you something to drink - tea - coffee?"

Laura indicated the latter and Marcus swung from his seat, dodged past one wing of an impressive, walnut-veneered desktop and disappeared into the ante-room in which Laura had been waiting.

Laura looked around her. In almost every respect the expanse of wooden panelling, the towering bookcases, the matching red leather upholstery on the chairs and rather grand sofa to the right of Marcus’ desk matched her mental picture of an executive’s office. All the details, however, told a different story. A number of well-thumbed travel magazines lay in a pile in one corner of the somewhat threadbare green carpet. The desktop computer looked dated and was covered in stickers advertising exotic destinations and bars. Behind her the wall was obscured by a large map of the world, itself covered by roughly pinned holiday photographs and magazine articles. Laura noticed that, somewhat endearingly, a half-empty rucksack lay squeezed between the back of Marcus’ chair and the picture window, expressing - what - a certain lack of commitment - the capacity for a quick exit - or both?

Milk... sugar?

Laura heard the clank of a bottle being extracted from a fridge and the persistent rhythm of an unanswered telephone. Marcus returned, cup in one hand and a plate of bourbon biscuits in the other.

Let me talk about the position whilst you drink your coffee, then I’ll tell you why it would suit you. Having had time to recover his poise, rehearse his monologue and swallow a biscuit, Marcus began.

Ours was a little company. Steven, my boss, started it up a few years back. He loved boats and had a yacht, so ran charters for stressed executives in the Med. Ten years down the line he had a small fleet and a number of holiday properties too. The family was loaded anyway. His father sold a stake in a chain of luxury hotels and helped Steven get started. I came in five years ago to organise land-based activities and that side was doing pretty well until the recession hit. We covered everything from wine-tasting to posh cycling weekends.

Marcus sneezed and rummaged unsuccessfully for a handkerchief in each pocket of his blue, pinstriped linen jacket. Actually, the whole thing was rather easy at first. The people we knew would pay a small fortune for any form of adventure, providing it appeared exclusive and they had plenty of opportunity to show off to their friends. Most of our trips ended up being quite a riot; occasionally, I’m afraid, somewhat literally.

Laura extracted a tissue from a packet in her handbag and passed it over with a hesitant, but well-received smile.

Thanks. I was perfectly healthy until I went home for the holidays. I wonder how many people are killed by kindness each Christmas?

Marcus, sensing that he was getting into personal territory again - and demonstrating both his tendency towards hyperbole and hypochondria - blew his nose as discretely as possible then launched back into his summation. Trouble, when it came, came quickly. Steven started to enjoy the hospitality side of the business rather too much. Getting drunk went with the territory, but then he slept with a couple of female clients, one of whose boyfriends got even by torching a boat. It was their first and his father loved it. To cut a long and rather messy story short, Steven’s father was furious and ended up leaving the company. Steven had to buy out his half and, shortly afterwards, his father died without leaving him a penny. At the time, we had already invested heavily in more coastal properties. That was my doing, I’m afraid.

Marcus sniffed, it appeared, almost in self-pity, made the most of his tissue then gestured towards the map on the wall. That’s Steven, top-left. His father’s the one standing on the boat behind him."

Laura turned with some difficulty in her deeply padded armchair and studied the image. Both father and son were handsome and fair, with the sun-beaten cheeks and foreheads one might expect from a life in the open air. Steven looked heavier, the belt of his shorts partially obscured by a protruding belly. Laura wondered whether his flushed cheeks were witness more to the climate or to the drink. Another picture caught her eye, of Marcus in a precipitous urban landscape with his arm around a girl. Somehow the scenery was more interesting than the subjects: their separate stances and ever-so-slightly fixed smiles hinting at a passing, representative and client relationship. Laura instantly clocked that the photo’s mere presence on the board suggested Marcus was not quite the lady’s man that he would like to be.

When the recession hit it wiped out much of our client base in the financial sector almost overnight. So we sold out. It became a case of any port in a storm and here we are; a wholly-owned minor subsidiary of the Carlton Travel Group. Chaos, really, at least from our perspective, although most of the people I’ve met from CTG somehow seem to think we’re rather cool.

Laura said nothing, but instantly knew what they meant. There was something boyish and innocent in the way Marcus spoke. She had no doubt - and the photos behind her confirmed it - that here were people who had, at heart, followed their dreams, despite their obvious glee in exploiting those of others for financial gain. It was not hard to imagine the appeal of travelling in their company: not so much a bespoke tour, she imagined, as a post-modern adventure which you assembled as you went along.

CTG brought in their own administration team. We only had two people before. One was an ex-client and the other an agency typist who stayed and ended up virtually running the place. She’s the one you would have spoken to when you requested your application form and fixed up this interview. You’ll meet her when she comes back from lunch.

Laura recalled a very direct lady with a loud voice and a South Asian accent. Marcus said that her name was Culjinder.

They gave us ten people - said that they wanted to expand the business. It wasn’t hard to understand their thinking. If you just looked at our account books, as they did, our profit margins looked pretty impressive right up until the crash. Trouble was they didn’t understand the clientele. Our people wouldn’t have taken us seriously if we hadn’t charged high prices. Splashing the cash was all part of the machismo, but when they called us they called for a chat or dating advice, not to buy a package or to be sold travel insurance. Usually they were curious about what we’d been up to ourselves and just wanted to join in. I can’t imagine some of these CTG people having done anything more exciting than a trip to Tesco.

Marcus paused, evidently to recover his composure, having spoken with an increasing tone of frustration. Laura mused that Marcus himself probably spent more time in supermarkets than he would care to admit.

So where would I come in?

Laura ventured a polite smile and Marcus couldn’t help noticing once again that this dark haired, dark eyed, modestly proportioned young lady went through something of a metamorphosis as her mouth and eyes narrowed and sparkled. He also felt, with a certain sense of unease, that she had already got the measure of him.

Well, said Marcus with a slightly laboured note of triumph, That’s simple. CTG backed off when the phones stopped ringing and allowed us to pick our own team. Steven and I explained that we didn’t want operatives or personnel managers. For their part, CTG wanted us to develop new themes for some of their mass market locations: Eco-tourism, Adventure tourism, that sort of thing. You, according to your CV, are an outdoor girl; you’re bright and you’re a team player - just what we’re looking for.

There was a momentary pause as Laura, whose eyes had once again drifted to the window, weighed up whether Marcus had finished. Aren’t there lots of people like that? What’s so bespoke about me?

Marcus felt vaguely drawn by her modesty. It wasn’t a quality with which he was particularly familiar.

Yes, but about half way through your letter of application - Marcus rustled through the papers in front of him and held up a particular sheet for dramatic emphasis - "you stopped saying what you thought you should say and wrote - yes, here it is – I want to stand in the middle of a rainforest, with a machete in my hand, and no map. I like that. Steven liked that when I read it to him. You’d fit in well."

As Laura travelled home on the Underground she remembered how close she had come to deleting that sentence. It owed its survival to the same desire to be reckless that had prompted the application in the first place. Two more sentences in an advertisement on the curved carriage wall reinforced the approach: There’s probably no god. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.

Upon leaving the offices of Tailwind Adventure she had experienced a brief, but significant encounter. Culjinder was back behind her desk in the ante-room and had lowered her glasses to very deliberately look her up and down. Laura had stopped, expecting her to speak. Culjinder hadn’t, staring back at her with a - "Well, what is it?" expression that suggested impatience and a certain cynicism. Laura’s stubborn streak surfaced and for a few seconds there was silence between them, during which time she realised that this slightly plump lady in a sari and dark-rimmed spectacles was probably the perfect counterpoint to her youthful potential employers’ excesses. The missing mother figure, she concluded. Skirting a bottomless well of personal sadness, her taught lips had softened into a smile and then a hello. She took Culjinder’s subsequent careful explanation of the exact manner in which travel expenses could be claimed as a form of approval.

As her carriage decelerated bumpily into a station, Laura steadied herself, looked around unsuccessfully for a seat then cast an eye idly over another poster on the platform wall. You survived the end of the world, so now what? Vaguely curious at this seemingly random revelation, her eyes fell first to its picture of a sun-kissed tropical beach and next to the very real young man struggling incongruously with a suitcase beneath it. The latch appeared to be stuck.

Laura could only see his features from the side. His profile looked as foreign as many a London lad, but at the same time was disturbingly, and inexplicably, familiar. He had a strong, straight nose and heavy brows pulled into a frown beneath a tussle of thick black curly hair, creating an overall impression of brooding sensuality. Looking up, he turned in frustration as the doors of the tube rolled together. Laura was sure his rich Latino eyes lingered briefly on hers. The train lurched forwards a few inches then stopped, unaccountably, in a screech of metal on metal. The carriage momentarily re-opened and, as Laura regained her balance, she found those eyes again: deep, inviting pools of possibility that held her transfixed for several seconds. Then he was gone, to be replaced by a shiny black wall as her conveyance returned to its tunnel. Instinctively, she had framed a message for those eyes, which spoke instead only to her own reflection.

Laura had rarely felt so drawn to offer comfort, but was aware how out of proportion this was to such a trivial encounter, however handsomely packaged. She felt a familiar rush of blood as she imagined her fingers running through the unruly waves of his hair. Not prone to romantic notions, she endeavoured, half successfully, to dismiss the moment as a capricious conceit and quirk of the moment. The usual rush hour mix of crush, clatter and body odour helped, but every pair of eyes she met was his.

Chapter Three

Bristol

You said what?

"I said: If you react to traffic lights that slowly you should be playing for Bristol."

...and he hit you?

Yes: he had a Bristol FC Supporters Club sticker in his rear window. They went down after last season.

...and you knew this?

Yes. David handed his bloodied shirt to his sometime girlfriend, Phoebe.

But why, David?

I don’t know. I sat there staring at that stupid sticker after the crash. I’d been thinking about something else completely. It just seemed so bloody trivial. It made me angry.

Phoebe crossed David’s kitchen to the washing machine and turned to study him from a distance. He sat topless at the small pine kitchen table, contemplating the cup of tea that Phoebe had just passed him. David wasn’t a young forty year old. Phoebe had noticed how the dark bags under his eyes were now often patterned with age. He was over-weight and growing ever so slightly pear-shaped and his hunched, shirtless frame looked limp and formless. His head still bore a full crown of brown hair, but it was etched with grey and had lost the healthy sheen that had once attracted her to him. Phoebe was worried about David. He was always tired, never talked about work and his shoulders collapsed at even the most fleeting tribulation. What had he been thinking about that had distracted him enough to have an accident? She was unsure whether she wanted to know.

Phoebe busied herself making the dinner. I have to go soon: Adam will be back from rugby.

David shrugged.

How was work?

David said nothing, assuming Phoebe was using her son as an excuse to get away. Work had not been good. Then there was the accident. The feelings he discovered there had left a deep sense of guilt. He had been desperate all day to get home to Phoebe, but now anything he might say would only confirm he was letting her down. He needed to be alone. He looked up as she turned back to her cooking and watched as she pulled dishes, cutlery and condiments from various draws and cupboards, as naturally as if the place was her own. Phoebe was in her late thirties; slight and trim, with short-cropped and quite striking strawberry-blonde hair. She was wearing sandals, brown jeans and a cream, autumn-leaf blouse. David dwelt on her petite facial features and striking blue eyes. This made him feel calmer. He was about to speak when Phoebe interjected.

David.

Yes.

I want you to promise to do something for me.

Yes?

If someone rings will you promise to pick up the phone?

David looked at Phoebe, unsure how to respond. He trawled through his mind for possible explanations for this slight, but unusual request.

Is it your mother? He knew that she had been unwell and perhaps things had taken a turn for the worse.

No, she’s doing OK. I had a long talk with her earlier, though she’s still missing Dad.

So are you and Adam, observed David. I can’t remember the last time Adam cracked one of his jokes. Do you notice he’s always wearing that Glastonbury T-shirt his Granddad bought him?

Phoebe reflected on the care she put into ironing that T-shirt. She knew she didn’t have to tell Adam to look after it. It was part of the new, closer bond forged in grief between the two of them. Unfortunately, it had yet to bring her closer to her mother. They always spent time together - her mother took this for granted - but Phoebe could already feel the role of dutiful daughter wearing thin now the love of her life, her dear father, was no longer there at the end of each visit with a cup of tea and a cuddle.

It’s nothing to do with that, David. Well, at least not directly. Her voice now carried the same worn-down tone as his.

Recognising this, David rallied. Of course I’ll answer the phone. Whatever it is, you can count on me. His words sounded hollow, but a smile flickered briefly in Phoebe’s eyes as she carried their dinner to the table.

Laura arrived home that evening to the usual mix of semi-intoxicated flatmates and uninvited guests. A heated conversation flickered between the sunken sofas in the bay-fronted living room of her Georgian, Bristol flat. Laura listened for a second, realised there was unlikely to be any immediate opportunity to impart her good news, so headed for the kitchen and a cup of tea. She pulled up a stool, slouched against a workbench and half-heartedly explored the contents of the local free newspaper.

Laura.

Someone must have actually noticed her.

Laura?

Yes.

What do you think? It was George, her flatmate Katie’s tall, Caribbean boyfriend.

I think that you should go and get me some fish and chips. I’m starving.

There are biscuits in the tin. You should have been here earlier. Katie let me do the cooking.

Laura glanced to her left to examine the sink. The large pile of tomato-stained dishes and pans suggested he was telling the truth.

Pity you couldn’t wash up.

We knew you’d be home soon.

Laura sighed, too tired to be provoked. Should she wash up, go to bed or join the conversation? The last two options were a close call. She wandered cup in hand into the living room and sat cross-legged on a rug, her back wedged between a sofa and the burnt umber tones of George’s outstretched legs.

I want to know if trust in big business died with the Recession. The typically bald statement came from Simon, George’s friend and Laura’s one-time partner.

Blimey, protested Laura, don’t we leave questions like that at work? She focused pointedly on her tea then used the cup to tap George on the thigh. He was falling asleep in fits and starts and, as he did so, a deep rumble and an occasional splutter emanated from over Laura’s left shoulder. She turned to Simon, who lay full-length on the opposing sofa, stroking his thinning fair hair with his beer-free hand. So I take it work today was particularly dull? she quizzed.

Of course: you weren’t there. Simon’s lean, slightly pinched face slipped to mock despondency in a well-practised theatrical gesture. Tell me how to make advertising exciting and I’ll go and get your chips, Laura, and maybe even let you sleep with me again.

Laura sighed at the thought of sleep and her own bed. Simon had always been too restless a sleeper to make his mock offer even remotely appealing. I take it that you miss me terribly and still can’t bear to be without me?

"Ouch!"

If I were you, I’d quit, she responded bluntly. She took Simon’s concerted attempt to balance a beer can on his forehead as mute acceptance.

Anyway, you may be just about to lose your job, but I’ve got a new one. I take it none of you could be bothered to shift your arses to pick up the phone when I tried to call you earlier?

Sorry said Katie, bit of a heavy week. Tell us all about it then. Her moon face opened into a wide smile and her heavily painted eyelashes shifted a little closer to her brow.

George leant forward and tussled Laura’s hair. Well done, girl. Laura always found his rich base voice soothing and was aware that she was becoming just a tad jealous of Katie.

Well, Laura collected her thoughts, they’re called Tailwind Adventure. They want me to help them start up some new destinations. They’re part of the Carlton Travel Group now, which is apparently working to appeal to a more individualistic and thrill-seeking market, if you’ll forgive the corporate spiel. Thinking about it, perhaps you should have gone to the interview, Simon? She couldn’t help the sort of gentle dig that had once been so characteristic of their relationship.

Simon smiled, spilling beer from the forgotten can onto the carpet as he rolled towards her. So thrills and individualism equals you, does it?

Laura folded her arms. She hadn’t stopped to think about it from this perspective. What, exactly, would she bring to the role? She didn’t actually have a clue what it would entail.

Well, all I know is that they told me to look out my passport.

When do you start - I assume I’m going to be looking for a new flatmate if you’re working abroad? Katie raised another matter that Laura had yet to consider.

Apologetically, Laura levered herself up using George’s legs, who squealed in mock discomfort. Tottering sleepily, she blew him a goodnight kiss, winked mischievously at Katie, and patted Simon on the shoulder as she shuffled past him towards her bed. What had she got herself into? Hopefully things would seem clearer in the morning. As she finally closed her eyes, she rediscovered those from her close encounter on the Underground. Laura slipped away on a warm, but turbulent ocean of uncertainty.

Chapter Four

In dreams, Bristol

The telephone rang. Its insistent tone drifted from a far corner of the insurance office where David worked. In front of him was a balance sheet he could not balance, spending that he could not justify, the unwelcome results of an ill-considered decision he had long since forgotten. The papers multiplied in front of him and toppled to the floor. The ringing grew louder. People were laughing and shouting at him to pick up the phone. His boss thumped his desk, snatched the shrill instrument, shook it a few inches from David’s face then hurled it against a wall. As it smashed into a thousand pieces, David woke up.

He sat up in bed. The pallid light of morning was just beginning to usurp the sodium orange glow of a streetlight through his bedroom curtains. He studied the telephone on his bedside table, remembered Phoebe’s request, then realised that his sheets were soaked in sweat. He shuffled across to the cold but dry side which she would periodically occupy. For a long time he lay there in limbo.

David rolled over, grabbed a book and turned on his bedside light. It was a popular physics tome: an exploration of space for the curious, but uninitiated. Cosmology took David far from his own world, and that was the appeal. The stars felt like old friends, but today the text provided new directions in which his fears could grow. He shrank into a hidden extra dimension, the walls receding in every direction. The light from his bedroom curtains became a barely perceptible afterglow - background radiation from the time of the Big Bang. Adrenaline swept through his system as he tumbled back to his particular place in space-time. As on several previous occasions, he couldn’t figure out where, or even who, he had been.

The house felt particularly cold and empty as David finally staggered, semi-conscious, down the stairs to the kitchen and a bowl of children’s cereal for breakfast.