Evil Machines (14 page)

‘Give me that!’ said the leader, once again in Spanish, and tried to take the briefcase out of Orville’s hand.

But Orville was very attached to his briefcase, and he wasn’t going to give it up to just anyone in any old jungle, simply because they were carrying a machine gun.

‘Give it to me!’ shouted the man, as he pulled at the briefcase. Orville Barton pulled it back, whereupon the man pulled it back again, and pretty soon they were doing

‘push-me–pull-you’ faster than the connecting rods on the wheels of a train.

‘How dare you!’ exclaimed Orville Barton. ‘This is my briefcase!’ And he redoubled his efforts to hold on to it, but so too did the other man, and if they had actually been the connecting rods on the wheels of the train they would have been doing a hundred miles an hour as they pulled and pushed and pushed and pulled.

Now Orville Barton was a man who was used to quality. He always bought the most expensive things on offer. If he had to choose between a pair of shoes for £80 and a pair of shoes for £380 he would always choose the latter even if he knew they were identical shoes. That way, he felt, he could always rest assured that he had the best.

But occasionally a tradesman pulled a fast one on him and sold him inferior goods at an inflated price. The briefcase, for example, had cost £1,149.99, and he had been assured that it was hand-made in Scotland from organic antelope hide. In fact it had been made in China from some cow skins. The leatherwork was actually of a very high standard, but the catch was not. And out here in the Amazon jungle, under the pressure of an armed guerrilla (for that is what they were) trying to wrest the briefcase from Orville Barton’s grasp, it was the catch that gave up and broke.

The briefcase flew open and the contents spilled out all over the guerrillas’ encampment. The effect of this on the guerrillas was remarkable: they suddenly dropped their weapons and started chasing here, there and everywhere over the encampment retrieving Orville Barton’s belongings. ‘Very nice of them!’ you might think, but don’t,

because the contents of Orville Barton’s briefcase consisted of the one thing that everyone in the world would chase after: money.

The fact of the matter is that Orville Barton had been on his way to Manchester to finish a crucial business deal. It was the kind of deal that did not sit comfortably with cheques and credit cards and promissory banker’s notes. It was better done in hard cash. And that is what was in his briefcase: thousands and thousands of pounds in used £50 notes.

From her hiding place, Annie watched as the men ran around snatching at the notes that blew about the clearing like autumn leaves. She had never seen so much cash all at once, and she felt strangely uncomfortable to know that her father had been carrying so much in his briefcase.

Eventually the men collected every last bank note, and – here’s a curious thing – instead of rushing off to the nearest bar (which was admittedly 200 miles away) to spend their ill-gotten gains, they carefully placed them back in the briefcase, and snapped it shut again. In the meantime, two of the men had pinioned her father’s arms behind him, while another tied a blindfold over his eyes. And before you could say ‘Django!’ they had marched him out of the clearing and disappeared into the jungle.

Meanwhile the rest of the guerrillas had started to examine the train: they were peering into the windows and trying to open the doors.

‘Oh no, you don’t!’ exclaimed the train, and it locked them all, reared up like a stallion, shook those guerrillas off as if they were fleas on a dog’s back, and charged, across the campfire, across the clearing and straight into the jungle again.

The guerrillas lay where they had fallen and gaped as they watched the train disappear into the tangles of the forest.

Orville Barton, meanwhile, found himself being marched through the jungle, blindfolded. His captors steered him through the dense vegetation, but even so he stumbled and tripped more times than he didn’t. It was the most uncomfortable journey he had ever made in his life, and what made it doubly unpleasant for him was the fact that he was powerless to do anything about it.

After some time, they stopped. His captors removed the blindfold and Orville found himself standing outside a small hut, in front of which a pleasant-looking man in spectacles was sitting reading a book entitled:
Post-Capitalist Re-organization of the Global Economy
. He stood up as they approached, and put his book down on the table. There was a short exchange in Spanish, and the man in spectacles turned to Orville.

‘Mr Barton,’ he said in almost flawless English, ‘I am surprised that you decided to come in person . . . I did not think you would be bothered by such a trivial matter.’

His words somehow seemed mocking, although Orville had no idea what he was talking about. At that moment one of the guerrillas placed Orville’s briefcase carefully on the table.

‘Ah . . . let us check everything is in order first,’ said the man in spectacles, and he sat down again at the table and proceeded to open the briefcase.

‘That’s my briefcase!’ cried Orville, but the man was already counting the money it contained. ‘Who are you?’ asked Orville.

‘Sh!’ said the man in spectacles. ‘You’ll make me lose count.’ And he went on counting out the notes into neat piles.

‘I demand an explana . . .’ Orville began, but he was at that moment reminded that he was not in a position to demand anything by a blow on the head. He sank to his knees, and the scene before him seemed to turn to liquid for a moment, and swirled around a bit before eventually solidifying again.

‘That seems to be all correct . . .’ The man in spectacles was now smiling at Orville. ‘In fact it is slightly more than we were expecting! But it’s all in a good cause!’

‘The Great Cause!’ chanted the others – who apparently also spoke English.

‘And, Mr Barton, I want you to know that we are men of honour . . . unlike some . . .’ said the leader.

‘Los Cojones!’ shouted the others accusingly, and shook their guns, so that Orville felt glad he wasn’t one of ‘Los Cojones’ – whoever they were.

‘We will always stick to our word,’ resumed the man in spectacles. ‘I want you to tell the world that.’ He then made a sign to one of the others, who disappeared into the hut.

‘How do you know my name?’ asked Orville Barton. ‘What is all this?’ The words had scarcely left his lips, however, before the answer presented itself. A young man was hustled out of the hut. His hands were tied, and he was frowning.

‘So they got you too, did they?’ he muttered.

Orville Barton took a step back. ‘Jack! What on earth are you doing here?’

‘If you’d taken my phone calls, you’d have known what

I’m doing here!’ exclaimed his son. ‘I tried to phone you time and time again – ever since I was captured by these guerrillas . . .’

‘Freedom fighters!’ put in the man in spectacles.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jack, ‘these freedom fighters. But you were always too busy to speak or even to return my calls. So now you’ll finally get to spend time with your son!’

‘Jack, I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, old boy,’ said the guerrilla leader. ‘Your father has come to pay your ransom,’ and he opened up the briefcase.

Jack looked at the money and then back at his father, who was, for the moment, too astonished to speak.

‘I . . . I . . . I beg your pardon, Dad,’ said Jack. ‘I really didn’t think you cared . . .’

‘He cares enough to come in person!’ smiled the guerrilla leader, who, despite his profession, had a soft heart. His name was Gomez Ortega. He had been brought up by his mother in the town of Ibagué, as his father had run away from home at an early age. Gomez Ortega had missed not having a father, and had always secretly thought that it was his own fault that his father had left.

‘Why did father run away?’ he would ask his mother.

‘Because he was too young,’ his mother would reply.

‘But I am even younger, and yet I shall not run away from you, mother,’ he would say.

‘You are a good boy,’ his mother would say, and then change the subject.

Gomez Ortega patted Orville Barton’s son, Jack, on the back. ‘You are lucky!’ he said. ‘I wish I had had such a caring father.’

‘I still can’t believe you came all this way here, Dad, to pay my ransom!’ he said. ‘You normally get one of your assistants to deal with me and Annie.’

Orville felt yet another wave of emotion that he didn’t recognize . . . if he hadn’t been such a successful businessman he might have realized that the feeling was shame. But now the guerrilla leader was smiling all over his face.

‘Let us sit down and celebrate this successful business with a cup of mint tea,’ suggested Gomez Ortega. ‘But do not forget to tell the world that we are Men of our Word.’

‘But why the change of heart, Father?’ persisted Jack. ‘What’s made you suddenly so concerned about me?’

‘Don’t ask why!’ cried Gomez Ortega. ‘Just be grateful that he is!’

‘No!’ replied Jack. ‘He can’t have just changed a lifetime’s habit for no reason. I want to know what’s in it for him.’

‘Have I really neglected you so badly?’ asked Orville humbly.

‘You never came home on my birthday, even when you and Mum were together!’ exclaimed Jack.

‘I was always away on important business,’ mumbled Orville. ‘Otherwise I would have done.’

‘And then you . . . you cut us out of your life!’ exclaimed Jack.

‘I . . . I . . . didn’t mean to . . .’

‘So what’s made you suddenly the loving father? I bet you didn’t even know I’d been working in South America for two years!’

Orville looked at his son, and then at the guerrilla leader, who was watching them both with mounting anxiety. The

successful businessman felt all his usual confidence draining out of him, and he suddenly started to feel sorry for himself. Yes! Orville Barton, the rich, charismatic, and ruthless man of business felt pity for the wretched creature that he really was.

‘Why can’t my son love me like normal sons do?’ he wondered to himself. ‘Why does he have to suspect my motives like this?’

And as he thought that, all the problems of the day suddenly overwhelmed him. It was all so unfair. It had started out as an ordinary business day like any other, and then the moment he’d got on that wretched train it had started to go wrong.

And now the frustration and anger all boiled out.

‘I didn’t want to come here!’ cried Orville. ‘All I wanted was to go to Manchester! I’ve a crucial deal going through there! That’s what the money’s for! It’s not for
you
!’

That’s what Orville Barton yelled at his son in the middle of the Amazon rain forest, surrounded by guerrillas. There was a terrible silence.

‘I’m sure he doesn’t mean that!’ said the guerrilla leader.

‘I feel sorry for you,’ said Jack. ‘I really do.’

‘You didn’t really mean that did you, Mr Barton?’ The guerrilla leader turned to Orville.

‘No. Yes,’ said Orville. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Here!’ shouted Jack. ‘You can take your money back where it came from!’ and he suddenly grabbed the briefcase of banknotes and threw it at his father.

‘Oh now let’s not be hasty!’ said Gomez Ortega, snatching the briefcase back again.

‘I’d rather stay a hostage, than be treated like someone who doesn’t exist!’ shouted Jack.

‘I have important things to do!’ yelled Orville.

‘Exactly!’ yelled Jack. ‘And rescuing me isn’t one of them!’

‘Yes! Yes! Of course it is!’ exclaimed the guerrilla leader anxiously.

‘I’m staying here!’ shouted Jack.

‘Fine!’ shouted his father. ‘I’ll get on with my business!’

‘No! No! No!’ shouted the guerrilla leader, and turned to Jack. ‘You can’t stay here!’

‘What d’you mean!’ shouted Jack. ‘You’ve been
keeping
me here against my wishes all these months!’

‘Yes, but now the ransom has been paid,’ said the guerrilla leader to Jack, ‘you can’t stay here any more. It just isn’t done! We are Men of Our Word!’

‘Let me join you!’ shouted Jack. ‘I’m fed up with being a computer programmer! I’ll become a guerrilla instead!’

‘No! No!’ said Gomez Ortega. ‘We must return you to your family and loved ones. The world must
know
that we are Men of our Word!’

At that moment there was a terrible crashing sound in the jungle. Everybody froze. The roaring and crashing got closer and closer and the next minute the train suddenly smashed its way into the clearing, and screeched to a halt in front of the guerrilla leader. Gomez Ortega didn’t flinch. He stood his ground and glared at the huge engine.

‘What is this?’ he asked.

‘That is the cause of all my problems!’ cried Orville Barton. ‘That is the machine that has turned my life upside down!’

The rest of the guerrillas and Jack had all scattered when the train arrived, but now they cautiously ventured back.

‘Did this train bring you here, Señor Barton?’ asked Gomez Ortega.

‘Indeed it did! Damn the thing!’ replied Orville Barton.

‘Then it can now take you and your son back to your home, where I hope you will grow to understand each other, and where, I trust, a mutual affection will blossom between you like flowers on a dry cactus,’ said the guerrilla leader. He nodded to his men, and they hustled Jack and his father on to the train.

‘But I want to stay here!’ cried Jack, as one of the guerrillas slammed the carriage door shut behind him.

‘Wait a minute!’ cried the guerrilla leader. ‘I almost forgot!’

Jack looked out of the window hopefully. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘Your father needs this!’ exclaimed Gomez Ortega, pushing a piece of paper into his hands.

‘Oh . . .’ said Jack.

‘What is it?’ asked Orville Barton, taking the piece of paper from his son.