GRINGA (6 page)

             
‘A
spy
?
Again
?
He’s still going on about that shit?
’

             
‘Yeah.’

             
‘I wasn’t a spy.’

             
‘
He
thinks you were.’

             
I shake my head. ‘
Imagine
,
I was murdered because of a case of mistaken identity. Fuck!’

             
‘We had the pleasure of meeting his family too. His
psycho
mother Christa and his
slutty
sister, Santana
.  Evil b
itches from hell
.
'

*
             
*
             
*

‘It’s too dangerous,’ my father says.

             
‘You’ll never make it,’
Austin
says.

             
I purse my lips and continue packing my stuff that
Paris
inherited. ‘I’m determined to leave
Mexico
, Diablo or no Diablo.
You guys can stay.’

             
‘Payton, it’s too dangerous,’
Austin
says. ‘Maybe wait a while for …’

             
I zip up a suitcase and pat it down.

             
‘Fine,’
Austin
says in a resigned voice, ‘we’ll leave after midnight.’

             
To my disappointment, my father does not offer to go with me. But I understand - he’s old and scared I guess.

             
Austin
appears thoughtful. ‘We’re gonna need the villagers help here. I’ll get Jack to organise that.’

             
I nod. ‘Thanks
Austin
.’

             
We
’re all
pack
ed
and
ready and I can hardly
wait for nightfall.
I’m
fighting to keep my eyes open, but I refuse to sleep.
I’ll sleep when I get to
America
. 

             
At 6 PM I
step outside
the house for some air and
look straight into Diablo’s hideous face.

             
As in my nightmares my scream lodges in my throat and as in my nightmares he towers
menacingly
over me. Déjà vu all around.

             
He has a posse - about twenty hairy, tattooed men and two women
,
all on horseback
all staring at me
. 

             
Diablo’s stares as i
f he’s seeing a ghost. ‘I though
t
I ki
l
l
ed
you,’ he says and grabs me by the neck. 

  
             
Like someone lost in a trance, I can only gape at him. He jabs a gun under my chin and sticks his puce face in mine. Imagine
,
I cheated death only to be killed again by the
same
monster. What are the odds of that?
Could my life suck any more?
             
             

             
‘Listen fucker,’ I hear myself say, ‘you got the wrong chick. I’m no spy, okay?’

             
Okay,
I’ve travelled for two days, I’m dehydrated, exhausted from the harsh mountain climb, my feet are shredded from the jagged rocks and I’ve probably got sunstroke
– my mind is AWOL.

  
             
His grip on my neck t
ightens and his gun jabs harder into my neck.

             
‘You wanna kill me? Do it. Just make sure you do it right
this
time, huh?’

    
             
Okay, I having one of those out-of-body-experiences
people talk
about.
Th
is can’t be me
asking this barbarian to kill me.
 

             
There is a collective gasp around us as surprise registers in his bloodshot eyes. I doubt anyone has ever spoken to the miserable, cranky bastard like this before.    

             
‘Why? Huh? Tell me why? Why the fuck are you so desperate to kill me, huh? What are you scared of?’ To my surprise, my voice is low, controlled, impatient, but not at all scared. ‘You that
afraid
of a chick, you actually have to kill her? Huh, you fucking shithead?’

             
The room is so quiet, for the first time I realise there is a grandfather clock around. Or is it my heartbeat? I can’t tell
right now
.

             
‘Apologize!’ My father shouts.

             
‘Fuck him!’ I say. ‘I’m not apologizing to this asshole!’

             
Diablo
’s bushy eyebrows shoot up and a wry smile appears on his
repugnant face.
He cocks his gun.
What’s worse than being shot in the chest by Diablo? His nine millimetre – cocked and cold under
my
chin. 

  
             
‘You think I’m scared to die, you bastard? I’m not. But you shot me three times and I’m still here. Back from the dead. How many times do you need to
try
before you give up, eh? Seriously Kong, you’re a lousy hit-man
.
I mean, look at me - I’m still
fucking
alive.’ Did I just say those things? I’m possessed for sure.

             
I feel his hold on my neck slacken
and I
’m
surprised
I still have my remaining four lives.

             
Then to my absolute horror, I slap him across the face. Th
is is
me
going nuts. Hav
ing a breakdown
, meltdown
–
whatever
the fuck you call it. If I survive this, I’m probably going to be institutionalised in the same mental hospital Enfermera escaped from.

             
The ticking of the grandfather clock sounds like a church gong now and I feel a prayer coming on.

             
As I walk t
o the …how do you say it? As I walk into the …As I walk t
hrough the valley of the shadow of death …

  
             
For seven long seconds nothing happens and I stare, mesmerised by his finger hovering
over
the trigger.
One tap of his
finger and I’m a
milagro
no more. Sobering thought - the kind that
forces you to
r
ace
to
the nearest public restroom.

 
             
Then I hear the sound of guns being cocked behind him.
I look past him at his men. They want to
kill me themselves.

             
‘
You
are going to get
ripped to shreds,
gringa,
’ one of his men
says
.

             
Oh, I believe him. I really do. 

             
I look past Diablo and see my family
’
s horrified faces.
E
laine’s hands are across her mouth, while my dad gapes with hands on top of his head. As for
Austin
- he looks the colour of fresh cement, while
Paris
chews furiously on her talons, her shoulders locked into a hunch.
 

   
             
From the corner of my eye I see Carvil, a village elder get on his knees and place his forehead to the ground, probably to pray for my soul that is heading for hell anytime now.

             
To my absolute astonishment, Diablo slowly lowers his gun, his eyes fixed on mine.

             
The older woman
  Christa, who must be his mother,
steps forward and shoves her gun in my cheek.  

             
That hurts.
Did she not see me slap him?

             
‘
I am going to turn you into a tea strainer,’
she says, a sinister smile on her face.

             
They have tea strainers in
Mexico
?

             
Dia
blo
snaps at her in Spanish
. R
eluctantly
she
lowers her gun, her eyes hard and blazing.

             
‘
L
et me shoot her, Diablo
,’ she says. ‘Please.
’

             
‘
Si
, shoot the gringa, Diablo,’ the younger woman says.
This must be the slutty sister,
Santana
. Slowly, she circles me and taps her riding crop on her palm. Her
eyes
are
narrow, her nostrils flaring.
‘She got no respect.’