The Burning Hill

by A. D. Flint

  Jake had to make sure that didn’t happen.

  *

  Marinho

  Marinho came out of Nogueira’s kitchen door with a platter of skewered chicken hearts. Across the backyard, Adalto Osório de Farias Nogueira was salting cuts of good beef for the churrasqueira – the barbeque. The sun was bouncing around inside the high white walls and the huge spread of charcoal had burned through to a papery grey, beating out a ferocious heat.

  The churrasqueira was part of a brick-constructed lean-to topped with terracotta tiles in a corner of the yard. It was the only shaded area. Small paving tiles, a well-watered flowerbed and a tiny swimming pool made up the rest of the yard. There were plastic toys in the pool, some floating, some bumping the slimy bottom. Nogueira’s guests were taking refuge in the cool of the house.

  Out in a coastal suburb to the west of the famous beaches, it was modest enough to stay off the radar. And like all the houses in the neighbourhood, it was a fortress, electric wire topping the yard walls.

  Marinho laid his platter on the counter next to the barbeque. A young girl came out of the kitchen, stepping daintily over the tiles with a bottle of ice-cold beer in either hand. Her dark hair was loose and un-styled, her skin starting to break out, adolescence coming early.

  “An angel sent by God.” Nogueira grinned, wiping his hands on a cloth and taking one of the beers from her.

  “Sir?” the girl said, offering the other beer to Marinho.

  “Thank you.”

  Nogueira wiped his sweaty face on the sleeve of his tee shirt and put an arm around her. “This is Ana Lucia, my eldest grandchild. Say hello to Marinho, child.”

  “Hello, Seu Marinho.”

  “Tudo bom?” All good? Marinho asked.

  “Tudo bom,” she replied.

  “She’s just got herself into one of the best schools. Smart as a whip is my beautiful girl,” said Nogueira. “She’ll probably end up a judge.”

  “Being a judge sounds boring, Grandpa. Maybe I’ll be a policewoman or a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer?” Nogueira laughed. “What are you trying to do to your poor old grandpa? And you won’t make any money as a cop, child. No, you study hard, become a judge and help your grandpa to lock up the bad guys. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Good girl,” Nogueira said, kissing her on the top of her head. He handed her a used plate. “Can you run in with this and tell your grandma that I’m putting the meat on now?”

  Marinho stepped back from the heat of the barbeque while Nogueira watched his granddaughter for a few moments as she walked back to the house. “That young bitch lawyer has been whining in people’s ears like a mosquito.”

  “She can’t really do anything, can she?” asked Marinho.

  “Doesn’t seem like her family has any juice. But she’s making enough noise about the kid we got to irritate people up the chain, and the Commissioner is kicking that shit downhill,” Nogueira said. “It looks like she’s snared that dumbass gringo too.”

  His eyes were fierce. He tilted his head slightly as if that might give him a clearer look into Marinho’s soul. “I need to know something from you.”

  Nogueira broke eye contact, laying strips of beef on the barbeque, the fat hissing and spitting through the smoke. He went about his work silently and deliberately, standing back when he was done. Marinho knew that all the while he was trying to extend the gulf, to isolate him.

  “Are you with me?” he asked, turning back to Marinho.

  “Of course, boss. Always.”

  “Then why am I hearing whispers about you talking to people without checking in with me?”

  “I was just trying to shake something out on the kid who got away,” Marinho said, fighting to keep his manner casual. How the hell had Nogueira found out? Who would have told him?

  Nogueira turned the meat on the barbeque, using the silence again. He looked sidelong at Marinho. “And?”

  “Well, I found out a little about the kid, but I think…”

  “Marinho. Some friendly advice: never take me for a fool. I’ve been on the force twenty-five years on shitty pay with only the prospect of a shittier pension as long as I don’t take a bullet before I get there. We all need to make a little, but whatever game you play, you deal me in, understand?”

  “Yes, Chief, I’m sorry.”

  “That holier-than-thou brigade, assholes with too much money and too much time on their hands, they have no idea what it’s like for us. I’ve seen too many people killed, buried more of my friends than a man should. Killing makes me sick, you know that? For real, right here in my stomach.” Nogueira rubbed his round belly and swallowed, grimacing. “I don’t like it, but I will get my hands dirty if I have to. I protect myself and my family and the guys who stand with me. That’s it. That’s all that matters. Understand?”

  Marinho nodded.

  “Good. So what about Anjo? Did you speak to him or any of his guys?”

  “No, it was all real low level.” Marinho’s relief at telling the truth was at painful odds with his previous answers.

  “Well, Anjo is another one who’s forgotten the rules. The little shit is still refusing to cough up this getaway kid, Vilson, and I know he’s holed up in his favela. Our friend is eating turkey and burping pheasant these days.”

  Nogueira pressed his heavy barbeque fork into a lump of steak, blood oozing out, each drip onto the coals beneath producing a puff of steam and ash. He turned the fork on Marinho. “I need a result to take the sting out of this mess. You’re going to bring me the getaway kid – actually, any kid that you can fit up will do. That’s decided,” he added, his shoulders relaxing. “And then we’ll take care of Anjo.”

  “But, Chief, I can’t just march into the favela and grab him.”

  “You’ll have to figure a way. The Commissioner wants a head on a stick. This is how you learn your lesson. I look after you and for that I only ask loyalty in return. You do your time and I’ll put the word in with BOPE.”

  Marinho was desperate to make it into the elite police unit – Batalhão de Operações Policiais Especiais. BOPE guys were the special forces of the cop world. When regular cops were outgunned or too scared to go into a favela to shoot it out with a drug gang, they sent in BOPE. Feared in the favela, BOPE was respected outside as a unit of honest fighting men, free from corruption. But his only chance was if Nogueira protected his secret. If Nogueira chose to reveal it he would be thrown off the force altogether. Nogueira could cut the strings and let him fall any time he chose. And he could cut far more than strings.

  “Go get another beer, or have something stronger if you want – I’ve got some good whisky inside – enjoy yourself,” Nogueira said, immersed again in his sweaty barbequing. “Oh, I almost forgot to ask, are you training?”

  “Just light stuff and a bit of sparring, Chief.”

  “You might need to step it up – I’m talking to some people, trying to get you a good fight, understand?”

  When Marinho climbed into the octagon – or the cage as it was better known – he did it to build on his meagre savings, but he was going to have to line Nogueira’s pockets again. He nodded a show of gratitude.

  Chapter 12

  Vilson

  The party was dying down, but Vilson could still hear the thump of bass behind him as he crept down the darkest alleys of the favela. The bolt of fear that struck him each time he saw someone sitting in a doorway or walking toward him barely subsided before he saw the next person.

  He was near the bottom of the favela, the glow from the city’s street lights like a mist breaking over the line of corrugated-iron roofs. One more turn and he would see the exit of the alley onto the end of the smart residential street. He had chosen the quietest exit, the one least likely to be manned by one of Anjo’s lookouts on a party night.

  He saw a shadow move ahead. His legs jellied and he almost faltered. He forced himself to saunter on – he could not let himself look suspicious.

 
It was just a kid, no more than ten. He had something in his hand. Vilson guessed – he prayed – that it wasn’t a gun. The young ones usually made a show when they had one, waving it around and swaggering.

  He nodded to the kid as he approached. He could see now that it was a walkie-talkie. The kid lifted his chin in response, only one side of his face lit up by the sickly light washing up from the city street below. Vilson didn’t recognise him. He had a chance.

  “Oi Comandante,” – Hey Commander – Vilson said breezily, surprising himself. His jokey salutation had sounded pretty natural. He was a regular, chilled guy doing his thing.

  The kid tutted a relaxed brush-off.

  Vilson was past the checkpoint. Just a few more metres to go. The grubby little alley, rubbish rolling down its sides, ended and he was on the paving of the street. He turned right, his self-conscious saunter turning stiff and mechanical, like a smile held too long. He turned his head, eyes swivelling everywhere, looking for the cop.

  This was the agreed place. This street, only a short street, and the cop was nowhere. He went on a little further, stopped and ambled back awkwardly. He knew there would be security guards behind the spiked railings of the apartment-block lobbies watching him and silently urging him to move on from their strip of pavement before they were obliged to come out and confront him. He kept on moving up and down the street. At some point one of those security guards might just get twitchy enough to call the cops. Anjo’s sentry kid also might suddenly remember that he should have stopped and checked on Vilson before letting him pass. Every minute that went by increased the danger and Vilson was aware that there were a lot of minutes now. He chided himself. This was a bad place to meet. So close to the favela. He should have chosen a street a few blocks away. A volunteer worker for the church had come into the favela during the day and sought him out to tell him that Padre Francisco was arranging his escape. Both Vilson and the church volunteer had been terrified of being seen together, and this meeting place was the only one that Vilson’s scrambled mind had come up with in the few seconds before he had hurried away from the volunteer.

  Yes, this was a bad place to meet, but Vilson had got himself out of the favela clean, and now this cop was a no-show. It could be that the volunteer had got mixed up or maybe Padre Francisco had been suckered, and Vilson had been stupid enough to go along with it. It was always the same for people like him. And always hard to swallow.

  He caught a shadow on the corner thirty metres away. A movement. His heart skipped. A guy, moving quickly, hurriedly. The guy checked when he noticed Vilson, approaching more slowly now.

  He wasn’t dressed like a cop but he had the look. He stopped ten metres short of Vilson, his features hollow beneath the street lights.

  Vilson’s nod to the cop’s guarded greeting was as much code as was likely to pass between them.

  He saw the cop’s shoulders relax a little.

  There was a noise behind Vilson. A disturbance. He turned to look back toward the alley.

  Three figures spilled onto the street. One of them spotted him.

  “There! There he is.” The shrill cry came from Anjo’s sentry kid. They surged forward as one, the difference in heights making them look like a row of odd-sized bottles until the tallest pulled a pistol from his shorts and the other two fell back.

  Vilson recognised the point man striding toward him, an outstretched arm levelling the pistol at him. It was Franjinha, Anjo’s lieutenant. He felt something inside him collapse. He was done.

  He turned his head to Marinho and that seemed to stir the cop. He started toward Vilson.

  Franjinha halted and shifted his unsteady aim, the barrel weaving a confused little pattern like a moth around a light bulb. “You stop right there, fucker, or I will shoot you down,” he shouted at Marinho.

  Marinho obeyed, holding his hands up, palms out.

  “Bom menino,” – Good boy – Franjinha shouted. “Now turn around and walk away while you still can.”

  Marinho fell back, but only as far as the shadow of one of the trees.

  Vilson quailed as Franjinha stepped up, but he didn’t move from his spot. He was rooted. A dead man. He knew that the fate awaiting him up on the Burning Hill was infinitely worse than a bullet in the back, but still he could not run.

  Franjinha cocked his head, smiling his blank smile. He gave Vilson a backhanded flick across the face with his pistol, the sight catching Vilson on the outer edge of his brow.

  Vilson let the blow carry his head around without even wincing. The blood gathered for a moment in the split skin before running down the side of his face.

  “Let’s go, you sack of shit,” Franjinha said, steering Vilson toward the favela with a series of lazy kicks, sniffing and twitching his head. He looked back a couple of times to check Marinho wasn’t following and then mussed the hair of Tôca, the sentry kid. “You did well – sharp eyes, quick thinking, soldier.”

  *

  Anjo

  Franjinha and the kids got busy on mobiles and walkie-talkies as they climbed through the favela. By the time they broke out onto the scrubby hilltop bordered by tall grass and thorny bush, Anjo and most of his soldiers were there. There was no music in the favela now. A different kind of party was about to start. A couple of soldiers were staking paraffin torches in the ground. Anjo liked the spiritual feel they added.

  There was nothing spiritual in the things piled at his feet, but they would provide the theatre. Theatre that had gained notoriety well beyond the Babilônia favela.

  Any tiny, mangled vestige of hope that Vilson might have clung to was stripped away when he saw the things. He bucked and thrashed, his eyes rolling back.

  Franjinha had to kick the back of his knees to put him on the ground. A few kicks to ribs and kidneys and the fight was gone. Vilson lay still.

  “Good evening, brothers.” Anjo greeted them with a slack grin. As high as most of his troops, he was also mellow from the half bottle of cachaça he had drunk to take the edge off the coke. He had got the blend spot on tonight. Even so, he felt detached, piloting remotely, deliberating every movement.

  They pulled Vilson to his feet, the blood from his brow tracing jagged streaks down his face. Anjo placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.

  “Vilson and me, we go a long way back,” Anjo said, picking his way through the words. “We have taken different paths. I have achieved much, become powerful, despite the tests that God put in front of me. Vilson is not so strong, but I always tried to help him. That’s how I am.” He shrugged self-deprecatingly.

  He was getting a little lost in the eloquence of his words, feeling a genuine camaraderie toward Vilson.

  Vilson was a friend. Anjo’s eyes drifted off to the glowing strip of Copacabana beach far below them. Another world. A wayward friend.

  “I was generous, I gave Vilson time to pay his debt, and yet he chose to run. You don’t run from Anjo and his Red Ants.”

  A couple of the younger kids were beginning to yawn. Anjo had plenty more to say, but the thread had gone. And he didn’t want the kids to miss anything. It was the first time for some of them and he was keen to see which of them had the stomach for this stuff. He looked around, a slow sweep to acknowledge them all. Then he gave the signal for Franjinha to get started.

  Franjinha picked up two small jerrycans of petrol, getting one of the stronger teenage soldiers, Lagarto, to carry a length of chain and a bald old truck tyre, worn down to the canvas. Two more soldiers followed, dragging Vilson between them toward a little tree, the trunk and branches on the facing side charred, the foliage burned away, the other side somehow still living. There were waxy smears of yellowish human fat on the blackened trunk, streaky gobs of it amongst the charred crusts of rubber, bone and flesh at the base.

  Victims were bound to the tree with the chain, wrapping it round and round the tree trunk and the torso and legs. The chain was Franjinha’s idea after the rope they had used the first time had burned through, the guy collapsing
in an unsatisfying heap, sending Anjo into a rage.

  Securing the torso while leaving the arms free, Anjo could enjoy the spectacle as they jigged and clawed at the air and butted their head against the tree trunk. Usually there was screaming. Not always. The entertainment rarely lasted long. But there was one famous occasion with a tubby old guy, a community leader who had led a protest against the Red Ants. He had burned fiercely, and had gone for some minutes with one of his fists beating at his chest. Although weakening, this pathetic repetition had continued even as his living flesh burned off and charred. Even when he had finally become still the fist stayed at his chest until the gristle of the shoulder joint burned right through and the arm fell away.

  It had fascinated Anjo. He guessed it was probably some sort of death twitch, but he had made sure the story that was put about had the guy living through those horrific minutes.

  It wasn’t just the gruesome detail that had scored that burning into the local consciousness. The copious body fat had acted like tallow around a wick, still going long after the petrol had burned off, the thick, greasy stench of burning pork overpowering the acrid rubber smoke. It caught in the throat, as if the tiny droplets of fat in the smoke were congealing like a smear of gritty floor wax. It clung to every fibre of the surrounding homes for days. No one had craved meat that week.

  Lagarto was wrenching at the lid of one of the jerrycans, Franjinha squatting with a rag in his hands. He would douse the length of rag in petrol before tying it round Vilson’s head. With the tyre lying on the ground at the foot of the tree, they would slot his feet in and sluice it with petrol. The chain securing his legs against the tree trunk would stop him from kicking the tyre away. With experience, Anjo had figured out all the details to make it go just like he wanted.