Emilio

by Sophie Masson

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ The old man looked curiously at Emilio. ‘So, what’s up, eh?’

  ‘No – nothing.’ He held out his hand for the envelope.

  ‘Have you been washing the dishes, Emilio?’ Señor Santiago said, glancing at Emilio’s gloved hands as he handed over the envelope. He laughed. ‘What a pleasant surprise for your mamá.’

  ‘No – er, yes,’ said Emilio. ‘Won’t you – won’t you please come in?’

  ‘No, I—’ Señor Santiago caught sight of Juanita and Castro, and his eyes bulged. He stammered, ‘What – what has happened?’

  ‘Please come and sit down, Señor,’ said Castro. ‘We just need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Questions?’ repeated the old man, allowing himself to be led to a seat. ‘Who are you? What’s this about?’

  The policeman identified himself and went on, ‘I want to ask you some questions, Señor. ‘He gestured for Emilio to hand him the envelope, having pulled on a pair of gloves himself. ‘Can you describe to me who brought you this?’

  The old man shot a look at Emilio, at Juanita. ‘He – he was just ordinary.’

  ‘How, ordinary? Young, old, middle-aged? Tall, small, fat, thin? Dark, fair, dressed well or badly?’

  ‘I . . . I – well, he was young. Early twenties, maybe younger. Thin. Dark eyes. Dark hair, cut short, one of those razor-cuts.’

  ‘Any distinguishing features?’

  ‘Distinguish – oh, no. His face – it was just ordinary.’

  ‘What sort of accent did he have?’

  ‘He didn’t speak. Just handed me the envelope and left.’

  ‘His hands were bare?’ There was hope in the policeman’s voice.

  ‘No. He wore gloves – you know, the kinds of gloves motorbike riders wear. I assumed he was one of those motorcycle couriers. They’ve come here before to deliver things.’

  ‘But you hadn’t seen this one before?’

  ‘No, but then they change staff so often, those people.’ He looked anxiously at Juanita, at Emilio. ‘But what is this about? And where – where is Señora Lopez?’

  Before either of them could answer, the policeman said, ‘One moment. His clothes. What was he wearing?’

  ‘Jeans. A jacket.’

  ‘Colour, type?’

  ‘Blue jeans. Black leather jacket. The rest – I don’t know.’

  ‘No logos or brands or symbols?’ the policeman said.

  Señor Santiago shook his head. He said, ‘Nothing. Not that I saw, anyway.’

  ‘We’ll need you to come to the station, to help the police artist draw up an identity sketch.’

  ‘An identity sketch!’ The caretaker’s eyes widened. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Señora Lopez has disappeared. We believe she’s been kidnapped.’

  Shock flooded the old man’s face. ‘Madre de Dios! Kidnapped!’

  All this while, Emilio had been half-listening to the interview, half-looking at the envelope in the policeman’s hands. He longed for Castro to open it. Yet he wished he wouldn’t. He needed to know what was in it, and yet he was terrified of what it might contain. Now, as the policeman slit open the envelope, his heart beat so fast and so loudly he was sure everyone could hear. He felt Juanita’s hand on his shoulder tremble. Somehow that made him feel a little better.

  With three pairs of eyes fixed on him, the policeman carefully pulled a single sheet of paper from the envelope. On it was a single printed paragraph. He read it out, slowly, each word piercing Emilio’s mind like a red-hot needle

  We have Señora Gloria Mendoza Lopez. She is safe and in good health and will remain so as long as our instructions are followed exactly. First, open an email account with this address and password . . . Here Raúl Castro broke off. He looked at Emilio. ‘I will brief Officer Torres later on the rest, and have this examined as evidence,’ he said. ‘For the moment, it is enough to know your mother is unharmed. He turned to the caretaker. ‘Señor, we would appreciate it if you would say you know nothing if any neighbours start asking questions. Nothing at all, do you understand?’

  Señor Santiago nodded and crossed himself, murmuring, ‘And may the Virgin grant she stays safe,’ and he put a hand on Emilio’s shoulder. ‘I am so sorry, Emilio, so very sorry.’

  A wave of mixed relief and fear washed over Emilio. His mother was unharmed – but how long would she continue to be? Why had these people taken her?

  Chapter 4

  All the way to Tía Isabel’s in the police car, Emilio sat silent. Earlier, he’d been able to ask questions. Now the shock had really set in. His brain felt frozen, his body disconnected. When the police car pulled up outside the Torres family’s apartment block, he got out obediently, and waited while Juanita hauled his bag from the boot, then followed her and Castro into the building.

  ‘Oh my poor Milo!’ Tía Isabel exclaimed when she saw him. She wrapped him in a big hug. Her hazel eyes, so like her elder daughter’s, were puffy and rather red, but she tried to smile as she led him into the apartment. ‘You’ll be safe here. Vicente’s on his way from work, he’ll be here soon. Luz!’ she called out to her youngest daughter, Emilio’s other cousin, who was hovering in the background. ‘Take Emilio’s bag.’

  ‘You’ll be in the spare room,’ Luz gabbled, leading him down the passage, ‘we’ve just made the bed. Mamá will make something to drink and . . . ’

  ‘Please, Tía,’ Emilio whispered, ‘do you think I could – I could just sit in the bedroom a moment, by myself? I just need . . . ’

  ‘Of course,’ said his aunt, kissing his cheek. ‘Come on then, Luz, let’s give Emilio some peace. And when you’re ready . . . ’

  ‘Yes. I’ll come out. Thank you,’ said Emilio. When they’d left, he sat on the bed, hugging one of the bright cushions, trying desperately to hold on to some semblance of calm. He must stay strong. If he didn’t, then he’d be no use to his mother. And he was determined to be, somehow. He didn’t know how. Not yet.

  How long he sat there, he wasn’t sure, but by the time he roused himself and went back to the living room, Raúl Castro had gone, and Juanita was talking in a low voice to her mother and sister. They looked up when he came in.

  ‘Are you feeling better, cielito?’ his aunt said.

  He nodded.

  ‘Good. You must not worry too much.’ Her words were reassuring, but her red-rimmed eyes told a different story. ‘It’s all in good hands. Juanita says that policeman has much experience in these matters.’

  Much experience in these matters . . . A little tremor went through Emilio. A terrifying world had come crashing into his own, and if he thought about it too much he would be overwhelmed. So he must not think about it. He must keep a clear head.

  Luz patted the sofa next to her. ‘Come and sit down, Milo,’ she whispered. This wasn’t the everyday Luz, with her messy hair and loud voice, but a big-eyed, alarmingly quiet and gentle version of her.

  He sat down and, trying to keep his voice steady, said, ‘What – what happens next, Juanita?’

  ‘The email account mentioned in that note – that has to be created, with the username and password provided,’ explained Juanita. ‘Señor Castro said that’s where the messages from the kidnappers will be left. Of course, as they made up the username and password, they can access it easily. But because it’s not the kidnappers who have physically created the account, they can’t be traced.’

  ‘But when they send messages,’ said Luz, frowning, ‘won’t they have to send it from a different account that can be traced?’

  ‘No,’ said Juanita. ‘The note said that messages will be created in the account itself and left in the draft box instead of the inbox. And that means we have to use the same method – we can’t send an email from that account to another but will have to reply using the draft box too. It’s clever – and pretty much untraceable. But there’ll be other avenues of investigation. You’ll see. And the negotiator will help us.’

  ‘The negotiato
r? Who’s that?’ asked Emilio.

  ‘Someone experienced in these matters, lent by the Federales to help us,’ said Juanita.

  Emilio said, ‘But the note was addressed to us, and sent to our apartment. Those people – they must expect us to answer, not someone else.’

  Juanita nodded. ‘They do. And that’s why it must look as though it comes from us. But the negotiator will advise us on what to say and do. In theory, the Federal Police can’t be officially involved in ransom negotiations. In practice, someone usually helps to advise the families privately.’

  ‘Oh. So will it be Señor Castro?’

  ‘No. He’s an investigator, not a negotiator. We don’t know who it will be yet. But we’re to meet them tomorrow morning. If there’s any communication from the kidnappers before then, we’ll be informed immediately, of course.’

  At that moment, the front door banged open, and an instant later Tío Vicente walked into the room.

  Emilio’s uncle was a large, jovial man with a booming voice and normally a big smile. Not today. He looked grey, his face drawn. Hurrying into the room, he hugged Emilio and shook his hand, up and down. ‘So sorry, hombre. So sorry.’

  Emilio gulped and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Tío Vicente growled, ‘We’ll get those pendejos, you’ll see, Milo.’

  ‘Chente!’ said Tía Isabel, automatically reproving him for swearing. But no one took any notice, least of all Emilio. Inside him, suddenly, fear was morphing into anger, into a wild fury. He imagined the pendejos, those rotten bastard kidnappers, on the ground in front of him, helpless, begging for mercy, and himself kicking them, over and over again till they stopped moving. They were faceless to him, inhuman, scum of the earth. He clenched his fists. ‘I wish I was an adult. I wouldn’t go by their rules. I wouldn’t do as they said. I’d hunt them down, I’d kill them for what they’ve . . . ’ But the words choked him, he couldn’t bring any more out past the lump in his throat, and instead he just howled, the sounds tearing out of him.

  Chapter 5

  Emilio hardly touched his dinner, even though it was Tía Isabel’s legendary albondigas, meatballs, and tres leches cake – a super-delicious cake which normally he’d have gobbled down in no time. After dinner, the whole family joined in a rosary of prayers, begging the Virgin and all the saints to protect Emilio’s mother and bring her home safe. Emilio felt a little calmer, and back in his room, he clutched his mother’s medal to him and whispered more prayers for her safety. Afterwards he fell into a restless, dream-haunted sleep.

  In the morning, he woke to find it was already nine o’clock. Jumping out of bed, he checked his phone. He had messages. Just not from his mother, the one person he really wanted to hear from.

  Meet tomorrow? read Sergio’s text, while Pablo had sent him a picture message, showing the beach and Beatriz in the distance, in a white bikini. Jealous yet? was the caption. From his mother, silence. Emilio sent a quick text to Sergio, Can’t, sorry, and another, Enjoy, to Pablo, because if he didn’t answer they might call him, and he didn’t feel like talking to them. He’d have to tell them, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

  It was Saturday, but nobody else in the family had slept in. They were all up already, waiting for news. Waiting for the negotiator to show up with Castro, who’d called just a short while before.

  This is the new normal, Emilio thought as he swallowed his breakfast eggs, cake and hot chocolate. A special breakfast. Everyone being super-nice to each other. It had a sinister holiday feel to it, a sense that real life had stopped, or at least paused.

  ‘I called your grandfather in Mérida,’ Tía Isabel said gently. ‘I thought he should know. He is family. Despite everything.’

  Emilio nodded. His father’s father, Juán Garcia Lopez, and his mother had never seen eye to eye, and after Emilio’s father Jorge died their relationship had become even more distant.

  ‘He offered to help with money, but he also wanted to know if you would like to go and stay there for a while. It’s a lot safer down there in the south-east, he says. And he’s probably right.’

  ‘No,’ said Emilio sharply. ‘I’m staying here in Mexico City. I want to. I have to! To do anything else – it would feel like running away!’

  ‘That’s what I said to him. He understood. He said he’d call you soon, and that he was thinking of you.’

  There was a lump in Emilio’s throat. He remembered his grandfather and his mother having a terrible fight about where Jorge was to be buried: in the family plot in Mérida, or in Mexico City. Juán Lopez had won, and since then he and Emilio’s mother had barely spoken. Emilio got on well with his grandfather and went to stay with him sometimes. He wasn’t the hard, cold man Gloria thought he was. He was just proud, and found it hard to express his softer feelings.

  ‘There’s a taxi pulling up just outside.’ Luz was at the living-room window, looking down into the street. ‘Maybe it’s them. Oh.’

  ‘What’s up?’ said Emilio, knocking over his cup in his rush to get to the window too.

  Two people were getting out of a taxi down in the street. Castro, in plain clothes this time, and another person, also in plain clothes: a young woman of about Juanita’s age, dressed casually in a flowery top, jeans and sandals.

  ‘She hardly looks old enough to be in the police, let alone be a negotiator with important duties,’ grumbled Tío Vicente behind them.

  ‘Hush, Chente,’ said Tía Isabel sharply. ‘You’re not helping, with that kind of talk.’

  ‘What kind of talk helps anyway, woman?’ growled her husband. ‘This is a very serious situation and they’re about to inflict a little girl on us to advise us how to negotiate with dangerous criminals. Why not have just left it all to our daughter, if that was the case?’

  ‘Oh, thanks very much, Papá,’ said Juanita sarcastically. ‘Glad you think so highly of my skills.’

  ‘Stop it, both of you!’ said Tía Isabel. ‘Now’s not the time to quarrel, when—’ She halted as the entry phone buzzed.

  Emilio’s heart started pounding. It’s like yesterday, he thought wildly. Except now I know. Now I know it’s not Mamá there. It’s not going to be Mamá for a long . . . Shut up, he told himself fiercely, shut up. Yesterday you went to pieces. Today you are not going to. Do you understand, you tonto, fool? You have to stand tall. To be strong. You have to be a man, not a frightened little boy.

  He caught Luz’s eye. She mouthed, ‘You scared?’

  He shook his head fiercely.

  ‘I am,’ she said quietly, and just then the knock came at the door.

  Next to Raúl Castro, the young woman looked tiny, and her button-black eyes and black, dead-straight hair cut in a fringe gave her a rather doll-like appearance. But the gaze from those bright eyes was steely, her handshake firm and her voice sharp as a blade as she said, ‘Good morning. My name is Alda Jiménez, and I am the appointed negotiator.’

  Her calm manner steadied everyone right from the beginning, and as Castro described how she’d been involved in several successful cases, they began to feel better. He explained, ‘As agents of the Federal Police, we are forbidden to enter into any ransom negotiations – I can only investigate the kidnap itself. Alda cannot officially deal directly with the kidnappers either – we keep our negotiators’ identities secret for their own protection. But she will provide advice, coaching and support to you at every step of the way.’

  ‘It’s best if nobody knows I have anything to do with the police,’ explained Alda. ‘And as I will need to visit you frequently – perhaps even stay with you – till this situation is resolved, we must come up with a suitable story to explain my presence here to any curious neighbours.’

  Juanita said, ‘Mamá, how about if she poses as one of our Nicaraguan cousins, come to visit? Everyone knows you have relatives there but no one has met them.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a good idea,’ said her mother. ‘But how would you feel about it?’ she asked Alda. ‘You’d need to stay here.’

 
; ‘All the better, as long as it suits you,’ the young woman replied. Her serious face broke into a darting smile. ‘I can easily do a Nicaraguan accent. I have a good friend who comes from there.’

  ‘Then that’s settled. Excellent,’ said Castro. ‘Now, let’s get to work. Officer Torres, start up your computer. Go ahead, Alda, tell them where we’re at.’

  As Juanita booted up her laptop, Alda came straight to the point. ‘This morning, the kidnappers sent their first message, with their demand. More importantly, they provided proof of life.’ She saw their expressions and explained, ‘It’s always the first stage. There is no point in proceeding otherwise.’

  Emilio trembled at these words. Luz moved closer to him.

  Alda brought up a photo on her screen. ‘It was sent as an attachment to the message in the draft box. I downloaded it here so you could see it immediately. As you’ll notice, it was taken this morning.’

  They all crowded around her to see. And there on the small screen was a photo of Emilio’s mother, staring straight at them. She was dishevelled, had a bruise on one cheek and a small cut on her forehead, but the expression in her eyes was defiant. She was holding up the front page of a newspaper with the day’s date on it.

  ‘Those bastardos have hurt her,’ growled Tío Vicente, clenching his fists.

  ‘But look at her. She’s so brave! She is not about to give up,’ cried Juanita.

  Luz looked at Emilio. ‘Isn’t she amazing?’ she said quietly.

  Emilio couldn’t answer. What he was feeling was too big for words. It was made up of overwhelming relief and love, but also hate – burning hate for the cowardly, faceless creatures who for their own twisted reasons had hurt her, had forced his brave mother to do their will. He couldn’t stop looking at his mother’s face, but couldn’t trust himself to speak.

  ‘So,’ said Tío Vicente. ‘She’s alive. And that’s wonderful. But now tell us, why have the scum taken her? What do they want?’