Silence Is Golden

by Robert Thier

  ‘Pobre então bastardo.’ The soldier who had stepped in our way glanced at us, shaking his head. ‘A sua vida não vale uma merda agora.’[13]

  ‘And now?’

  Mr Ambrose threw me a look. ‘He’s saying that we look like decent folk and should be treated well.’

  ‘Oh, indeed?’

  I didn’t know much Portuguese, but the word ‘bastardo’ hardly required translation.

  ‘Indeed, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Well, thank you so much for reassuring me, Mr Ambrose, Sir. I feel much better now.’

  ‘Go on!’ Costa ordered in broken English, grabbing me by the scruff of the neck. ‘To cells with you! Adiante!’

  I had been right - we were on a wide, open plain. And not far from the edge of the jungle, buildings rose into the sky. Ruins, from what I could see of them by starlight, some still smoking. But there were a few left intact, and to one of those we were now being herded. The rope that bound us together was cut, the ones around our wrists remaining. Someone grabbed me and began to drag me away. Only then did I realise they meant to separate us. I started to struggle, trying to reach out to Mr Ambrose - but the next moment, something very hard and painful hit my head, and everything sank into blackness.

  Well, was my last thought before I drifted off into oblivion, at least now I’ll be getting a good night’s sleep.

  *~*~**~*~*

  When I awoke, I found that the hospitality of the Brazilians went beyond all my wildest dreams. My kind hosts had not only tied me to a chair, no, they had set up that chair under a mould-riddled, leaky ceiling from which an impressive amount of foul-smelling liquid dropped onto my head. The walls weren’t mere wood or concrete, no, they were ancient masonry with vintage rusty iron rings set into the stone, in which one could just picture a slowly rotting skeleton. There were decorous cobwebs in the corners of the windowless room, and by the light of the torch set into a wall bracket, I could see a ballet of rats performing for me on the floor. This wasn’t just a measly little cell, like the ones I had sometimes occupied back home in London. No, this was a genuine, bona fide dungeon! I had to admit, I was impressed. These Brazilians really knew how to treat tourists. Now, all that was missing was a torturer.

  From somewhere, I could hear footsteps approaching. Craning my neck, I was just able to glimpse a door out of the corner of my eye. Keys rustled. The door swung open, and in stepped a heavyset man wearing a uniform, a ferocious scowl, and bloodstained gloves on his hands.

  ‘Ah.’ I nodded. ‘There you are.’

  ‘Eh?’ The man’s scowl grew even more ferocious. ‘What’s this bastardo babbling about?’

  The door opened wider, and my old friend, the officer, stepped inside, his eyes sparkling with the same cold, calculating malice. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Our friend here has been expecting us.’

  I raised my chin and tried to stare down at my captor with cool composure. Considering I was tied to a chair, the staring-down part turned out to be rather difficult to accomplish.

  ‘Indeed I have.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have expected any less.’ Sketching a bow, the officer raked me with his calculating gaze. ‘Colonel Alberto Silveira, officer of the armed forces of the Empire of Brazil, at your service.’ He smiled. ‘I would not advise you to take this civility too literally.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning to.’

  ‘An intelligent young man. Very well, then. Let’s cut straight to the chase, shall we? I have had a talk with the general, and he fully agrees with my assessment of the situation. You three are rebel spies sent to spy on our troop movements, or possibly even saboteurs. And you will tell me everything about your mission objectives, what you have learned so far and what kind of sabotage you still have planned!’

  I stared at the man - then looked down at myself. Tailcoat, shiny waistcoat, pocket watch, striped trousers… I had lost my bowler hat somewhere and was somewhat less than perfectly clean, but apart from that you could have plucked me straight from the streets of London.

  ‘Is this what a rebel spy usually looks like?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Colonel Silveira didn’t seem impressed by my argument. ‘Disguise! Bah! I do not know why a rebel might feel the need to appear like a ridiculous, fat little Englishman-’

  ‘Hey! Just a minute! Who are you calling fat?’

  ‘-but if you think you can throw me, Colonel Alberto Silveira, off the scent with a trick like that, you must be mad!’

  ‘I told you, we are no spies! We are travellers from England! Citizens of the British Empire! That is all!’

  The colonel made a dismissive noise. ‘No Englishman would be crazy enough in his head to go into a warzone!’

  ‘You obviously haven’t met Rikkard Ambrose!’

  ‘The tall, dark one?’ Silveira took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. ‘Oh, please! He may look like a leader, but I know better. We have searched your luggage. We found his papers, and the Mohammedan’s - but of yours there is no trace!’

  Small wonder, since technically, I don’t exist in trousers.

  ‘There is only one explanation.’

  That I am a reckless crossdresser risking her neck in a bid for independence?

  ‘You are the head of the whole outfit! You are the chief spy, in charge of this whole operation, whose identity is so secret even his companions must not know it!’

  Golly. I had no idea I am that impressive.

  ‘So, tell me, young man…’ The colonel took another step closer, his thin lips curling. ‘What should I call you?’

  ‘Linton. Mr Victor Linton.’

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded, thoughtfully. ‘An alias, of course?’

  ‘Of course.’ At least the first half.

  ‘It will do for now.’ The curl in his lips spread, until it had grown into a full-grown smile. It wasn’t one of the nicest smiles I had ever seen. ‘We shall have the truth out of you in due course.’

  I raised my head still a little more, in defiance. ‘Oh, you will, will you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Stepping back, the colonel beckoned to the man with the bloody gloves, who in turn stepped forward, holding out a knife. The colonel took it, lovingly running his index finger along the blade. ‘Perfect,’ he whispered. Then he turned to me.

  ‘You see, Mr Linton, there are a myriad of ways of extracting information from prisoners. A thousand refined methods exist to cause the human body a maximum of pain. Dozens of experts have written treatises upon the subject, and infinite variations have been developed to suit any and every situation.’

  His finger reached the tip of the dagger, and gently pricked it, until a single drop of blood ran down the blade.

  ‘However, I have always found all this energy invested into the subject to be not really necessary. Above all others, there is one single method which is guaranteed to break any man. Attacking both his body, his mind, and, much more important, his hope for the future, it is the single most effective method for dealing with stubborn prisoners. Whether spy, soldier, or simple criminal, not a single man has fallen into my clutches who has not succumbed to it sooner or later.’

  Lowering the knife, he slid it down over the front of my tailcoat, down over my belt and between my thighs, until he reached a point, where, for realism’s sake, I had stuffed a pair of my uncle Bufford’s old socks.

  ‘Try to guess of what I speak,’ he hissed with deliberate menace.

  ‘Good God! You don’t mean…?’

  ‘Yes!’

  I tried to think of something appropriate to say.

  ‘Um…you blaggard!’ I tried tentatively. ‘Have you no mercy?’

  ‘Tell me who you really are! Tell me what you are doing here, and I shall spare you! Otherwise…!’

  He pressed the tip of the knife down.

  ‘Argh, no, please don’t,’ I said with as much gusto as I could manage. It was rather hard when I had to focus all my energy on not bursting out laughing.

  ‘Will you tell me what I want to know?’
<
br />   I bit my lip, considering. ‘Hm…let me think…no!’

  ‘Very well.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You are a brave man, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You leave me no choice! Fidel!’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’ The torturer snapped to attention.

  ‘I have other business to take care of. You are in charge of interrogating the prisoner. You know what to do?’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  ‘Do not damage any other part of him as yet, Fidel. I want him to be able to talk and walk. As for his ability to father children…that I am not interested in. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Perfectly, Sir!’

  ‘Very good.’ Hilt first, Silveira handed the knife back to his henchman. Giving me a sharp, glittering smile, he turned on his heels and marched out of the room. ‘Until later, Mr Linton. I look forward to hearing all you have to tell us.’

  The door closed behind him with an ominous click. Fidel the fabulous torturer smiled a gap-filled smile at me, and stepped closer.

  ‘Well, well, little man,’ he growled, sliding the dagger along my ribcage.

  ‘Can you please not do that? That tickles.’

  ‘I’ll do a damn sight more than tickle you soon!’ The blade of the dagger came to a halt on a certain padded area. ‘Speak! Speak now, or suffer the consequences!’

  For a moment, I chewed on my lip, thoughtfully. ‘Hm…I think I’d rather suffer the consequences.’

  ‘Very well! You have been warned! You shall suffer like no man in this dungeon before you!’

  He drew back the knife with a snarl and stabbed it down.

  ‘Argh, argh,’ I said, dutifully. ‘Please, no, that hurts so much.’

  His eyes went wide. They flicked up to stare at me - then he stabbed again!

  ‘Aaaargh,’ I informed him courteously. ‘Cruel man! Have you no mercy! Cease this agony! I beg of you, I cannot stand it any longer, et cetera et cetera blah blah.’

  And again!

  ‘No!’ I yawned. ‘You are the most merciless man alive. You are the devil himself. How can you be so cruel as to inflict this torture on a poor, innocent young man who has done nothing to you? Can’t you see how I am writhing in pain? Argh, Argh, Argh, and so on, and so on.’

  And again! And again!

  ‘Please! Have mercy on me! You are destroying my manhood! How will I ever be able to look another man in the eye after this, deedle-de-dum de-dum de-dum.’

  Stab! Stab! Stab!

  ‘And you’re also destroying my trousers, by the way. Have you any idea how expensive a pair of trousers is in London nowadays? Especially with a skinflint for an employer?’

  ‘Shut up! Shut up, shut up!’ The torturer was sweating by now, madly stabbing away at the considerable bulge at the juncture of my thighs. At the time, I had thought I’d been a bit generous for polite society, but now it was proving enormously beneficial. Goes to show that what they say isn’t true after all - size does matter.

  ‘If you go on like that,’ I politely informed my captor, ‘there won’t be enough for mincemeat left down there. Don’t you want to take a little break? Maybe sharpen your knife?’

  ‘I said shut up!’

  ‘All right, all right! It was only a suggestion. No need to get your knickers in a twist. You’re doing a good enough job with mine already.’

  The only response to this was a garbled string of curses in Portuguese which, despite my best efforts, I was unable to decipher.

  ‘Could you repeat that with translation, please?’ I enquired. ‘Some of those sounded really interesting! I’d love to share them with my friends at home. They could come in really handy at tea parties.’

  ‘Keep your mouth shut, you bastard son of a bitch!’

  ‘Ah, I see. And what was the corresponding Portuguese, again?’

  In answer, the dagger was slammed so hard in between my legs that it dug right through the trousers and buried itself in the wood of the chair underneath. With another Portuguese profanity, the fabulous Fidel tugged at his torture instrument of choice, and it was suddenly yanked from the chair, flying from his hand and sailing through the air, to fall to the stone floor a few feet away. Fidel staggered back, staring at the juncture of my thighs. It wasn’t the first time in my life that a man was staring at this particular point of my anatomy, but usually they did it a bit more discreetly and with less abject horror on their faces.

  ‘What are you?’ Fidel whispered, his voice ragged.

  I gave him back a winning smile. ‘Didn’t you know? I’m unique. Like a snowflake.’

  The poor torturer stumbled back a few more steps. ‘W-what I do now? Heavens, what I do now?’

  I nodded at the door. ‘Your boss went that way. Why don’t you go and ask him?’

  Fidel looked right, then left, as if desperately looking for a solution - then turned, and ran out of the dungeon, conveniently leaving the door open, and the knife lying on the floor. Too bad he hadn’t also untied me before he ran.

  ‘Oh well.’ I sighed, and began to rock in my chair, gently but steadily pushing it towards the gleaming blade on the ground. ‘You’re an independent girl, Lilly! You can’t expect men to do everything for you.’

  I was rather fortunate that there were no guards in the vicinity. They would probably have heard the crash of the overturning chair, not to mention the barrage of English and - I’m proud to say - Spanish and Portuguese curses that followed soon after. A minute or two later and only a few bruises richer, I hurried out of my cell, brushing the last cut remnants of rope and splinters of wood off my dirty tailcoat.

  All right. What now?

  I looked around. From down the corridor, on my left, I could hear low voices mumbling and laughing in Portuguese. Light shimmered on that side, whereas in the other direction, there was only darkness. Darkness and more dungeon cells.

  I would have to get past the guards. And to get past the guards, it would be very helpful to have someone along who actually knew how to load and fire a gun - like Karim, or Mr Ambrose. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t planning on becoming a damsel in distress. But I was definitely a damsel under stress. I mean, I was trying to escape from a military prison, for heaven’s sake! Nobody, not even my inner feminist, could expect me to do that without help. Besides, if I left Mr Ambrose behind to rot in a dungeon, who would sign my next pay cheque? And if I left Karim behind to rot in a dungeon, I would never get the opportunity to remind him sweetly every day that I had saved his butt, his beard and everything in between.

  I turned and hurried off down the corridor, deeper into the bowels of the prison. There were little barred windows set into every cell door, probably to allow the wardens to leer at the prisoners inside, or to spit at them if they were in a really good mood. Ducking low, I glanced in through each and every opening. In the first few cells, there only were a few scraggly individuals who looked about as similar to Mr Ambrose as a grizzly bear to a statue of King Richard the Lionheart. Then there came one with a decorous pile of bones. And then-

  ‘Ah! There you are!’

  Mr Ambrose looked up from where he had been kneeling on the floor, grinding the ropes that bound his hands against a sharp shard of clay. When he caught sight of me, his eyes widened infinitesimally - then narrowed.

  ‘Mr Linton!’

  I gave him a winning smile. ‘Good morning, Sir. Do you still have your balls?’

  Mr Linton to the Rescue

  There was a moment of silence within Mr Ambrose’s cell. I wasn’t sure whether it was a pregnant silence, yet. That depended very much on how much attention Colonel Silveira had paid to my dear employer’s nether regions.

  ‘I was just about to enquire how you managed to escape from your cell so quickly. However-’ Mr Ambrose’s dark eyes focused on me, boring into me, ‘-now, a slightly different question is on my mind. Why do you wish to know about the status of my reproductive organs?’

  ‘Call it personal curiosity.’

  ‘See to
it that your curiosity becomes somewhat less personal, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!’

  ‘Can you open this door?’

  I looked down, and got a pleasant surprise. The door didn’t actually have a lock. Apparently, Colonel Silveira never had to face the possibility of a prison break before. If he had, he’d probably have installed something a little more complex than simple bolts on the outside of his cell doors.

  ‘One escape coming right up, Sir!’ I hollered through the door and slid the bolt aside. A moment later I stuck my head in through the door. ‘You haven’t told me whether you still have your balls, yet.’

  ‘And I am not going to. Come help me untie this, now.’

  He was still rubbing away at his bonds with the pottery shard. Clearing my throat, I stepped closer and held out the knife. ‘How about using this, instead?’

  ‘Wha-oh.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give that to me.’

  ‘What’s the magic word?’

  ‘Now!’

  I looked at Mr Ambrose, and he looked right back, his dark eyes glittering dangerously in the half-light. They sent a shiver down my back that had nothing to do with the cold air down here in the dungeons. For him, that probably was the magic word. I couldn’t imagine it ever not having worked. Particularly not if the person he was talking to was of the female variety.

  Blast!

  I handed him the knife. Mr Ambrose snatched it up in both hands and started sawing away at the rope that bound him.

  ‘Where did you get the knife?’ he demanded.

  ‘From my jailor. A very pleasant fellow named Fidel.’

  ‘What? And how did you get out of the cell?’

  ‘Fidel left the door open for me.’

  One of Mr Ambrose’s eyebrows moved up about a quarter of a millimetre. ‘This Fidel sounds like a very accommodating jailor.’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s a great chap! He cursed a lot and tried to stab me about a dozen times.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Indeed, Sir.’

  ‘Hm. We will have to discuss this at some later point in greater detail, Mr Linton. But for now, let us leave this inhospitable place.’