by Rich Allen
“It’s not a bank card,” said Jack. He glanced down at it. “There’s no account number or sort code on it. If it’s been reported missing, I’d be happy for you to reunite it with its owner.”
“Don’t worry, we’re looking into it,” said Officer Neri. “So, what brings you to Rome, Mr Holden?”
“I’m on vacation.”
She wafted some of her colleague’s smoke out of her face. “And where have you been staying?”
“Hostel San Giovanni.”
Inspector Pio nearly choked on his cigarette, but the choking soon turned to laughter. “Hostel San Giovanni,” he spluttered. “You wouldn’t be the first crack-head to spend time there. Is Nina still in charge of the inmates?”
Jack frowned. He had no idea that the place had such a bad reputation. “Yes, a girl called Nina works there,” he said.
“Well at least she’s kept herself off the streets, the little slut,” Pio said. He then took one final drag before placing the dog end on the lino and obliterating it with his foot. “So…” he continued, “what makes you think you can come to my beautiful city and smoke drugs in public places? Families like to enjoy the city’s many sights. They don’t want to see people high on drugs.”
Jack looked over at Officer Neri but her stoic face offered nothing.
“Look,” Jack told her, “that crack pipe has nothing to do with me. All I was doing was having a sleep on bench. Is that a crime?”
They both looked at Jack as if wishing him to continue.
“Whoever stole my bag, phone and wallet also left that pipe on the bench. Probably on purpose.”
“So you wish to report a theft?” said Officer Neri as she took a pen out of her top pocket.
“Yes I do,” said Jack. “You need to look out for a blue North Face duffel bag containing my clothes, some photographs and a netbook. Also they took my wallet, though to be honest there’s not much of value in there.”
“A netbook?” she asked as she wrote down the items.
“Yeah, it’s like a small laptop,” Jack said.
“We’ll get our best people onto it right away.” Inspector Pio didn’t try to disguise the sarcasm in his voice. “In the meantime, I will be contacting the authorities in the United Kingdom. Also, I need to find out about this card which you claim to have found.”
“So, can I go free?” Jack glanced at his cuffed wrists.
“You will be detained in a cell until further notice,” said Officer Neri.
“What?” Jack stood up. “You can’t keep me here if I’ve done nothing wrong! I demand a lawyer!”
Inspector Pio smiled at Jack. “Sure,” he said. “If you can afford fifty euros an hour, then we can get you one.”
Jack remained silent, but the anger burned up inside him. That bastard Pio thought he could act with impunity. Jack got the feeling that he was a dirty cop like Alonzo Harris, played by Denzel Washington in Training Day. If Jack had money, he’d probably be able to buy Pio off with fifty euros. Not officer Neri though - she seemed clean. Or was that just wishful thinking on Jack’s part? Always a sucker for a pretty face.
“Sit down Mr Holden. An officer will be here to escort you out in a few moments.” For the first time, Jack sensed some sympathy in Officer Neri’s voice. He sat back down in the chair and watched her pick up the white plastic card and the crack pipe.
Neri and Pio then left the interview room; leaving Jack sat there, staring at his cuffed hands.
Chapter Thirteen:
Saturday night, Jack thought. Yeah, definitely Saturday. It was difficult keeping track of time. At least the guard had un-cuffed him. He sat there in his windowless prison cell, examining the red marks on his wrists. He wasn’t too bothered about having his phone and netbook nicked, and his wallet was worthless, but those three photos inside his bag had been priceless. The bastards. He’d resigned himself to the fact that he’d never get them back, though.
His mind switched to Pio. The jumped up little dictator. Jack wasn’t some junkie that he could push around. He wasn’t even a junkie; he was a British citizen on vacation. As soon as the opportunity arose, he’d demand to speak to a representative of the British Embassy. Jack knew nothing of the Italian Justice System, but, his imagination hit top gear. They’d send him to a gulag like the one in Midnight Express. Ok, that had been in Turkey, not Italy, but even so, the movie had been based on a true story.
Jack heard the top grille move. A second later, a young prison guard entered the cell.
“Are you hungry?” the fresh faced man asked.
Jack looked him up and down. Twenty two, maybe twenty three years old. “Yes, I’m hungry,” he said to the guard. “I’d also like to speak to someone from the British Embassy.”
The guard looked apologetic. “I’m only able to bring you food and drink. But I’ll mention your request to Inspector Pio.”
Jack smiled. The wheels of justice probably turned very slowly here. He’d need to be patient. Unfortunately, he wasn’t known for that virtue. “What’s your name?” he asked the guard.
“Paulo. I mean Agente Lombardi.” He walked over to the bench where Jack sat.
Jack looked up. “Your English is excellent,” he said.
“Thank you. I will bring you your meal in a few minutes. The partition at the bottom of the door will open. Please place the items back there when you are finished. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I understand,” Jack said. “I hope there’s something good on the menu today.”
Agente Lombardi smiled. “I can’t promise anything,” he said, “but it’s got to be better than English food.”
My, my, a policeman with a sense of humour. Jack smiled back at the young man. “Remember to mention my request to Inspector Pio, won’t you,” he said.
Agente Lombardi nodded then exited the cell, locking the door behind him.
A few minutes later, Jack heard the partition at the bottom of the door open up, and then watched a hand push a tray inside. He scampered over and took his meal back to the cracked vinyl bench, where he eagerly peeled back the plastic wrapping. Lasagne by the looks of it. An apple and a carton of orange juice completed the feast. Ironic, he thought. If he’d not been arrested, he’d have gone hungry. In the grand scheme of things, his arrest might yet be a blessing in disguise. He tucked into the lasagne which tasted better than it looked.
Jack’s thoughts drifted to his earlier dream. Jeremy, the guy who’d bought his watch in Barcelona; writing birthday cards to Joel Coen and Don Cheadle. It probably meant something, but what? The details of the dream churned around his mind like a washing machine on a slow spin cycle.
Jack discarded the meal debris onto the tray. Walking over to the hatch, he placed the tray next to it and sat on the floor. After a few minutes, he heard the top grille slide open then heard Agente Lombardi’s voice:
“Stand up, so that I can see you, please.”
Jack got up and met the young guard’s eyes through the grille. “Agente Lombardi, did you ask Pio about my request?”
“Yes, he says he will look into the matter.”
Yeah I bet he will, Jack thought.
Agente Lombardi disappeared from Jack’s eye line and he heard a rattle as the bottom partition opened and the young guard’s hand reached inside and grabbed the tray.
“Wait,” Jack said when a moment later he noticed Lombardi’s head reappear through the top grille. “I have an unusual request,” he said.
Agente Lombardi tensed his eyebrows. “What sort of unusual request?”
“I need to find out what the film director Joel Coen and the actor Don Cheadle have in common.”
“I don’t have time to play games, Mr Holden.”
“It’s not a game, Paulo. I’m trying to interpret my dream.”
“My name is Paulo, not Joseph. I’m not an interpreter of dreams.”
With that, the top grille shut tight and Jack heard Agente Lombardi’s footsteps moving down the hallway. Oh well, worth a try
. If there was a connection between Don Cheadle and Joel Coen then he might be onto something. If not, then it was probably just a random meaningless dream. To his knowledge, Jack couldn’t remember Don Cheadle appearing in a Coen Brother’s picture but he needed to know.
After his meal, Jack collapsed onto the bench and stared at the cobweb covered ceiling. The artificial light began to hurt his eyes so he closed them and thought of Zoe. She came and got him out of prison and they left the country and lived happily ever after. Why didn’t daydreams like that ever come true? Think of the worst possible thing and there’d be every chance of life imitating thoughts, but, think of something wonderful and life didn’t want to play along did it?
Jack’s attention turned to his stolen possessions. The duffel bag contained the three photos: one of his mum and dad, one of Rose and one of Fiona. Did thieves ever have remorse when they looted sentimental pieces? Probably not. At least they hadn’t nicked his iPod, though that was in police custody along with the rest of his stuff. He could do with some tunes right now. “I want to Break Free” by Queen or “Jailbreak” by Thin Lizzy seemed appropriate. He was lost in thought, digging around for song lyrics when he heard a cough. Jack glanced at the door and recognised Agente Lombardi’s brown eyes through the open partition.
“Both born on the twenty ninth of November,” Lombardi said before shutting the grille.
“Thanks,” Jack said to himself. He smiled. The dream itself now had significance. What with all the other weird stuff going on, it had to be more than a coincidence. The twenty ninth of November, what was that…Sagittarius? Jeremy had been sending birthday cards to Sagittarians. No, that didn’t make any sense. It had to be something to do with the date: the twenty ninth of November. In its written form 29.11 (or 11.29 if you were American).
Of course. Those childhood Sunday afternoons at the Kingdom Hall had finally paid off. A feeling of self-satisfaction gripped him. He went over to the door and banged against it. “Agente Lombardi!” Jack shouted. He waited, but nobody came so he repeated the call four more times. All he succeeded in doing was waking up some bum in the adjacent cell who began shouting and bawling in intoxicated Italian.
Anxiety gripped Jack. He stood opposite the prison door. Waiting. Hoping. Then, the welcome sound of shifting steel as the top grille opened. Jack let out a sigh as he met Agente Lombardi’s eyes. “Paulo,” he said, “I need you to look up a Bible verse for me.”
“Enough of these games,” Agente Lombardi whispered. “I am very busy.”
Jack held his hands up prayerfully. “Are you a religious man?” he asked.
“This is a Roman Catholic country. What is the saying you English use? Is the Pope Catholic?”
“Ok,” Jack said, “I’ll take that as a yes. I need you to look up Jeremiah chapter twenty nine, verse eleven and Jeremiah chapter eleven, verse twenty nine.”
“Please. You need to stop bothering me with these requests. Anymore and I will have to report you to Inspector Pio. It will not help your case at all. Do you understand?”
Jack nodded. “Yes, I understand. Look, I don’t want to be any bother and it’s only if you get a spare minute. Jeremiah…chapter twenty nine, verse eleven and Jeremiah, chapter eleven, verse twenty nine. It’s all about the dream you see.”
Jack noticed the young guard shake his head. The grille then shut with an abrupt sound, leaving Jack staring at the blue metal door. He took a leak then lay face down on the bench. With closed eyes, he pictured himself being back on the radio. Ironically, he’d always thought of radio studios as being like prison cells. Often they were windowless boxes with drab décor. Still, he’d much prefer to be inside a radio studio right now.
Several minutes later, Jack opened his eyes and noticed something on the floor next to the door. He got off the bench and moved closer. A piece of paper by the look of it. He picked it up, unfolded it and read the contents:
‘Jeremiah 11:29 does not exist,’ Paulo had written. ‘Chapter eleven stops after verse twenty three. Jeremiah 29:11 “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.”’ Jack read the scripture over and over. Hope and a future sounded good.
The light went out in Jack’s cell, leaving him clutching the piece of paper. He went back to the bench and lay there in the darkness; the words of the prophet Jeremiah turning over in his mind. He felt his lips curl up into a smile as he covered himself with the blanket and drifted off. As he slept, he dreamed of Sean Penn’s war weary Sergeant from The Thin Red Line speaking to Private Witt: “I might be your best friend and you don’t even know it…In this world, a man, himself, is nothing.”
Chapter Fourteen:
Jack woke up in a sweat. The light flashed on and he shielded his eyes until they became accustomed to the brightness. He looked down and saw the piece of paper by his side. He picked it up and read the scripture which Agente Lombardi had scrawled down: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.” He read the note several more times before carefully folding it and placing it inside his short’s pocket.
Breakfast arrived through the hatch without any ceremony. Jack brought it back to the bench like a hungry bear that’d caught a fish in the river. He devoured the buttered toast and savoured the strong black coffee which brought him round from his post dream stupor. A bottle of spring water seemed a nice touch, he thought. The prison breakfast was better than some he’d had in hotels. Would a flat screen TV and internet access be out of the question, should he find himself incarcerated in the future? Actually, the claustrophobia was starting to bug him. He’d start going crazy if they didn’t let him out soon. Start going crazy?
Post breakfast he took a call of nature then washed his hands in the stainless steel basin. He pushed the breakfast tray next to the hatch and sat back on the bench waiting for something to happen. He heard shouting from the adjacent cell. The poor guy was probably an alcoholic going cold turkey. After a few minutes sat there in boredom, the hatch reopened and a hand grabbed the tray.
“Agente Lombardi?” Jack shouted.
The bottom hatch retracted, then a few seconds later the top grille opened up and Jack saw a pair of eyes which he didn’t recognise. He heard the guard say something in Italian which ended with the word “Inglese.” He was probably saying that he didn’t understand English. Agente Lombardi was most likely at home in bed. The lucky sod.
Jack lay back on his bunk and remembered his appointment at Café Santiago. Monday morning at ten. That was tomorrow wasn’t it? Surely they would release him at some point today. After all, what evidence did they have against him? A crack pipe which he’d already explained wasn’t his, and a white plastic card which resembled a bank card. Again, he’d been able to explain how he came by it. Inspector Pio just didn’t like him. That had to be the real reason why he was still here.
Jack listened to the wailing noise coming from the cell next door for ten minutes or so, and then he heard the top grille move. A pair of eyes peered in. A moment later, the door opened and a beefy looking guard in his late thirties signalled for Jack to come forward. He knew that he shouldn’t get his hopes up, but he felt a rush of excitement. In his mind, Mel Gibson was painted up like a Blackburn Rover’s fan shouting: “Freedom!” at the top of his voice.
The guard handcuffed Jack and then led him down the corridor. Oh no, not here again. Jack’s hopes of freedom dissipated when he found himself back in the familiar surroundings of the interrogation room. He sat down in the solitary chair at the rear, and, like before, the guard vanished, leaving Jack waiting for the dynamic duo to arrive. After a few minutes they did. Jack noticed that Officer Neri had done something different to her hair. She looked like Andrea Corr in a police uniform. A fantasy to keep his mind occupied indefinitely.
“Why am I still being kept here?” Jack demanded.
Inspector Pi
o referred to his notes then peered over his pince-nez glasses. “It takes time to process things, Mr Holden. You can appreciate that we are kept busy with many crimes.”
“I’m a British citizen.” He banged his cuffed hands down on the table. “I demand to speak to my embassy.” Had he really just said that?
Officer Neri played with her hair as she looked at Jack. “We have contacted the British Embassy and they can send someone to see you tomorrow afternoon,” she said. After she’d finished speaking, Jack felt disappointed that she hadn’t burst into a rendition of “Runaway.” She’s not Andrea Corr, she’s a copper, he told himself.
“Tomorrow afternoon is no good,” Jack said. “I have an important appointment.” He looked down at the floor after he’d spoke. Perhaps he’d said too much.
