by Chris Hannon
Sunday Mass was mandatory for all inmates. That first Sunday, Perry filed in past the guards. There were two confession boxes on each wing and an oversized Jesus drooping from a giant crucifix at the front. The altar underneath was covered in a rich red velvet cloth, giving the impression that His blood had pooled beneath. Perry eyed it balefully, what good had Jesus ever done for him?
His grey prison pyjamas were loose fitting, but still trapped in too much heat. He rolled up his sleeves with the hope of cooling his arms and shuffled along a pew at the back. The spot by the wall looked inviting. He might rest his head against the cool stone and nap during the service.
‘Inglés!’ A guard barked.
Perry froze.
‘New inmates sit on the front row for Mass,’ he fired in all-too-quick Spanish.
How long would it be before he was no longer deemed ‘new,’ he wondered. Perry traipsed to the front row, finding a free spot between two wardrobe-sized inmates. He burrowed into the gap to vague mumbles of annoyance, but he was too hot and bothered himself to care. He fanned his face with his cap and waited for the service to begin.
The chaplain appeared by the eastern confession box and made his way to the front. The low murmur of the chapel turned to silence. He was a crow-like man, all dark robes and bushy eyebrows. He faced the hanging Jesus and in deep and clear Spanish, began his sermon.
‘Whenever I look upon Jesus, I am reminded that when He was fastened to the cross, He prayed for the very people who crucified Him.’ Pause. ‘His forgiveness was offered at the most impossible of moments. At his side, two criminals, two thieves suffered the same fate as he. I quote Luke 23 verse 39: “One of the criminals who were hanged railed at him, saying, “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!” ’ The chaplain bellowed the quote without looking at the bible. He turned to face them now.
‘This man offered no repentance. No forgiveness. Only a plea to save his self. Hardened to the last, obstinate in his unbelief.’ Pause. ‘The second criminal however, was truly, faithfully repentant and asked for nothing more than forgiveness. This repentant criminal was seized at the last from the burning. A monument to Divine mercy.’
The chapel was so quiet, but for the echo of the chaplain’s voice. Perry wiped sweat off his brow and tried to concentrate on the words.
‘And was the forgiveness that Jesus Christ showed on the cross not to open the kingdom of heaven to all penitent, obedient believers? Two men! One saved through repentance, the other, died, smothered by his own unbelief, even though a crucified saviour was near! True repentance, we must all realise, is never too late.’
The chaplain made a show of eyeballing each of the new prisoners in turn. Despite the heat, Perry felt a shiver run through him as the chaplain locked eyes with him and moved onto the next.
‘Each of you …look within yourselves. Which of the two criminals will you choose to be?’
As Perry considered this question, the spell broke. He was clearly neither of the two criminals. He was in lock-up for something he didn’t do. He was in a country against his will. He was a victim – what on earth did he have to be repentant for? Of anyone being crucified, the one he had the most in common with was surely Jesus himself.
The chaplain held the bible aloft.
‘Let us pray.’
Perry dipped his head and interlocked his fingers. Forgiveness? No. He prayed that Campi would burn in hell. Then Niels Saldrup for not helping him and finally whichever bastard spirited him away to Argentina. For him, no punishment was severe enough. Dr Fairbanks. Maxwell. That coal porter. He might as well throw them all on hell’s pyre with the others. Amen.
After supper, Perry returned to his cell and read, for the umpteenth time, the notice screwed to the wall: Rules for the prisoner. Though his Spanish wasn’t totally fluent, it boiled down to obeying the guards, being quiet during Patio Rest and while in your cell. The listed punishments referred to a loss of privilegios - he guessed must mean privileges - or La Cueva. This word was unfamiliar; he had no clue what it meant but he doubted it was good.
Above his bed, a letterbox window let in a trough of dusky light. At the tiny desk, he took out paper and a pencil from the drawer, chewed on the pencil as he had done when he was at school. He longed to write to Eva, to explain what had happened, to tell her to wait for him, but he knew it was as pointless in here as it was on the outside. Ma had no postal address he knew, even if Eva were still there. And now he had the added complication of earning prison credits to buy anything from soap to stationery or from stamps to a flannel.
The pencil splintered and cracked between his teeth. The wet, woody taste was unpleasant but at least put him to mind of the Bishopstoke woodland. How he longed for its singing birds, the trickle of the river and the fresh English air. He wished he knew how long he’d have to wait for his trial. He had to get out.
Somebody was shouting on the lower deck, screaming with anger. Perry sifted through the tirade to pick up a couple of obscenities. Well, at least there was someone in here more pissed off than him. He returned to the empty page. The pencil was fractured, but still serviceable. He couldn’t think of anybody obvious who could help him. He wished he’d been friendlier, made more of an effort with people. It just hadn’t seemed worth it - he hadn’t counted on staying for more than a couple of weeks. There was Vázquez, Lucho at the corner bar and the Irish lout in his lodgings. None were like to be able to help him even if they wanted to. The only person of influence he could think of was the inspector, Niels Saldrup. He had seemed a man of logic and reason, at least up to the point where Campi had found the money. Perry could understand how it looked, but most workers kept money hidden in secret pockets and the like. To his mind, there was no real evidence against him and under closer scrutiny the case against him would surely fold. He just needed someone to actually bother with the scrutiny part. Perry remembered his prayer from earlier and hoped, with ridiculous superstition, that wishing hell upon Niels Saldrup wasn’t going to undermine his cause. He felt so helpless it was sickening.
‘Knock knock.’
Perry twisted around in his chair; it was Martín, from the neighbouring cell, standing on his threshold. He was a short, thick-lipped man, with straggly black hair that fell in crinkles around his moon-face and a belly that tested the strength of the buttons on his prisoner pyjamas.
‘Yes?’ Perry said.
‘You do Press tomorrow with me.’
They had barely exchanged more than a few words before and Perry was surprised to be addressed in English. He reckoned his Spanish was slightly better than Martín’s English but he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to talk in his mother tongue.
‘Right,’ he got up from his chair. ‘Is it difficult?’
Martín rasped between rubbery lips and beat a dismissive hand in the air. ‘You learn everything here soon enough Inglés.’
‘Inglés. That’s what everyone’s been calling me. Am I the only Englishman in here?’
Martín shrugged. ‘Is just a nickname, everybody have one,’ he pointed to his drooping belly with his thumb. ‘Me, el sapo. The frog.’
It was a fair enough match.
‘Hasta mañana.’
‘Until tomorrow,’ Perry replied.
Perry was issued a single candle when he arrived, from then on he would have to earn credits to buy more through working the Press, Laundry, Kitchen or one of the workshops. As the light faded, he lit it and resolved to write to Niels Saldrup before the call for lights out. He had barely pressed pencil to paper when he heard a desperate shout. He reached for the stub, cupped the flame and hurried over to the bars. On the floor below, he made out shadows struggling.
‘Suéltame! Eh! Suéltame!’
The words were frantic. Let go of me! Then he heard a new sound, a tap of metal like a spot of rain on a dustbin lid. Then a second clang, a third and fourth and soon the whole penitentiary was echoing with the discordant torrent of metal on metal. Opposite his cell, men silhouett
ed by candlelight were banging their mugs against the bars of their cells. What on earth was going on? A wolf howl rose above the din.
‘Silencio!’ a guard yelled, but for once nobody paid any attention. Perry realised he could use the racket as cover.
‘Pssst! Che! Martín,’ Perry hissed.
His neighbour stopped banging his mug.
‘Qué?’
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘They taking someone to La Cueva.’
‘La Cueva?’ Perry asked. He remembered it was a punishment on the Rules for The Prisoner tacked on his wall.
‘Who are they taking?’
‘No idea Inglés. Someone on the ground floor,’ he banged his mug again, plainly in no mood for further conversation. Perry returned to his letter, trying to think through the percussive beating and get his plea for help down on paper.
The following morning, Perry joined Martín for his new duty. From the breakfast hall it was a short walk to the seven prisoner workshops. The corridor bent round in a semi-circle with the workshops stationed like bicycle spokes around the penitentiary core. Press was the last workshop, with two guards stationed on the door.
Perry entered and was immediately taken aback by the size of the thing.
‘It’s huge!’
‘Press,’ Martín said.
Perry reckoned it was about the size of four train trucks welded together. It wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. On the steamship over he had been obliged to swab the floor of the engine room on a daily basis, a supposedly light punishment for stowing away, albeit involuntarily. The oily looking drums, dials and straps on the Press were neater and newer than the vast walls of haggard iron on the ship.
Perry counted five other men working on the machine; oiling parts with rags, preparing the paper feed and checking dials. He walked the length of the machinery with Martín, wondering what his role could possibly be; daunted at the prospect of doing something wrong that could break this silent monster. He tried to trace the connections between the parts, to guess how it might work; it looked like steam powered the cogs, the straps then pulled round the printing drums, inking each sheet as a bicycle wheel would touch each new piece of earth. Perry was fascinated, though nervous; he couldn’t wait to see it actually work.
‘So, what do I do?’
Martín led him up a small set of metal stairs attached to the machine itself. At the top, he could see the main printing drum, big enough to crush a man.
‘This is hungry. Always hungry for ink, but it has a missing part that fill the ink - the Warden no pay to replace so we have to fill ourselves. It can’t run out or we stop whole thing,’ said Martín. He glared at Perry as if he had already let the ink run dry and caused mayhem.
Perry saw the base of the drum immersed in an inkwell: waiting to turn, replenishing itself with ink with each rotation.
‘So I’m responsible for filling it up with the ink?’
‘Asi es,’ Martín smiled, clearly glad he didn’t have to stretch his English any further. ‘I show you new ink.’
At the side of the workshop, the store room held everything Perry needed; a big square sink and tap, filthy-looking watering cans and an old bucket high up on some shelves. In the middle of the storeroom was a giant barrel, with a tap at the bottom. Perry pointed.
‘Don’t suppose there’s beer in there?’
‘Ha!’ Martín laughed. ‘Ojalá, if only.’
Perry flipped the tap and thick, gloopy ink fell into the pouring can. When it was full, he tried lifting it. It was so heavy he needed both hands to pick it up.
‘Right, so this goes in the inkwell?’
‘Follow,’ Martín led him to the inkwell. The gauge showed that presently, it was full. Martín disappeared around to the other side of the Press and within moments the machine stirred. Clicking and whirring into life, the hiss of steam was as loud as waves breaking on rock. Perry would have to shout at the top of his lungs to be heard by anyone. He was glad Martín had inducted him in the relative quiet. He just hoped he didn’t have to ask any questions.
The paper ran between the drums with mesmerising speed, the black columns of ink blurring past. Perry checked the gauge and saw that already, barely minutes in, the inkwell was a little over three-quarters full. He couldn’t believe it and looked around for help. One of the other workers, Osvlado, was monitoring a control panel of dials and levers and gave Perry a nod. He hadn’t expected to need to top it up so soon. He hoisted up the can, poured and kept pouring. His arms shook with the holding the weight in a fixed position. When the can was empty, he grounded it, glad for the relief sweeping through his arms. He checked again: barely over three-quarters. Horror swept over him.
He sprinted with the can and filled it up again, returned to the inkwell and poured the whole lot in as quickly as he could. Still the gauge had barely moved. Surely he couldn’t keep this up for eight hours on his own? He repeated the exercise over and over again, all the time the Press churned out page after page, slowly depleting his supply. Despite his efforts, the ink level hovered just under the half way mark when Martín came to check on him.
‘Bien,’ Martín nodded.
‘But I can’t keep up!’
Martín stood and waved his arms at two of the machine workers and pointed to the inkwell. Perry, Martín and the two Press operatives went to the ink store and pulled extra cans from the shelf. Perry filled his up and the other three filled theirs. The injection of four cans of ink pulled the levels back up to the three-quarters mark.
Martín held up a finger. ‘One hour.’
The men returned to their posts and with aching arms, Perry continued to do his best to keep up.
The Press stopped for lunch and the men trooped out. Perry felt like he’d already done a full day’s labour. His muscles ached so badly he couldn’t imagine completing a full day. He wiped his inky fingers onto his pyjamas, smudging the plain grey of its landscape with black streaks. Give the boys in Laundry something to do at least, he thought.
At the exit of the Press workshop, bundles of newspapers were stacked against the wall. He picked a copy from the top, slightly warm in his hand, and read the title.
‘La Nación,’ he gasped, ‘No bloody way, the national newspaper printed here!’ He looked around for someone to share in his amazement but the only person who remained was the guard at the door, immersed in reading the paper. He had been so involved in the replenishing of ink; he hadn’t even considered what they were actually printing. But here it was, thousands upon thousands of copies of La Nación.
He sat with the Press workers at lunch, which consisted of tomato slop with beans and bread. He listened to the workers talking about the commotion the night before. One of the men from Laundry called Santi had apparently been overheard talking of escape and been sent to La Cueva. A bloody fool all agreed. Perry nodded along, mopping up the last of the sauce with bread, he was as hungry as when he survived The Sick. He returned early to Press and used the time to top the inkwell up to the brim while the machine was still off.
The afternoon was as hard as the morning and his arms were sore, shaking with the burden of each can. Martín came every hour to check the levels and helped top up the inkwell when needed. When finally, the Press was switched off, he wanted to leap for joy, but could only offer a tired grin.
Martín slapped him on the back,
‘Bien Perry. Is good.’
‘Thanks,’ he mustered.
‘Now we have baños and you sleep like never before.’
‘Baños? But bathing night for our floor is Tuesday?’
‘No Perry. Look at yourself. Look at me.’
Perry gave himself a once over, and then Martín.
‘We look like chimney sweeps!’
Martín looked puzzled.
Perry groped for some words to explain what a chimney sweep was. ‘It’s a job where you get filthy and need to wash.’
Martín nodded sagely. ‘Ah sí, a brothel.’
‘When you work Press you have bath adicional.’
‘Makes sense I suppose. I bet Laundry have a hard enough time getting our pyjamas clean, let alone our bedsheets.’
There were bathing areas on both floors but the Press workers queued for the ground floor station. Three prisoners filed out, towels wrapped around their midriffs and handed their bucket to the guard.
‘Next!’ the guard barked, handing it to the next in line, who padded in with two others.
When it was Perry’s turn, he went in with Osvaldo and Martín. The washroom was tiled floor to ceiling with two water pumps in the middle of the room. There were thirty or so men clustered around the pump taking the water direct and scrubbing down, or doing so from their filled buckets in the washroom corners. Black and red smudges of squashed mosquitos streaked the walls.
Perry wasn’t sure what was colder; the icy water on the surface of the floor or the floor tiles themselves. He couldn’t imagine having to do this in winter. He stepped over the washroom effluent; a river of drain-bound lathered soap bubbles, grimy water and gristly hair. He draped his pyjamas on a peg and wearing nought but his undies, slung his towel over his shoulder and carried the bucket to one of the pumps. Martín and Osvaldo had soap and sponges, but Perry had to make do scrubbing his skin with his hands. He would have to earn these items through working on the Press. He was glad at least to wash off the worst of the dirt and grime. The cold water was refreshing, soothing the fire in his muscles.
Before lights out, the mail trolley man did the rounds and Perry made sure his letter to Inspector Niels Saldrup was collected. Happy it was done; he let tiredness engulf him. As his head hit the pillow he wondered if perhaps this was all part of the warden’s plan; wring out the prisoners’ energy until none was left for disobedience. The lights went out. He closed his eyes. The prisoners’ pavilion fell relatively still but for the guards’ rounds. The volume of their footsteps rose and fell steadily with their orbit, flowing like long breaths, easing Perry into a deep sleep.
