by Chris Hannon
‘I lost sense of everything in that blackness, who I was, how long I’d been down there. The smell, I can still sense it now, an earthy mix of vomit, soil and shit. I would rather die than go back there.’
Silence. Each man at the table seemed to glaze over as if to look inside himself. Perry wondered if they were questioning whether they could have stomached what Santi had endured. Turning the question on himself, he had to admit he didn’t truly know. His only yardstick for such suffering was getting the Sick, and he’d survived that hadn’t he? But then, if he was going to escape he knew he had to think differently from the other prisoners. La Cueva induced fear, it was a deterrent from disobedience – and an excellent one at that. What if it might actually help him? With the recent parading of Santi, appearing broken from the hatch, all the prisoners were spooked. The last thing the guards would expect would be an escape attempt so soon after that. He had to hope that his own boldness coupled with the guards’ complacency would give him the edge that would see him free. Osvaldo brought Perry and the others from their thoughts.
‘What about food and water Santi? Last week the guards seemed to have forgotten you were down there, they messed up Count twice because of it.’
A murmur of disapproval rolled around the table. Santi shook his head. ‘The only way I could work out the time was when those bastards brought me water or food scraps from Kitchen. But after a couple of days you lose track…’
‘Que bárbaro che,’ someone muttered with a shake of the head.
‘Coming outside for a smoke?’ Martín offered one to Santi.
Perry saw the hesitation on Santi’s face; passing up a free cigarette in prison was beyond suspicious.
‘I will,’ Santi said, ‘but I need to speak to Inglés here first about teaching me English - then I can have a smoke.’
Martín glanced up at the clock. ‘I doubt you’ll have time,’ he slipped his cigarette behind his ear. ‘Have good class,’ he said in English. The others left with him and finally Perry was alone with Santi.
‘So?’
‘Why me? You don’t know anything about me.’
Perry shook his head. ‘I know you wanted to escape.’
Santi rolled his eyes. ‘And?’
‘Secondly you never want to go back to La Cueva.’
‘Kid, really? That applies to every fool in here.’
‘Thirdly, you work in Laundry.’
‘Ah. I knew it!’ Santi smacked his hand on the table and lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘Every boludo in here thinks the same. “Hey Santi, can’t you steal a guard uniform from Laundry?” No idiots, I can’t! They count those uniforms like they’re gold bars. Forget it.’
‘Easy, easy,’ Perry calmed. ‘It’s not uniforms. I need an extra set of prisoner pyjamas each. Think you could steal that?’
‘Prisoner pyjamas?’ Santi crossed his arms and sat back on his chair thinking, ‘Interesting…it’s possible yes. One at a time though.’
‘Why?’
‘Guards would notice. Only way to get one out is to wear it underneath.’
‘That could work. Could you get me the first one before Sunday?’
‘Not until I know the plan.’
Perry leant in. ‘Then you’re not in. Get me the damn pyjamas and I’ll let you know a bit more. I need to know I can trust you first.’
25
After Sunday service, Perry queued with a dozen others for confession. At the front, a man bent double with age let himself in. The next few in line he knew to be thieves. According to Martín, the Argentine economy was in tatters and without much work about, a lot of folks had turned to theft. Perry had managed alright although there had been the odd week here and there when he’d struggled to find work. He’d still managed to save enough to be within a whisker or two of a ticket home. The fellows in the queue for confession probably had it tougher, most likely had wives and little mouths to feed.
Santi rubbed sweat off the back of his neck. Nerves? Perry wasn’t about to poke him in the back and ask. When Santi took his turn and entered the confessional, Perry stepped to the front of the queue, his tummy fluttering. He could hear the low bumblebee drone of Santi’s voice but couldn’t grip on to any clear words. Perry clasped his hands behind his back and waited. Santi’s confession was quite a long one.
Santi stepped out and Perry sized him up; it was hard to be sure he’d done it but Santi, cool as could be, didn’t even look at Perry as he strolled past. Now it was down to him.
‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned,’ Perry sat, felt under the bench and his fingers made contact with fabric. He pumped his fist, yes!
‘How long has it been since your last confession?’
‘Well,’ Perry slipped his shoes off silently and unrolled the stolen pair of pyjamas. ‘I actually confessed a couple of weeks back.’
‘Very well, and what is your confession today?’
Perry slipped his right leg through the pyjama bottom, then the left. ‘It happened on Thursday Father,’ he pulled the trousers up over his own. ‘I took the Lord’s name in vain. I work in the Press see, and I was topping up the inkwell,’ he threaded his arms through the shirt, ‘and I dropped the damn ink can on the floor, spilling it everywhere and I said,’ he paused, the top was too long for him; it was Santi’s size, ‘I said - Jesus Christ! Damn this thing!’
‘You must never take the Lord’s name in vain!’
‘Yes Father I know.’ He couldn’t very well leave the pyjamas in the confession box - but there was no going back now, ‘I didn’t mean to, it all happened in the heat of the moment. I mean the ink went everywhere.’ Perry rolled up the sleeves and the bottom of the trouser and hoped it would look passable.
‘Sometimes we all say things we don’t mean,’ said the chaplain, ‘but you do the right thing in seeking forgiveness for this. Pray with me.’
‘Yes Father,’ Perry did up the buttons on his shirt.
Perry was glad that the autumnal days were cooler, he couldn’t imagine wearing double clothes in the summer. As it was, sweat collected at the base of his back and under his arms.
After lights out, he undressed under the cover of darkness. Cool air relieved his hot skin. He flattened Santi’s set and hid them under the mattress. It would be fine overnight - as far as he could tell the cell searches only happened when the prisoners were working or during Mass.
Prostrate on his bed, Perry listened to the clinks, footsteps, snores and whispers; the links that made up the chain of night. The first step had gone well enough, but it was just one of the many things that needed to fall into place. He plotted with the ceiling in the dark, trying to work out how he’d manage to dye the stolen pyjamas with ink from the Press.
On Monday, he wore both sets of clothes to Press and Martín threatened to ruin his whole plan.
‘Perry, you bored of the ink yet?’ Martín was walking towards him, wiping his hands with a rag.
‘Not really. I quite like it.’
‘I was thinking, maybe I show you how to set paper feed and maintain the cutters?’
‘No, I’m happy doing this thanks Martín.’
‘Come on! What wrong with you? Is boring no? Hard on the arms?’
Perry flexed his biceps. ‘I’ve got arms like tree trunks now.’
‘Are you scared? Is no hard once I show.’
This was starting to worry him now; Martín was rarely so obstinate with him.
‘Please Martín, I’m fine as I am, I don’t want to do any other duties.’
‘No accept.’
Perry tensed up. ‘What do you mean, “no accept?” ’
‘I run Press. What if Osvaldo go sick? I need cover.’
‘But you cover it don’t you?’
‘And what if I go sick Perry?’
He thought for a second. ‘You get Osvaldo to cover.’
‘And if we both sick?’
‘That’s a bit unlikely isn’t it?’
‘Don’t you see Perry? Is prob
lemático. Osvaldo and me, we no be here forever. Today is last time you on ink.’
‘No!’ he could see the force of his denial shock Martín back. Perry held up his palms to placate. ‘Martín, please, this is all too sudden. How about I do the ink today, and then I’ll learn some other duties.’
‘It really mean that much to you Perry?’
‘I want to say goodbye.’
Martín’s eyes narrowed. ‘You strange boy Perry.’
‘It must be an English thing,’ Perry held out his hand. ‘Is that a yes then?’
Martín grasped it. ‘Sí.’
The machine started up.
‘Let’s get to it,’ Perry said with a smile. Martín hurried off and Perry let the smile slip from his face. He had no idea how he would dye the second set of clothes once Santi had stolen them, but he couldn’t worry about that now – there was enough to worry about as it was with dying the first set.
Perry powered through the morning shift in a similar fashion to the machine: unthinking, efficient and relentless. He was roasting in his layers, but he kept going back and forth to the ink store as normal, not wanting to arouse any suspicion. When the bell went for lunch, the inkwell was at the three-quarters mark, just as he’d planned. The Press workers left their stations and headed for the door.
‘You coming Perry?’ called Osvaldo.
‘I’m just going to top her up now, save me doing it at the end of lunch. Save me a spot at the table.’
‘No problem. Surprised to see you slowing up a bit, thought you were a profesional?’ Osvaldo gave him a playful wink.
It was true, he had been a bit slower, but it was deliberate. He needed the time for the next part of his plan.
‘We can’t all be as consistently brilliant as you amigo.’
The Press guard was flicking through a copy of their freshly printed newspaper and looked up at them.
‘Stop nattering and get to lunch. Be quick Inglés,’ the guard returned to the paper. Could he really read?
Perry hurried to the ink store and snatched a bucket from one of the shelves. He placed it under the ink barrel, flipped the tap and let the black spindly fluid hit the bottom. He left the ink running into the bucket and grabbed a pre-filled can off the shelf and made a journey to the inkwell. He glanced up to see the guard watching him as he poured.
‘That should just about do it. Just need to put it away now.’
‘Hurry up. I don’t want to be last at the canteen. If I get cold potatoes I’ll make your life a misery.’
‘Potatoes today is it? What a treat. Don’t worry, I’m the quickest there is,’ Perry jogged back to the store. He switched the tap off, slithered out of his top layer of pyjamas and lowered them into the bucket. Using the snout of the ink can, he dunked the fabric deeper into the black liquid. He wiped his sweaty inky palms on his clean under-pyjamas. His heart was pounding as he edged the bucket under the shelves, careful not to let the ink slop, he didn’t have time to clean up.
He hurried out, glad to see the guard still positioned at the door, his copy of La Nación tucked under his arm.
‘I thought you were supposed to be quick,’ he growled.
‘I thought that was quick… come on, let’s try and nab some of those potatoes before they run out.’
26
The next day at Press, Martín presented the new ink runner to the team. He was a young man called Ricardo, fresh in and a few years older than Perry. He had a stocky frame and greeted each member with a firm pump of the hand.
‘Un chorro más,’ Martín rolled his eyes. One more thief. ‘He’ll fit right in.’
Everyone laughed and Perry found himself joining in.
‘What we’d give for a nice murderer or fraudster, just for a change,’ said Osvaldo.
Ricardo looked at them like they were all mad.
‘Don’t worry,’ Perry said. ‘Unless you mess up of course. Then they get really odd.’
Ricardo smiled nervously, making them all laugh again. Martín clapped an arm on Ricardo’s shoulder.
‘We joke of course. Perry will show you all you need to do.’
‘Come on. It’s pretty easy.’ Perry shot Martín a look. ‘I learnt from the best.’
Released from his ink duties, Perry shadowed Osvaldo on the paper feed for the first hour. It seemed to be mostly about checking for alignment. It was boring and he found his mind wandering towards the ink store.
‘Do you mind if I go and check on Ricardo?’ asked Perry.
Osvaldo nodded. ‘When you come back I’ll explain you how to deal with a paper jam.’
From the upper platform he could already see Ricardo lumbering back from the inkwell.
‘You’ll need to go faster than that!’
Ricardo pulled a face. ‘Why?’
Perry hurried over and checked the level.
‘Oh Jesus,’ he said, thinking perhaps he could bank that for his next confession.
‘Is that bad?’ asked Ricardo.
‘It’s only a little over a third full. I think we’re going to need some help.’ He put his fingers in his mouth to whistle.
‘No-’ said Ricardo, ‘I hear working the Press is one of the better places to work, I don’t want them to see that I’m falling behind on the first day.’
‘It’s fine, the guys helped me all the time when I started.’
‘No, but that Uruguayan guy - he got chucked out didn’t he? Maybe you could help me just this once. Nobody would need to know.’
Perry ran it over quickly in his mind. This could play to his favour.
‘Ok, you have to be quick and do what I say.’
They went to the store. Perry checked the spare ink cans. Only one was full.
‘Take this, run over, top up the inkwell and get back here quickly as you can. I’ll top up these spares.’
Ricardo nodded and left the ink store. Perry filled the cans as quickly as he could, dispatching Ricardo to fill them up until he had three full cans ready and lined up outside the store; it would buy him some time.
Perry leapt into action. The bucket was still under the shelves where he’d hidden it. He dragged it out, rolled up his sleeves and dunked his hands in. The ink felt strange and thick on his skin. He fished out the pyjamas. They were black as eye pupils, dripping. He knew it was going to be messy and wondered if he’d been too rash in trying to do this now. It was too late to go back. He heard Ricardo drop an empty and pick up another.
Perry wrung the fabric with all his might. The ink spilled through his fingers and palms into the bucket below. He then wrung it in three smaller sections: top middle and bottom, getting out as much liquid as he could. He shoved the pyjamas under the bottom shelf to dry.
‘What are you doing?’
Perry turned. It was the guard. He’d never been checked up on by a guard in the ink store before.
‘Oh, I er-’ he stammered.
‘I said, what the hell are you doing?’
Ricardo appeared behind the guard. ‘Excuse me, can I get through I need to top up the cans.’
Perry looked at the guard. ‘He’s the new ink runner. I’m helping him out as he was falling behind.’
‘That true?’
Ricardo nodded but the guard looked implacable. Turning back to Perry. ‘And why are you covered in ink?’
Perry looked at his black hands, smudged shirt and the ink-spattered floor. ‘Spillage. It happens sometimes when you rush. I was looking for a rag.’
The guard grunted. ‘Well find one and get this shit cleaned up double-fast or I’ll turn you upside down and use your head as a mop.’
He left and Perry puffed his cheeks in relief.
‘Was that bad?’ Ricardo asked.
It definitely was. Perry did not need the guards sniffing around the ink store.
‘It could be, how are the ink levels looking now?’
‘Well, we’re over half.’
‘Good,’ said Perry, ‘I’ll help you with a couple more, then I�
�ll clean up and leave you for a bit.’
‘I’m sorry, all this is my fault. I’m not fast enough am I?’
‘It’s your first day, don’t worry, you’re doing well. Just keep at it.’
Perry helped with a few more top ups and returned to Osvaldo. He had already decided not to mention the guard to anyone. ‘You took your time. How’s the new kid coming along?’
He offered up his inky hands.
‘That bad?’
Perry leant on the railing and watched the blur of paper rush by. ‘I’m sure he’ll get there.’
On Friday, Perry snuck back to Press before the end of lunch. He made doubly sure there were no guards about. In the ink store he got down on all fours and felt the fabric of the pyjamas; they were dry, just as he’d hoped. He stripped off and put on his newly dyed pyjamas as the under layer. He paused for a moment and admired the effect. The loose fitting pyjamas dyed black were just what he’d hoped for, almost robe-like. He didn’t look like a prisoner. He looked like a man of the cloth.
27
Perry kept the black pyjamas stowed in his pillowcase. It wasn’t ideal, but the only other option would be to wear them under his usual garb - and that felt riskier. All it would take was a stray moment of forgetfulness: unbuttoning his collar at Press, or rolling up his sleeves in Dining Hall or forgetting to change into one set before his daily wash. The pillowcase risked only a cell search, and though he feared it, it was blissfully out of his control. Fate was a more palatable harbinger of doom than his own stupidity.
It wasn’t just cell searches he was worried about. He’d not spoken to Santi alone for days. The more he tried to seek the lank Argentine out, the more he realised that Santi was a man under closer watch than the rest of the prisoners. Bringing Santi on board wasn’t perhaps the wisest move after all. He’d needed Santi to steal the pyjamas and he had a set now… cutting Santi loose after all he’d promised felt wrong, but he’d done worse in the past. There was much to think about.
