Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  That evening, Perry queued with Osvaldo and Ricardo for their daily wash.

  ‘Next three!’ the guard barked and handed Perry the bucket.

  ‘I can’t get over how three days work in the Press equals this,’ Perry complained, giving his sponge a squeeze.

  ‘And a week equals this,’ Ricardo had a bar of soap in his hands. ‘Whoever works the currency for this stuff must think he’s a funny guy.’

  Perry padded over the cold tiles looking for a space. He took the bucket over to the pumps. A hairy-backed man he recognised from the floor below was pumping his head there. Perry knew him by reputation – he was not a man to appeal to for a fair turn and so he queued at the second pump to fill the bucket up. He looked about for a good clear spot for the three to base themselves for the wash. And there, standing on his own, washing himself down with languid, slow movements, was Santi. Still a little stooped and crooked, his ribs poking out fine as a comb, but compared to the husk who stepped out of La Cueva he was more man than corpse now. He looked so pitiful. Could he really leave this wretch in here? He couldn’t explain it, but in his heart he knew he couldn’t.

  ‘Hey Osvaldo, why don’t you and Ricardo go twos on this one,’ he handed the bucket over. ‘Santi’s over there on his own, I’ll see if he’ll share with me.’

  ‘Only half-dirty water,’ Osvaldo said, ‘a real treat.’

  Perry took his sponge and soap over to Santi.

  ‘Ok to share your water?’

  ‘Perry! Sure, go ahead.’

  The water was milky grey. Perry dunked his sponge in and doused himself in the water, shuddering with the chill. Santi faced the wall and lifted up an arm and was washing an armpit with a rag.

  ‘I did what you said. I got you the first set. Now I need to know the plan.’

  ‘You did well,’ Perry murmured, lathering the soap up in his hands.

  ‘So?’

  ‘On Sunday you give me the second set, we do the switch just like last time. Only difference this time is that I need to give you back the first set you stole last week.’

  ‘Give them back? Why?’

  Perry rubbed his soapy hands over his head and face, ‘I’ve dyed them black.’

  Santi was silent for a while, dunking his rag back in the bucket.

  ‘Is it to do with the archbishop’s visit?’

  Perry squeezed the sponge and let the water cascade over his head.

  ‘Yep,’ he wiped his eyes clear of soap. Santi was staring at him.

  ‘How?’

  There were still details he had to work through but he could hardly admit to it here. ‘You just get me the second set for now, no point talking about a plan until we are set up to actually do it.’

  ‘You’re going to have to trust me Perry.’

  ‘Santi, I do. I’ve got what I need to escape already. I wouldn’t ask you to steal a second set if I wasn’t planning on taking you with me.’

  ‘You better know what you’re doing.’

  ‘So we switch on Sunday, just like last week. Simple.’

  ‘Except not,’ Santi wrung out his rag. ‘Don’t you need to give me the dyed set and I give you a second grey set for dying?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘It won’t work like last time will it?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Think about it. You go in first, take off your black set and stow it under the bench. I go in confession, take my two sets off and then there are three sets in there with me right? Two grey and one black.’

  ‘Ye-s,’ Perry was starting to see the problem, ‘You put the black one on, then your grey one over it and leave your spare under the seat.’

  ‘And when do you collect it? You’ve already been in,’ Santi lifted the bucket up and poured some of the water over his head and shook his black hair like a dog.

  ‘Shit. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  Santi grabbed his towel, a slight smirk on his face. ‘It’s good to share isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m going to have to go into confession twice aren’t I?’

  ‘Maestro, you go it.’

  Perry groaned. ‘Jesus. That’s one more problem I don’t need.’

  ‘You got other problems?’

  Santi looked eager to help. Why not?

  ‘Yeah. With the dying. When we did the first switch it was pretty easy for me to dye them. I was the Press ink-runner, had access to the ink store all day but now somebody else has got the job – Martín’s hell bent on training me up on the other duties.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Santi stroked his chin.

  ‘I’ve got a few scams that might get me in there but all pretty risky. The Press guard is already suspicious of me, checked up on me the other day and nearly caught me – thought I was kippered for sure.’

  ‘Perry, hombre, you got to be careful. These guards don’t mess around.’

  ‘I know, I know. That’s why I’m asking. Any bright ideas how to get me in there?’

  Santi rubbed his hair with the towel. ‘Who replaced you?’

  Perry nodded over to Ricardo, who was scrubbing vigorously at his nails - trying to get the ink stains out. ‘Him. The stocky one.’

  ‘And you’re his back up right?’

  Perry didn’t like where this was going. ‘Er…Yes.’

  ‘This one’s easy. Just leave it with me.’

  ‘Santi, he’s a nice guy, I don’t-’

  ‘Shhh. Don’t worry. Trust me. Just be ready to dye them on Monday.’

  Sunday morning: one week until Easter. Perry got up early and put on his black pyjamas and then his regulation ones. His stomach felt like it was full of ashy coal embers, hot and shifting.

  In the chapel, Perry sat on one of the wings by the wall, Santi by his side.

  ‘We on?’ The words were drawled low through his lips

  Perry nodded, ‘Me. You. Then I line up again,’

  ‘And if the guard stops you?’ Santi whispered.

  ‘I’ll go to the altar and pray until you come out, then you distract him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know, think of something!’ hissed Perry.

  ‘Hey, silencio!’

  Perry nodded at the guard and lowered his head. He was hot, sweating slightly on the palms. He had to keep his cool. He wanted to tell Santi to tuck the pyjamas well under the bench in case one of the other prisoners going to confession discovered it before he could get back in.

  When it was time for confession, he knew what he had to do.

  ‘Forgive me father for I have sinned….’

  Hot, he peeled off his clothes, glad of the cool afforded by the confessional. He spun a story to the chaplain about stealing Ricardo’s bar of soap. When he was done, the black set was tucked safely under the bench and his prisoner issue pyjamas were back on.

  Pleased with how the first part of the plan had gone, he left the box. Santi was next in line and his eyes grew wide. What was it? Santi brushed past.

  ‘Neck!’ he hissed.

  A horror flushed over Perry, had the ink run? Reflexively, he dipped his head and hurried over to the altar. He knelt down, lifted up his collar and rubbed his neck. His hand came back smudged black. His sweat!

  Desperately he looked about him, on the floor there was a jug; he peered inside, too dark to tell. He dipped his finger in and tasted it. Water. Holy water? He didn’t care. The empty front pews protected him from the confession queue and the guard. He dunked his cuff in the water, and scrubbed his neck. A bit of ink on his clothes wouldn’t arouse suspicion; everyone knew he worked at Press. He just had to hope he had taken enough off his skin. As he did up his top button he heard the confessional door creak open. Damn! He wasn’t ready!

  Perry rose. Santi ambled past the confession line. Perry quick-footed, trying his best not to run. He had to get to the back of the line at the same time Santi reached the guard. Perry reached the end of the line, spun and joined the back of the queue. He held his breath and waited for the reprimand.
>
  The prisoner in front of him turned to look at him.

  ‘Weren’t you just in there?’

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  The man huffed and turned back round. Perry heard Santi’s voice, just the low notes, like the drone of a distant engine. It stopped and he waited for a hand to clap him on the shoulder, or the sharp yell of ‘Inglés!’ to echo round the chapel. But it didn’t come. He tried to relax but his heart was beating its way out of his chest.

  The line ran down. Perry wondered how much ink he’d sweated onto his skin underneath. When it was his turn again, he went in, felt under the bench and there it was. The second set of grey pyjamas.

  28

  On Monday, Ricardo wasn’t at breakfast. When he didn’t turn up for Press, Martín had no choice but to report him as not turning up for duty. A strange unease settled on the Press workers. There were mutterings. The kid seemed so reliable, had something bad happened to him?

  Perry stepped in and covered the ink duty and though he should have felt glad to have the ink store to himself, he found that he too was infected with concern for Ricardo. The void of the unknown was filled first with the darkest thoughts. Had Santi had him killed? Then the more rational, Santi told me not to worry, he wouldn’t have said that if he meant Ricardo harm. Then, the practical. This might be my only chance to dye these clothes and get out of here myself.

  And so, Perry made the most of having the storeroom to himself, soaking the pyjamas for an hour in the morning and wringing them out thoroughly to give them time to dry out before the end of the day’s shift. He hoped the shorter soaking time would be enough. As they all left for lunch, it was the guard who told them.

  ‘Your ink boy made Count this morning, been in sick bay since.’

  ‘What with?’

  The guard shrugged. ‘Vomiting, I don’t know, I’m not a médico.’

  On Tuesday, Ricardo was back and profusely apologetic for missing work the previous day.

  ‘I don’t know what it was, but it went through my body like a damn locomotive.’

  Perry didn’t know what Santi had done but whatever it was, he was glad the second set was successfully dyed and stowed away in his cell. Santi was as good as his word.

  That evening, Perry returned from the baños to find a letter. He wasn’t expected anything. He opened it and shook his head – it was his trial date. With all the planning he had almost forgotten he was still to be trialled. Then, the date. 19th May 1892. Unbelievable, that was a whole year and two months away, barely a fortnight before his eighteenth birthday. Niels Saldrup had been right about this at least. Had he still been pinning all his hopes on a trial, such news would have steamrollered him. But as it was, the trial date changed nothing, his route ahead was clear. He would escape or he would die trying.

  He was glad of the letter though. At his desk he folded it into neat strips and carefully ripped along the folded lines. He took the strip of white paper and tucked it under his collar. What he’d give for a mirror.

  The week flew past and before he knew it, it was Friday and he was in the baños thinking that if the plan worked, this would be the last time he’d ever wash here. God it was a satisfying thought, to think he might be rid of this place. He borrowed a razor off Martín and shortened his hair, doing it randomly by touch. He probably looked like a savage but it didn’t matter, as long as he looked a bit different, less recognisable. Any slim advantage was one worth grasping.

  When Saturday came, his nerves arrived like an unwelcome visitor. He couldn’t think straight and barely said a word to anyone for fear he’d say something stupid and give himself away. The only distraction he found was walking the yard after lunch. The sky was overcast and moody, Laundry and Kitchen were having a rematch. The ball skittered through the dust and the odd yell of a player calling for a pass echoed off the walls. The ball was kicked upfield by a Laundry defender and to his amazement the defender trapping the ball was Santi. How did he have the nerve? Worse still, what if he hurt himself? Surely kicking a cabbage was enough to break a toe.

  When Santi spotted him, Perry motioned for him to sub off the field.

  ‘Tough game,’ said Perry.

  ‘1-0 to us, might be more if all the players knew the game plan.’

  Perry didn’t have to look to know that there were three guards watching. Two in the watchtower, one on the wall half-watching the game and occasionally doing a sweep of the grounds. He took a few steps away from Santi and pretended to watch the game.

  ‘Can’t believe you’re playing football,’ he mumbled through the side of his mouth.

  Santi sat on the dirt, took off a shoe and tapped the heel to loosen the dirt inside. ‘Less risky than being all quiet and anxious.’

  Maybe he had a point. They watched for a few seconds in silence, waiting for the watchtower guards to face the wrong way for a moment.

  ‘You cut your hair? It looks awful.’

  ‘Do the same tonight if you can,’ Perry stole a glance at Santi. ‘Lose the beard.’

  ‘What you think I was growing it for?’

  ‘I got you a paper collar. It holds in if you tuck it under your collar.’

  ‘Leave it on the ground when you go and I’ll pick it up.’

  Perry nodded, placed the paper on the floor between his feet. The guards were watching them again.

  ‘Vamos!’ he yelled, and clapped his hands to encourage the Laundry player charging up the wing.

  ‘Tell me the plan,’ Santi murmured when the coast was clear.

  ‘Wear your disguise. At confession both boxes will be in use tomorrow. We go either side and be last in line.’

  Santi pulled on his shoe. ‘Go on.’

  ‘We come out of the confession box.’

  ‘Dressed as Priests - then how do we get out?’

  ‘That’s the risky part. The archbishop is there with his staff. We latch on to their party and walk out with them.’

  Santi was silent for a moment. Then, barely containing the anger in his hushed voice. ‘That’s it? That’s your plan? He’s not going to allow a couple of fakers along!’

  Perry didn’t know what to say, he wished he could talk properly.

  ‘Santi - I’m good at this sort of thing. In a simple plan less can go wrong.’

  ‘If we fail, we’ll be sent to La Cueva until we die.’

  ‘We can’t fail.’

  ‘Jesú Cristo I thought there’d be more of a plan!’ He laced his shoes up angrily.

  ‘What’s out there for you Santi? Why have you come this far?’

  ‘My daughter. My wife.’

  ‘You got what, thirty-five more years in here. You want to see her once every six weeks until you’re dead?’

  ‘Calláte,’ Santi looked away from him. ‘It’s thirty-two years anyway. We’ve been talking too long.’

  ‘Don’t make me do this on my own. I need you. You’ve been here longer than I have, and when we’re outside you know Buenos Aires, know people to get us safe.’

  Santi clambered to his feet. ‘It’s too risky.’

  Perry weighed up one hand. ‘Reunited with your wife and daughter,’ then the other hand, ‘or stay in here and rot. Decide tonight.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Fine.’ Perry replied. He couldn’t believe what a coward Santi was being. He went up to his floor and walked past the cells, one was empty, the next had a prisoner writing a letter, the next person was doing press ups, the next was empty and then it was Martín’s. He was reading a book. There was a gap in the guard’s circuit but Perry didn’t want to talk, so he continued past and went into his own cell. He lay on his bed and rested his head. The extra bulk in the pillow was awkward, less even.

  Above him the jade plant was a plain dull green in the afternoon light. He stood on his bed and took it from the ledge and sat again. He flicked the leaves lightly with his fingers, daring them to fall off.

  ‘Knock knock,’ Perry said.

  Martín lowered his book
, ‘Hola Perry, come in. Sit.’

  Perry placed the plant on the table.

  ‘You want me to check it?’ Martín reached out and rubbed his fingers over the leaves. ‘Maybe a little more water, you feel here. Is less, how you say, llena?’

  ‘Full,’

  ‘Exacto,’ Martín said, ‘the leaf is no full. But is doing ok.’

  Perry crossed his arms. ‘You know Martín, I was thinking. This plant, this friendship tree as you call it. I think it’s been good for me.’

  ‘Bien, I am glad.’

  ‘And I think maybe you should take a turn with it for a while.’

  His thick eyebrows furrowed. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well we could share it. I have it for a couple of weeks, then you have it for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ Martín sounded hurt instead of understanding just how grateful he was.

  ‘No, Martín, it’s not that. I love it. It’s just, if it’s in the cell all the time, it becomes just this thing, like the bed, the chair or the desk. You get used to it, maybe a little bored of it. It stops brightening the room and just becomes…there.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So, if you have it for a couple of weeks it brightens your cell up, and then in a couple of weeks when I get it back it will be like having it new every time.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘It’ll help the time pass easier. I didn’t tell you Martín, but I got my trial date.’

  Martín perked up.‘Cúando?’

  ‘Next May.’

  He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Too long to hold a man without trial.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘This explains why you be so strange lately.’

  Perry’s throat tightened, he nodded and pointed to the plant. ‘You look after that for me won’t you?’

  ‘I get these leaves strong again,’ Martín said, feathering them with the tips of his fingers.

  ‘I better get back before the guard comes round again. But I just wanted to say thank you, you know for everything Martín.’