Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (22 page)

Martín looked incredulous,
‘Come on Perry, you mean you really don’t know? I don’t believe
it.’

Perry felt annoyed. ‘Of course
I don’t know!’

A whistle cut through the
air.

‘
Prisoneros!
Formen aqui!
’ A guard pointed to a spot in
the corner of the yard.

‘
Well you’re
about to see what that hatch is for
Inglés
.’

The prisoners formed a
horseshoe around the corner of the yard, facing the trapdoor. Perry
threaded his way through to the front. He’d been thumped for this;
he had to see what it was. He felt Martín’s presence at his side.
He examined the other prisoners, for fear or some sign of what was
to come. There were tired faces. Worn faces. Autumn ghosts, all
silent and drained in their grey pyjamas.

There was some movement through
the crowd. The bulky guard Torro and two others pushed their way to
the front. Perry glowered at him with hate and ran his hand over
his tender ribcage.

Torro crouched down by the
hatch, unlocked it and yanked the door open. Perry got up on his
tiptoes to get a better view of the open hatch, but the angle was
wrong.

‘
Ahora ves
,’ whispered
Martín.
Now you’ll see.

The two other guards wafted
away the dust.

‘
Arriba!
’ Torro yelled.

Martín made a sign of the cross
on his chest.

‘
Da-le!
’

And then he saw fingers
searching the air above the hatch. There was someone inside! Why
wasn’t anyone helping? He took a step forward and felt Martín’s arm
across his bruised chest, holding him back.

Out of the hatch, a man emerged
on one knee and lifted his other leg out of the hole below. Slowly
he got up, unfurling himself to a standing position. His pyjamas
were filthy and soiled. He patted his head, knocking a shower of
lice to the floor.

‘
Ay
Santi,’ breathed one of the prisoners.

Perry clenched
his teeth so hard he thought his teeth might shatter. Of course
there was no tunnel, no magical escape hatch. This hell-hole
was
La Cueva
.

It was a god-awful place by the
looks of it. Santi was bent crooked, his bloodshot eyes blinking
away the sudden sun. He was gaunt and weak, barely able to stand,
teetering and swaying like a drunk. It was all Perry could do to
stay put, he wasn’t sure why, the reflex to catch a teetering vase
or glass perhaps, but he desperately wanted to help this wretched
man stand but knew he couldn’t. Another punch from Torro would
hardly do either of them good.

Perry did the maths in his
head, nearly two weeks Santi had spent down there. And now he was
being paraded in front of them as what? An example? He tried to
recall his punishment, was it talking about escape or actually
trying to escape? He couldn’t well remember. Surely two weeks down
there was a pretty severe punishment?

He massaged his ribs, still
tender. Perhaps he had got off lightly under this strict regime.
His heart went out to this poor wretch of a man. Such suffering. It
couldn’t be for nothing.

24

Santi didn’t appear from
sickbay until Wednesday. Dining Hall was amicably noisy and Santi
was sitting with a group of inmates from the lower deck. Perry
approached, lunch tray in hand.

‘
Hey.’

The group stopped their
conversation and their hostile stares put him ill at ease. Before
he lost the courage, he lifted a bread roll from his tray and gave
it to Santi.

‘
I know you
don’t know me but…what they did to you, sending you to
La Cueva
like that for so
long. It was wrong.’

Santi took the bread. He was so
ratty-looking, pale and thin with a patchy beard. He might be
blighted by scurvy or polio, Perry thought. The other prisoners
reeled in their hostility, but kept suspicion taut and ready. He
could hardly blame them; kind acts from strangers were rare,
especially in prison, and even rarer when grub was scarce.

‘
That was
all,’ then he lowered his voice for Santi, ‘get your strength back.
You might need it soon.’

Perry turned
before Santi could react and joined Martín and the Press crowd to
eat his meal - a half-bowl of spicy
locro
. He chewed long and ate as
slowly as he could, which wasn’t so hard with the gristly meat.
Most guessed the meat to be dog but Perry had long given up caring.
It was like his father had always said;
if
you’re hungry, you damn well eat what’s in front of you.

‘
You’re taking
your time today,’ Martín was the last one to stay with
him.

‘
Don’t wait,
go and have your smoke and I’ll see you back at the Press in
ten.’

‘
Sure?’

Perry nodded, hoping that Santi
was still in the Dining Hall. He finished his meal and pushed the
tray to the middle of the table. He was about to get up when he
felt a hand on his shoulder and Santi clambered beside him.

‘
What’s your
name kid?’

‘
Perry
Scrimshaw.’

‘
Ah
el
Inglés
. That was a good thing you
did, giving me your bread.’

‘
Don’t mention
it.’

‘
I’ve been in
here a long time. You get
nada
for free in here.’

This was his moment, he
couldn’t blow it. He looked Santi in the eye.

‘
You need to
get your strength up.’

Santi’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why’s
that?’

Perry lowered his voice. ‘I’m
going to get both of us out of here.’

He got up, not giving Santi the
chance to reply, dropped his tray at the kitchen hatch and headed
to Press.

It had gone well, but there was
no way of telling just yet if Santi was interested. Perry spent the
afternoon shift wondering if he should have said more or played it
slightly differently. In the end he just had to wait for
supper.

When Santi joined the Press
table for supper, Perry knew he had him in hand. But just as in
guddling, getting the fish in your palm was only the start. He had
to get Santi out the water and into the bucket.

Everyone was
intrigued with this new presence at the table. Santi was something
of a celebrity after his spell in
La
Cueva.

‘
So what’s it
really like down there?’

‘
A tiny box
too low in the ground to stand up. You either have to stoop or sit
down.’

‘
With my
knees, I would have to sit,’ said Martín.

‘
The sewer
trench runs through so the ground is wet with piss and shit, rats
running up and down all the time like locomotives. Bastards get you
when you sleep. Look at the bites on my ankles.’

A collective gasp went up from
the group.

‘
Jesus,’ Perry
breathed, he’d never seen anything like it. The puffy puss-filled
scabs practically covered Santi’s leg. If the thought of getting
caught scared him before, it terrified him now.

‘
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.’