Dead I Well May Be

5: WE GO TO MEXICO

New York City. The abiding blue of the Atlantic. The sweeping curve of coast. Woods, fields, cities, great spits of land given up by rivers. Swamps. Islands. Keys. The Caribbean Sea. Jungle. Down.

Our place was a villa on the lagoon side of the Cancún strip. Large and white, ringed with palm trees. It had a veranda and a swimming pool under an overhang. The pool had leaves floating in it, but not that many. I guessed that the last occupants had left a week earlier. The bedrooms sprawled over the top floor, big and airy with watercolors of local girls. The beds themselves were huge wooden affairs with eiderdowns.

I picked a room, lay down on the big bed, and closed my eyes. There were birds and the sound of a bell, and if you imagined just a little you could hear the ocean. I slept for an hour or two and got up and showered. The boys were down at the pool, passing around a bottle of rum. Scotchy was dressed and ready to go out and was urging them to hurry the fuck up.

I read Bernal Díaz’s book about the conquest of Mexico until they were all ready, a cheap Penguin edition but a great plane book. Cortez had just appeared and the Spanish were getting their shit together. They came close to Cancún and stopped at an island nearby. Isla Mujeres. I went out to the balcony on the east side of the house to see if I could get a glimpse over to the ocean and spot any islands, but you couldn’t see through the trees. In any case, the boys were all set. I got changed and splashed some water on my face.

After some confusion we got through to a taxi service on the phone and went to a restaurant that Sunshine had recommended, though how he knew we’d no idea.

The restaurant was near the bullring and served Mayan food and Mexican food and all of it with lime and all of it hot. Excellent stuff. We all enjoyed it except for Fergal, who loaded up with tons of chili sauce and could barely eat it. We had about a six-pack of Corona each and tequilas afterwards.

It was a nightclub next. We took a bus to the resort area. Scotchy paid the cover for us, and we went in.

I was too beat to dance or drink, so I just found a quiet cushioned place in the corner. The music was ten years behind the times and consisted of New Romantics and disco. They kept playing some Bowie song from 1981 over and over as if it was the latest thing. If it hadn’t been too loud, I might have slept again over my cocktail.

I lay on a couch and drank and watched the boys make eejits of themselves. Scotchy joined me and I raked him about the aftershave he had poured on himself, stuff that, were it released into the wild, would make Rachel Carson weep. Scotchy had no idea who Rachel Carson was and called me a pretentious wanker. We both got margaritas, but before the conversation got maudlin, big And came over. He’d got himself a girl and wanted advice. She was a skinny-looking lass of perhaps dubious virtue, which Scotchy and I agreed was a good thing.

I told him to say nothing, but to hint at great depth. Scotchy told him to ask her if she had any Irish in her. Whatever tactic he took seemed to work because soon he was snogging her in a corner.

I tried to ask Scotchy what we were going to be doing down here, but he explained it had to stay secret until tomorrow. And with Scotchy such a big blabbermouth, it really must have been a secret, so I didn’t press him.

Around midnight the place started to fill and the tempo picked up a little. More Yanks came in. Bob cried off home, saying his belly hurt, and we were all glad to see the back of him. Scotchy was having a spastic attack next to a group of girls, but he didn’t seem in much distress, so I assumed that this was him dancing. I was doing my own low-key moves near the bog in case Montezuma got me as well as Bob. But I was ok. Fergal had been bringing me things with umbrellas in them, and they’d given me a second wind. Everything was in a haze and speeded up, and before I quite knew what was happening I was in a bus with a blond girl wearing cutoffs and a University of Kansas T-shirt. We were kissing. She looked like she could be Bridget’s pudgier, blonder, slightly younger sister. She talked a lot about nutrition.

She said her hotel room overlooked the water, and when you got up to it, seven floors, you could believe her because it was as black as pitch out there. She took the blankets off her bed-one of three beds in the room-and went out onto the balcony and laid them down. It seemed a very foolish thing to do, because the place was crawling with ants, but she explained that it was so we’d be private when the other girls got in.

The thought of two other girls showing up conjured interesting visions in my brain for a while, and my focus was elsewhere. She went back inside and brought us beers, and we sat and looked at the party boats cruising past in the darkness. I kissed her and pulled her down onto the blankets, but I had a very hard time getting hard. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Shovel or Bridget or any girls, for that matter, for four days, and you’d think a healthy young man, on only his second ever holiday abroad, would have no problems getting into the swing of things. But the booze, the girl, the flight, the anxiety, all played their malicious little parts, and it took an incredible amount of concentration just to stay in the game. Finally, and heroically, I managed to get it together just long enough for her-but not actually long enough for me-and the girl yelled loud enough to let most of peninsular Mexico know that she was adequately fucked. My head was spinning and, but for my innate Irish politeness, I would have thrown up over the balcony. I breathed in the sea air and asked her where she was from. I’d never heard of it, so I said that that was nice and she asked me where I was from. I told her, and it came to pass that she had a whole host of relations from County Cork. We talked about the multifarious delights of the southwest of Ireland and a little about The Wizard of Oz, the only thing I could think of that involved Kansas. My gaffe with Danny the Drunk had already demonstrated my shaky knowledge of the film and, unfortunately, she had seen it and had strong opinions about it; she explained that she, you know, despite appearances and everything, had been brought up right and her folks hadn’t held with making light of devilry and witches and such. I said that from what I remembered the whole thing was a dream, and she told me that that was besides the point and that she was good folks and her grandpappy from Tennessee had been a juror in the famous Monkey Trial. Neither of us quite knew what the Monkey Trial was, but I imagined it was some antivivisection thing and praised her grandfather for his civic duty.

We sat up and drank some more beer, and there was a lighthouse. I counted the flashes, and I lay down on the blankets while she talked about some famous University of Kansas football team and then some more about nutrition. My diet, apparently, was completely wrong; indeed, everything I ate came from the top of the food pyramid rather than the bottom.

At four in the morning it began to rain, and we moved into the bedroom, where I was introduced to two other girls who, in fits of giggles, demanded to know my name and what college I was from and whether I had used protection.

She whispered to them that for most of the time I had been unable to perform; at this stage I pretended to be asleep.

The pretense transformed mercifully into reality. I slept on the floor and woke with the dawn.

I dressed and slipped out. I had no idea where I was, and I was still a little drunk and looking ragged. I pissed against a wall, and a copper slowed down; he would have booked me if I’d been a local. He saw that I didn’t have the lingo and was some kind of Yankee bastard. It could have been the luckiest fucking break of my life if he had lifted me. But he didn’t. Instead, he swore and spat and drove off muttering. Under a huge Mexican flag, a nasty little boy threw a stone at me, and it hit me on the back of my head. I chased after him and ended up even more lost than before. A Mexican man and woman out for a walk saw that I was in some distress and tried to help, but we couldn’t communicate. They insisted on walking me at least part of the way to the shoreside hotel strip and then gave me change for the bus. The bus didn’t come, however, and from there I wandered around Cancún for another two hours before eventually finding the airport road and, by a process of reverse geography, the villa. The front door was open. Scotchy was fully dressed and on the phone with someone.

There you fucking are, you fucking get. I thought you’d bloody fallen under a bus or something, he yelled at me.

Morning to you, too, I said.

I suppose it was some wee tart, lucky bastard. Find yourself a coffee and a bun and get your shit together, we have to go pronto, he said, remembering this time to cover up the receiver on the phone.

She was a very nice girl, actually, I muttered.

Fergal and Big Bob were in the kitchen making eggs. Andy was upstairs having a shower. When he came down, I could see from the glow off him that his night hadn’t been unsuccessful.

Tell you, Michael, I’m quitting this thieving game and getting into higher education. All these girls at college. Don’t know what we’re doing with ourselves, he said to me over coffee.

She was all right then, was she? I asked him.

Andy was insulted. This wasn’t some piece of stuff, this was a real girl with whom he had bonded and joined souls and reached dizzy plateaus of intellect, all of it in her hotel room for almost forty-five minutes.

All right? My God, she was wonderful, wonderful, Andy said, protesting a wee bit too much, I thought. Andy must still have been freaked out by my observations on sexual preference, and I considered for a moment messing with his head but decided against it.

That’s great, Andy, I said.

Yeah, Michael, it really was.

So you pulled. Well done. Took my advice, kept your mouth shut, then, eh? I asked him.

I didn’t say much, but I didn’t need to. She was so interesting, Michael. She was studying history. There’s so much history, you know, there’s a whole stack of it, all this stuff out there, Andy explained.

I looked at him to see if he was being funny, but his face was expressionless.

So you want to pack in the life of the highwayman and turn to academe. Andy, my lad, it’s funny you should say that. Actually, I was having the same thoughts just-

You want some eggs? Big Bob asked from the kitchen.

Aye, what type?

Scrambled with stuff in them.

What sort of stuff?

Onions.

Aye.

Fergal came over. He was grinning with jealousy at me and And.

Aren’t you the boy too, Michael. Jesus, Scotchy says she was a real looker, Fergal complained.

Did he? Was she? I said, and we all laughed.

The eggs came, and they were fine. Andy pontificated about possible majors he could undertake, and I assured him that with his large frame and youthful exuberance he would be sure to get an American football scholarship at some university. I told him that Kansas had a good program.

He slapped me on the back and started telling me further about his new philosophy of existence and the delights to be had in the life of the mind, and he kept on about it even though he could see I was in no fit state to listen to his bollocks. Scotchy came in to save me, telling me to shower and get changed. I went upstairs. The back of my neck was all bloody from something. I remembered the stone. Wee bastard. I showered and pulled on my boxers, button jeans, and an old brown T-shirt. I grabbed some sandals. Everyone else was wearing shorts, and I would have gone back upstairs and changed had we had the time.

The rental car came, and Scotchy tipped the delivery driver. He asked for a lift back with us, but Bob told him to fuck off. Scotchy got in the front with Big Bob; the rest of us got in the back. Big Bob had a map and for the next forty-five minutes they argued about directions before figuring out the place to go. I only noticed then that Bob was carrying a large shopping bag from Zabar’s. It was odd, you couldn’t imagine a less likely person to shop in Zabar’s. I thought for a minute and then I got it. Sunshine went to Zabar’s. It was Sunshine’s bag. It contained money. We were swapping the money for something. Either drugs or guns. Drugs. What drugs? I was never to find out.

I started to giggle and couldn’t stop.

Andy poked me in the ribs.

What’s so fucking funny? he whispered.

We’re smuggling knishes, I said, pointing at the Zabar’s bag. Andy laughed because I was laughing, but I don’t think he got the joke.

Would youse shut up back there and act your ages, Scotchy said angrily.

We drove on for a bit and when we were close, they stopped the car.

Here, boys, Scotchy said, and reached round and gave us each a pistol. They were huge, old-fashioned things from World War I.

Where did these come from? Fergal asked.

Need-to-know basis, boys, Bob said, annoyingly.

Scotchy, what’s the job? I asked, pretending that Bob didn’t exist.

The job, Bruce, for you is just to stand there and look menacing. Me and Bob are taking care of everything, Scotchy said, soothingly.

How are we going to get drugs back into the States? Smuggling is like ten years, you know, I said.

Ten years? Fergal sputtered.

Who said anything about drugs? Scotchy growled and looked angrily at Big Bob.

I never said a word, Big Bob whispered, unsure of himself.

Don’t you worry, Bruce, it’s all been thought of. This is going to go smooth as silk, Scotchy said, looking at Andy and Fergal in the mirror the whole time.

Bob was sweating but Scotchy looked calm, so maybe it would go ok.

They drove for another five minutes and stopped again.

We’re here, Big Bob muttered up from his map.

We’d halted in a poor neighborhood in the north end of town, right on the edge of a marsh. The road was a track and the houses were finished only on one side. They were two stories and seemed as if they’d been built in the last few months. Maybe they would look ok when they were painted and the marsh was drained and the road was better and Cancún got a planning board and Mexico got sustainable growth, improved infrastructure, and an end to one-party rule.

Are you sure this is it? Scotchy asked.

Aye, he’s drawn a wee bit in pen where the map ends. This is it, Bob said.

We all got out of the car. There was no one around. The houses didn’t even look occupied. They had no electricity or phone lines.

It’s a fucking slum, Fergal moaned.

It’s not, it’s a new development. Expansion, that’s what it is. They all start like that, Scotchy insisted.

It’s the wrong place, there’s nobody here, Andy said.

I think it’s the wrong place too, Fergal agreed.

Let me see the map, Scotchy said and grabbed it out of Bob’s hands.

It’s the fucking place, Bob said, sure wasn’t I in-

Whatever Bob was in was not to be discovered, because the aluminum house door opened and a voice said:

Señores.

Scotchy looked in triumph at Fergal and Andy and marched down the dirt path to the house. Bob turned to us.

Ok, boys, weapons in your trousers. You won’t need them; don’t do anything stupid. Be super cool. These boys don’t want any fuss. You hear me?

We nodded, and Andy said: I hear you.

We walked down the path to the house. There were tire tracks from several vehicles in the clay soil, and at the time I thought this was a bit odd. Tire tracks but no sign of a car. I didn’t think about it too much, though. We went inside the house. Dust was everywhere, and it smelled of resin, wood sealant, and tobacco smoke. Scotchy was in the front room with three Mexican guys in jeans and T-shirts. They were talking in English. Scotchy presented Big Bob, and they shook hands with him. We weren’t introduced. I leaned up against the wall. My throat ached from last night and all the dust in here wasn’t helping. Big Bob opened the shopping bag and brought out bundles of twenty-dollar bills. One of the Mexicans opened a satchel and gave it to Scotchy. He looked inside. There was white powder inside plastic bags. He gave it to Big Bob to check, but before Bob could do anything the side door burst open and two men in ski masks appeared with pump-action shotguns. They were yelling:

You are under arrest, you are arrested.

The Mexicans all produced guns and screamed at us to lie down on the floor.

A man appeared behind me and I tried to shove past him and make a break for it, but there was no chance. With infinite patience he blocked me and hit me on the head with his rifle butt.

The cell was very nice: new and concrete, and if you stood up and held on to the bars you could see out over Cancún and towards the sea. It contained an iron bed, a plastic-covered mattress, thin black woollen blankets, and a stainless steel toilet without a seat that lurked in the corner but worked well when I flushed it. It was all a bit dark, but clean. I paced twelve feet by eight feet, which wasn’t too bad at all.

When I woke it was night outside, and I was very disoriented, but soon I climbed up to the bars and stared out over the town. There didn’t seem anything else to do but go back to sleep, so I did. I lay down on the bed and kipped quite well, considering.

In the morning, the door opened and a very old guard came in with toilet paper and a stainless steel cup of water and tortillas with bean paste on them.

Buenos días, I said.

Buenos días, he said and laughed.

His teeth were terrible, but his grin was infectious and I found myself mirroring it.

Eat fast, I take away, quick, he said in heavily accented English.

I ate the tortillas, which were warm and spongy. The water was ice-cold and hit the spot.

He took the water cup and the tray and ripped me off about four sheets of toilet paper and went for the door. Another guard stood in the corridor with what I took to be a stun gun in case I tried anything silly.

Where are the others? I’m an Americano, I want a lawyer, I said anxiously.

The guard shrugged, didn’t reply, and closed the metal door behind him.

I sat down on the bed.

Jesus fuck, I muttered, and put my head in my hands. I sat for a long time and I think I might have gotten weepy a little. I cursed Scotchy for the eejit born of an eejit that he undoubtedly was. I yelled out Scotchy’s name, Andy’s name, all of their names. I yelled and yelled and banged the walls. I listened for answers, but I heard nothing. A few hours after the guard had gone I heard some tapping and I thought it might be a Darkness at Noon type of message or something, but I realized after ten minutes of eager listening that it was the plumbing in the ceiling above me.

I seemed to be alone in the whole cell block. Had the others escaped somehow? Or maybe they’d tried to shoot their way out and they were dead. I paced the cell and tried to stay calm. Panic was mounting inside me and I wasn’t sure if it was a good thing to let it out or not. Maybe I should.

I banged the floor and thumped the mattress and tried to lift the bed, but it was bolted down. I kicked at the toilet, but it was pretty indestructible too.

I want a fucking lawyer. I’ll have you all on fucking 60 Minutes, I screamed through the door.

I groaned. Every time I go abroad I end up in the bloody slammer. Saint Helena, here. I must be bloody jinxed. No, just an idiot. Trusting Scotchy with something as important as my entire future. I deserved it. Really.

I sat down on the floor and found myself laughing.

That glipe Scotchy. That dick Sunshine. Ten years we’d get for this. Fucking drug smuggling. I could protest ignorance. I mean, I really didn’t know anything about it all until that morning. I could volunteer to take a lie detector. I didn’t know anything. It was just bad luck.

Night came, and even after all my anxiety I slept well. The bed was extremely comfortable and the cell was cool. In fact, it was a lot nicer than my apartment in New York.

In the morning the guard brought more tortillas, bean paste, water, and a lime. I ate and drank and he left more toilet paper, even though I hadn’t shat in a couple of days.

I did some push-ups after breakfast and stretched a little. I lay down on the bed and waited. Something would happen, eventually. And, of course, it did. Late in the afternoon, two guards appeared and asked me to get up. They didn’t handcuff me or prod me or anything, they just asked that I follow them. Once I was outside the cell, one of them offered me a smoke and I took it. They led me down a corridor and they opened up a metal door with a set of keys. On the other side of the door, a guard was waiting with a machine pistol. He smiled at us, and we went along another corridor and stopped outside an office. One of the guards turned to me and said, confidentially:

Clean, clean.

He tucked my T-shirt into my jeans and the other one signaled that I should brush down my hair. When they thought I looked ok, the first guard knocked on the door.

Enter, a voice said in English.

I went inside. The office was large, with books and box files on the wall. Seated behind a teak desk was a thin, elegantly dressed man in a dark suit. Behind him an enormous window overlooked the lagoon. There were family pictures and prints of Mayan ruins. I sat down on a leather chair opposite him.

Mr. Forsythe, let me show you something, he said in perfect American English.

He reached into a drawer and set three sheets of paper in front of me. They were confessions in English and had been signed by Scotchy, Fergal, and Andy. As I read through them, the man spoke:

Possession of an illegal weapon, possession of controlled substances, conspiracy to smuggle narcotics, attempt to smuggle narcotics. Mr. Forsythe, you are looking at over twenty years in prison.

Who are you? I asked him.

The question upset him. He had forgotten to introduce himself. His whole rehearsed little speech had gotten off on the wrong tack. He tried to recover.

I am Captain Martínez, he said.

Captain of what? I was thinking. He was in civvies, but maybe that’s what they did down here. I read the confessions. They were all the same, detailed, sensible, predictable. I could see Andy and Fergal signing but Scotchy never would. Never. They were shite. I knew this game. It was an oldie but a goldie.

So what do I get if I sign? I asked.

Three years.

Three years?

Three years.

Guaranteed?

Guaranteed.

Aye, but three Mexican years is like nine Irish years. Prisons are like dogs: America, you double; France, time and a half; in Sweden nicks are so nice, you actually divide.

Like dear old Queen Vic, he was not amused.

I picked up the paper and looked at the signatures. They’d copied Scotchy’s off his passport; the other two might be genuine, but I doubted it.

Where’s Bob’s? Robert’s?

Mr. O’Neill is being dealt with separately. He is an American citizen; you and your friends are not.

I had to concede that this was true. We were all in on Eire or UK passports. But there was no ring of truth at all about what he’d said. Had they killed Bob in a shoot-out? What was he covering up?

How about getting me a visit from a consular official or something? I asked.

Everything will be taken care of, Captain Martínez said.

No, really. I want to see the British consul, like, today.

Let me show you something, he said, giving me a little grin I didn’t like one bit.

He stood stiffly and went over to a cupboard. He opened it with a key and wheeled out a new television set. He turned it on and pressed a button on a VCR that was underneath it. Black-and-white video began to play, of us doing the deal at the rendezvous. Scotchy was opening the money bag and taking possession of the drugs. The rest of us were standing around waiting. Martínez froze the frame when there was a good shot of me.

Making a big mistake, mate. I was hitching. Them boys give me a lift, told me to wait in the car but I came in anyway, I said and smiled at him.

He glared at me and turned the TV off.

You always hitchhike with a firearm?

Dangerous country, but I’ll cop to that if you like. What’s that these days, big fine, couple of months?

Here, he said, and reached under his desk. He passed across the same form that the others had supposedly signed.

Go easy on yourself, Mr. Forsythe. It is only a token. You will be released in perhaps a year or a little more. Please go easy on yourself, he said.

Like I was saying, Mr. Martínez, sorry, Captain Martínez, when exactly do I get to see my consular representative? I’m a British citizen, and I want to see someone from the fucking embassy. If I don’t, I’ll make sure your name gets bandied about, I said, calmly.

You are in no position to make threats, he replied, equally at ease.

We sat in silence for a moment, and then he stood and motioned for the guards to take me away. I got up and walked down to the cell again. At the door I asked for another smoke. I was giving up, but surely these were extreme circumstances. I wanted to save it for later, but they wouldn’t give me a match, so I had to light it now.

They locked me in.

That night the old guard came with water and tortillas. He sat with me until I’d eaten and then surreptitiously he produced a piece of lemon cake from his pocket. It was soggy and a bit tart, but clearly his missus had made it or something, and the gesture was so unbelievably nice I got a little teary. I talked to him in English, and he said a thing or two in Spanish and left.

At dawn the next morning, instead of breakfast, the guards came and cuffed me behind my back. They were gentle about it, and I appreciated it.

Where to now? I asked, but they didn’t understand.

They led me along a different corridor to an elevator.

I felt a wave of despair and terror. If I didn’t get in the elevator, nothing too bad could happen. I struggled for a bit, but they saw it was halfhearted. They shoved me and I went in, meek and head bowed. They pressed the button for the basement, and when it stopped they took me out to a van. Inside were Scotchy, Andy, and Fergal. I was pleased to see them, but before I could say anything a guard held my head and put some duct tape over my mouth. The boys had been similarly gagged.

The guards helped me up and into the van. There were two benches opposite one another and an iron bar running along each side wall. The guards undid one of my cuffs and hooked it behind the bar at my back so that I could sit but not move forwards, and barely to the side. Two of the guards got in the front, and I could see another car waiting behind us with a couple of peelers inside. They would presumably follow us in case one of us was Houdini and could get out of cuffs and the bloody iron bar. I made eye contact with Scotchy, and he gave me a nod and then a wink. That boy was a hard case. It reassured me. A fuck-up, yeah, but a tough nut to crack. We sat while one guard filled out something on a clipboard. This reassured me too. Paperwork. We were in the system somewhere. They couldn’t pretend we never existed. The other guard took the paper, folded it twice, and put it in his front pocket. That, by contrast, didn’t look so good. Somebody out of sight closed the van’s back doors and in another minute we were off.

The van drove quickly out of town and onto a straight road. There were no windows, so you couldn’t see anything except for a little scrape in the blacked-out glass partition between us and the drivers. Through that, there were tiny glimpses of what I took to be a two-lane highway through what looked like jungle. It must have been a pretty good road, since we weren’t bounced about and the vehicle managed to go quite fast.

The boys seemed in ok shape. No bruises and no cuts. We looked each other up and down to reassure ourselves, and Fergal tried to say something, but we couldn’t understand him and he eventually gave up. Scotchy closed his eyes and somehow managed to doze. The rest of us laughed behind our gags when he started to snore.

After a couple of hours, the van turned, and this time the road wasn’t so good. The going was slower, and we followed this trail for about another hour.

Finally, the van stopped, and we heard voices outside and then, very slowly, we heard it move again as if we were pulling in somewhere. Scotchy woke and the boys tensed up.

The back doors opened.

The sunlight blinding. A huge trail of dust that you couldn’t see through. A smell of piss and shit.

I blinked a few times. The dust cleared. We were in a prison.

Four guard towers hung over a central courtyard, and around the courtyard, almost like a cloister, there were cells, each with a big metal door slotted with a Judas hole. I looked around me. The walls at the front gate stretched about thirty feet high, rolls of razor wire on top. Also at the gate sat a three-story building that I took to be the guardhouse. Through the gate, surrounding the complex, I could see another fence with razor wire on top. The guard towers had spotlights, and the guards themselves were men in faded blue uniforms who carried double-barreled shotguns. There were no other prisoners about, but you could sense their presence behind the cell doors. It seemed to me that if you could get through the cell wall, all you had to do was make it over the fence and you were out of there. It didn’t appear very secure, and that reassured me. It made me think that this must be a remand prison for nondangerous felons.

There was some discussion between our driver and the prison guards. We stood around and waited. Heat, an azure sky, the gray prison walls, the dusty white courtyard.

After a time the van drove off, the big metal gates opening to let it through. Half a dozen guards came and led us over to one of the cells. They opened it up and shoved us inside. They took our handcuffs off but produced manacles, which they then bolted to our wrists in front of us. Between the manacles, they locked an eighteen-inch-long piece of chain: heavy iron, old, but still strong. Then they made us all sit down. The cell was stifling and the floor stank. The only ventilation came through a tiny barred hole on the wall near the ceiling. Cobwebs hung on the ceiling and the floor was alive with insects. When we were sitting, the guards put a manacle on our left ankle, which was connected to another heavy chain. There were six ring bolts embedded in the concrete floor, and they positioned us so that we were all near at least one of them. The guards produced huge padlocks and attached each ankle chain to a ring bolt. A guard pointed to a black bucket in the corner, and they all went out and locked the door behind them.

We ripped off our gags and all started speaking at once. Everyone had suffered more or less the same treatment. The sham with the confessions, no access to a lawyer or anyone from the outside. No one had talked. No one. Not even Andy. I was so proud of the boys. I couldn’t believe it. Jesus, even Andy. He was pleased with himself. We were all excited. I mean, we were in a hell of a spot, but we were pumped to at least be with each other. Scotchy was the first to come out with an important question:

Where’s Big Bob? he asked.

They said because he had an American passport he was being dealt with differently, I answered.

Oh, Scotchy said, skeptically.

Why, what do you think? I asked.

I don’t think anything, Bruce, Scotchy said.

Fergal stood and stretched. You could do that and maybe walk about three feet before your ankle chain stopped you.

How long do you think we’re going to be here? Fergal asked.

We all shook our heads. I was thinking that this would be it until the trial. Why bother to move us at all unless it was a reasonably permanent change? And letting us all be in the same cell together wasn’t too bright, unless they were completely confident about winning their case, which with the video they probably were.

They said we were looking at twenty years, Andy said, quietly.

No way, Scotchy said, reassuringly. No way, Andy. For a start, Darkey will pull some strings. That’s how these countries work. We’ll sit tight, Andy boy, and sooner or later they’ll have to give us a lawyer. This isn’t Africa, this is Mexico. They need to keep tight with America, do things right.

Yeah, they’ll give us lawyers, Fergal said hopefully, sitting down again.

That’s right, eventually we’ll get a lawyer, and you’ll see how Darkey comes through for us, Scotchy said, and I could see he really believed it, he wasn’t just saying it for us.

When will Darkey get us out? Andy asked.

Well now, Andy, don’t for one thing get your hopes up. I mean, he can’t just get us out. He’ll send a boy, and he’ll probably make us plead guilty to something, so he will. Darkey White is Darkey White, but he’s not God. We’ll do time, but it won’t be much, Scotchy said sagely.

How much is much, do you think? Fergal asked.

I don’t know, but not hard time, nothing like that. Just enough to make you tough and give you a story for the girls back home, Scotchy said and winked at him.

I didn’t say anything. I was thinking of Big Bob. I was thinking of the map he had. I was wondering where the hell he was now, and I had a terrible suspicion that I knew exactly where that might be.

We talked some more. Our morale was pretty good, Scotchy had done a job cheering us. Night came, and we lay down on the concrete floor. The temperature dipped, and it got a little cold. I was thankful that I’d been wearing my jeans the day we’d left; the boys, of course, were all still in their shorts. The insects were tiny bugs that you got used to. The spiders up there had eaten all the bigger ones, but still, with them and the hard floor, it was difficult getting over to sleep…

In the morning we’d half-filled the slop bucket. It had been a bugger passing it around all chained up. We waited for the guards to come and open up the door to let us pour it out. The smell was bad and flies were hovering around it. The heat was no worse than my place in Manhattan but, like I say, the stench was terrible.

There are rats, you know, Fergal said while we waited.

I didn’t see any, I said.

There’s rats and lizards and they come onto you when you’re sleeping, Andy said.

Andy had woken loudly a few times in the night, terrified. I wondered if he was imagining it, but then I did see a couple of rats skulking near the door. The gap under the door was only about half an inch, but rats can do an impressive limbo when they want to. They didn’t bother me, though, they’ve never bothered me, and wee lizards I could handle as well. And the boys, I knew, would get used to them.

You’ll get used to them, you’ll see, I said, but Andy looked doubtful.

We waited all morning but no guards came, and it wasn’t until evening that the cell door opened and a guard put down a jug of water and four bowls of rice.

Veinte minutos, he said and closed the door behind him.

We ate greedily and drank the water, and he came half an hour later for the empty bowls and the carafe. We hadn’t finished the water, so we all desperately took a final swig before he grabbed it back.

Here, we want to empty the bucket, Scotchy said, but the guard didn’t understand.

Bucketo uh, Andy tried, but the door was already closed.

In the night, something big bit me-a spider, I think-and I was concerned that it was poisonous, but in the morning I was fine. Scotchy kept us all talking, and that night our morale wasn’t too bad either.

The black bucket was close to overflowing with piss now, and most of us had succumbed to a drizzly diarrhea. We hoped that today was the day they let us empty it. But we were wrong. We eventually learned that you slopped out every third day. The prison was on a quadrangle, but one of the cell blocks was empty, so there were three walls of prisoners. Every third day, a cell block was allowed to slop out and spend the morning exercising in the yard. We had heard them come every morning and knew that sooner or later our turn would arrive, or at least we hoped so.

There was no prison work and no canteen and no medical facilities. Prisoners stayed in their cells all the time except for that one morning every three days. We guessed that the prison held three or four hundred prisoners, with maybe thirty or forty guards, though it was impossible to tell for sure.

When the prisoners were let out we heard a lot of talk, and once a voice outside our cell said:

Gringos. Hello, America.

On that first third morning the guards came and undid the padlocks on the ring bolts at our ankles. They put the padlocks in a sack and went out, leaving the door open. We were still shackled at the wrists, but we all immediately got up. The guards yelled at us to sit down. They jabbered something important in Spanish that I hoped Andy was getting since he had the language.

What’s he saying? I asked Andy.

He’s saying we have to wait until, a word I don’t know, I think the whistle, I think, Andy said.

Andy had done O-level Spanish. He’d only gotten a C, but it was better than nothing. I thought I’d heard a whistle the two previous mornings, so maybe Andy was just guessing.

We waited and, sure enough, there was a whistle, and we heard the other prisoners start to come out into the yard.

Have to empty that fucking bucket, Scotchy said. Fergal, you grab it.

Why me?

Because I say so, Scotchy said. And when we get out we all stick together, is that clear?

We nodded.

Complaining, Fergal lifted the bucket gingerly, urine slopping over the sides and onto his hands. None of us had been capable of a big shit, though, so at least that was something. When we got outside, the sunlight was intense, and it took us all a minute to adjust. The other prisoners on our block came out of their cells and the guards watched warily from the towers. I imagined this was the most dangerous time for the guards, for if we’d chosen, we could have all run out and overpowered the four guys who’d been going from cell to cell unlocking us. Probably there was some kind of rule that if anyone came out of his cell before the whistle went (at which point presumably the guards were clear), he got shot.

Prisoners emptied their slop buckets at a latrine near what we discovered later was the disused cell block. The rest walked around the yard. They were a skinny, badly dressed crew, Indian looking. About a hundred of them. The majority barefooted, bareheaded. None of them looked at us. They talked in low tones, most walking, a few immediately setting up to play dice games on the dusty ground.

We walked over to the latrine with Fergal.

Again the big sky and the dust from the prisoners’ feet rising in spirals like djinns over the cell wells. The smell of openness and air and jungle and a great mass of human beings that weren’t the boys or me.

Swarms of flies over the latrine and a streaking bird, whose plumage reflected back light in wavelengths I had missed: red and emerald green and gold.

Four guard towers, two guards a tower, shotguns, searchlights, I said to Scotchy.

He was looking at me and grinning.

Bruce, dear, it isn’t the fucking Great Escape. We’re sitting tight and not doing anything stupid, is that clear? he said, cheerfully.

Is that what you did in the Kesh? I asked him.

Aye, it is, as a matter of fact, he said.

I’d tried to catch him out because he had said that he had been in the Kesh, but Scotchy never remembered anything and I was hoping he’d confound me by saying No, actually, I was in the Big Bad Magab or something.

How long exactly were you in? I asked him, conversationally, but before he could answer I interrupted and pointed to where some of the prisoners were making for a big pile of straw that had been left near the front gates. I elbowed him.

It’s bedding, look, that’s what it is, I said.

Ok, we all go, he said.

He called Fergal and Andy over and we stuck together. We went over to the pile of straw and grabbed a bunch each. We wanted to take it back immediately, but we got the impression you had to wait for the whistle before going back to your cell.

Let’s just shove it in, Fergal said, but when he edged over to the cell a guard walking along the cell-block roof pointed his shotgun and yelled something at us.

What’s he saying, And?

But Andy couldn’t make head or tail of it.

See, sorry, lads, but uh, I learned Castilian, not Mexican Spanish, he explained.

So we stood there near our cell block and waited for the whistle. We were pretty conspicuous, not just as the new boys but also as the only non-Mexicans there.

Straw’ll make things easier, Fergal said, and sat down on the dust. Scotchy pulled him up, and he almost tripped over the chain still dragging behind his ankle.

Let’s just keep our eyes peeled, Scotchy scowled.

And he was right, because before we knew what was happening a gang of about a dozen or more guys had come up to us. They’d just walked over, taking a detour from their circuit, but it was so quick and confusing that suddenly they were on us from four sides. They started saying things in Spanish and pointing at us. Aye, where’s the guards now? I was thinking.

What are they saying, Andy? Scotchy asked, but Andy couldn’t get it. The head guy was a small man in a string T-shirt and baggy blue jeans. He was pointing at Scotchy’s red hair and grabbing his own and making a joke. They had surrounded us completely now and had done it so incredibly fast we hadn’t even been able to get to a wall. They were all smaller than us, but some of them had leather belts and were wrapping them around their fists. Others brandished their manacle chains. The yelling was so loud now I was sure the guards were going to intervene. I looked up at the watchtowers to see what was going on, but no one paid any attention.

Here they come, Scotchy said simply, and they rushed us. I took a swipe at some boy, but before I could do anything I’d been kicked in the back and I was on the ground. I got a kick in the head and the legs. I felt my sandals getting pulled off. Someone was trying to get my T-shirt. I curled into the fetal position and waited. The guards would come. The kicks came in again and again. There was no pain at all. Nothing. I bundled myself tighter and moved my arms down to protect my ribs. Someone started pulling my hair. Dust was in my throat. A foot came onto my neck and I grabbed the ankle and bit into it until I got bone. A belt buckle thumped me in the ear, but still I bit into the ankle. I could taste the blood now. A bare foot kicked me on the forehead and I went backwards over my head and scrambled up and found that I was standing. I hit the guy next to me with my elbow and I felt his nose break. There was a whistle and through the dust I could see the men run back to their cells.

Now I started to hurt.

I’d been scraped all over my back, and despite the head kicks, that was the worst. I’d bitten my tongue and I spat blood. I felt an arm underneath mine and Scotchy yelling at me. I couldn’t understand a word. He yelled, and then he saw that I wasn’t getting it and he showed me. Andy and Fergal lay flat out on the ground and he wanted me to help get them up. The guards were yelling at us to get back in the cells. It was a fucking joke. I bent down and lifted Fergal under the arms, but it was impossible. I slipped, went on my arse. Before I could try again, the guards were there screaming at us and hitting us with billy clubs. They shoved us back towards our cell. I was shouting, but they cut me off with a dig in the mouth. They pushed us inside and beat us down and locked our ankles into the ring bolts.

A minute later, two guards dragged in first Fergal and then Andy and locked them in too. They were both unconscious. All of us had been robbed of our shoes. Andy had been in nice new high-tops that Scotchy and I had bought for him at the airport. He’d put up a real fight to keep them. He was covered in dust and blood. They seemed to have got his T-shirt, too, but I couldn’t tell, because my eyes were stinging. Fergal lay beside me, though, his polo shirt torn off him. Scotchy was bent over and hacking now.

Jesus, I said.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them it was night. My sides were on fire and my back felt like I’d been flailed. There’d been a noise all this time, and I realized it had been Scotchy, as close as he could get to the door, yelling for medical attention. The guards came in and beat him quiet, and it stayed that way until morning. I shivered through the night, and when I woke I dry-heaved for fifteen minutes.

Bruce, Bruce, Scotchy was whispering.

Name’s not Bruce, I managed.

Bruce, Scotchy said.

What?

Are you ok?

Aye, no. Aye, I suppose, I said.

Scotchy crawled over to me. He was right at the limit of his foot chain and his whole body was stretched out so he could talk to me.

Bruce, are you hurt bad?

Not bad, I said.

Fergal’s in and out of sleep, Scotchy said. He’s ok. But Andy’s in a bad way. I think his ribs are broken. Do you know anything about first aid?

I shook my head, but we both crawled over to Andy anyway. Fergal was moaning on his side. He was in terrible pain, but at least he knew he was in pain.

Andy had been stripped to his boxer shorts. He breathed erratically in shallow, desperate little breaths, blood in his spittle. His face gaunt, horribly pale. He wasn’t conscious, but he wasn’t out, either. His lips formed words, but there was no sound. I looked at his chest. His ribs didn’t seem right, and I could see blood beneath the skin, pooling there at his lungs.

Jesus Christ, Scotchy, I think he’s dying, I said.

Scotchy looked at me, one eye closed over, his face puffy and blue.

When they come in to give us dinner, you pull the guard down and I’ll wrap my chain around his neck. We’ll say we’ll kill him unless they get a doctor for Andy, Scotchy said, cold and deliberate.

I nodded. I really didn’t see how it could work, but what choice did we have?

I heard you yelling, I said.

Aye, they just come in and shut you up, Scotchy murmured.

We waited and girded our strength, and the light started to come in the little cell window. We heard the whistle blow and the prisoners get let out. The afternoon became very hot and the day dragged by.

Andy’s lips were parched, and he was paler than before. Each breath was a tremendous effort. We crawled over to him.

Andy, if you can hear me, it’s going to be ok. We’re going to get you some help, I said.

Aye, we are, big lad, we’re not going to let you down, Scotchy agreed.

The afternoon ended and finally the door opened. I rugby-tackled the guard, but he kicked me off easily and I sprawled against the back wall, my chain going taut and almost dislocating my ankle.

Doctor, doctor, doctor, doctor, Scotchy was pleading and pointing at Andy.

The guards ignored him, left the food and water, and went out. We tried to give Andy some water, but he choked when we brought it to his lips.

The guards came back for the wooden bowls, and we grabbed some handfuls of rice.

Dying, morto, morto, I yelled, hoping they would understand. The guards looked at Andy for a moment, then closed the door. They went away, talking, and we held out hope that they would send someone. We waited and waited, but no one came.

In the evening, Fergal was fully awake and doing a little better, and we took turns cradling Andy’s head in our laps. We didn’t know what to do. None of us had any medical experience. All I knew was the recovery position thing. I held Andy and told him it was going to be ok. His breathing was even shorter. Fergal relieved me after a while, and I lay down. Night came, and sometime after midnight Scotchy shook me awake. Fergal was beside him, his eyes vacant in the moonlight.

What is it? I asked.

Andy died, Scotchy said, simply.

I sat up. I looked at Fergal, who nodded.

Are you sure? I asked. It was a stupid question. Scotchy didn’t answer it.

I suppose he wasn’t fully recovered from that first hiding, Fergal said.

No, they murdered him, they murdered him, Scotchy whispered. They killed him.

I crawled over to Andy and touched his hand. It was cold. They’d closed his eyes.

Jesus, Andy, oh Christ, I am so sorry, I said. Fergal patted me on the back. Scotchy spat and then, turning to the pair of us, he said:

If I don’t get back I want youse to promise me you’ll see to Big Bob. You’ll see to him, promise it.

We both nodded.

Scotchy lay down on the floor. I wiped a mantis off my arm. I put both arms under my head and curled my knees almost up to my chin.

I closed my eyes, and, after a time, I slept.