Mick, you bastard, you’ve no idea what you’ve done to me, man, John said to himself. This ain’t the States. Charles Street Jail in Boston was a holiday camp compared to what awaits me. Yeah, your kid brother will be safe, but you’ve just condemned me to death.
The following night, Tony Guzmán took out the rubbish, as usual, after closing the Hostal Zapata bar. The street lighting wasn’t good but he sensed shadows behind him. Before he could turn around, one of the shadows put an arm around his neck and grabbed him by his throat.
“You sambo, son-of-a-bitch; we’re going to teach you a lesson,” he heard, as a number of arms wrestled him to the ground, and pinned him face down. There were three, four, maybe five of them. It all happened in seconds, but Tony felt as if it lasted an hour. He was punched in the face and kicked in the stomach – his body convulsed with every blow. He groaned with pain and felt blood trickling from his mouth. Then, the shadows slowly disappeared, laughing.
As they walked away, with his right eye blinded, Tony squinted sideways and with his left eye was able to catch a glimpse of them – they were all dressed in black. He rested his forehead, facing down into the gutter, reeling with pain and spitting blood. After a while, he tried to get up, but his arms and legs failed him. He was feeling the revenge of Carlos Medelius all over his body.
Chapter 26
Bundled into the back of the police van, with no light and no view of the outside, John could only speculate where on earth they were taking him. He tried to sit up, arms handcuffed behind his back, guessing in which direction they were driving. Not many turns; a long road; little sound of traffic or street life; surface wasn’t too bumpy; they could be leaving the city.
After an hour, that smell – yes, his senses became more acute in the dark – salty sea air. And then, he heard seagulls. For sure, they were near the sea – he wailed: bastards, they’re going to drown me.
The van came to a halt and he heard the policemen getting out. They unlocked the van’s back door and bright sunlight streamed in. As he adjusted his eyes from darkness to brightness, his legs were shackled and two policemen pulled him out – the sea was in front of him; there were ships and boats: they’d brought him to the port of Callao. For a moment, his spirits rose – were they deporting him?
“Where are you taking me?” said John. The policemen laughed:
“You’re going on a boat trip, to a nice little island,” was the reply, with one of them pointing offshore. A few miles across the Pacific Ocean, there were two islands John had seen before: one very large – San Lorenzo island, with its naval base – the other much smaller: El Frontón.
John’s heart sank – that was it: they were taking him to the island prison of El Frontón, where the country’s most dangerous criminals ended up, along with political prisoners. There was no escape – anyone who’d tried had died.
His chains only allowed him to take short steps as the policemen grabbed him from each arm and guided him towards a pier. Two more policemen emerged from a large motor boat, with rifles pointed at him. What the hell for? There was no way he could get away or put up a fight.
After dragging him onboard, the policemen pushed him on to the floor at the stern. His head hit the deck and a policeman’s boot pressed his shoulder forcing his face into a puddle of salt water – yes, I’ve got the message, you bastard: keep my head down during the voyage, John said to himself.
The boat engine below him made a deafening roar and, shortly after leaving port, they swayed from one side to the other – they were out on the Pacific Ocean, which John knew was anything but pacific. The boat charged through waves and he was showered by heavy spray. He couldn’t see where they were going but, when the roar of the engine finally died and the boat slowed down, he knew they’d arrived: a strong shiver ran all down his back – he’d heard many stories about El Frontón, all horrendous. And now, with many new APRA political prisoners, it would be overflowing its capacity.
John was hauled onto the jetty and looked around: the island was a large barren rock, without a single leaf of green; a few half-derelict buildings close to the shore, surely unfit for human habitation. Still, there were humans – or more like walking dead – wandering about the beach. He’d heard there weren’t enough cells for all inmates so they were just allowed to roam freely – guards with machine guns surveyed the beach from rooftops: at the slightest sign of trouble, they’d spray the beach with bullets.
A guard tugged at John’s waist and removed his belt, whilst another cut his shoe-laces with a knife: so you don’t hang yourself, smirked a guard.
Then, he was shoved on to the beach. He fell face down, cutting his lip on the pebbles and spitting out blood.
Struggling on to his knees, he heard laughter and looked up. Three thugs, of indefinable racial blends, walked up, examining him like an insect. The biggest of them wore a crumpled suit and old hat, was clean shaven, except for a bushy moustache, but with an enormous scar on his right cheek. His smile revealed golden teeth replacing half a dozen lost originals. Beside him, the other two were a mess: unshaven, with teeth missing, scars on their faces and arms, dressed in old but clean clothes. Who the hell were they?
“Welcome to El Frontón, gringo. How much money do you have?” asked the smarter one. John shook his head as he got up. But before he could fully get up off his knees, a savage kick in the stomach felled him back onto the pebbles.
“Gringo, show some respect and answer when Lobo asks you a question. So, where’s your money?” said the beast who’d kicked him.
John held his stomach, suppressing vomit, and agonized back on to his knees: “No money….no money,” he managed, once he’d caught his breath.
“Poor little gringo. No money: no bed… no food… no water to drink…” said the other goon as he slapped John. Then, the three of them laughed as they booted John into the sea before leaving.
John lay face down on the pebbles and let the small waves freshen him up as he spat out more blood. Then, he heard beach pebbles creaking behind him and two hands grabbed him under his arms, helping him back onto his knees.
“Hi, man, I hear you’re American,” said a husky voice in English. John looked up and stared at what looked like the remains of a human being: face deeply scarred and skin burned by the sun, with not many teeth left, matted hair and a rough beard. He didn’t have a full head of hair but it wasn’t baldness: part of his head was clear of hair and skin. Worse still: one eye was missing. He couldn’t have been older than John but looked closer to age fifty. What the hell, gasped John.
“I’m Henry… Henry Richards… I’m also American… from California,” he said, mustering the best smile his contorted face could manage.
“I’m John… John Fitzgerald,” and his open-mouthed stare forced Henry to explain.
“Yeah… I guess I’ve got into too many fights here,” said Henry pointing at the socket that once held an eye. Then, pointing at the obvious clear part of his head, he added, “This, well, the Indian prisoners thought it was funny to have an American here. They’ve seen western movies, you know, with American Indians scalping the dead cowboys, so I guess they thought it was fun doing the same to me.” And then, Henry smiled. John couldn’t believe it: after recounting these horrors, Henry still managed to smile.
John was now fully upright and, still aghast, knew Henry had more to tell.
“Okay John, I need to get you up to speed, if you’re going to survive here,” said Henry.
“Survive?” babbled John. Henry nodded.
“Err… your reception committee: that was Lobo, and his right hand men.”
“Lobo – wolf in Spanish? Why did he ask if I had any money?”
“Umm… here you need money to buy anything: even a glass of water.”
“Eh? Even a glass of water? But don’t they feed you here?” said John, dismayed. Henry shook his head.
“Supp
lies arrive on the island, the guards dump them, food disappears into the cells and business begins,” said Henry, “so, if you want to eat, you have to buy food from Lobo’s cook – he’ll allow you to lick an empty plate if you can’t pay – and if you want a mattress, you rent it from Lobo. If not, you just sleep on the floor, but it gets mighty cold here at night, I can tell you… so you’ll also need to hire a blanket.”
“But what do you do if you don’t have money?” asked John.
“We, err… work” replied Henry.
Then, they heard hideous laughter behind them – Lobo was back.
“I see you’ve met our whore. We like white flesh here,” said Lobo, stroking Henry’s wincing cheek, “and you gringo, you too can earn some money with your body,” added Lobo as he walked away, roaring with laughter. Henry looked away and was close to tears, but pulled himself together to continue,
“John… if you don’t stand up to them… you’re dead… but just don’t get into a fight with knives: they dip their knives into piss and shit so you catch an infection when they cut you up.”
“But what do the guards do?” said John. Henry shook his head:
“There’s about one guard for every hundred prisoners. So the guards just let us roam free and only intervene to shoot if there’s any big fight or someone tries to escape.”
As they walked along the beach, John pointed at what looked like a cave closed with bars.
“That’s ‘la lobera’ – the wolf’s den: you don’t want to end up in there. Last week, a guy spat at a guard and was locked in there. Two days later they went to get him out but the poor bastard had drowned when the tide came in,” said Henry, adding, “they call it ‘the wolf’s den’ because Lobo also locks up anyone who displeases him.”
As night fell, Henry bought a plate of potatoes and shared it with John. What about sleeping? Henry rented a mattress in a cell with six other prisoners, and allowed John to share it,
“But take your shoes off and hold on to them,” said Henry.
“Why?” asked John, puzzled.
“Because they’ll steal them whilst you sleep and sell them,” said Henry. John now understood why Henry and other prisoners were barefoot.
John was amazed to hear chanting in the distance – Henry explained,
“Those are the political prisoners singing the APRA anthem. They’re fenced-off, in a separate building. They lock them away at night, to keep them safe… from us,” said Henry grinning.
That night, as Henry snored, John just lay there, eyes wide open. The horrific stories he’d heard in Lima about El Frontón were nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to this. Father Joseph hadn’t told his boys about hell on earth, but it existed, here, on the island of El Frontón.
John discovered how the mind was mercifully able to bring relief. On the verge of going crazy, his mind took him back to happier times. His heart stopped pounding in his chest and his breathing became easier. His mother stroked his curly, childish hair. She poured water over him and he lay in the tub, with the warm liquid surrounding him, like an unborn child in his mother’s womb. There, he felt safe.
He lifted his head out of the bath tub and the smiling face greeting him wasn’t his mother’s but Yolanda’s. Then, she began to cry. She got up and walked away, looking back at him with a distraught expression. No, don’t go Yolanda. I’m not dead yet. I’ll get out of this inferno and come back to you. I swear. Please, wait for me.
Next morning, he went for a walk on the beach – anything to escape from that hell hole of cells. Suddenly, he felt a hand fondling his buttocks.
“How much, you gringo whore?” said a deep voice. John turned around to see one of Lobo’s henchmen grinning at him.
In a flash, John’s mind brought back what he’d learned in his Boston boxing gym: no time to think, just react, aim for the jaw, hard, hit hard, now. And the goon was flat on his back, nursing his jaw, spitting blood and, with it, a tooth. But he was strong and jumped to his feet, wielding a knife in his right hand.
A crowd of prisoners soon gathered, shouting, “Kill him, kill him.”
When the knife lunged towards him, John instinctively contorted his belly inwards. The blade grazed him and tore his shirt. Then, a shot rang out and a bullet ricocheted off the pebbles. The prisoners looked up as a guard, quickly spotting the commotion, ordered them to disperse.
John inspected his torso – his shirt had been cut but, thank God, his flesh was intact. Then, he looked up as he heard slow clapping coming towards him.
“Well done, gringo. So, you can fight” said Lobo as he tossed a key at John, “You’ve earned the cell bed of that piece of shit…” he said, pointing at his defeated henchman, “…but you’ll work for me now.”
Henry had been right: standing up to them, you won respect.
Days went by and one morning John awoke trembling. It wasn’t fever, but his body was sending a clear message: it needed a drink; too long without a real drink. He wasn’t hungry; not even thirsty. He couldn’t help it: he was angry… no, furious; at everything and everyone crossing his mind: Lobo, Randall, Carlos, Mick… even poor Henry, Pedro, Tony… hell, no, even Yolanda. His head sizzled and throbbed endlessly. He was going mad.
Time went slowly, but hours became days, and days brought weeks. John knew the wheels of Peruvian justice turned ever so slowly: it would take weeks or months even for an FBI extradition request to be processed to take him back to Boston for trial. Most inmates on El Frontón were waiting for trial, death or something. Please God, give me strength to survive, he wailed.
An obsession bounced around his head: escape; he must escape. But, it was useless – nobody had ever escaped from El Frontón. It was seven kilometres off the coast, but the currents would sweep you out to sea if you were foolish enough to try to swim. And, if you didn’t drown, you’d succumb to hypothermia if you were too long in water cooled by the current from Antartica. He gulped and stifled tears.
But Lobo fed John well – the wolf had adopted him as one of his cubs. John forced himself to eat the muck they called food and grew stronger and stronger, exercising by swimming daily. And he’d sit in silence, looking out at sea for hours, mumbling to himself. Henry shook his head: his friend had lost his mind.
One day, gazing out to sea, it happened, at last. John sat on the beach pebbles, excited as Haya’s words came back to him, “Anyone who’s tried to escape has drowned… but, be patient: once a month, the winds change and the sea current drives towards the coast.”
John looked around – nobody was near him on the beach. He looked up: one guard was reading a newspaper, and another was walking towards the farther end of the roof. Now, do it now.
His mind sharpened and gave him his orders: slip into the sea; no splashing, not even a ripple. Swim slowly, breast stroke, no flapping of arms. Further and further from the shore. Anyone noticed your absence? Nobody will think you’re stupid enough to swim far from the shore – you’ll drown, like other poor bastards who tried it.
You’re feeling tired now; you’re further and further from the shoreline. Take a rest on your back. The guards on the prison roof and the walking dead on the beach now look like ants. No shots, no shouting – with luck, nobody will miss you for a while. Enough time to get to the mainland? Perhaps you’ll never make it: you’ve never swum as far as seven kilometres before without rest – it’s a really long distance. But, come on, no time for doubting, don’t even think of turning back.
El Frontón is now just a large rock in the distance. The sea is choppier; waves swamping you, it’s a struggle to make progress. Now you’re swallowing water. Spit out, gasp for air – take a rest, on your back, more often. The water is cold, so cold. Your arms are becoming heavier and heavier, like lead – for God’s sake, don’t go under, you’d never make it back up again. Still, there’s no going back: if your arms fail you, you’ll drown – but that’s bett
er than returning to the hell of El Frontón.
Courage, take courage: you’ll make it, boy. But, will you? The mainland still seems so, so distant. Pray, yes, pray: God, I promise if you get me there, I’ll go to the first church and pray, and thank you. I know, I know Father Joseph said we can’t strike a bargain with you, only praying when we need you. But don’t forsake me now; please don’t.
Voices – a fishing boat in the distance. Call them – God must have sent the boat to rescue you: do it; your arms are so heavy; you’ll never make it on your own; you’re going to drown.
But, no, don’t call them. Maybe the devil sent that boat. If they pick you up, they’ll know you’ve escaped from El Frontón – they’ll hand you to the police. No, just keep going – you’ve prayed to God, haven’t you, He will provide.
Rest on your back again, close your mouth, keep the water out, for heaven’s sake, keep your head up. Don’t let the waves pull you under. Come on now: breathe deeply, before the next wave rushes over you. And look: you’re closer to the mainland now than to El Frontón – you’re more than half way.
On and on, arms flapping; you’re tired, so tired. You’re not sure if you’re getting closer to the mainland or if the current’s pushing you out to sea again. But keep going, keep going. Yes, you can see the beach now, but it still seems so, so far away.
As John continued to struggle with his mind, and his soul, the largest wave so far sucked him under. Battling back to the surface, he gasped for air, just enough before he was sucked under by the next wave. And again, up for air, as yet another wave picked him up, swallowed him and spat him out.
The Titans of the Pacific Page 28