Wrong Place Wrong Time

by David P Perlmutter

  An eerie stillness filled the air. The smouldering fire was now under control with just the odd disturbing crackle breaking the silence. At the front of the hotel, the injured were still being taken care of by the paramedics. A number of policemen leant against their cars, smoking and quietly talking with their colleagues whilst others monitored the surrounding scene. Tired firemen stood on guard, their once yellow uniforms saturated in black. With everything being taken care of, I sat cross-legged on the grass and watched, thinking about all that had happened in the past few hours. My mind raced, retracing every step I'd taken inside that building.

  Suddenly, about ten feet to the left of me, a policeman started yelling at his colleagues and pointing at me. I recognised him…his eyes…those fucking eyes. He was the one who'd glared at me on the staircase. As he ran towards me, my heartbeat matched his every step. Grabbing my arm, he hoisted me off the grass and marched me towards his car.

  "Hey, let go of me!" I said, trying to pull my arm from his grip. "What's the problem?"

  He ordered me to spread my arms on the roof of the car and forcefully kicked my legs apart. Reporters were looking in my direction and he bellowed in my ear.

  "You in hotel! I saw you running, running away!"

  His English was bad, but I managed to understand it.

  "Of course I was running! I was helping for fuck's sake. I was saving lives!"

  "Shut the fuck up!" he spat, and then started laughing at me.

  I was panicking. Did he see me steal the money and the cards? If so, I was guilty of that. Hands up; I wanted to give it back there and then but everything happened so quickly. He crouched down and searched my legs up and down. Nothing. Then he searched my back pockets. He pulled my passport out of my left pocket and the credit card from my right. I turned around to look at him as he compared the names on the card with my passport. My heart sank as I closed my eyes, turned away and shook my head. Raising his hand, he forcefully slapped the back of my head making my face hit the roof of the car and then he kicked me. My knee buckled and he grabbed hold of my arm, turning me around. I was facing him and those eyes kept staring at me. His nose, flat and wide like a boxer's, was snarling upwards as he ordered me to put my arms straight ahead with my hands clasped. He handcuffed my wrists together and his colleague took over, opening the back door of the police car and wrapping his hand around my arms. With one push from behind, I fell head first across the back seat. Somehow I managed to sit myself up and stared into my lap at the cuffed hands resting between my legs.

  Both policemen got into the front of the car and the driver flipped the key in the ignition, bringing the engine to life along with the radio. The policeman in the passenger seat turned his head, looked at me and laughed.

  "You English mother fucker," he said, then faced the front and continued to laugh with his colleague.

  We sped off at full speed with the sound of the siren ringing in my ears, the cuffs cutting into my wrists and a single thought in my mind.

  Dad was right.

  The Spanish police were cunts.

  MIDNIGHT EXPRESS

  Slumped in the back of the police car with my hands clamped together on my lap, I was emotionally and physically exhausted. As the car sped along the empty road, my head rocked rhythmically back and forth against the window, the blinding morning sun flashing in my eyes through the trees. My immediate thoughts were of my family. How the hell would I explain this to my parents? Where would I start? Sorry Mum and Dad, I've been arrested for stealing but I did save two lives. Is that okay? Do you forgive me?

  Reality slapped me across the face as the policeman in the passenger seat turned his head and looked at me, his narrow eyes glaring at me like I was dirt. What an ugly fucker he was. He laughed — an evil, twisted, condescending chuckle.

  "We go police station and sort you out, mother fucker!"

  He turned away, still laughing, and continued his conversation with his side-kick. Their Spanish banter washed over me and I stared at the back of his head: his black hair unevenly cut just above his shirt collar and his thick, unshaven neck. As much as I tried to contain it, tears welled up in my eyes. I was petrified; I wanted to be at home with Mum, Dad, my brothers and Pink, not on my way to a police station. Again.

  The handcuffs dug into me with every jolt and bump of the car as we drove over potholes in the road. Shifting in the seat, I felt something uncomfortable digging into my thigh and instantly I froze, realising what it was. I still had a credit card in my front pocket.

  Fuck.

  I panicked, not knowing what the hell to do, but keeping an eye on the men in front I managed to ease the card from my pocket. I quickly shoved it between my knees with my mind racing. Should I give it to them? Own up? And if I did, what would they do? If they were going to slap me around a bit more I'd have to take it, but that was the least of my worries. The last thing I wanted was to be in even more trouble than I was already in.

  Shit. Get out of this one, Dave, you idiot.

  My eyes darted frantically around the car searching for somewhere — anywhere — to put it. There were no floor mats to hide it under, the window had no handles and there were no pockets in the side of the doors. It was hopeless. I buried my head in my hands with my nose inches from my knees, my tears flowing freely now and splashing onto my jeans. That's when I saw it — an air vent just below the seat and about three inches above the floor behind my legs. The adrenaline kicked in immediately. I crouched forward a bit — hoping to God they thought I was doing nothing more than crying — and spreading my legs, I fumbled around the vent. There were three thin slots and I managed to push the card into the middle one. Sitting back, I breathed deeply with my heart thumping wildly in my chest.

  The tyres squeaked as the car came to a halt at the station. The driver got out, marched around the car to my side and opened the door. He grabbed my arm, gestured for me to get out and with his fingers squeezing into my flesh he dragged me across the forecourt and into the building.

  As we made our down the narrow hallway, I looked up. The arched ceiling made me feel uncomfortable and claustrophobic and the small leaded windows spaced out every three feet or so did little to brighten the place. My every step was in synch with the square, red terracotta tiles below the tread of my trainers. There were thirteen tiles and thirteen steps — I counted each one of them — until suddenly there was a holler behind us. The grip on my arm tightened and we stopped at tile fourteen, turning around simultaneously.

  "You fucking Englishman, you motherfucker. You're a son of a prostitute, you motherfucker!"

  My heart sank as I saw the other policeman standing in the doorway, his arm held up with the card in-between his thumb and finger. So much for my hiding place. He slammed shut the door and ran towards us, shouting and swearing. His face was over tanned and he had deep engraved lines on his forehead. He wasn't tall, just an inch or so shorter than me, but he was stocky with big arms and big hands. Taking a hold of my other arm, they both escorted me to the end of the hallway with my handcuffed wrists rigid in front of me. I was still counting and there were thirty six steps and thirty six tiles before we reached a shabby, gun-metal door. The policeman to my right fumbled with the bunch of keys attached to his trouser belt and swearing and cursing he attempted but failed miserably to open it. Eventually, on the third attempt he succeeded, and they led me down another dank corridor, their pace quickening with each and every step. The natural light was fading fast behind me as we turned right, went down three flights of stairs and came to a basement. Another door was opened and the stench from the room hit me with a vengeance; the smell of stale sweat, urine and shit in that order. There was no natural light; just two fluorescent tubes hanging above me by a cable. Flies buzzed all around, bouncing off the lights in a state of frenzy. Many were dead inside, their black bodies sucking away the light.

  Men with angry, dirty faces and wide, bloodshot eyes stretched their arms through the bars of their cells, trying to touch me and
grab me as we passed them. They were like wild animals, shouting and screaming in a language I didn't understand. The policemen thrashed their truncheons against the bars, swiping out and hitting arms that were in their way. I was terrified; I felt sick. The noise vibrating off the cold grey concrete walls as they continued to shout was horrendous.

  We came to a double cell at the back of the room. They told me to stand still and I did; I froze. One policeman unlocked the cell and opened the door while the other crouched down to untie and remove my shoelaces. My handcuffs were released and they shoved me into the cell where I landed face down on a cold, wet concrete floor. The cell door slammed shut and the key turned and locked as I lay motionless on the floor. As their footsteps faded, I continued to lay face down with my eyes closed, trying desperately to contain my emotion. I could feel the damp of the floor seeping through my shirt and the pungent smell of days gone by — month's old urine — flooded my nostrils. I buried my nose deep into my arm as the screaming and shouting continued around me. I didn't fucking want to be there. Please let me open my eyes and be somewhere else. Please! But the noise just wouldn't go away. I was there and it was real. I was living a fucking nightmare.

  Pulling myself together, I lifted my head, looked straight ahead and unfolding my arms with my palms on the floor, I forced myself up and struggled to my feet. There was a shadow of a man before me, to my right, and before I had time to get myself up I felt his boot in my ribcage. I buckled over, shouting out in pain, and as his shadow slowly disappeared back to the opposite end of the cell, I collapsed back onto the floor. Taking in some deep breaths, I crawled towards the corner of the cell, sat up, curled my knees up to my face and buried my head between them. With my hands over my ears to shut out the cries from the other prisoners, I rocked back and forth, unable to comprehend what was happening.

  Unaware of how much time had passed, the sound of clanging keys made me look up. A guard was doing his rounds pulling a metal trolley behind him and he crouched down placing two oranges and two plastic cups of water on the floor, a foot away from the bars. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed movement in the opposite corner and I watched as my cell mate stood up and limped towards the door. I couldn't help but hope that he'd got hurt from kicking me, the bastard. He was dirty with ripped jeans and a torn black tee shirt, over six foot tall, with a tough leathery face and yellow rotten teeth. His small bloodshot eyes looked around, like he was searching for danger, but he was only looking for his share. He picked up his orange and water and limped back to his corner of the cell without looking at me. When he was still, I stood up and slowly walked towards the door for mine, my loose trainers slopping around on my feet. I grabbed my cup and orange and retreated to my corner with the horrible taste of smoke still in my mouth. I peeled the orange with my dirty hands, the dirt from my nails smudging across its skin. I thought of the son of Elvis as I removed the pith, separated the segments and ate each one as slowly as I could, enjoying the delicious, sweet taste on my tongue. Once I'd finished, I picked up the plastic cup and drank the luke-warm warm water in one mouthful, but it did little to quench my thirst. I stuffed the orange peel into the empty cup beside me. Exhausted and weak, I just wanted to sleep and to forget about this nightmare, and I curled up on the cold damp concrete floor, facing the wall with my hands wrapped around me and my knees to my chest, counting out loud to try and silence the cries around me. I thought of Rosa and eventually I slept.

  Suddenly there was the clanging of metal — a baton hitting the metal bars as the guard went from one cell to the next. Prisoners shouted to each other across the room, their voices echoing off the walls. It took a moment or two to get my bearings. What time was it? What day was it? Where the fuck was I? The guard opened each cell and put more oranges and water on the floor. He spoke Spanish to the prisoners, laughing and shouting, taunting them. They replied with finger signs, spitting at him as he walked past. I waited for my cell mate to collect his and then I collected mine. Again I peeled the orange, split it in two and ate a half at a time. Then I drank the water, luke-warm as before. I put the peel in the empty plastic cup and placed it against the wall. There were two cups filled with orange peel, side by side.

  To make the time pass I'd throw each slice of peel and see how many I could get into the cup. My best score was seven on the trot; my lucky number. I'd sit with my back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of me, eyes closed and my hands covering my ears. I'd never done it before but I prayed to God for the first time in my life. Please God get me out of here. Please God… This routine must have carried on for a few days because I had eight empty plastic cups complete with orange peel against the wall. My highest score got to 13. Not my lucky number at all.

  After many prayers and quite literally on the brink of madness, the basement door opened and a guard walked towards my cell. He stopped, opened the cell door and motioned me to stand up. I managed with difficulty, kicking over the plastic cups and scattering the orange peel across the floor. I approached him, holding onto the wall for support, when he suddenly reached out and grabbed me, forcing my arms behind my back. He handcuffed me and marched me out of the cell, past the screaming prisoners and into another room along the corridor. He pushed open the door of a small room, let it slam behind him and sat me down at a desk. The room was bare: no pictures, just a window with metal bars on the bottom and a sliver of glass along the top that let in the only natural light — a narrow slant of sunshine and a tiny glimpse of the world outside. The room was lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The door opened and I heard the clack of a woman's footsteps behind me. The smell of her scent wafted past me as she walked past and sat down opposite me behind the desk.

  "Remove the handcuffs," she told the guard. He obliged and returned to stand by the door.

  Massaging my wrists, I looked up at her. She was attractive and wearing a dark blue, two piece suit with a white blouse. Her hair was dark and in a ponytail. She was Spanish but spoke perfect English.

  "Hello. My name is Carmela and I am a lawyer for the Spanish Consulate."

  She showed me her business card and I nodded.

  "How are you?"

  "Could be better." I leant forward on the chair. "Why am I here? I haven't done anything wrong. Really. I swear."

  She didn't answer me.

  "I hope you've been treated well."

  I raised my eyebrows at her.

  A smirk appeared across her face. "You remind me of someone."

  "Really? Who?"

  "Brad Davies."

  "The actor? How strange, cos I feel a bit like him at the moment."

  A wry smile appeared on her thin red-lined lips. "Okay, let's continue with your case. I'm here to inform you of the next procedure." She opened a brown file which was on the desk in front of her.

  They already have a file on me?

  "Tomorrow morning at 9:00am, you will be appearing in court to face the Judge who will inform you of the charges against you." She looked up at me as she clasped her hands together and laid them on the file.

  "What are the charges?" My hands began to sweat and I wiped my forehead as I shifted in the chair.

  She turned to the guard, gave a quick nod of her head, and then looked straight into my eyes. "You are being charged with theft, arson and manslaughter."

  I sat bolt upright. "What do you mean arson and manslaughter? I saved fucking lives! I risked my own fucking life!" I stood up to protest. "I didn't start the fire; I was at a party. I didn't do anything…I didn't." I went to move towards the desk but the guard was behind me with his hands on my shoulders in an instant, forcing me to sit back down. He took hold of my arms and handcuffed me. Carmela closed the file and motioned the guard to take me away.

  CUPS AND ORANGES

  The sound of jangling keys stirred me from my sleep and I opened my eyes to see the eight plastic cups lined against the concrete wall. I stared at the orange peel, now shriveled and dehydrated, and couldn't help but wonder if I lo
oked the same. I certainly felt it. Don't they ever clean this shithole? I thought, pulling myself from the floor.

  A burly guard with a nasty, toothless grin unlocked my cell door and took the familiar metal tray from his trolley, his short sleeved shirt exposing his thick, tattooed arms. A dragon traced its way from wrist to elbow on his left arm whilst a snake did the same on his right. I watched the brown and black scales of the snake move and twitch as he placed our food and drink on the floor before locking the door. We were his last call, and as he strode past the other prisoners he gave them all the same toothless stare.

  The walls echoed as he slammed the heavy door behind him and turned the key. It had been four or five days but I still couldn't get used to that sound. I stood up and gingerly walked over to get my share, somewhat surprised that there was only one orange and one plastic cup. My first thought was that I'd have a fight on my hands and I looked around for my cellmate, preparing myself. But he was gone. Whether he'd been freed, moved or taken to court didn't interest me in the slightest — I really didn't give a shit and was glad to have the place to myself. I wondered when they'd taken him though, and tried to recall the previous few hours. Most of it was a blur; endless hours of nothingness interspersed with shouting and sleep.

  I felt disorientated and weak as I made my way back to the corner of what was now my cell. My stomach was in a constant state of unrest, a combination of hunger and nervous anticipation about what the day would hold. Over and over, my head pounded with Carmela's words: "manslaughter and arson." Feeling sick I sat down, crossed my legs and peeled off the orange skin. Very slowly, one by one, I separated the segments. The longer I took eating the orange the further I was away from meeting the Judge at the Court House. "Manslaughter and arson." The words circled around my head.