by Ross Kemp
‘Really? Where?’
‘Polinter prison,’ replied Oliveira, a shadow crossing his face as he spoke.
18. Prison Break
Oliveira drove through Rio’s downtown traffic in an unmarked red car, visibly unhappy at the presence of Luiz alongside him. When the boy had first suggested accompanying him to the prison, the policeman had flatly refused.
‘No way,’ he said. ‘You have no idea what it’s like in there. And, believe me, you don’t want to.’
‘I don’t care!’ Luiz shot back. ‘Let me come with you. Then I can check this guy out and see if he’s on the level.’
Oliveira raised an eyebrow. ‘You worried I might get hoodwinked by one of these geniuses?’
‘I’m the one who’s been hanging out with the Comando Negro, not you. I’ll be able to tell you in a second if he’s bullshitting. You need me there!’
‘It’s not safe. Jesus, Luiz, I can’t take a kid with me into Polinter!’
‘The prisoners are behind bars, aren’t they? Anyway, you’ll be with me.’ Luiz paused before continuing quietly, ‘Look, the sooner we find out who the Doctor is, the sooner I can get Ana out of the police station. She’s not going to spend one more second in there than she has to.’
Oliveira muttered something under his breath.
‘You’re as bad as Jordan, you know that?’ he said finally.
‘It’s my sister, Juan,’ Luiz replied simply. ‘Would you sit around and wait?’
The policeman blew out his cheeks and reluctantly gestured towards his car. Now they drove in a tense silence, neither of them sure what to say to the other.
‘So why’s this guy talking, anyway?’ Luiz asked eventually, as the car came to a stop at traffic lights. ‘If word gets out that he’s informing on the Comando Negro, they’ll kill him in a heartbeat.’
‘Well, he’s not doing it out of the goodness of his heart. In exchange for the information, he wants us to get him out of Polinter.’
‘And will you?’
‘If he leads us to the Doctor, I’ll unlock the cell door myself. But I’ll believe it when I see it. These guys are full of bullshit – they’ll do anything to get out. You’re right about one thing, though: the informer’s not safe. There’s almost as many gang members in Rio’s prisons as there are in the favelas.’ Oliveira turned in his seat to look at Luiz. ‘You want to understand the gangs in Rio, you gotta understand the prisons, son. If you’re not a gang member when you go inside, chances are you will be by the time you come out. You don’t survive these sorts of places on your own. The Compadres actually began in prison. So did the Quarto Comando. Being a new gang, the Comando Negro are badly outnumbered in Polinter, and that’s not a good situation to be in.’
‘They’d better stay out of prison, then.’
‘Believe me when I say that your pals in the Comando Negro will end up one of two ways: lying face down in the dirt with a bullet in their head or here. Either way, they’re screwed. In prison, quite literally.’
‘There’s no hope for them?’
‘Put it this way: you seen any old gangsters walking around Santa Marta, holding up people with their canes?’
Luiz fell silent. The policeman had a point.
‘Look,’ Oliveira continued. ‘I’m not saying that I don’t understand their position. These kids have got no money, no education, no prospects. If you’re rich and live in Rio, you live like a king. If you’re poor, you live like shit. But that doesn’t give you the right to go around robbing and shooting people.’
‘Not everyone in the Comando Negro is a bad guy,’ Luiz protested. ‘Guys like Livio are OK – they just don’t think they’ve got any choice. It’s not like anyone outside of the favela is going to give them a job.’
Oliveira raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, I live in Borel favela and I don’t deal drugs.’
‘You live in a favela? But you’re a cop!’
‘You noticed?’ Oliveira replied, laughing.
‘I mean – how come no one’s tried to kill you?’
‘Because no one knows what I do. I keep the badge hidden until I get outside of Borel. Like I say, Luiz, there’s always a choice.’
Casting his mind back, Luiz remembered Jordan saying something similar when they met. Not for the first time, he was struck by the fluid lines between right and wrong in Rio – the corrupt politicians, the friendly gang members, the ‘black ops’ organization that had forced him to go back to Santa Marta. He had a sneaking suspicion that the gruff policeman was in fact the best of them all.
Oliveira indicated left and drove into Polinter’s car park. From the outside, the prison – a small, nondescript white building in the centre of Rio – looked like nothing more than an office block. A queue of people had formed outside for visiting hours, their arms folded and their faces subdued.
Oliveira parked the car, then reached into his glove compartment and handed Luiz a black balaclava. ‘Put this on.’
‘Why?’
‘Polinter’s filled with gang members, remember? Do you really want word getting back to the Comando Negro that you’re walking round with a cop?’
‘Oh, right.’
Luiz put on the balaclava, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. He scurried after Oliveira as the policeman marched past the waiting queue and through the main entrance, flashing his badge at the guards at the security check. A couple of the guards nodded at him in recognition.
They made their way deep into the bowels of the building, until the sunlight was replaced by a fetid gloom. The final checkpoint was at the end of a long corridor, where two men were standing guard at a door, pump-action shotguns in their hands.
Oliveira flashed his badge at one of the men, who glanced at Luiz.
‘Who’s your masked friend?’
‘Informer. He’s helping me out on a case.’
The guard shrugged. ‘Whatever. You know the drill. Inside there, you’re on your own. Get into trouble, don’t expect us to come rushing in to save you.’
‘You’re all heart,’ Oliveira replied sarcastically. He turned to Luiz. ‘Stay close to me, OK?’
Pushing through the doors, they walked straight into hell.
The first thing that hit Luiz was the stench, a stomach‐churning mix of sweat, excrement and burning electricity so strong he could almost taste it. He had to fight the urge to vomit. Looking around the hall, he saw that Polinter was filled with rows of metal cages. Jammed with ten times the number of people they were designed for, the cages were so overcrowded that the inmates were forced to stand up, their limbs spilling out through the bars. There were so many bodies in such a small space that there didn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the air. Sweat dripped from the ceiling like rain. The floor beneath Luiz’s feet was slippery with murky liquid and the walls were smeared with brown stains.
Luiz frowned. ‘I can’t see any guards. Where are they?’
‘They don’t usually come this far into the prison,’ replied Oliveira, warily scanning the room. ‘The only law that exists in this place is survival of the fittest.’
As he surveyed the cages, Luiz thought of the Comando Negro. Maybe Angel could survive in here, but Joker? Livio? Imagining the friendly MC in this hellhole, he shuddered, instinctively drawing closer to Oliveira’s side.
The policeman walked grimly past the cells, his jaw set and his hand resting on the handle of his gun. There were no cots inside the cages, merely hammocks fashioned from items of clothing. At the sight of the two newcomers, the prisoners reached out through the bars, their arms dangling imploringly towards them. Luiz couldn’t look them in the eye. Instead he glanced at the rows of plastic bags and bottles hanging down the outside of the cage bars. He nudged Oliveira.
‘What are they for?’
‘The bags are filled with shit, the bottles with piss,’ the policeman replied. ‘There aren’t any toilets here and the maids don’t come round very often.’
Luiz made a face. ‘Ugh. That’s gross.’
‘Tell me about it. Listen, while we’re on the subject of hygiene – whatever you do, don’t look up at the ceiling. The place is so filthy that the drips will give you eye infections. There’re so many diseases in this place you’ll probably get the plague.’ He glanced at Luiz. ‘Still glad you came with me?’
‘No,’ Luiz replied truthfully. ‘But I’m here now. Where’s the informer?’
Oliveira pointed down the corridor. ‘The Comando Negro cells are this way.’
Although Luiz was slowly becoming accustomed to the dreadful smell, the humid atmosphere inside Polinter was making him feel dizzy. Sweat was pouring down his back, soaking his shirt. As he followed Oliveira through the prison, Luiz was surprised to hear the sound of voices singing. Turning a corner, he looked on with astonishment at the scene before him.
A church choir was standing on top of a makeshift stage, women in long, bright blue robes who clapped their hands together as they raised their voices to the heavens. At the front of the stage, a man in a suit was preaching into a microphone about God and redemption. A group of prisoners had been allowed out of their cages and were listening raptly as the man spoke, waving their hands in the air and cheering in agreement.
‘What the hell’s this?’ Luiz whispered.
‘Evangelicals,’ replied Oliveira. ‘They visit the prison from time to time, trying to convert the inmates to Christianity. There’re plenty of sinners to save here. They sing, they pray, they exorcize the prisoners’ demons. Come on – this isn’t a sightseeing tour.’
As they moved away, the preacher with the microphone stepped into the audience of inmates and touched one of them on the forehead, chanting in a strange tongue Luiz couldn’t understand. The prisoner collapsed to the ground and began writhing around as though he was on fire. The inmates around him roared their approval as the choir sang on and the preacher continued to speak in tongues.
Then, above the sound of the choir, Luiz heard a blood-curdling scream. It had come from one of the cells at the far end of the hall.
‘Shit!’ Oliveira swore, pulling a pistol from his belt.
The policeman broke into a run as another scream rent the air, before abruptly ceasing. Polinter was alive with noise now, the prisoners bouncing up and down in their cages like monkeys, hollering and whooping. As Luiz raced after Oliveira, the choir responded to the noise by breaking into a chorus at the top of their lungs. The inmate being exorcized was now foaming at the mouth, his limbs thrashing so violently that other prisoners were trying to pin him down.
Oliveira had stopped at a cell at the end of the corridor and was leaning on the bars as he peered inside. Catching up with the policeman, Luiz saw that the inmates beyond had pressed themselves against one side of the cage, revealing a body lying sprawled on the floor.
‘Don’t look, Luiz,’ Juan said softly.
Too late.
The informer wasn’t old – possibly the same age as Luiz. His fists were still bunched up in a defensive posture. Blood was pouring out from a stab wound in his left-hand side and his eyes were lifeless. But worst of all, someone had taken a knife to the corpse’s back, tearing off flaps of skin to reveal a bloodied message to anyone with enough stomach to make out the two letters.
A ‘C’ and an ‘N’. The initials of the Comando Negro.
19. Old Friends
Dazed, Luiz allowed Oliveira to lead him out of the prison’s hellish labyrinth and into the late-afternoon fresh air. In the car park, he tore off his balaclava and was suddenly and violently sick. The policeman waited until Luiz’s stomach was emptied, then wordlessly handed him a tissue.
‘Sorry,’ Luiz muttered, wiping his mouth. ‘Wasn’t prepared for that.’ He retched again.
‘Nothing to apologize for,’ Oliveira said calmly. ‘I’m sorry you had to see it. If we had got there five minutes earlier, maybe we could have stopped it.’
‘Who do you think did it? It had to be one of the guys in the cage with him.’
Oliveira shrugged. ‘Doubt we’ll ever know for sure. All the guys in the cage were Comando Negro and you saw what happens to gang members who talk to the police. As soon as they found out the guy was an informer, he was a dead man walking. No one’s going to tell us who stabbed him.’
‘Do you think he really did know who the Doctor is?’ asked Luiz.
‘Doesn’t matter either way now,’ replied the policeman. ‘That’s between him and God. Listen, I’ve got to go back to the station. You want a lift anywhere?’
Luiz shook his head. ‘I still feel pretty sick. I’m going to walk back to Santa Marta.’
‘OK, then.’ Oliveira patted him on the shoulder. ‘Take care of yourself, Luiz. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’
The policeman climbed into his car and drove away. As the vehicle exited the prison car park, Luiz had an irrational urge to call Oliveira back. He kept silent, however, standing alone in the prison car park as the shadows began to lengthen around him.
Luiz trudged through the streets of the Zona Sul, not caring which direction he was going. Dusk had fallen over Rio and the city was beginning to come alive with people looking to party through the night. The streets were lit up with neon signs and flashing lights, thumping beats emanating from the bars and nightclubs. Somewhere a live samba band was playing, the drummer beating out a hypnotic rhythm.
Walking past the rows of souvenir shops and fast-food restaurants, Luiz passed a skinny young girl walking hand in hand with a sweaty American man old enough to be her grandfather. Luiz had lived in Rio long enough to recognize a sex tourist when he saw one. Whenever they started pawing at under-age girls in the middle of the street he had to fight the urge to punch them. The foreign tourists always talked about how exotic and exciting Rio was, but they never seemed to mention the children on the street corners and in the saunas, selling their bodies for whatever they could get. In this city – where most of the girls were skinny not because they were dieting, but because they didn’t have enough to eat – the glamour was only skin-deep.
Down at the beach, queues were forming by the volleyball courts as kids lined up to play futevolei. On the courts themselves, the players were heading and volleying the ball back and forth across the net, the ball never threatening to touch the ground. Briefly, Luiz wondered whether Gui would be among them, laughing and joking with their other friends, chatting up the girls as they walked past.
Amid all the hustle and bustle, Luiz felt lost and alone. He couldn’t get the memory of the corpse’s blank eyes out of his mind, nor the gaping wounds hacked into his flesh. That’s what happens to gang members who talk to the police, Oliveira had told him. If that was the case, what would happen to Luiz if he was unmasked? Would someone find him lying face-down in the mud, letters carved into his back?
His mobile phone began vibrating in his shorts’ pocket. Glancing down at the caller ID, Luiz saw that it was his foster parents. He was about to answer, when he suddenly put the phone away. The way Luiz felt right now, he would probably break down if he heard the sound of his mum’s or his dad’s voice. Then they wouldn’t stop until they’d got the truth out of him, and it would all be for nothing. After all, it probably wouldn’t be long now before they came home…
Luiz stopped in his tracks, people jostling his shoulders like waves around an iceberg. With everything that was going on, he had completely lost track of what day it was. He had been back in the favela for nearly a week now. It was Tuesday – and his parents were supposed to be coming back on Friday. That meant he had only three days left to uncover the identity of the Doctor and get Ana out of jail. Three days? It seemed impossible.
Luiz walked on, his steps taking him away from the centre of the Zona Sul and into the quiet backstreets that led back to Santa Marta. It was no use feeling sorry for himself, he thought sternly. Self-pity wasn’t going to set Ana free. He decided that he would try to talk to Angel that night. Perhaps if he mentioned Councillor Cruz, the dono might let something slip, especially if
the two of them had just met in the Casa Bahia. Trojan had been right from the start – Angel was the key to everything. Now that he had finally accepted Luiz as a member of the Comando Negro, perhaps he would be more open around him.
With a plan forming in his head, Luiz strode along with renewed vigour. He cut down a narrow alleyway, the Santa Marta hillside suddenly emerging out of the night above his head. The exuberant noise of the Zona Sul had faded away into the background. Somewhere close by, a police siren wailed. Ahead of him a mangy dog was pawing through an overturned dustbin. Its head snapped up at the sound of Luiz approaching – with a yelp, it scuttled away.
Luiz was in the darkest depths of the alleyway when he heard a noise behind him.
‘Luiz!’ a voice called out, in a mocking, childlike tone. ‘I can see you!’
Luiz whirled round. ‘Who’s there?’
There was a movement in the alleyway shadows; a shock of bleached-blond hair in the darkness.
It was Stripe.
The chief soldado of the Comando Negro swaggered towards him, a faint smile on his face. His eyes – never clear at the best of times – were bleary, his pupils dilated. As he looked at Luiz, Stripe frowned, as though he was having difficulty focusing. He had clearly been snorting line after line of coke. In his trembling hands, he was carrying his beloved AK-47 assault rifle. The safety catch was off.
‘Stripe!’ said Luiz, desperate to sound friendly. ‘What are you doing here?’
The boy waved his hand around vaguely. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘What about you?’
‘I… went shopping downtown,’ Luiz stammered. ‘Wanted to get some clothes and shit like that.’
Stripe tapped his finger thoughtfully against his cheek. ‘Didn’t do so well, did you?’
‘What?’
‘Your hands are empty,’ said Stripe, gesturing at him with his gun. ‘Guess you didn’t buy anything.’