by Josh Lacey
“Didn’t I tell you not to call me that?”
“You did. I’m very sorry. But can we argue about it later?”
“I’d rather argue about it now.”
“Oh, just stand up!”
Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be helped to his feet. Leaning on me for support, he tested his weight on his leg.
“How is it?” I asked.
“Fine, fine.”
“Not too painful?”
“No, I can’t even feel it.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, but I didn’t argue with him, just led him toward the cliff and put his hands on the rock.
“You go first,” I said.
“Why me? Why not you?”
“Because if I go first, you’ll probably do something stupid like stay here. I want to see you climbing. Go on, Uncle Harvey. Get going. See you at the top.”
“I hope so.”
He was just about to pull himself up when there was a groan behind us. We both turned around to see Otto rolling over. He said something in Spanish and waited for us to reply. When we didn’t, he mumbled, “Miguel?”
“He’s dead,” I said.
That woke him up. He stared at me, his eyes narrowing.
You might have thought he would say something nice to us. Like: “I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean to kill you.” Or even: “Thanks for saving my life.” But he didn’t say any of that—just, “Where are you going?”
“Up there.” I pointed at the cliff.
“You’re crazy,” said Otto. “You’ll never make it.”
“We’ll be fine.”
He looked up at the towering cliff as if he was measuring the distance from here to the top, then back at us. “I’m gonna come too.”
“No you’re not,” I said.
Otto just smiled. He hauled himself unsteadily to his feet. “We do it together,” he said. “You help me, I help you. No problem.”
He put his hands on the cliffs and searched for a good foothold.
“Tom’s right,” said my uncle. “You’re not coming with us.”
“Stop me,” said Otto.
“I will.”
“Yeah? How?”
“Like this.”
Uncle Harvey took two unsteady steps across the ledge, swung his right arm, and punched Otto in the face.
27
Our clothes were wet. Our hands were freezing. My sneakers were sodden and slippery. We didn’t have any special equipment—none of the stuff that climbers use: no ropes, no axes, no clips, no harnesses. Not even the right kind of boots. You have to be desperate to climb a cliff like that. And we were. Desperation drove us onward, away from the sea, away from Otto. Ledge by ledge, crevice by crevice, we hauled ourselves up the cliff, our feet jammed into the jagged shards of rock, our fingers clinging to clumps of moss.
I could have gone faster, but I didn’t want to get too far ahead of my uncle. He took it very slowly, never putting too much weight on his wounded leg, and I stayed with him, ready to stretch out a hand if he needed my help.
There was a sudden screech, and a white shape flashed past me. It was a seabird, which must have been dozing on the rock and had woken up to get a nasty shock: a human face peering into her bedroom. She circled a couple of times, checking me out, then swooped down and found a safer perch farther along the cliff.
As we went higher, we disturbed more birds. At one moment a great storm of them flapped around us, shrieking and cawing, and it took all my concentration to hold on.
My arms ached. My fingers felt as if they were going to drop off. Worst of all, I couldn’t stop thinking about falling. I imagined myself tipping backwards, slithering down the cliff, and landing in the ocean with a splash.
I knew I shouldn’t do it, but I couldn’t resist looking down.
I could see the bottom of the cliffs plunging into the fierce, bubbling cauldron of the sea. And there was a brown smudge that must have been the top of Otto’s head. He was just as we’d left him, slumped against the cliff, staring at the waves.
I kept going. One step at a time. Reaching upward, searching for handholds, testing each one before using it to hold my weight and pull myself a little higher.
Farther up the cliff, I stopped once more and waited for my uncle. When he reached me, I said, “Do you need any help?”
“No,” he huffed.
“Are you sure?”
“If I’m going to fall off, I want to do it alone. No point taking you with me. Keep going, Tom. Don’t wait for me. I’ll see you at the top.”
Before starting my climb again, I granted myself another quick glimpse down at the dizzying drop, seeing how far we had come. I looked for Otto, but he seemed to have disappeared. Where was he? Had he crawled along the ledge, searching for a drier spot out of the wind? Or had he fallen back into the water?
I shifted my weight and looked down again. Then I saw him.
“I don’t believe it,” I whispered to myself.
Uncle Harvey heard me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“He’s coming after us.”
Uncle Harvey nodded, as if he’d been expecting this, but didn’t look down. I wished I’d been so sensible.
“Is he close?” said my uncle.
“No. But he looks as if he’s moving fast.”
“We’ll just have to move faster.”
After that, Uncle Harvey didn’t waste any more breath talking. He needed all his strength to pull himself up.
I took another look at Otto and had a sudden, surprising thought. It would be very easy to drop a stone on him. Several fist-size rocks were within reach. I could grab one of them and drop it straight down onto the top of his head. He had nowhere to hide. Even if I missed the first time, I could keep going, dropping stone after stone, till I got him. And why not? He was a criminal. A drug dealer. A murderer. And he was coming after us. Why shouldn’t I smash his skull open with a stone?
I wished I could have done it, but I just couldn’t. Dropping a rock on Miguel had been self-defense. Dropping one on Otto would be murder.
I turned my face upward and kept climbing, trying to put everything out of my mind except hand holds and foot holds.
At last, after a long, hard climb, I pulled myself over the precipice and rolled onto the flat grass. A rest would have been nice, but I didn’t have time. I crawled straight back and peered over the edge, wanting to give my uncle a hand up the last bit.
Far below me, I could see the frothing water and the waves crashing against the base of the cliff. And there was the top of Otto’s head. He wasn’t far behind us. Five or ten minutes from now, he’d be pulling himself up over the top too.
Here came my uncle, his fingers scrabbling for a good grip. I could see the exhaustion in his face. I offered him a hand. He shook his head. “I’m fine,” he hissed. He scrambled over the ledge and collapsed beside me.
We lay there for a few moments. I listened to my uncle’s breathing. He didn’t sound well. I left him as long as I dared. Then helped him to his feet. We started walking. The drizzle pecked at our faces. The ground was rough, but sloping downward, and we went at a good pace.
Uncle Harvey was limping. I asked if his wound hurt. He said no. I asked if he wanted to stop and rest, and he said no to that too. I was glad. We didn’t have any time to waste. We just had to find a boat. I felt sure that if we could just get off the island before Otto caught up with us, everything would be fine.
Soon we saw the dark bulk of the prison looming out of the landscape. I couldn’t see any guards. I wondered if they’d spotted us. Even if they had, we must have looked so bizarre and so brazen that I was sure they would think we were nothing to be worried about. No escaped prisoners would behave like us. Neither would crooks coming to rescue their friends in the prison. I remembered what Otto had said about the guards shooting first and asking questions later, and I hoped he was just being melodramatic.
My un
cle was slowing down. I urged him onward. “We can’t stop now. We can rest when we’re on the boat.”
He didn’t answer, but he managed to walk a little faster, wincing with every step. I felt bad, forcing him along, but I knew we didn’t have any choice. There was still no sign of Otto, but any minute now, he’d haul himself over the edge of the precipice and sprint across the springy grass after us.
Up ahead I could see the small harbor. A boat was tied to the dock. I could just make out three little figures unloading boxes from the back of the boat and putting them on a truck. Those must be supplies. Fruit and vegetables for the prison kitchen, perhaps.
That’s perfect, I thought. The boat will be turning back again soon. Heading home. They can take us too.
I glanced at Uncle Harvey. If he arrived at my boat, asking for a lift, would I say yes? No way. Not a chance. He looked crazy and he had a big patch of blood on his pants. I wouldn’t let him anywhere near me. But if he pulled out a handful of dollars, I might change my mind.
Once the boatmen delivered us back to the mainland, we’d buy ourselves a couple of tickets on the next bus to Lima. Today was Sunday. Our flights left tomorrow. We’d get to the airport with hours to spare. With any luck, we’d even have time to take a shower and buy some new clothes.
I was plotting the future so confidently that I didn’t even notice the soldiers.
28
Six men surrounded us, shouting in Spanish. They were wearing combat pants, camouflage jackets, and polished boots. Five of them had rifles, which they were pointing at us, and the sixth had a pistol, which he kept holstered. My uncle raised his arms in the air and yelled back at them: “Inglés! Inglés!”
I put my hands up too. I really didn’t want to get shot. Not now. Not after escaping from Otto. We’re the good guys, I wanted to say. We’re on your side. But I just kept quiet and tried to look harmless.
The man with the pistol seemed to be in charge. He told the others to shut up and gave us a signal which obviously meant follow me.
We did as we were told. Down the hill we went. Walking fast. Three guards ahead of us and three more behind.
More soldiers were waiting for us beside two khaki jeeps. One of them grabbed my uncle and shoved him toward the nearest vehicle. We clambered into the back. There weren’t seats for the guards, but they clung on to the sides and we set off, bumping down a rough track toward the prison.
“Take your hands out of your pockets,” hissed my uncle to me. “Slowly! Don’t give them any excuse to shoot you.”
I put my hands on my lap where everyone could see them.
A big pair of steel gates swung open to let us in. We drove through a no man’s land of dirty earth dotted with patches of unkempt grass. Guard towers and spotlights glared down at us. Wherever I looked, I saw men with guns. Another pair of gates swung open and we were in the main courtyard, surrounded by big grim buildings with barred windows. Men were unloading crates from the back of a truck. They stopped to stare curiously at us. Then someone shouted an angry order and they returned to their work.
The jeeps parked beside a doorway. We were ordered out. We stood there for a few minutes, stamping our feet on the ground, trying to keep warm, and then one of the soldiers told us to follow him. Four of them escorted us into the prison. Along a corridor. Through a door. Then another. Down more corridors. Till we came to a little room without any windows or furniture. Two more guards were waiting for us. They stepped forward. Without a word, they started patting us down. I suppose they were searching us for weapons.
My uncle looked over at me. “How are you doing, kiddo?”
“Fine, thanks. How about you?”
“I’m desperate for a cup of coffee.” He turned to the nearest guards. “Un café, por favor?”
The guard snapped back in Spanish.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” said Uncle Harvey. “I don’t suppose you speak English, do you? Inglés? Habla Inglés? Vous parlez français? Sprechen sie Deutsch?”
This time, the guard didn’t even bother answering.
They made us empty our pockets. They found our passports, the dollars and the credit cards, all sodden, but intact, and a small red penknife, which my uncle had been carrying in his back pocket.
“You can’t take that,” he said. “I’ve had it since I was ten years old.”
Ignoring him, they confiscated it all.
“Oh, come on, chaps,” protested Uncle Harvey. “That knife has a lot of sentimental value. If I promise not to use it, could I have it back? Please? Pretty please?”
The guards couldn’t understand a word he was saying, but they probably wouldn’t have cared even if they did. One of them pocketed the penknife and another took our money and passports. Then they ushered us down yet more long white corridors and through several thick steel doors.
I’d always imagined that prison guards carried big bunches of keys strapped to their belts, but this place was entirely electronic. Every door had its own keypad. I wondered how the security worked. Did they change the code every day? Every week? Did some codes only work for some doors? I suppose I was already thinking about escaping, although the prospect wasn’t exactly hopeful. Even if you found a way to sneak through the doors and past the armed guards, you’d still have to climb two fences, cross the no man’s land, and get off the island.
We came to another big steel door, guarded by two more men in uniform. The door swung shut behind us, closing with a heavy clunk, and we found ourselves in a smart office with antique furniture and paintings in gold frames hanging on the walls. A thin, middle-aged man in a black suit was sitting behind a desk, typing on a computer. He had a neatly trimmed beard and small round glasses, giving him the look of a professor or a teacher. He finished whatever he was typing, then came around to meet us, speaking in Spanish.
“I don’t suppose you speak French?” asked my uncle. “Or even English?”
“Of course I do,” said the man in the black suit. “Which would you prefer?”
“English, please. Your accent is excellent.”
“Thank you. I spent a year at Cambridge. Do you know Cambridge?”
“I know it very well. Actually, I was there myself. Which college were you in?”
“Trinity.”
“Really? What a coincidence! I was there too!” My uncle was grinning as if he’d stumbled across an old friend. “Maybe we overlapped. When did you go up?”
“Oh, a very long time ago. Let me see . . . twenty-three years. And only for a year. I came to England on an exchange with Lima University.”
“I’m a little younger than you,” said my uncle. “We wouldn’t have been there at the same time. But it’s always nice to meet another Cantabrigian. Even in prison. Presumably you’re not actually a prisoner here?”
The man smiled. “In a sense, yes, I am. Like the other prisoners, I cannot leave this place. But I have committed no crime. This is simply my job. I’m sorry, how rude of me. I must introduce myself. My name is Javier Velasquez, and I am the governor of this prison. My men told me that they had picked up two foreigners trespassing on the north side of the island. I hope they haven’t treated you roughly.”
“Not at all,” said my uncle. “I have managed to cut my leg, but that was nothing to do with your men. It’s not bleeding anymore, but I could do with a clean bandage. Do you think I could see a doctor?”
“Yes, of course. We have several doctors here. One of them can see you immediately. I’ll take you there myself. But first, I must ask you one question. I know the English are famous for their eccentricity, but even this will not explain why the two of you are walking around Isla de la Frontera. Tell me, please, why are you here?”
“I won’t lie to you,” replied my uncle. “I have to admit, I was going to. I had been planning to tell you that we’re tourists and we’ve been on a fishing trip. I would have said that our boat smashed on the rocks and we swam to shore. Perhaps you wouldn’t have believed me. Perhaps you w
ould. It doesn’t matter, because I’m going to tell you exactly why we’re here, Señor Velasquez. Do you know who I mean by Otto Gonzalez?”
“There is a man of that name who is famous in Peru. He is one of our most notorious criminals.”
“That’s him. If you’re quick, you could capture him right now and lock him up in your prison.”
“What are you talking about? Where is he?”
“On this island.”
“How do you know?”
“There isn’t time to tell you the whole story,” said Uncle Harvey. “When you’ve captured Otto Gonzalez and put him safely in a cell, I’ll tell you why he’s here. For now, you simply have to catch him. And lock him up.”
I could see that the governor wasn’t quite sure whether to believe us. Which was fair enough. Would you believe a couple of foreigners with wet clothes who came out of nowhere and told you that a famous crook was just around the corner? But I got the sense that he’d decided to give us the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was persuaded by the Cambridge connection. Or maybe he simply decided it was worth taking the risk. He picked up a phone and barked some orders in Spanish. Then he put the phone down and told us that a squad of his best men would leave their quarters immediately and search the island for Otto.
“If he is here, my men will find him,” said the governor confidently.
29
Two guards escorted us from the governor’s office and put us in a small room. It wasn’t a cell, but it wasn’t exactly luxurious either. The walls were whitewashed and the tiny window had steel bars, which looked unbreakable. There was a table and four chairs. This was probably where you got to wait if you were a lawyer or a wife, paying an official visit to the prison. You hadn’t actually committed a crime yourself, but you were on the side of the prisoner rather than the law, so there was no need to give you carpets, comfy chairs, or a nice view of the ocean.