Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  Perry was touched. He took the plant off Martín and stared at the deep green, it reminded him of the Solent on a cloudy day. He felt the leaves, spongy and firm.

  Martín stood.

  ‘I see you mañana Inglés. Good old Press.’

  ‘Good old Press,’ Perry murmured, turning the plant round to appreciate the different aspects of the friendship tree.

  The following day, Perry woke before Count and felt good. He’d slept well and couldn’t remember feeling so rested. He sat up and checked the friendship tree up on the ledge. The morning rays caught an edge of the plant, making the leaves a bright shade of pea in contrast to the dark spinach colour at the back. The depth and difference in so small a thing took his breath away. He got out of bed and walked to his cell bars and admired the plant from there. It was funny how something so small could make such a difference. He hated to use the word, but it made his cell look, almost…homely.

  At Press he checked the starting levels in the inkwell and watched Martín run through the checks with the rest of the team. He was laughing with Osvaldo about something and caught Perry staring. A nod; ‘Ok?’ Perry returned it, Ok.

  The Press started and Perry skipped to and from the ink store, finding he could save time leaving the tap running, filling the next ink can while he topped up the inkwell. When Martín checked up on him an hour into the shift, the inkwell was nearly full.

  He grinned, ‘Arriba!’ he yelled, ‘Inglés es un profesional!’

  A cheer went up from his Press co-workers. Martín slapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘You are the best ink runner now. Congratulations.’

  Perry welled up with pride and felt a smile spread involuntarily across his face. The others clapped, though it barely sounded like a patter next to the grinding and hissing of the Press. Perry returned to the Store. The claps outside died away. He flipped on the tap, filling the ink can. And it hit him.

  The smile slipped from his face. It was all so normal, so routine. A month of his life spent inside, lost forever and here he was feeling great because he managed to fill up an inkwell so quickly. The thought rocked him to the core - this is how years can slip past, accepting your lot here, enjoying it even, like Martín did. The gloopy black liquid swelled inside the can. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t like them. He just couldn’t. He had to find another way out.

  23

  Autumn brought a welcome change to the oppressive heat of summer, but it was the only welcome thing to speak of. Baring’s Bank of London had nearly folded the previous November due to some risky Argentine investments and somehow this news had obliged ordinary Porteños to beg for work or food and when neither came, to steal what they needed in order to survive. The papers only brought worse tidings; rumblings of problems with the wheat crop, a formula that could only turn the economic crisis into a catastrophe. Even the trees lining the calles and avenidas of Buenos Aires were losing their leaves and on Las Heras, the few that blew onto the penitentiary grounds, landed in chance formation on the patio.

  Perry kicked the leaves into the air. He’d read snippets in La Nación and heard rumours of the outside problems. Prison food, already lacking in taste, now also lacked in proportion. There were rumours of the cells being doubled up to cope with a coming influx of prisoners, which in turn meant a judiciary backlog that stretched into years rather than months. Perry had to thank God he was no longer pinning any hope on his trial. He picked up one of the leaves; it made him think fondly of Bishopstoke. The leaf was dry and brittle with white veins offshooting throughout the brown-grey skin. If only it were as easy for him to get out as it was for an autumn leaf to get in. He bunched it up in his hand, enjoying the crinkle and grinding it to smithereens. It was getting cooler; he dusted his hands off and continued on his walk around the perimeter wall. The wall looked fairly modern, no cracks or areas of obvious vulnerability. He scuffed around the yard, the ground still dusty and parched from the punishing summer. He dug his heels in; it was harder than a Brazil nut.

  Some inmates from Kitchen and Laundry were having a makeshift game of football. Two sacks of clothes marked the Laundry end whilst the Kitchen goalposts were saucepans filled with water. He supposed if Press had a team it would be the ink cans or two stacks of La Nación. There was a single spectator, a sweeper from the cleaning crew, a cigarette drooping from his mouth.

  ‘What they make the ball out of?’ Perry asked.

  ‘A cabbage sewn into a napkin.’

  ‘Who’s winning?’

  ‘Laundry. 3-1.’

  ‘Who are you rooting for?’

  ‘Have you tasted the food here? Laundry of course.’

  Perry watched for a minute. The last time he’d played was with Rodney and the boys down at the shipyard. He doubted Press would have a team and shook the thought away. Starting a Press football team would be just the sort of thing Martín would love him to do. He had to stay focussed on the task at hand. He continued his circuit of the grounds.

  A watchtower shadowed the corner of the patio and as he neared the dark patch, he noticed something he hadn’t expected to see at all. It was a huge rectangle, as if sketched out with a twig in the dirt. As he got closer, he realised it was a square of wood, covered in dust. His mind raced; a hatch to something? A tunnel? Casually, he scuffed his feet, kicking away some of the dust and caught the glint of metal. A small handle lay flat in the groove of the wood. He crouched down to scratch his ankles, wrapped his fingers around the handle and gave it the smallest of tugs.

  An ear-splitting shot rang out.

  Perry fell to the floor, gritted his teeth and covered his ringing ears. No more shots came. Cautiously, he looked up; the footballers were lying flat on the ground, hands clasped over the back of their heads. Perry did the same.

  ‘Eh! Vos!’ The guard in the watchtower yelled, ‘Vos!’ his gun was trained on Perry. His blood curdled.

  ‘Levántate!’

  He did as told and stood up. In a couple of heartbeats, head guard Torro was in his face.

  ‘Inglés,’ he motioned to the floor hatch, ‘you weren’t trying to open that were you?’

  ‘No sir. Had an itchy leg. It’s the bloody mosquitos, got bites all over.’

  Perry gauged for a reaction. Torro’s fists were bunched at his sides, his expression stony. He knew the look, tensed up and readied himself for a blow. A beat or two passed and it didn’t come. Torro exhaled, his beefed up frame shrunk down a little. Perry breathed a sigh of relief. Torro’s arm came back in a flash and whoomph. All the air jumped out of his chest. He dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach, as if hugging it could ease the explosion of cramping pain. Perry smacked his hand down on the ground, thump thump thump and blinked away the dust. He croaked in the air about him, unable to think, clutching his rib cage and trying desperately to suck air back into his lungs.

  ‘Never touch that hatch again!’

  Perry couldn’t reply; he just hoped God was watching.

  The ache in his gut didn’t settle. Even as he slept, it woke him up. A sneeze caused him agony. The next day he inspected the spidery bruises on his tender ribs and wondered if they were broken. He couldn’t stand to put any pressure on them and found himself grimacing through his shift at Press. He was much slower than normal and couldn’t keep pace with the unquenchable thirst of the machine. Halfway through the morning Osvaldo checked the ink levels.

  ‘Inglés, we will have to swap you out for a few days. Until you’re better.’

  Perry grimaced, wondering why Martín wasn’t telling him this, and followed Osvaldo’s gaze to the upper platform. Martín was stood in profile taking a pencil from above his ear and noting something down on a clipboard.

  ‘He doesn’t want to talk to me does he?’

  ‘Uh,’ Osvaldo scratched the back of his neck, ‘sorry Inglés.’

  ‘I knew he was acting strange, all silent at breakfast. The thing in the yard with Torro was a bloody misunderstanding, that’s all! Tell him that will yo
u?’

  Osvaldo looked apologetic, ‘We’re going to swap you with someone in Laundry.’

  ‘So I’m out? Just like that?’

  ‘You’re not trained on anything else Inglés. It’s only for a few days. Give you some time to think,’ he tipped his chin up, motioning to an extra guard lingering at the doorway.

  Perry couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Thanks Osvaldo,’ he spat with all the irony he could muster.

  In Laundry the air was hot and fizzy. He was posted at a folding station and swapped places with a droopy-eyed Uruguayan. His task was to sort and fold the pressed guard uniforms. He grabbed the first dark blue shirt off the pile, folded it in the middle and tucked the arms behind. It was monotonous work, but at least didn’t demand much movement of him

  After the guard shirts, it was the blue guard trousers and after that it was the prisoner pyjamas. At the end of the shift a guard counted the guard uniforms, but no such rigour was applied to the prisoner pyjamas; with so many new arrivals and different bathing patterns it would probably have been impossible anyway, especially if they couldn’t even get Count right.

  Over the next couple of days, he and Martín avoided each other as much as was possible in a penitentiary. Perry worked out the week in Laundry. He had to admit, he missed the noise and camaraderie of the Press. On Sunday, he set about getting back into Martín’s good books. He noticed el sapo in the queue for confession and joined it himself. When Martín came out of the stall, Perry coughed and shuffled a bit on the spot. It worked. Martín spotted him, the surprise clear on his face. Perry waited until el sapo had gone and left the queue. He wasn’t in the mood for it - but at least Martín would think he’d been. He walked slowly to the patio, enough to make his delay in arriving convincing.

  Autumn had coloured the Patio garden’s few shrubs into reds, greys and browns. Martín was walking round the herb garden, rubbing his fingers on the herbs and then holding them to his nose.

  ‘Hey,’ Perry said.

  Martín picked up a dry brown sprig of something and held it out for Perry to smell.

  ‘In Spanish is Romero - what you call this?’

  Perry was surprised by its strong perfume, he recognised it instantly.

  ‘Rosemary. Had it a couple of times with mutton back home.’

  The wind picked up, Perry rubbed his hands together and blew on them.

  ‘How is the Jade plant? You give it too much water?’

  ‘It’s fine, I’ve only watered it once this week.’

  ‘Bien, bien,’ Martín continued to saunter round the herbs. ‘Confession was good?’

  ‘Very,’ Perry followed behind, ‘that’s what I wanted to talk to you about actually-’

  ‘-Perry, I sorry for sending you from Press. Just no more boludeces with the guards ok?’ The light brown in Martín’s eyes invited him to say the only thing he could.

  ‘I’m straight up from now on. No more boludeces.’

  He offered his hand; Martín gave him a firm shake. Friends again.

  ‘So I can come back on Press tomorrow?’

  ‘Please. That uruguayo is useless. Osvaldo caught him napping in the ink store. I send him back to Laundry straight away if I wasn’t angry with you.’

  ‘It was stupid I know,’ Perry felt himself loosen up, ‘I just saw the trapdoor and the handle and just pulled it. I wasn’t thinking. How was I supposed to know you weren’t meant to touch it?’

  Martín looked incredulous, ‘Come on Perry, you mean you really don’t know? I don’t believe it.’

  Perry felt annoyed. ‘Of course I don’t know!’

  A whistle cut through the air.

  ‘Prisoneros! Formen aqui!’ A guard pointed to a spot in the corner of the yard.

  ‘Well you’re about to see what that hatch is for Inglés.’

  The prisoners formed a horseshoe around the corner of the yard, facing the trapdoor. Perry threaded his way through to the front. He’d been thumped for this; he had to see what it was. He felt Martín’s presence at his side. He examined the other prisoners, for fear or some sign of what was to come. There were tired faces. Worn faces. Autumn ghosts, all silent and drained in their grey pyjamas.

  There was some movement through the crowd. The bulky guard Torro and two others pushed their way to the front. Perry glowered at him with hate and ran his hand over his tender ribcage.

  Torro crouched down by the hatch, unlocked it and yanked the door open. Perry got up on his tiptoes to get a better view of the open hatch, but the angle was wrong.

  ‘Ahora ves,’ whispered Martín. Now you’ll see.

  The two other guards wafted away the dust.

  ‘Arriba!’ Torro yelled.

  Martín made a sign of the cross on his chest.

  ‘Da-le!’

  And then he saw fingers searching the air above the hatch. There was someone inside! Why wasn’t anyone helping? He took a step forward and felt Martín’s arm across his bruised chest, holding him back.

  Out of the hatch, a man emerged on one knee and lifted his other leg out of the hole below. Slowly he got up, unfurling himself to a standing position. His pyjamas were filthy and soiled. He patted his head, knocking a shower of lice to the floor.

  ‘Ay Santi,’ breathed one of the prisoners.

  Perry clenched his teeth so hard he thought his teeth might shatter. Of course there was no tunnel, no magical escape hatch. This hell-hole was La Cueva.

  It was a god-awful place by the looks of it. Santi was bent crooked, his bloodshot eyes blinking away the sudden sun. He was gaunt and weak, barely able to stand, teetering and swaying like a drunk. It was all Perry could do to stay put, he wasn’t sure why, the reflex to catch a teetering vase or glass perhaps, but he desperately wanted to help this wretched man stand but knew he couldn’t. Another punch from Torro would hardly do either of them good.

  Perry did the maths in his head, nearly two weeks Santi had spent down there. And now he was being paraded in front of them as what? An example? He tried to recall his punishment, was it talking about escape or actually trying to escape? He couldn’t well remember. Surely two weeks down there was a pretty severe punishment?

  He massaged his ribs, still tender. Perhaps he had got off lightly under this strict regime. His heart went out to this poor wretch of a man. Such suffering. It couldn’t be for nothing.

  24

  Santi didn’t appear from sickbay until Wednesday. Dining Hall was amicably noisy and Santi was sitting with a group of inmates from the lower deck. Perry approached, lunch tray in hand.

  ‘Hey.’

  The group stopped their conversation and their hostile stares put him ill at ease. Before he lost the courage, he lifted a bread roll from his tray and gave it to Santi.

  ‘I know you don’t know me but…what they did to you, sending you to La Cueva like that for so long. It was wrong.’

  Santi took the bread. He was so ratty-looking, pale and thin with a patchy beard. He might be blighted by scurvy or polio, Perry thought. The other prisoners reeled in their hostility, but kept suspicion taut and ready. He could hardly blame them; kind acts from strangers were rare, especially in prison, and even rarer when grub was scarce.

  ‘That was all,’ then he lowered his voice for Santi, ‘get your strength back. You might need it soon.’

  Perry turned before Santi could react and joined Martín and the Press crowd to eat his meal - a half-bowl of spicy locro. He chewed long and ate as slowly as he could, which wasn’t so hard with the gristly meat. Most guessed the meat to be dog but Perry had long given up caring. It was like his father had always said; if you’re hungry, you damn well eat what’s in front of you.

  ‘You’re taking your time today,’ Martín was the last one to stay with him.

  ‘Don’t wait, go and have your smoke and I’ll see you back at the Press in ten.’

  ‘Sure?’

  Perry nodded, hoping that Santi was still in the Dining Hall. He finished his meal and pushed the
tray to the middle of the table. He was about to get up when he felt a hand on his shoulder and Santi clambered beside him.

  ‘What’s your name kid?’

  ‘Perry Scrimshaw.’

  ‘Ah el Inglés. That was a good thing you did, giving me your bread.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘I’ve been in here a long time. You get nada for free in here.’

  This was his moment, he couldn’t blow it. He looked Santi in the eye.

  ‘You need to get your strength up.’

  Santi’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why’s that?’

  Perry lowered his voice. ‘I’m going to get both of us out of here.’

  He got up, not giving Santi the chance to reply, dropped his tray at the kitchen hatch and headed to Press.

  It had gone well, but there was no way of telling just yet if Santi was interested. Perry spent the afternoon shift wondering if he should have said more or played it slightly differently. In the end he just had to wait for supper.

  When Santi joined the Press table for supper, Perry knew he had him in hand. But just as in guddling, getting the fish in your palm was only the start. He had to get Santi out the water and into the bucket.

  Everyone was intrigued with this new presence at the table. Santi was something of a celebrity after his spell in La Cueva.

  ‘So what’s it really like down there?’

  ‘A tiny box too low in the ground to stand up. You either have to stoop or sit down.’

  ‘With my knees, I would have to sit,’ said Martín.

  ‘The sewer trench runs through so the ground is wet with piss and shit, rats running up and down all the time like locomotives. Bastards get you when you sleep. Look at the bites on my ankles.’

  A collective gasp went up from the group.

  ‘Jesus,’ Perry breathed, he’d never seen anything like it. The puffy puss-filled scabs practically covered Santi’s leg. If the thought of getting caught scared him before, it terrified him now.