Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  ‘He took a dislike to me, I don’t know why. He used to steal my cigarettes and he pissed on the floor of my cell a couple of times and made me clear it up. Then one day, I come back from Mass and on my bed waiting for me, is a shit.’

  Perry screwed up his face. ‘That is disgusting.’

  ‘Horrible. An ogre’s shit. Huge! And I start shouting, “Who the fuck does something like this! What animal?” and then I turn and see him, this guard, smirking through the bars at me. Oh Perry I was so angry, I wanted to strangle that bastard. I start shouting at him, calling him a shitting dog who sniffs asses and who nobody wants, I yell every insult I can think of; then I remember Sampiño’s escape and I say it was his fault, that he doesn’t know the difference between a girl and a boy. That he used to fuck Sampiño, that he likes to fuck boys, things like that - anything that came into my head I was so angry. He didn’t say anything to me, just flicked his cigarette end onto my floor and stalked off. It was that night that they came for me and dragged me away to La Cueva.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Perry said. No wonder Santi had jumped at the chance to escape with him.

  Santi stopped outside a building with dark windows and double doors painted a bright blue.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said.

  It looked too large to be a house.

  ‘What is this place?’ Perry asked.

  Santi’s face was pressed against the window, his hands cupped, trying to peer into the darkness.

  ‘Can’t see them,’ he went to the door and rapped it hard with his knuckles.

  ‘Beto!’ he yelled and let out a high-pitched whistle so sharp it made Perry wince.

  ‘Pocha! Abrime!’

  Perry stood helplessly behind him, wondering what they would do if these people weren’t at home. They had no money. The alarm would be going off in the penitentiary this very moment. This was no time to be wondering the streets still in their escape disguises. Perry joined Santi and banged his fists on the door.

  The lock slid and the door opened. A stocky woman appeared with hair tied back in a tight bun and a rolling pin in hand.

  ‘Who the hell is knocking so damn…’ the anger in her voice trailed off,

  ‘Pocha…’ Santi’s lip was trembling as he spoke.

  ‘Santi,’ she gasped and fell into his arms.

  ‘I escaped,’ he gasped.

  Perry watched the rise and fall of their bodies, sobbing into one another’s arms. How he wished someone would hug him like that. From Santi’s shoulder, the woman lifted her chin, noticing Perry.

  ‘And this one?’

  Santi sniffed and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘He’s with me. Perry, this is my cousin Pocha, she’ll see us right.’

  Perry gave her a weak smile. ‘Glad to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘Encantada,’ Pocha replied.

  ‘Come on, we better get inside,’ Santi placed an arm round him and swept him inside along with Pocha.

  Perry wouldn’t have guessed it from the outside, there being no sign and all- but there happened to be a small stage there, a dozen or so dark wooden tables with chairs upturned on them and a long wooden bar book-ended with stained glass windows. Bottles of spirits glittered like precious stones behind the bar.

  ‘It’s a tango bar,’ explained Santi. He turned to Pocha. ‘How long have we got?’

  ‘The musicians arrive in a couple of hours.’

  ‘We need to be gone by then. Where’s Beto?’

  ‘Here.’

  Perry traced the voice to the stage. Beto, looked to be a fair few years older than Pocha, his long crinkly hair greying in places. Another cousin? Her husband?

  Beto strolled over to Santi, offered his hand and they shook. All quite formal.

  ‘Santi, what have you done?’

  ‘He escaped. With this boy,’ Pocha said.

  Beto appraised him suspiciously.

  ‘Señor,’ Perry said, hoping to convey the impression of respectability.

  ‘Why the hell are you dressed as priests?’ Beto asked

  ‘It’s for-’

  ‘-actually the less I know the better.’

  ‘Look Beto, I didn’t mean to bring you into this-’ Santi began.

  ‘That’s exactly what you’ve done!’ Beto snapped.

  ‘I know,’ Santi let his head drop, like a child being told off at school.

  ‘You can’t stay here.’

  Santi nodded.

  ‘Beeeto,’ Pocha said softly, ‘he’s family.’

  ‘Exactly, it won’t take them long to check the families of an escapee, will it Pocha? They’ll be at Alejandra’s in no time, then here. We could lose everything! I’m not letting him drag this family down again, I won’t do it.’

  Santi raised his palms. ‘Beto, it’s ok, I’m not asking you to.’

  ‘What are you asking then?’ Beto crossed his arms.

  ‘Tell us Santi, we’ll help you,’ said Pocha.

  ‘A change of clothes, a little money. And please, please get my girls, get them over here with only the essentials packed. Help me and we’ll be gone within the hour.’

  Pocha was already grabbing her coat.

  Beto’s sigh was full of reluctance. ‘One hour of help. That’s it. Then you’re on your own.’

  In the upstairs washroom, Perry shed his dyed prison pyjamas and towelled for the second time that day. He put on some of Beto’s old clothes, a pair of trousers that were too short in length and too large around the waist. The shirt was too baggy, but once the sleeves were rolled up it wasn’t too bad. He held the trousers up until he got a pair of braces on and slipped into an old frayed linen jacket that actually fitted reasonably well. Perhaps Beto had filled out in his latter years.

  A knock. ‘Time to go.’

  Perry gathered up his damp pyjamas and opened the door. Santi was in a brown suit, scuffed black shoes and a tan fedora on his head.

  ‘I think we looked better as priests,’ Perry said.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Santi grabbed Perry’s prisoner pyjamas and threw them on top of his own, ‘Beto will burn these.’

  Perry shrugged, it made no difference to him how they were disposed of.

  ‘Take this,’ Santi thrust a black bowler hat into his hands. Perry slipped it on and stood shoulder to shoulder with Santi a moment, facing a mirror on the landing and adjusted his collar, hoisting up his trousers and angling his hat. He observed a slight smirk from Santi.

  ‘I don’t mind looking ridiculous, as long as I don’t get caught,’ Perry said. From below, female voices drifted up the stairs.

  Santi’s face lit up. ‘Alejandra! Teresa!’ he bounded down the stairs two at a time, more excited dog than escaped convict. Perry followed after, and by the time he got down, Santi was in the middle of the room on his knees hugging a woman and a little girl.

  Perry watched Santi stroke their hair, weeping with joy and barely able to string more than a couple of words together between sobs; ‘My little angels!’ and ‘Never again!’

  Longing ripped at Perry’s core, a longing for home, for Eva, Joel, for the boys, Mrs D, his father even. Beto watched on, stern-faced and cross-armed with Pocha daubing her eyes by his side. Salt, hot on his lips, took him by surprise. He felt his cheek, the trail of a tear still damp there. He wiped it away. One day maybe it would be him in the middle being squeezed so hard it hurt by those that loved him. Surely no feeling in the world could be better.

  ‘Thank you - thank you,’ Santi was up now, pumping Beto’s hand.

  Beto let go as soon as he could and pulled an envelope from his pocket. ‘It’s not much, but it’ll do you for a month or so.’

  ‘Thank you Beto, really I-’

  ‘Hurry up, the coach is waiting outside.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ asked Pocha.

  Santi looked at his wife and shrugged. ‘Neuquén?’

  ‘Patagonia?’ said she.

  ‘Tucumán?’ said the little one.

  ‘It doesn’t matter
, as long as we’re together,’ he gave Pocha a big hug and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Chau prima.’

  ‘Chau primo.’

  Then he came over to Perry, his image swimming in Perry’s eyes.

  ‘You. How can I ever thank you enough?’

  The hug was ferocious, knocking Perry’s hat to the floor and squeezing the breath from his chest.

  ‘By not getting caught,’ Perry gasped.

  ‘Will you come with us?’ Santi asked.

  Perry cleared his throat, shook his head no.

  ‘Will you go back to England?’

  Perry nodded, unable to talk.

  Santi opened the envelope and took out about half the notes. ‘Take this.’

  Alejandra took a step forward. ‘But Santi, we need everything there, we have mouths to feed.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be together at all. We should really be giving him it all. We’ll get by.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Perry croaked and stuffed the notes in the pocket of his linen jacket.

  Santi rested his hand on Perry’s shoulder.

  ‘Suerte amigo.’

  ‘Suerte,’ Perry replied, ‘good luck,’ he said in English.

  Perry joined Pocha and Beto outside. The rain had stopped, but the streetlamps reflected the puddled lakes on the road. He watched Alejandra, Teresa and Santi step inside the carriage. Santi tapped on the roof, ‘Vamos!’ and waved out the window at them.

  With a lump in his throat, Perry waved dumbly back. The horse hooves splashed forth and the coach wheels squelched, finding purchase in the mud, rolling it forward, pulling Santi forward into some future that Perry hoped would be quiet, untroubled and happy. Perry watched with Pocha and Beto as the coach shrank into the grey evening. The moment he could no longer see it, Beto bade Perry a stiff, ‘Good luck,’ and pulled Pocha inside by the arm.

  ‘Thanks for the clothes,’ he yelled to the closed door, wishing he’d said so before. He hardly blamed them for their abruptness. You needed a damn good reason to be burdened with fugitives and being family evidently brought little more than a change of clothes and a bit of money. He half-wished he was on the coach with Santi and his family.

  Alone, he stuffed his hands in his oversized trouser pockets. Somewhere up above someone was practicing the violin, screeched notes sliced the air, plaintive and raw. A tram bell dinged, perhaps a couple of blocks away, as if notifying him it was time to go.

  He checked up and down the road for police. Nothing yet, but they’d be coming, he was sure of that. He angled his hat down and hurried towards the docks.

  34

  With the storm gone, Buenos Aires was left damp and fresh. Under a starless black sky, the boats in the Madero docks swayed in the water. A line of lamps hung along the edge of the dock, radiating soft halos of light along the path.

  The break in rain had brought people out. An old man was brushing puddles out with a broom and pushing the storm detritus into the dock water below. A family walked a dog and bade a “Buenas noches” to a couple strolling the other way. The dog barked at the couple until they’d safely passed.

  At the harbourmaster’s building, the barking sent an arrow of fear straight to Perry’s heart. Bloodhounds. He peered round to see the family dog and clutched his chest in relief. His heart was thumping like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest. Pull yourself together, come on. He scanned the various timetables for passenger liners coming in and out of Buenos Aires. Tracing his finger down grimy glass to the Hamburg South American Line, seeing that the SS Curityba had departed three days before with a stop in England.

  ‘Damn!’ he pounded his fist into his hand. He tried the Royal Mail Steam Packet timetable and that didn’t come until Monday week. The next boat would be the SS Olinda making berth at Santos, Rio, Southampton and Hamburg and that didn’t leave until Wednesday. Could he wait that long? He was so scared, like a hand might clap on his shoulder at any moment and bring him in. He checked about him again, the family with the dog had passed by, not noticing him in the shadows.

  He returned to the lists. He had no choice; it would have to be the Olinda on Wednesday. He looked for the rates of cabin passage to Southampton, his eyes skipped straight over First Class to Second. A shared four-person cabin cost sixty-five pesos for a single - far too much. But below that there was Steerage, at a more affordable thirty-eight. He drew the money from his pocket and feverishly counted out twenty-three pesos given to him by Santi. It wasn’t going to be enough. He tried to pick out the small print underneath. It said Children between one and twelve are half fare. That was no good, he was almost seventeen and there was no way he’d pass for one so young. Infants – free and then one final line that nearly made him laugh out loud. Special rates for Clergymen & their families. His disguise was probably in ashes now at Beto’s tango bar.

  Perhaps the extra couple of days before the ship left were a good thing. He could lie low and scrape together the rest somehow. The prospect of stowing away would have to be the absolute last resort.

  He put the money back in his pocket and, hearing voices, looked up in panic. Two figures stood at the mouth of Venezuela Street, the road that led back downtown. The two people were hunched over a piece of paper. Then he saw the outline of a dog, leashed, its nose twitching in the evening air. He focussed closer on the men. A shiver crawled over him. They were police.

  Had they seen him? He couldn’t be sure. If he went up the walkway it would be too suspicious. He lifted his jacket a little higher over his neck and walked casually towards them. As he neared, the two policemen were talking, arguing about something on the paper - a map. He passed them barely a metre away; the dog’s tail wagged as he passed. He kept at the same casual pace, his blood piston-pumping round his body.

  ‘Hey!’

  Perry froze.

  ‘Come here a second will you?’

  Perry spun round to face the two policemen. ‘Of course,’ he put on the most gentile accent he could muster and wandered to the men, nestling between them. He swallowed hard, yanked his collar.

  ‘What seems to be the matter?’

  The policeman to his left had a moustache and a cap that seemed to hang down over his eyes. He pointed north and then down to the piece of paper. It was indeed a map.

  ‘Is that Dock Two, or Three?’

  ‘Three,’ Perry said definitively.

  ‘I told you,’ said the other Policeman angrily.

  ‘Fine you were right, I don’t want to have to hear about it all shift!’

  ‘They do all look similar,’ Perry offered diplomatically. He wrested his breathing under control, buoyed by their inane question. ‘May I ask is there any trouble I need to be wary of officers?’

  The one with the moustache rolled up the map and tucked it under his arm. ‘There’s been an escape at the National Penitentiary.’

  ‘Gosh,’ Perry said, ‘are they dangerous?’

  ‘They?’ interjected the second policeman. ‘How do you know it’s they?’

  Perry smiled, bile rose into his mouth and he swallowed it back down. ‘Well, it’s the finest penitentiary in South America! You mean to tell me someone managed it alone? Impossible.’

  The policemen both looked at each other and he nearly dropped to his knees and offered himself at their mercy - but they nodded their head in time. ‘Quite right,’ one said and Perry nearly burst out in laughter he was so hysterical.

  ‘Two escaped as it happens. And dangerous? You never know. We’ll catch ‘em, you can bet on that.’

  Perry gathered himself. ‘I just hope they are brought to justice quickly and efficiently.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the one with the moustache, ‘they’ll hang for this. We’ll get these docks covered and the train station manned soon enough. Bastards are clever, making a break for it on a Sunday.’

  They’ll hang for this.

  He knew the stakes, but to hear it so casually…

  ‘Keep an eye out though young man, just to
make sure.’

  ‘I will,’ Perry gulped, wanting to leave but equally wanting to know how much they knew. ‘May I ask what or whom am I to keep an eye out for officers?’

  ‘We don’t know much yet, just that they’re dressed as Priests, both of them, should be easy to spot.’

  ‘Priests? I say, whatever next? And do you have descriptions? Putting up posters and the like?’

  ‘Hard to say. In the past we’ve got a sketch artist to do some work for us.’

  ‘Doubt we’ll get one this time. Budgets are tight,’ said the other.

  ‘Well then,’ Perry inclined his hat in farewell and gave the dog a little ruffle on the scalp between its ears.

  ‘If you notice anything suspicious-‘

  ‘-I’ll be sure to let you know.’ He walked away, feeling their eyes on his back with every step he took. Once he got to the mouth of Venezuela Street he looked back. They weren’t looking his way. He nearly fell over with relief and ducked down the next side street.

  He got his bearings; he’d worked not far from here and knew the streets quite well. On Bolivar there were three policemen and he threw himself behind the cover of the wall before they spotted him.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he had to get off the street. He knew a bar a couple of blocks away. He doubled back on himself and walked around the block. He found the narrow lane and saw light hitting the street and laughter spilling out from a doorway. Thank God it was open.

  It wasn’t busy inside, a smattering of older men on bar stools smoking and chatting. Regulars, he guessed, with some arrangement to get their booze fix on the day of rest. He was eyed with some curiosity as he took a seat at the bar. He’d rather not spend any of his money but if twenty-three pesos weren’t enough to buy a voyage, then twenty-two pesos seventy-five centavos wouldn’t be either, plus he could really use a drink right now. He ordered a glass of bock. The bartender drew the tap and slopped the beer in front of Perry and sliced the top of the head with practised precision. He wiped the spilled drops from the bar surface with an apron-towel. Perry clasped the glass, staring into the depths of its brown and gold brooding swirls. He took a sip, sucking the foamy surface, warm, bitter and enormously comforting. He leant on the bar, just another guy.