by Susan Lewis
Michael looked down at the bottle he was holding and took some time thinking. Finally, he shook his head. ‘I don’t see how it’ll help,’ he answered. ‘It’ll only antagonize them …’ He stopped as a horrible suspicion hit him and his eyes were suddenly blazing into Chambers’s. ‘Are you looking for a story?’ he said bitterly. ‘Is that what you’re leading up to here?’
Chambers was unruffled. ‘No, I’m just making sure you know what you’re doing and why,’ he answered, putting the beer to his lips.
Michael eyed him for a moment, then he drank too.
‘I know this isn’t going to make you feel any better,’ Chambers said after a while, ‘but I’ve been where you are now, so believe me I know how hard it is to make the right choices and I live every day of my life now knowing that I made a wrong one.’
Michael looked at him and waited for him to go on.
‘You may recall the case of Rachel Carmedi, the American journalist who was kidnapped and killed in Colombia two years back,’ Chambers said.
Michael’s expression was unreadable, though his eyes widened slightly as a dawning recollection began stirring his memory. ‘Of course,’ he said, piecing it quickly together. ‘And you must be the Tom Chambers who …’
‘… tried to call their bluff and got her killed,’ Chambers cut in. ‘So don’t think I’m gonna try to push you one way or the other here, because I …’ He stopped as the telephone suddenly shrilled into the room again.
Michael looked at it, looked at Chambers, then went to pick it up. ‘Hello,’ he said, stealing himself for that same lyrical voice as before.
‘May I speak with Senhor McCann?’ a woman asked.
‘You are,’ Michael told her. ‘Who’re you?’
‘I am calling to inform you that you will be able to visit Senhora Rowe at the prison tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Please to take your passport or driver’s licence for identification.’
Michael was looking at Chambers. ‘I can see her tomorrow morning at nine,’ he repeated for Chambers’s benefit.
‘Ask, will the visit be private?’ Chambers told him.
Michael repeated the question.
‘Sim, senhor,’ came the reply. ‘The visit will be private. Is there anything else you would like to ask, senhor?’
‘Anything else?’ Michael said to Chambers.
Chambers shook his head.
‘Nothing else,’ Michael told the woman and the call ended.
Chambers’s fist tightened in a gesture of triumph. ‘At last,’ he said. I knew she’d come through, but I’ve got to tell you she had me worried there for a while.’
‘Who is she?’ Michael asked.
‘Right now, one of the best friends you’ve got,’ Chambers told him. ‘She’s also one of the most highly respected judges in Rio and probably the most cunning female you’ll ever meet. But don’t let that put you off, because Elena da Silva has more integrity than the Pope. She treads a real fine line here with the likes of Pastillano and the fact that she’s managed to keep her position this long is testament enough to just how shrewd a cookie she is. Now, I suggest we go grab ourselves a bite to eat and start talking about what you’re going to discuss with Michelle in the morning.’
Not for a single moment did either of them entertain the idea that Michelle might not know where the depositions were, for this was the biggest break they’d had so far and God knew they needed some hope. Not that they had exhausted all other channels, but their confidence in finding the Inferno was diminishing by the hour and even if they did, the likelihood of them being able to get in was less than zero. So finding the depositions was really the only chance of them getting Cavan back alive, and even then it was slimmer than either of them wanted to admit.
The women’s penitentiary, on the far north side of the city, was as bleak and unwelcoming a place as Michael had ever seen. With its flat, unguttered roofs, narrow, barred windows, dun walls and desolate, sandy wasteland it was even more baleful and intimidating than the rugged mountains overlooking it. Knowing that Michelle was somewhere deep within its bowels was causing a sickness inside him that veered between outrage that any living person could be kept in such a place and a growing fear of what state he was going to find her in.
They’d learned yesterday, from the lawyer she had been appointed by the British Consulate, that having now been officially charged, her trial had been set to begin in seventy days. It was an unthinkable amount of time, during which Michael had no idea what he was going to do, for he just couldn’t see how he could take their son and leave her here to face things alone. He guessed all he could do for now was take each day as it came. The lawyer was maintaining an optimism that he could get the charges dropped, but the man’s preposterous bluster and nervous laughter did nothing to inspire any confidence. Indeed, he had taken fifteen thousand dollars from Michael that very morning to begin the process, which was why he wasn’t accompanying Michael now and his wife, Mara, was.
As she brought the car to a stop outside the main gates, she told Michael to wait and walked over to the guards who charted her approach with combined insolence and suspicion. Michael watched as she spoke to them, her short, plump arms bobbing about like long balloons, her neatly crimped hair seeming as indignant as her manner. All the way there she had been regaling him with horror stories of the kind of conditions this particular prison was famous for, from the pitch-dark stinking cubicles with their squat pans and dripping water for washing and drinking, to the rats and roaches, the regular beatings and inmate attacks. Though he’d have liked nothing better than to gag the woman, he’d reminded himself that all he was having to do was imagine the nightmare, while Michelle was having to live it. It was why he was so concerned now about how well she might be holding up.
Seeing Mara beckoning him over, he got out of the car and went to join her outside the guards’ hut. The sun was blisteringly hot and not a breath of air moved over the barren patch of land. There was no shade to shelter in as Mara explained in a crisp, busy tone, what he had to do. ‘They’re not going to allow me in with you,’ she told him, ‘but you should be all right. There won’t be much need to speak to anyone, unless you’re concealing a weapon about your person, or drugs. You aren’t, are you?’
‘No,’ Michael answered.
‘Good, because I’m afraid you’re going to be subjected to a cavity search, which is only pleasant if you’re the sado-masochistic type. Don’t bother to object; if you do, you won’t get in. I’m afraid they’re doing it to humiliate you; it’s their way of making sure you know who’s in charge. My advice is, humour them.’
Fifteen minutes later, under the gloating eyes of two male guards and one female, Michael straightened up and put his clothes back on. He was inside the prison compound now, in a stark, sunlit room that was as claustrophobic as his rage. The sexual gratification that at least two of them had derived from the search was as sickening as the process itself, but he gave no indication of his feelings as he was escorted out of the room, along a dank, shadowy corridor towards a strip of sunlight in the distance.
Before they got there they turned off, descended a steep flight of stairs and a few minutes later he was being led along a narrow, greasy walkway that separated two banks of crudely barred cells where dozens upon dozens of filthy and ragged women catcalled and jeered after him. The stench hit him right away. It was so noxious he started to gag. Clouds of flies buzzed around the rotting waste in the gutters, while the noise ricocheted off the walls in a terrible refrain. As he passed, their tormented, sneering faces seemed to loom from the depths of an apocalyptic nightmare. One woman managed to catch his arm and spin him round. A guard slammed her wrist with a truncheon and she howled like a cat, while one of her cellmates bared her large-nippled breasts and beckoned him forth. His eyes travelled from one grotesque, giggling face to the next, searching for Michelle and dreading he would find her.
At last he was shown into a long, bare room with high, rough stone walls,
unreachable windows and a bench table running right down the centre. Above and below the bench were closely spaced iron bars, obviously there to prevent any physical contact between visitor and prisoner.
The guard barked at him in Portuguese and pointed at a chair. Assuming he was being told to sit, Michael did so and the guard, after scowling at him preposterously and uttering more unintelligible commands, left him alone.
Michael looked around and tried to get to grips with the reality of where he was and what he was doing there. It seemed so utterly incredible that this should be the setting in which he was at last going to see Michelle again, the woman he had loved so deeply and known so well, but who was now beginning to feel like a stranger. So many times he had imagined how it would happen, where it would be, what they would say, how they might feel. A thousand different scenarios had played themselves out in his mind, but none had ever been anything like this. He’d always imagined it would happen in England, for in his heart he had never really stopped hoping that one day she would come back to him and bring their son with her – the son he daily, hourly, thought of and longed to know, even though he’d never laid eyes on him.
As he sat there now, trying to make himself accept that she was going to walk through the door at any moment, he thought of how inseparable they had once been. It seemed so hard to credit now, but that was how it had been, right from the start, always together, never wanting to be apart. Everything had been so perfect, from the way they had created a home that was so uniquely theirs, to the certainty that each had found their soulmate. But maybe, in the end, it was the perfection that had ruined it, for it didn’t take a cynic to know how ill at ease life was with perfection. Even so, nothing could have prepared him for the blow she had delivered the day she had told him she was leaving. He hadn’t even known she was unhappy, hadn’t sensed any restiveness or dissatisfaction with the way they were going, so to find out that she had hidden all this without him even noticing had shaken him right through to the core. But she wasn’t unhappy, she had insisted, nor was she restless and dissatisfied, she was quite simply going to do what in her heart she knew she must – go to help the poor, abused and orphaned children of the world. The fact that she was carrying his child, or breaking his heart, had done nothing to change her mind; it was something she had to do and he must try to understand. They had argued for days, he had done everything he could to persuade her to stay, until, in the end, hurting more than he could bear, he had told her if she went, then he never wanted to see her or the child again. As far as he was concerned they would both be dead.
Now, more than five years had passed and in that time they had neither seen nor spoken to each other once. He wondered if he would ever be able to forgive himself for the foolish pride that had kept him from his son, or for the pain he must have caused Michelle by sending back her letters and the photographs he had guessed they contained. It was only because she had told his mother that he knew the baby was a boy, that he’d been born on 5 October and that his name was Robbie. More than that he had never tried to find out, nor had he wanted to know, for the need to have them with him was made so much worse by hearing their names. Now, he could only feel shame at how bitterly he had hurt them all by taking the stand he had – and whatever damage he had caused his son he could only pray he would soon get a chance to repair.
Hearing footsteps, he looked along the length of the room to the door they were approaching. He wondered how he was going to feel when he saw her and experienced a moment’s dread of being suddenly possessed by the love he had kept buried for so long. A fleeting thought of Ellen came into his mind, then the door was opening and the guard was coming through.
He stood up and watched as two shadowy figures entered the glaring, misty bands of sunlight. Instinctively he knew that one of them was Michelle, though it was difficult to see in the blinding rays. He was so tense he could barely breathe. She started towards him, moving like a ghost at the other side of the bars. Still he couldn’t make out her features, until finally she reached him and turned her back to the sun.
‘Michael,’ she whispered. ‘Oh God, Michael,’ and pushing a fist to her mouth she started to cry.
Her face was streaked with blood and dirt, her hair was tangled and matted to her head. There was a swollen cut on her lower lip and her left eye was circled by a livid purple bruise. He watched the tears drop on to her cheeks and more than anything else in the world he wanted to take her in his arms and carry her out of there. But he could barely touch her and his heart had been hardened against her for so long that even feeling as he did he could find no words.
She averted her head as the guard came up behind her and started to shout. It appeared he was telling her to sit, and after ordering Michael to do the same he turned abruptly on his heel and marched out of the room.
As the door closed, Michael started to speak, but she cut him off, ‘Don’t mention him,’ she whispered. ‘Not here. Just tell me, is he safe?’
Michael nodded and thought for a moment she was going to collapse.
She forced a smile and made a futile attempt to rearrange her hair.
‘But it’s over, you must know that,’ he said.
She looked at him with wide, bloodshot eyes.
‘You know what I’m saying,’ he told her.
She looked down at the table, then back at him. ‘Are you giving me an ultimatum?’ she said softly. ‘I either come home with you or you’re going to leave me here?’
‘For God’s sake,’ he responded angrily.
She shuddered and bunched her hands tightly on the table.
‘What happened to your lip?’ he asked.
She touched the cut with her fingers, then attempted to smile. ‘You should see the other woman,’ she said.
Michael forced a smile in return. It was so hard to know what to say, to step around all the surging emotions and find a place where they could communicate without hurting or accusing or wounding. ‘We’ll get you out of here,’ he told her.
She nodded, but her head had fallen forward so he couldn’t tell if she believed him.
‘Listen,’ he said, sitting in closer, ‘I don’t know how much time we’ve got, so I have to ask you now: where are the depositions?’
Her eyes were surprised as she brought them up to his. ‘Do you honestly think I’d tell you just to get myself out of here?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Do you know how many children have died …?’
‘Michelle, they’ve got Cavan,’ he said, cutting her off.
Her face paled even further. ‘You mean they’ve arrested him too? But he had nothing to do …’
‘They’ve kidnapped him. He’s being held to ransom.’
‘Oh my God,’ she murmured, pressing her hands to her cheeks.
‘So where are the statements?’ Michael urged. ‘You have to tell me, or God only knows what they’ll do to him.’
She was shaking her head and tears were starting again in her eyes.
‘You’ve got to tell me, damn you!’ Michael seethed. ‘It’s probably our only chance of getting him back alive.’
Still she was shaking her head. ‘No, listen, you don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where they are. I swear it. If I did, for Cavan I would tell you. But Antônio took them. He was hiding them. I don’t know where they are.’
Michael closed his eyes tightly as a bolt of anger and frustration rushed through him.
‘There’s a journalist here,’ she told him quickly, as though afraid his temper would explode. ‘His name’s Tom Chambers …’
‘I know, I’ve met him,’ he interrupted. ‘And he doesn’t know where Antônio is either.’
‘But he has to,’ she protested.
Michael merely looked at her.
Her eyes moved frantically in their sockets, then, looking at him again she said, ‘There’s a café in Santa Teresa …’
‘We’ve already tried that,’ he said, struggling to keep the anger from his voice. ‘We’ve left a d
ozen messages and there’s not been a single reply.’
Her eyes remained on his as her mouth started to tremble and tears blurred her vision. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘You’re sorry!’ he snapped. ‘What the fucking good is sorry going to do?’
She lowered her eyes and as he looked at her he was blind to the woman he had once loved. He saw instead the son he was so terrified he might never know. Then he saw Cavan and felt the unspeakable horror of his ordeal. She had caused him more pain than he could bear and now it was going to get so much worse. But venting his anger would do nothing to help Cavan, so struggling to control it he said, ‘Was there anyone else? Someone you didn’t tell Tom about who might know where the depositions are?’
She shook her head, then jumped as frustration brought his fist down hard on the table.
Forcing himself back in control he said, ‘Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all.’
She thought for some time and in the end she said, ‘I expect you’ve already spoken to Sister Lydia at the shelter?’
Michael insides folded with despair. ‘Yes, we tried her,’ he answered.
‘Maybe you should try her again,’ she said. ‘She’s very fond of Antônio; she could be hiding him and not letting him know you’re trying to find him.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Give me the address, I’ll go there on my way back.’
She did so quickly, then looked round as the guard came back into the room. She got to her feet and looked at Michael through the bars.
‘Do you need anything?’ he said. ‘Is there something I can bring you?’
Her eyes were imbued with feeling as she looked at him and whispered, ‘Have you seen him?’
He shook his head.
‘Are you sure he’s safe? Tom got him out?’
‘Yes.’
Tears welled in her eyes again. ‘I’m sorry about Cavan,’ she said brokenly.