Читать книгу Crocodile Tears - Mercedes Rosende - Страница 10

41

VI

He has struggled to get to sleep, to expel the permanent tension of his waking minutes, to soften his nervous body; he has struggled to allow himself to be carried away by the exhaustion of so many sleepless nights, waiting, keeping watch, spying; he has struggled but now he feels himself falling into a warm dark abyss. In slow motion, he falls into a hole, feels himself leaving the other bunks behind, the doors with their iron bars, the sound of the guard’s footsteps, all the horrors he has seen in prison and all those he fears are still to come.

It’s taken him a lot to relax, to match his breathing to his heartbeat, and now his mind gradually succumbs to drowsiness, enveloping him in a mild torpor that faintly, ever so faintly, resembles tranquillity. Although the news of his imminent freedom has plunged him yet deeper into terror, Diego finally surrenders to sleep.

Just as he’s about to drop off, he is startled by a noise that is almost nothing, merely a faint scraping sound that could be an insect rubbing its wings or a hand brushing against something rough. He opens his eyes but can’t see anything in the dark cell. He listens, emerges from the sleep he hadn’t completely fallen into, holds his breath.

Prison is full of unexpected noises and incidents. He was sure he heard something near his bunk but now even that certainty has abandoned him; the senses play nasty tricks 42when sleep and fear are involved. He raises his head, turns his neck, tries to break the darkness. Nothing. He rests his forehead on his arm, his only pillow. He feels cold, tries to cover his neck but it’s futile, the blanket barely comes up to his chest.

No, he wasn’t dreaming; the sound has come back, footsteps – yes, footsteps, there’s no doubt – slide past, not so close to his bed this time, and advance along the far wall, behind him. The universe of familiar night-time sounds crumbles. He tries to think how long it is until dawn. He knows the answer: in here, time has been cancelled, it no longer exists.

He tenses his muscles, fingers the shiv Ricardo gave him, grips it and gets ready. He lies quite still, breathing as silently as he can. He turns over, lying face down so he can monitor the darkness behind his head.

The noise advances slowly, still some way from the bunks, sticking close to the back wall; sometimes it stops and then starts again, as if pulling itself along. The sound moves effortlessly through the darkness, staying far from the sliver of light that enters beneath the door.

Diego, still unable to see anything, catches a new acidic odour, something that was not present during his hours of insomnia, a whiff of unknown perspiration, unwashed clothes, a smell that moves in time with the sound it produces, that skirts around him, that takes on strange resonances in the silence and the gloom.

Now he can feel the tension in the other bunks, restrained movements, muted breathing, fingernails scratching on metal. He can even hear the joints of the other men’s bones.

He remains immobile and alert, he tries to calm himself, he can’t allow himself to be carried away by desperation 43but he imagines bare feet, dark dirty fingernails, fierce eyes in which you can glimpse violence or stupidity or misfortune.

Outside, the wind is starting to blow; he shudders, he’s cold, he covers himself as best he can and grips the shiv with both hands, as if trying to squeeze juice from it.

The footsteps become faster, they sound closer and louder, implacable, nearby, at his side, almost above his bed. Diego sits up and the movement causes his blanket to fall to the floor. He wants to shout, to stand up and run but he can’t; a sense of vertigo paralyses him, renders him mute. The rectangle of light from the door illuminates a small patch of wall to his right, just enough for him to see a shadow-puppet hand wielding a dagger. He wants to jump, to flee, but he is pinned to the mattress by panic.

A terrifying cry echoes around the cell. The shadow hand rises and falls rapidly, it falls five, six times, then falls once more. An awful scream, then another, nervous mumbling, laboured breathing followed by an icy silence that lasts for many seconds.

There are footsteps in the corridor, hard boots pound on the hard floor, a bolt clangs, the door opens, there is shouting, the lights go on. Diego closes his tender eyes against the blinding light, the shouting continues.

“Everyone against the wall, everyone against the fucking wall!”

Diego smells something acidic, metallic, he opens his eyes, slowly, just a slit, nearby he sees the puddle of blood, an arm hanging down, a limp hand, a lifeless torso.

He hears the murmurs. The Candyman, it’s the Candyman.

“Get up against the wall,” a guard says, and he points at Diego, strikes his ribs.

44He gets out of bed, walks a few steps and feels the hot sticky liquid on the soles of his feet, working its way between his naked toes. Diego pulls back in horror, in disgust. In a moment of lucidity he erases his prints, looks for a hole, any hole, and slips the shiv into a crack in the wall. He stands with the others, looks at them and sees eyes like jaws, dark and narrow – anxiety, fear, bitterness – so turns his gaze to the leprous walls, corroded by the dampness; he tries not to look at the light from the torches, not to remain motionless, to move as he is ordered.

Vertigo. Everything is spinning. What did the Hobo say about the Candyman? Diego tries to remember the words, feels himself falling.

“Out, everyone out and with your hands up. You too. Move it you fucker, come on, out.”

There are six guards, and the sound of boots in the corridor tells him more are on their way. He staggers out of the cell, everyone exits together, a uniformed gang advances down the corridor: guns, helmets, batons, shouting.

Candyman, they killed the Candyman. The whisper passes from mouth to mouth.

The prisoners move with an arsenal of weapons pointing at them, they are pushed and beaten, pressed up against a wall where they are kept immobile, huddled, trembling with cold and fear. Meanwhile, in a parallel universe, a few miles and several light years from this place, Ursula López is just beginning to wake up in her house in the Old Town.

Here in this world, in the prison, Diego sees the red prints left by his bare feet. He feels the blood congealing, starting to form a crust on his heels.

At least this time it wasn’t his blood.