Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage (25 page)

Maybe he had a point. They
watched for a few seconds in silence, waiting for the watchtower
guards to face the wrong way for a moment.

‘
You cut your
hair? It looks awful.’

‘
Do the same
tonight if you can,’ Perry stole a glance at Santi. ‘Lose the
beard.’

‘
What you
think I was growing it for?’

‘
I got you a
paper collar. It holds in if you tuck it under your
collar.’

‘
Leave it on
the ground when you go and I’ll pick it up.’

Perry nodded, placed the paper
on the floor between his feet. The guards were watching them
again.

‘
Vamos!’ he
yelled, and clapped his hands to encourage the Laundry player
charging up the wing.

‘
Tell me the
plan,’ Santi murmured when the coast was clear.

‘
Wear your
disguise. At confession both boxes will be in use tomorrow. We go
either side and be last in line.’

Santi pulled on his shoe. ‘Go
on.’

‘
We come out
of the confession box.’

‘
Dressed as
Priests - then how do we get out?’

‘
That’s the
risky part. The archbishop is there with his staff. We latch on to
their party and walk out with them.’

Santi was
silent for a moment. Then, barely containing the anger in his
hushed voice. ‘That’s it?
That’s
your plan? He’s not going to allow a couple of
fakers along!’

Perry didn’t know what to say,
he wished he could talk properly.

‘
Santi - I’m
good at this sort of thing. In a simple plan less can go
wrong.’

‘
If we fail,
we’ll be sent to
La Cueva
until we die.’

‘
We can’t
fail.’

‘
Jesú
Cristo
I thought there’d be more of a
plan!’ He laced his shoes up angrily.

‘
What’s out
there for you Santi? Why have you come this far?’

‘
My daughter.
My wife.’

‘
You got what,
thirty-five more years in here. You want to see her once every six
weeks until you’re dead?’

‘
Calláte
,’ Santi looked away from him.
‘It’s thirty-two years anyway. We’ve been talking too
long.’

‘
Don’t make me
do this on my own. I need you. You’ve been here longer than I have,
and when we’re outside you know Buenos Aires, know people to get us
safe.’

Santi clambered to his feet.
‘It’s too risky.’

Perry weighed up one hand.
‘Reunited with your wife and daughter,’ then the other hand, ‘or
stay in here and rot. Decide tonight.’

‘
Fine.’

‘
Fine.’ Perry
replied. He couldn’t believe what a coward Santi was being. He went
up to his floor and walked past the cells, one was empty, the next
had a prisoner writing a letter, the next person was doing press
ups, the next was empty and then it was Martín’s. He was reading a
book. There was a gap in the guard’s circuit but Perry didn’t want
to talk, so he continued past and went into his own cell. He lay on
his bed and rested his head. The extra bulk in the pillow was
awkward, less even.

Above him the jade plant was a
plain dull green in the afternoon light. He stood on his bed and
took it from the ledge and sat again. He flicked the leaves lightly
with his fingers, daring them to fall off.

‘
Knock knock,’
Perry said.

Martín lowered
his book, ‘
Hola
Perry, come in. Sit.’

Perry placed the plant on the
table.

‘
You want me
to check it?’ Martín reached out and rubbed his fingers over the
leaves. ‘Maybe a little more water, you feel here. Is less, how you
say,
llena?’

‘
Full
,’

‘
Exacto
,’ Martín said, ‘the leaf is no
full. But is doing ok.’

Perry crossed his arms. ‘You
know Martín, I was thinking. This plant, this friendship tree as
you call it. I think it’s been good for me.’

‘
Bien
, I am glad.’

‘
And
I think maybe you should take a turn with it for a
while.’

His thick eyebrows furrowed.
‘Why?’

‘
Well we could
share it. I have it for a couple of weeks, then you have it for a
couple of weeks.’

‘
Don’t you
like it?’ Martín sounded hurt instead of understanding just how
grateful he was.

‘
No, Martín,
it’s not that. I love it. It’s just, if it’s in the cell all the
time, it becomes just this thing, like the bed, the chair or the
desk. You get used to it, maybe a little bored of it. It stops
brightening the room and just becomes…there.’

‘
I
see.’

‘
So, if you
have it for a couple of weeks it brightens your cell up, and then
in a couple of weeks when I get it back it will be like having it
new every time.’

‘
If you say
so.’

‘
It’ll help
the time pass easier. I didn’t tell you Martín, but I got my trial
date.’

Martín perked
up.
‘Cúando?
’

‘
Next
May.’

He shook his head in disbelief.
‘Too long to hold a man without trial.’

‘
I
know.’

‘
This explains
why you be so strange lately.’

Perry’s throat tightened, he
nodded and pointed to the plant. ‘You look after that for me won’t
you?’

‘
I get these
leaves strong again,’ Martín said, feathering them with the tips of
his fingers.

‘
I better get
back before the guard comes round again. But I just wanted to say
thank you, you know for everything Martín.’

His eyes
narrowed. ‘No problem.
Hasta
mañana.
’

‘
Until
tomorrow,’ Perry replied and beat a hasty retreat before he said
more than he ought.

Back in his cell Perry lay,
staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Underneath it all he was nauseous
and oddly deflated. He tried to push Santi and Martín from his mind
and focus on the next day, thinking of all the different scenarios
and what he might do in each. He doubted he’d get much sleep. All
he could do was rest his bones and be ready.

29

Easter
Sunday, March 27
^th
1891

Dawn broke. Perry smoothed his
black robes and tucked his homemade priest’s collar in place. He
slipped his grey pyjamas on over the top and wondered what sort of
weather would be best for him, a thick fog perhaps? He got up on
his bed and pulled himself up to peep out of his letterbox window.
The sky was mackerel grey, darker and more brooding in the
distance. He dropped and sat on the edge of his bed. Maybe it would
brighten. As if by answer, thunder grumbled in a deep, groaning
complaint that echoed throughout the penitentiary. Shit. A storm
could be disastrous; the archbishop might not come. Helpless, he
sat on the edge of his bed, tapping his feet on the ground. It was
in God’s hands now.

Prayer had
been habitual at one point in his life, as regular and thoughtless
as washing his face each morning. Now, dropping to his knees he
clasped his hands together, squeezed his eyes shut and prayed as
deep as he knew how. There were millions of paths. At the end of
one, there was Eva, Joel and his father in Southampton. He prayed
with all his might and sincerity for wisdom to pick the way that
got him there, for courage to stay its course and… well, a little
luck wouldn’t go amiss either. And in exchange? A solemn promise
that he, Perry Scrimshaw, would live a life of fair deeds.
Just please God, allow me leave of this early
grave.

At breakfast, he couldn’t see
Santi anywhere. Perhaps he’d ratted him out for a shorter sentence?
But then wouldn’t the guards have taken him if that was the case?
He did two rounds of the canteen and he was nowhere to be seen.

‘
Perry, what
you pacing around for?’ Ricardo called him over.
‘Siddown.’

Perry chewed
his lip,
damn Santi
. He slipped in next to Ricardo, but found himself looking
round every few minutes or so.

Breakfast was strange, a round
pastry with candied fruit on top.

Ricardo rubbed
his hands together, ‘
Rosca de
Pascua,
back home in Bahía Blanca they make
the best ones.’

Martín held his up and tapped
it with his finger, it made a rapping sound like wood, ‘Better than
these ones certainly.’

Perry took a bite; it was rock
solid and stale. He put it back on his plate.

‘
You not
eating that?’ asked Osvaldo.

‘
Have it if
you want.’

Osvaldo grabbed it. Ricardo
looked at him aghast.

‘
What?’ Perry
asked.

‘
You just gave
him your
rosca,
it’s the best thing about Easter.’

‘
Are you
feeling ok?’ asked Martín. ‘You look tired.’

Perry tried to smile. ‘Fine. I
just didn’t sleep much. Must be the thunder. Not very hungry
either. Anyway, Osvaldo’s welcome to it, that rock’s not a patch on
a hot cross bun.’

‘
Who cross
what?’

Perry explained what a hot
cross bun was, glad to be thinking about something different, even
for just a moment and couldn’t help thinking how surreal it was,
talking about baking, British baking, while underneath it all the
balance of his life could change at a blow of a whistle or the pop
of a button.

The bell sounded. It was time
for chapel. His hands were shaking under the table. He looked
around for Santi again. Where was he?

The chapel was Sunday-full, and
he sat towards the back with his companions from Press. Worryingly,
there was no sign of the archbishop or chaplain. Maybe that was
good; the chaplain would be receiving the archbishop wouldn’t he?
But still, he didn’t like it.

‘
No sign of
the archbishop,’ Perry said to nobody in particular.

‘
You going to
confession with him afterwards?’ asked Ricardo,

‘
Yes, if he
turns up, why?’

‘
Load of crap
if you ask me.’

‘
Well he
didn’t ask you, did he?’ Martín cut in. ‘Speaking to the archbishop
is one of the few good things about being inside this place. I’m
glad Perry has the sense to see it, even if you don’t
Ricardo.’

There was a rhythmic pattering
on the roof and wind whistling up somewhere in the eaves. The storm
was building. He scanned the chapel again, spied a head, a little
taller than the others, tall and thin as a coconut shy. Santi. He
had shaved and looked clean and decent. Perhaps he had been in the
Dining Hall this morning after all. The new look. His heart leapt,
he must be in after all! His nerves gave way to a buzz of
excitement.

‘
Here he
comes,’ Martín whispered.

His heart sank; it was only the
chaplain.

‘
Sorry for the
delay,’ he ran his hand through his grey hair.

‘
I’ve just
been down to the office, we’ve received a message on the
telegraph…’

No! No! No!

‘…
and I’m
sorry to say…’

Don’t say it! Don’t say it!

‘…
that the
archbishop…’

Please God!

‘…
is
delayed.’

Perry held his breath.

‘
I pray he’ll
be here in time for confession but will miss my service…
unfortunately…’ he placed his index finger on the lectern, like he
might be pointing at a specific line, ‘…not that I was planning
anything
that
special.’ he fixed a smile on his face. ‘Hopefully he will be
here soon.’

Perry could have jumped for
joy! Across the chapel Santi gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
He was in. The archbishop was coming. It was on.

30

The chaplain lit a candle and
held it aloft and in a somewhat weary voice said:

‘
Christ our
Light, on this, the day of your resurrection…’

Perry picked at his cuffs and
focused on the service. The chaplain’s voice was particularly flat
and monotone and combined with the rain on the roof it would have
been soporific had he not been so uptight. He noticed one or two
inmates with their eyes closed in the middle row, many others with
bored cross-armed expressions, minds elsewhere, bodies present. But
Perry was tense; eyeing up the space, calculating. There was a spot
by the western confession box, a hollow or inlet in the wing that
housed a cheap paint-chipped statue of the Virgin Mary. It wasn’t a
huge space, but it was only illuminated by a solitary candle; he
could conceivably slip into the gloomy space should he need to.

An hour into the service, the
chaplain stopped mid-sentence and stared at the back of the chapel.
Perry and the congregation turned to see a group of robed men. At
the front, in a strange hat with crenels, was the archbishop.

‘
Please rise
for his Holiness, the Archbishop Frederico León Aneiros,’ the
chaplain bellowed.

Perry rose with the rest of the
congregation and stood on tiptoes to get a better glimpse of him.
Federico León Aneiros was podgy man, slope-shouldered and
dimple-chinned. Perry hadn’t known what to expect, but this man’s
expression was more thunderous than benevolent. The sort of man who
looked like he could strike the fear of God into you, which to give
the man his dues, was his occupation.