Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

In the morning the guard brought more tortillas, bean paste, water, and a lime. I ate and drank and he left more toilet paper, even though I hadn’t shat in a couple of days.

I did some push-ups after breakfast and stretched a little. I lay down on the bed and waited. Something would happen, eventually. And, of course, it did. Late in the afternoon, two guards appeared and asked me to get up. They didn’t handcuff me or prod me or anything, they just asked that I follow them. Once I was outside the cell, one of them offered me a smoke and I took it. They led me down a corridor and they opened up a metal door with a set of keys. On the other side of the door, a guard was waiting with a machine pistol. He smiled at us, and we went along another corridor and stopped outside an office. One of the guards turned to me and said, confidentially:

Clean, clean.

He tucked my T-shirt into my jeans and the other one signaled that I should brush down my hair. When they thought I looked ok, the first guard knocked on the door.

Enter, a voice said in English.

I went inside. The office was large, with books and box files on the wall. Seated behind a teak desk was a thin, elegantly dressed man in a dark suit. Behind him an enormous window overlooked the lagoon. There were family pictures and prints of Mayan ruins. I sat down on a leather chair opposite him.

Mr. Forsythe, let me show you something, he said in perfect American English.

He reached into a drawer and set three sheets of paper in front of me. They were confessions in English and had been signed by Scotchy, Fergal, and Andy. As I read through them, the man spoke:

Possession of an illegal weapon, possession of controlled substances, conspiracy to smuggle narcotics, attempt to smuggle narcotics. Mr. Forsythe, you are looking at over twenty years in prison.

Who are you? I asked him.

The question upset him. He had forgotten to introduce himself. His whole rehearsed little speech had gotten off on the wrong tack. He tried to recover.

I am Captain Martínez, he said.

Captain of what? I was thinking. He was in civvies, but maybe that’s what they did down here. I read the confessions. They were all the same, detailed, sensible, predictable. I could see Andy and Fergal signing but Scotchy never would. Never. They were shite. I knew this game. It was an oldie but a goldie.

So what do I get if I sign? I asked.

Three years.

Three years?

Three years.

Guaranteed?

Guaranteed.

Aye, but three Mexican years is like nine Irish years. Prisons are like dogs: America, you double; France, time and a half; in Sweden nicks are so nice, you actually divide.

Like dear old Queen Vic, he was not amused.

I picked up the paper and looked at the signatures. They’d copied Scotchy’s off his passport; the other two might be genuine, but I doubted it.

Where’s Bob’s? Robert’s?

Mr. O’Neill is being dealt with separately. He is an American citizen; you and your friends are not.

I had to concede that this was true. We were all in on Eire or UK passports. But there was no ring of truth at all about what he’d said. Had they killed Bob in a shoot-out? What was he covering up?

How about getting me a visit from a consular official or something? I asked.

Everything will be taken care of, Captain Martínez said.

No, really. I want to see the British consul, like, today.

Let me show you something, he said, giving me a little grin I didn’t like one bit.

He stood stiffly and went over to a cupboard. He opened it with a key and wheeled out a new television set. He turned it on and pressed a button on a VCR that was underneath it. Black-and-white video began to play, of us doing the deal at the rendezvous. Scotchy was opening the money bag and taking possession of the drugs. The rest of us were standing around waiting. Martínez froze the frame when there was a good shot of me.

Making a big mistake, mate. I was hitching. Them boys give me a lift, told me to wait in the car but I came in anyway, I said and smiled at him.

He glared at me and turned the TV off.

You always hitchhike with a firearm?

Dangerous country, but I’ll cop to that if you like. What’s that these days, big fine, couple of months?

Here, he said, and reached under his desk. He passed across the same form that the others had supposedly signed.

Go easy on yourself, Mr. Forsythe. It is only a token. You will be released in perhaps a year or a little more. Please go easy on yourself, he said.

Like I was saying, Mr. Martínez, sorry, Captain Martínez, when exactly do I get to see my consular representative? I’m a British citizen, and I want to see someone from the fucking embassy. If I don’t, I’ll make sure your name gets bandied about, I said, calmly.

You are in no position to make threats, he replied, equally at ease.

We sat in silence for a moment, and then he stood and motioned for the guards to take me away. I got up and walked down to the cell again. At the door I asked for another smoke. I was giving up, but surely these were extreme circumstances. I wanted to save it for later, but they wouldn’t give me a match, so I had to light it now.

They locked me in.

That night the old guard came with water and tortillas. He sat with me until I’d eaten and then surreptitiously he produced a piece of lemon cake from his pocket. It was soggy and a bit tart, but clearly his missus had made it or something, and the gesture was so unbelievably nice I got a little teary. I talked to him in English, and he said a thing or two in Spanish and left.

At dawn the next morning, instead of breakfast, the guards came and cuffed me behind my back. They were gentle about it, and I appreciated it.

Where to now? I asked, but they didn’t understand.

They led me along a different corridor to an elevator.

I felt a wave of despair and terror. If I didn’t get in the elevator, nothing too bad could happen. I struggled for a bit, but they saw it was halfhearted. They shoved me and I went in, meek and head bowed. They pressed the button for the basement, and when it stopped they took me out to a van. Inside were Scotchy, Andy, and Fergal. I was pleased to see them, but before I could say anything a guard held my head and put some duct tape over my mouth. The boys had been similarly gagged.

The guards helped me up and into the van. There were two benches opposite one another and an iron bar running along each side wall. The guards undid one of my cuffs and hooked it behind the bar at my back so that I could sit but not move forwards, and barely to the side. Two of the guards got in the front, and I could see another car waiting behind us with a couple of peelers inside. They would presumably follow us in case one of us was Houdini and could get out of cuffs and the bloody iron bar. I made eye contact with Scotchy, and he gave me a nod and then a wink. That boy was a hard case. It reassured me. A fuck-up, yeah, but a tough nut to crack. We sat while one guard filled out something on a clipboard. This reassured me too. Paperwork. We were in the system somewhere. They couldn’t pretend we never existed. The other guard took the paper, folded it twice, and put it in his front pocket. That, by contrast, didn’t look so good. Somebody out of sight closed the van’s back doors and in another minute we were off.

The van drove quickly out of town and onto a straight road. There were no windows, so you couldn’t see anything except for a little scrape in the blacked-out glass partition between us and the drivers. Through that, there were tiny glimpses of what I took to be a two-lane highway through what looked like jungle. It must have been a pretty good road, since we weren’t bounced about and the vehicle managed to go quite fast.