Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

Later the same night, and Fergal was looking at us skeptically. He had just climbed down off my shoulders, counting the seconds for the scanning searchlights again. There really was no time period as it turned out. The guards just shone the light haphazardly wherever they liked, but it was rare that they would come back to the same place quickly after they’d swept it.

Soon, Scotchy said. In forty-eight hours no more moon, and we’re out of here.

Fergal shook his head. Fergal, even with his optimism, sometimes had a bit of a knack for seeing the black cloud.

What is it, Fergal? I asked him.

He said nothing for a while, but then sure enough it came to pass:

Ach, this fucking plan’s full of fucking holes, he said, clearly the culmination of a mounting concern that had grown within him.

Hopefully one big hole, anyway, Scotchy said, giving me a wink.

I laughed, but Fergal wasn’t to be diverted.

Well, look, if it’s so fucking simple, why haven’t they tried it? Fergal asked, jerking his thumb towards the other cells.

’Cause they’re remand prisoners; they’re awaiting trial, be stupid to escape, Scotchy said.

I was now a bit peeved. This was typical Scotchy.

How do you know that, Scotchy? How could you possibly know a thing like that? I asked.

They are, he insisted.

Aye, Scotchy. How can you fucking know anything? What if there still is dogs, wee or not, between the wall and the fence? What if the fence is electrified? Fergal asked.

Electrified. We’re in bloody Mexico, Scotchy snorted.

So what if we are? It could be mined. They have mines, don’t they, Fergal insisted.

Come on, Fergal, be realistic, Scotchy said, soothingly.

We all wanted to believe. But we were terrified. Why hadn’t the other prisoners made escapes? What did they know? Maybe they didn’t have the gumption. Shit, maybe they had made escapes, maybe there’d been lots of escapes. How would we know?

I think it’s because they don’t have a lock picker as good as Fergal, I said.

’Course they do, must have, this is the criminal element of Mexico. I betcha they make us look like bairns. No, they know something we don’t, Fergal said, gloomily.

Well, we can’t ask them, we don’t have the lingo. And none of them will have anything to do with us, I said.

Aye, and they killed Andy, are you forgetting that? Scotchy said.

Shouldn’t we try, at least, have one chat, they’re not all killers, just get the lie of the land, Fergal said.

I shook my head.

That oul boy who wanted to talk to me before. One chat. Look, in one minute we could clear everything up. Are there dogs? Is the fence electric? Two quick questions.

Everyone will know we’re doing an escape, you buck eejit, I said.

Aye, you’ll give the plan away. I forbid it, Scotchy said.

You forbid it? Fergal asked.

Aye, I do.

And who the fuck are you to be giving orders now? Fergal said.

They both stood and stared at one another, each waiting for the first move. I thought for a moment that Scotchy was going to take a swing. I got up and put myself between them.

Sit down the pair of youse, acting like weans, I said.

We all sat down warily.

Fergal, I know it seems silly. I mean, intelligence is important and all, but Scotchy’s right, we can’t trust those bastards, can’t ask them anything, I said.

Aye, you just remember Andy, remember, Scotchy said.

Fergal said nothing. I patted him on the shoulder. Scotchy continued:

Look, it’s simple, they just don’t have the initiative. Look at us and look at them. You’re a star, Fergal, they don’t have people like you.

Fergal cracked a smile, but we could tell he was uneasy. I wasn’t sure how much of it was genuine concern about the effectiveness of our plan or just plain old-fashioned cold feet. Fergal was no chicken, at least no more than the rest of us, but none of us had been in a situation like this before. Me and Scotchy, though, had both been in the clink, him in Belfast and me in a wee barracks on Saint Helena. But we’d neither of us even bothered with thoughts about escape. Scotchy had been in short term and I was being dishonorably discharged in a matter of weeks. I don’t know what it was like for him, but for me it had been a holiday. Fergal, though, was a different kettle: he was a craftsman and a thief and he’d never done time. He’d come to America, and I suppose he’d ended up in the wrong crew working for Darkey and Mr. Duffy. He should really have been pulling scams somewhere or been part of a soft-glove outfit. I mean, he’d handled his gun ok in that shoot-out at Dermot’s, but mainly that was because of the hours Darkey made us all spend on the range. He wasn’t a heavy, he wasn’t cut out for this.

I looked at Scotchy and he looked at me. I wondered if we were both thinking the same thing. We had to calm him down. Andy’s death had been terrible for him. We needed to be easy on him. And after all, we owed him everything.

Look it’s going to be ok, ya big wean, I said, and patted him on the back.

Aye, it is, Scotchy agreed, smiling too. Sure, isn’t it all for you that we can do anything? Like I say, you are a star, Fergal, and when we get back I’m going to see to it that you get a fucking medal.

Fergal smiled at us.

Boys, look, I know it’s going to be ok, he said after a time.

We chatted a while and cleared the air. Scotchy said that tomorrow night or at the latest the next night would be the night, depending upon the weather. If there was no lightning storm, we’d go. We agreed and talked some more. Fergal locked us back in the ring bolts and the guard came with rice and water. We ate and drank, and they came for our bowls. I pissed in the bucket and solid shat for the second time since coming to Mexico and wiped my arse with straw. We spent the evening talking, something we rarely did. Scotchy spun us some tales about his childhood, and I told them a made-up story about the girl who used to baby-sit for me.

We slept and it rained and the morning crept up on us. The story in the ceiling was all about the floods and recent devastation in the window continent-flooding, which had postponed all possibility of a quick invasion.

That day was a third day and they came and unlocked us. Every time they did this it made me extremely nervous. I was sure they would notice something about the locks, but they never did. My other fear was that since they just grabbed locks from the big bag when they locked us up again, Fergal wouldn’t be able to open the ones they stuck on our ankles. But he was right, they were all more or less the same and none of them took him over two minutes to break.

We walked into the yard.

It all seemed normal, but I wasn’t to know that it was going to be a hell of a day.

I dumped the slop bucket in the latrine at the old cell-block end and on the way back grabbed some straw. Fergal and Scotchy walked close behind me, just in case. It was a hot one and the guards were paying less attention than usual. We were all feeling pretty good, though.

Everyone walked clockwise, I’m not sure how, or why, but that’s what always happened even if it started out randomly.

In front of us was the little oul boy that Fergal had noticed before. He was maybe in his middle sixties, flat face, Indian. Seemed like an old lag, in and out. I never paid him any mind. Always when we weren’t talking the only thing I was thinking about was the bugger who was wearing my sandals. But the old geezer must have been on Fergal’s mind, because Scotchy told me later that Fergal had said that last time out he’d heard him singing what he thought was “My Darling Clementine.” Scotchy had said to Fergal, Well, so the fuck what? But for Fergal, it was proof that the oul boy knew at least some English. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ.