Mary Dear - Redux Read online

Joe wondered...after all it was a hell of a long way to come just to turn round and head on back. Especially now that Tim’s mum knew all was well.

  ‘It’s very tempting. You haven’t got an extra berth?’ he said, half joking.

  Tim looked a bit surprised, ‘I think we can manage that; I’ll clear it with Trevor. Sure you’re up for it...?’

  Joe decided it would be a pity to leave this place without seeing it properly and besides, Victor had another client and Billy had said he would be there a few days. If he decided to cut his trip short he could always go back with them when they left. He told Victor he needed to go to his boat to pick up his things and pay him the three hundred dollars he still owed him.

  Victor took him back to the Sea Tigress and returned to rejoin Emilio. When they got back, Billy was having a beer and sorting through his scuba gear, he was keen to go diving as soon as possible.

  Back onboard the Sea Tigress, Tim took Joe down to his cabin where he dumped his suitcase. He would unpack later.

  Half an hour later, Tim knocked on his uncle’s door on his way up. ‘Lunch is up Uncle Joe; see you on deck.’

  PART TWO

  Chapter Ten

  By the time he was fifteen, Esteban Blanco had killed three men and was serving a five-year sentence in ‘Bella Vista’, a man’s prison located in the small town of Copacabana.

  He’d been born in Itagüí in 1958, the youngest son of Juan and Margarita Blanco and brother to Flor and Irene. He’d moved to Medellin with his family while still young, when his father bought a convenience store in El Quinto, a street in the Barrio de Antioquia, that he ran with his mother’s help. The children attended the local school and, though the Blanco’s couldn’t be called rich, they had an above average lifestyle and were respected members of the community.

  All that came to a sudden end when Esteban was thirteen years old.

  Ignacio ‘Nacho’ Jimenez was a hoodlum who’d joined Diego Fernando Murillo’s AUC when he was still a kid, but the powerful far-right militia had gone from an organization backing the army in their fight of far-left guerrillas to one of unruly thugs specializing in contract killings, extortion and drug trafficking. Nacho had grown up and set up his own protection racket focusing on soft targets and had decided that Blanco’s store was overdue for a visit; he went calling with a couple of friends.

  Nacho’s first meeting with the storeowner and his wife hadn’t gone well. Juan was no pushover, he was a man who had built his business on hard work and sacrifice and wasn’t about to hand his earnings on a plate to the first gangster who walked in the door. He’d sent him packing and thought he’d never see him again.

  Esteban was staring at the three men standing in the doorway of the family bedroom of their apartment over the shop. They’d appeared out of nowhere just as the family were getting ready for bed. He stood rooted to the spot wondering how they’d managed to get in, his eyes going from one man to the next. His sisters had seen them too and moved to a corner of the room with their mother. His father stepped forward and put himself between him and the intruders, ready to defend his family.

  ‘Buenas noches señora,’ the one who’d come before, the one, who’d called himself Nacho, said to his mother. She was horrified. He seemed taller than she remembered and was leering. Next to him a shorter crazy-looking man was also eying the family, turning often towards Nacho as if asking to be let loose from some invisible leash. His eyes had found Flor, the eldest daughter, who’d backed away; her mother wrapped her arms around her children and held them tight. The crazy held a long knife with his right hand and was nudging Nacho, his eyes pleading to be allowed to do what he wanted. The third man, as big as Nacho, hadn’t said a thing but was keeping a close eye on the family.

  ‘My friend here, I think he likes your daughter.’ His leer had turned to an ugly smirk. ‘He’s a mute; not good with words but good with that knife of his—aren’t you, Loco?’ He laughed. The crazy was drooling, his shinning eyes still glued to Flor.

  ‘You think I should let them get friendly? Think your little girl would like that?’ He was asking Juan who had not been able to take his eyes of Loco for a second.

  ‘What do you want?’ He asked. He was sweating and felt nauseous.

  ‘You know what I want,’ Nacho said in a voice somewhere between a threat and a plea. In the small room and with the door blocked by the three men Juan was trapped. Nacho didn’t need a weapon. Loco and Chico were his weapons, but he was a creature of habit who didn’t feel comfortable without his knife. He caressed the blade testing its sharpness with his fingers. He drew a little blood and licked his finger.

  ‘Sharp!’ he said, his face twisted by an ugly smile. ‘I made you a good offer my friend, protection for a reasonable price. You should have thought of your family before turning me down.’

  Loco had been following the conversation with undisguised pleasure. Like a rabid dog on a short leash that couldn’t wait for his master to set him loose.

  Juan was outnumbered; worse still, he had his wife and children to worry about. Still he hoped to bluff his way out. He kept his voice steady and cooler than the desperate situation deserved.

  ‘Maybe I was hasty...’ Juan started to say. Nacho was shaking his head slowly, the long blade resting against the palm of his left hand.

  ‘Por favor...’ Juan started to say.

  ‘Por favor,’ Nacho repeated his voice mimicking and mocking. ‘Too late my friend. Sometimes you need to make an example. Keeps people in line. Makes them behave...’ he’d turned to Loco who’d been slowly working himself up. Flor’s fear was turning him on. Sex was far from his mind. No girl had ever liked him. They all used to laugh at him so he’d turned to pain. Other people’s pain, that was what he was good at and he enjoyed it.

  ‘When you said no to me that was disrespectful, that was the wrong answer my friend.’

  Nacho turned to Loco like a father giving a toy to his favourite child, he pointed to Flor with his knife.

  ‘You want her Loco? Go get her.’

  The children were crying. Flor had dropped to the floor her legs drawn towards her chest she crouched against the wall. Her mother pleaded with Nacho not to hurt them. Juan moved forward ready to take the fight to them. Nacho’s kick caught him in the stomach and he dropped to the floor like a stone. Without a thought for his safety, Esteban ran to help his father but Chico slapped him with the back of his hand flinging him to the floor. Juan’s wife pounced on his attackers shouting, clawing and beating them with all her strength. Chico turned and punched her on the face with his clenched fist sending her crashing back unconscious to the floor.

  ‘Get the girl and take her to the bedroom,’ Nacho said to the crazy.

  Loco grabbed Flor by the hair and dragged her howling from the floor. His daughter’s screams made Juan draw on what strength he had left in him and he stood up. He saw her being shoved into the bedroom crying and shouting for help. Blinded by an uncontrollable fury Juan made a lunge at Nacho but he was ready for him, the large knife entered Juan’s chest piercing his heart and killing him instantly. He lay dead not six feet from where his wife had fallen.

  When Esteban came to he was on the floor. Slowly, he got back on his feet, and then he saw them, his mother and father lying close to each other and very still. He knelt beside them but he knew they were gone. Meanwhile Irene just sat there at her mother’s feet crying quietly. He could hear the men talking in the bedroom; the door was shut and he could not hear his sister’s shouts like before. Esteban left Irene alone and ran out of the room stumbling down the back stairs as fast as his legs would carry him to go get help.

  By the time he returned with the police, Nacho and his men were long gone and there was little anyone could do for his father and poor mother. Flor was taken to the local hospital and the police contacted the children’s next of kin. Flor was in hospital for a week while doctors did all they could for her, though it was clear from what had been done to her that she would never bear chil
dren. But the young are resilient and in time she would recover from most of the physical scars. The damage to her mind was something else. It was a nightmare that would be with her for the rest of her life.

  When she was ready to come home, her brother and sister accompanied by their uncle Raimundo and his wife Ana Maria, went to collect her. Flor heard from her aunt what had happened to her parents and her eyes filled with tears but no sound came from her mouth. She was consumed by a desperate sadness and a sense of loss that was too big for her young mind to comprehend.

  Things were never the same again for the children and, so far as Esteban was concerned, on that day his heart turned to stone. He left school and started helping his uncle Raimundo in the running of the store that he had suddenly and so tragically inherited from his brother. The police knew his parents’ killers but they did nothing. When Nacho turned up on Raimundo’s doorstep and repeated the offer that had cost his brother his life, he agreed to pay up.

  Esteban was becoming a young man and his hatred of the men who had killed his mother and father had grown. One day, just after his fifteenth birthday, Esteban waited till dark before hiding in the narrow alley alongside the store. He waited for the weekly visit. When Nacho left the shop with his pay-off, Esteban was ready. Nacho entered the alley and walked past his hiding place. Esteban came up silently behind him, summonsed all his strength and pent-up anger and drove an eight-inch blade into his side. Before he even knew who had stabbed him, Nacho’s legs gave way and he fell to the floor. He felt the sharp pain on his side and reached to touch it, looked at his hand covered in blood then up at the boy he knew so well, tried to speak but his mouth filled with blood. Esteban lifted the knife a second time; that was the last thing Nacho ever saw.

  It took a week for the police to find the body, long enough for Esteban to track down Loco and Chico. Loco had been first. He’d cut his throat; the blood that gushed from the wound covered his knife hand and went up his arm. His shirt too would have to disappear. He’d been sick right afterwards but the rush of adrenaline had given him a thrill. He was confused by his feelings when he found he’d enjoyed it. He did the same to Chico and got the same rush. The same pleasure when he saw his body slumped at his feet, his life seeping through the gash on his throat. When their bodies were discovered it did not take long for the police to put two and two together and go calling on his uncle.

  They had gone to arrest Raimundo but Esteban stepped in and confessed. He said he had done it and would gladly do it again so they took him away. Throughout his trial, Raimundo, his wife and their adopted daughters, sat praying for Esteban to get a sympathetic hearing but luck was not to be on their young nephew’s side. The Judge took Esteban’s age into account and what had happened to his parents and sister but still sentenced him to five years for manslaughter.

  His first night in prison would stay with Esteban for many years. Lying awake for hours, scared, hoping that sleep would come and take him away from this nightmare, he heard steps along the corridor. It was late. He wondered who could be walking around at this hour. A shape appeared in front of his cell. All he could see were a pair of legs in prison uniform; the rest was darkness. He was startled when his cell door opened and a tall, muscular man walked in and stood quietly in the shadow, a shaft of moonlight coming through the small window in his cell lit half his face and Esteban caught sight of a crooked smile and cold black eyes. The visitor turned to close the cell door and walked back slowly towards Esteban.

  The attack landed him in the Bella Vista infirmary where he stayed for ten days, but when he returned to his cell he did not have to wait long to receive another visit from the same man. The next few weeks he was subjected to pretty much the same treatment. He never knew when it would happen and that made sleeping impossible and, when finally exhausted he drifted into sleep he would see Loco’s face and Nacho looking up at him his mouth full of blood. It was always the same nightmare.

  Esteban was sitting alone one day in the stark exercise yard and as far away as possible from the rest of the men, when an old prisoner approached him. He was a large black guy. He’d seen him at meal times and had heard that he was an Americano, a lifer who would die in prison. The man stood in front of him casting a shadow putting Esteban temporarily in the dark. He looked down then squatted beside him.

  ‘How you holding out son?’ He spoke slowly, in broken Spanish. Esteban did not answer. He just kept looking at the floor hoping that his new found friend would get tired and leave him alone. But he didn’t.

  ‘Look boy, he said in a low deep drawl, ‘The screws don’t give a rat’s arse what the inmates do to each other, you hear? Hell, that’s how they get their kicks; the only person here who can help you is you.’

  Still Esteban said nothing. The American could see in him the tough young kid, not much older than Esteban, who’d arrived in Bella Vista a lifetime ago. He could see he was on the verge of tears but still he toughed it out. He liked that. He’d gone through pretty much the same indoctrination the kid was going through and had found a way to deal with his tormentor in the only way prisoners understood. After that, he’d been left alone. Sure he’d been tough, once...years ago...but prison has a way of mellowing you. He was respected now and even liked by some. Yes, it had been bad but that was then. Still, now and again something would trigger a distant memory and the nightmares would return to haunt him.

  ‘It won’t stop you know. Not till one of you is dead.’

  Esteban looked up slowly and saw the old con’s face close-up for the first time. He had a hard face and cold eyes, ‘I’m okay!’ he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could, ‘I’ll make out.’

  The American laughed a hard croaky laugh. ‘I’m okay! I’ll make out!’ he mimicked. ‘Sure you will. Listen to me boy, ain’t much I don’t know about this place and what goes on in here. You either put up with the shit that’s being dished out to you but, from what I know of human nature, that ain’t your bag, or you do something about it—you hear me son? The only way out of this is to make them respect you and to do that you gotta make ’em fear you, that’s all they understand in here.’

  Esteban knew what the con was saying was true but what could he do? He had no weapon.

  Now he looked the con in the eyes, ‘Can you get me a knife?’

  ‘A knife! You know what you get if you’re caught with a knife? The screws will make you wish you’d never been born and that’s if you’re lucky and survive to get caught by them.’

  Esteban looked beat. ‘All right,” he said, ‘suppose I get you...a knife. How’d you think that will help?’

  ‘I know how to use it. I’ll find a way. You just get me one, you’ll see.’

  The old con had his own reasons for wanting Mario dead but was wondering if this kid was up to it. Still, once upon a time someone had helped him so maybe this would even up the score.

  A few days later the old con was at his side again. By now Esteban had had more nightly visits and was at his breaking point.

  ‘All right boy, you wanted a knife, this is the best I can do, it’s up to you what you do with it, just don’t let anyone see you with it—and, if you’re caught, you didn’t get it from me, understand?’

  Esteban nodded as the con slid a thin package wrapped in an old rug. He stuffed it down the front of his trousers and covered it with his prison shirt. As soon as he was alone in his cell, Esteban opened the parcel and saw for the first time an ugly sharp metal object, the thing prisoners call a shank, he stared at it for a minute then wrapped it up again and hid it under his mattress.

  The elections for Mayor were due in a month and Francisco Moya was keen to stay in the post. He decided to pay a surprise visit to Bella Vista, take some important people with him. Show them he was in charge. The first the Warden knew they were coming was just after six in the morning, when the guard at the entrance let them in and sent a message to the Warden’s secretary to tell her boss some important people were on the way up. When his secretary anno
unced their presence the Warden was ready for them so when the Mayor, accompanied by a posse of local dignitaries, walked into his office they found him on his feet ready to greet his guests. Moya told him they’d come to see how he ran his prison, and the Warden said he was delighted and invited them to witness the normal morning roll call, when the prisoners came out of their cells to be counted before being allowed to go have their breakfast.

  The Warden gave the order to his deputy and the roll call began accompanied by prisoners acknowledging their names and being ticked off the list. When Montalban’s name was called a second time and still did not respond the Warden shot a look at his deputy that left him in no doubt that he was in deep shit.

  The deputy took a guard with him and went up the steel staircase to find the prisoner. As they approached Montalban’s cell they heard a loud, high-pitched buzzing sound that seemed to be coming from inside the cell. The guard entered the small cubicle and stopped dead as he took in the sight that greeted him. It was soon evident what the sound was.

  The headless corpse lay twisted in the middle of the cell where his killer had dragged it. There was a blood trail leading to it and clouds of large black flies were buzzing excitedly around it. A pool of blood had formed on the cell floor around where the head should have been. Montalban’s trousers were missing and the area where his genitals should have been was a mass of congealed blood. His attacker had hacked his head off and dumped it in a piss-pot by his bed and, not content with that, he had prised his mouth open and stuffed Montalban’s prick into it so that it now looked as if he were trying to smoke a fat stubbed-out cigar. Black blood dribbled from his mouth while the shank that had been used in the attack had been buried up to the hilt into his left eye. The guard gagged as he stared at the grizzly head. The guard’s scream started like a low animal growl and ended in a loud shrill shriek of sheer terror making the Warden and his party of guests look up in time to see a guard run out of the cell, push by the deputy before turning to the cell wall and throwing up.