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The
ground was much drier here, so the going was easier and the fierce sun
discouraged the mosquitoes, which withdrew into the shade of the trees.
The air even seemed dry enough to allow his damp clothing to steam
slightly as he walked. With the
change in the air came a lifting of his mood and the young man found it easier
to swing along behind his elderly guide. Despite
their early start and Julio's dogged walking, it was well after mid-day when the
road finally began a gradual descent and, round a bend, the restrictions of the
jungle abruptly gave way to a clearing on either side.
They emerged into an open space where perhaps a dozen huts of drab timber
roofed with thatch, or in some cases rusty corrugated iron, stood in the bright
sunlight. Brown-skinned children
chased among the primitive houses while their mothers squatted outside on the
wet earth fanning the lethargic smoke of their cooking fires. Julio
spoke to one of the women who motioned to a bigger hut that stood on short
stilts to keep it out of the wet earth. The
children stopped their games and their eyes watched as the two men passed.
Chickens fled cackling from under the veranda of the house as they
approached it and an old man appeared in the empty doorway, smoking a wilting
roll-up cigarette. The
headman - for that, Cody realised, was what he was - stood studying the white
visitor and his black guide, as they mounted the uneven steps to meet him. Julio
spoke quickly in a dialect that Cody couldn't make out, then turned to his
fellow-traveller. Bob removed his
hat and wasn't sure whether to shake hands or not.
In the end, he shuffled the hat round in his fingers.
'Pleased to meet you,' he said. The
villager spoke and Julio said, 'He say you welcome in he village.' There
was a pause before Julio prompted, in an aside, 'You got a present fo' him?' Bob
hadn't even considered the idea. 'No.'
An inspiration came to him. 'Wait. Yes,' he said, quickly.
'Yes, of course!' He pushed
the hat back onto his head and swung the backpack off his shoulder, unzipping
the top pocket. He crouched down,
the bag in front of him, fumbling in the pocket.
All the while, the headman and Julio watched him, and the blood rose in
his cheeks. He had it.
Abruptly he rose to his full height, which was several inches taller than
either of the other two men, and handed over his gift to the chief.
It was his Swiss army penknife. The
Indian's face lit up as he received the gift.
He turned it over in his hand. 'Look,
it has a saw,' Cody said, retrieving the knife long enough to pull out the
serrated saw-blade. 'And even one
of those things for taking stones out of horses’ hooves,' he eased out the
shiny spike and looked around him. 'I
don't suppose you need to do that very much,' he smiled. He put the implement away and handed the knife back to its
new owner. 'We don't use that much
in Massachusetts, either,' he grinned ruefully. Julio
made no attempt to translate what Cody had said, but looked forlornly at the
knife as the chief took it and spoke to him. 'Why
you done come here, he ask.' 'Sir,'
Bob addressed the village chief. 'I
am from St Anthony's Catholic Mission to Nicaragua and we have been told that
there's a young woman somewhere here in your village who has been kept locked up
in a prison.' Julio's
hands moved eloquently as he translated. The
headman nodded sadly and spoke, pointing to one of the muddy tracks that led out
of the village to the west. Cody's
eyes followed the outstretched arm up a track that led towards a decaying,
roofless house, where it made a sharp turn to the right and disappeared into the
jungle. 'Up
there?' he asked his interpreter, who confirmed Bob's understanding with a nod. 'He
say that she is soldier's business. He
don't going to involve hisself.' The
chief was examining the penknife, carefully. 'He
say you with the church; you welcome to stay with he.' Cody
nodded his thanks to the man. 'Tell
him thank you, for me,' he said. The
interview appeared to be over and Julio turned. 'The girl not good for the village, Massa Bob.
Let's we go, all right?' 'Go
to the girl?' the American asked. 'No,
man, home.' Cody
was surprised. 'No, Julio.'
They descended the wooden steps of the hut together.
'I've come this far. I'll
see the girl.' He reached into his
pocket and brought out a five-dollar bill.
He passed it to the fisherman, saying, 'This is for your help, Julio. Will you come back to the river crossing tomorrow afternoon?' 'You
sure, boss?' Bob
laid a hand on the old man's arm. 'I'm
fine, Julio. I'll see the girl and
I'll take the road back to the river tomorrow.
Will you be at the ferry by about mid-day?' His
guide took the banknote deftly and shrugged.
'OK,' he said. The
two men walked in silence towards the jungle track. 'Did I do the right thing giving him my knife, Julio?'
Cody asked as they parted company. Julio
shook his head sadly. 'That knife
is too good,' he said unhappily. 'Too
good.' Cody
slapped him on the shoulder. 'Envy
is a sin, Julio!' Bob
Cody splashed back across the clearing till he came to the other track, the one
the chief had said led to the mysterious girl.
There he turned away from the village and pushed up the narrow road
between the dark green trees until he came to a bend where there was a
tumble-down house with no roof. From
here, he followed the road round until he saw the incongruous sight of a
white-painted block-house built of stone, with the pale-blue and white striped
flag of the Nicaraguan Republic above its doorway. No breeze made it past the bend in the road and the flag hung
limply in the torpid heat. Bob Cody
stopped. He eased the sticking
shirt from his chest and looked at the silent, uncompromising building.
He lifted his hat and ran a hand through his damp, unruly hair.
What kind of a can of worms was all this going to open, he wondered. Outside
the roofless house, unseen in the shade of its worm-eaten veranda, an old
villager sat straight-legged, watching the scene. He watched the white-man cram his hat back on his head and
cross the remaining dozen yards to the white-washed building.
The stranger tried the door and seemed unsure what to do when it failed
to yield to him as he lifted the latch. He
called out but the heavy mid-day heat swallowed up his words.
He banged on the door with his bare knuckles and a parrot screeched in
the dripping jungle. The
white-man moved to the window on his left and raised a hand to shade his eyes,
pressing his face against the filthy glass.
There was an office of a sort inside, with a table and chair, but there
was no inhabitant. He
tapped on the window and waited several moments before shrugging and turning
back towards the crossroads. Suddenly
he noticed the tiny window on the side of the house. It was high up, with no glass behind the bars that covered
it. He appeared to consider the
window, but a sound distracted him and he looked round. The villager was on his feet. Bob
saw him and called out. 'Hey! Excuse
me!' He waved to the man.
'Is there someone who looks after the jail, a militiaman or something?' The
old man waited in silence for the foreigner to reach him, then he simply
beckoned and walked back into the village.
Bob followed the scrawny, brown back to one of the shacks, where the man
stopped and called out in his native tongue.
He turned his old face to Cody and nodded patiently.
Bob nodded too and presently a young, native woman appeared in the
doorway of the house. Behind her,
in the shadows, Bob could see a stocky white-man. Cody
looked past the woman, addressing the man in English. 'Do you look after the jail?' he asked. 'Qué?'
the man grunted. Bob
tried again in Spanish. 'Are you
the man in charge of the jail?' He
pointed back towards the prison. 'Si!'
The man pushed his woman aside and stepped out into the daylight,
buttoning his shirt over a stained vest. 'I
am from St Anthony's Catholic Mission to Nicaragua,' Bob explained in his
accented Spanish. 'I have been sent
to speak with the girl in the prison.' 'It
is not possible,' the man said. 'What
do you mean, not possible. Is she
not there?' The
man came close and stood solidly in front of him. He was shorter than Cody by several inches but his rough face
and matted hair made him an intimidating figure.
'It is not possible to speak to her, Señor.' 'But
I must,' Cody insisted. 'I have
been sent by Father Joseph O'Brien.' An
idea came to him. 'Are you going to
stop this woman having the sacrament? Will
you take responsibility for her immortal soul?' He took the Bible from his pocket and held it up between
them. 'Responsible to God?' The
soldier wavered, uncertain if he was up to the challenge.
He growled something about priests and went back into the hut. Cody
waited, unsure if the man had agreed to come or not, till he re-appeared,
pulling army boots onto his bare feet. As
the two men walked through the bright sunlight, the jailer said nothing, but
jangled his keys in irritation. Finally,
as they entered the block-house, he laid a hand on Cody's arm.
'Padre, ella esta muy loca!'
He pointed to the cell door and tapped his temple forcefully.
'Loca!' He shook his
head and threw open the door. Cody
stepped back. The air inside the
cell was foetid - dark and heavy under the great heat that radiated from the tin
roof. The light was so dim that
details were lost in the darkness. In
front of him, high up, was a small window, perhaps two feet wide and one foot
high. It was barred. Below the window was a chair.
A simple hardwood chair, much like the one in his office in Managua, Cody
thought. Off
to his left was a bed, covered by a coarse blanket, and, from the bed, two
bleached eyes watched him from a filth-streaked face. He recoiled at the sight of the woman, her savage, matted
hair, her emaciated face. She was
watching him warily, motionless, her hands on her wide spread knees, her bulging
shirt stained with sweat. He made
himself approach, but she struggled back against the wall, wide eyed.
He stopped, holding out his hands. 'Easy
there,' he said quietly. 'I'm not
going to hurt you.' She
stopped struggling and watched him cautiously.
Much younger than he had expected - maybe even younger than he was, but
it was difficult to be sure - her hair had been very short and probably blond he
guessed, but now hung lankly about her face in dark streaks.
Most of all, he noticed how she crouched very upright, balancing the
weight of her abdomen, which thrust against the foul bush-shirt. 'My
name is Bob Cody.' He kept his hand
out to her. The
girl's face showed understanding. He
had spoken English. She had not
heard English for so long. She
lurched to her feet, pushing with her hands against the bed.
Cody looked back at the open doorway.
Her words, when they came, were thick in her throat, unaccustomed to her
tongue. 'You are English?' 'No,
ma'am.' He stood his ground.
'I'm from Massachusetts, a seminarian with St Anthony's Catholic Mission
to Nicaragua. We're American.'
He thought of Father O'Brien and added, 'those of us who aren't Irish.' She
seized his arms, dragging at him. 'Paul
sent you! He remembered.
He's sent you to get me out of all this!' There
was a grunt from the guard who stepped forward, speaking quickly in Spanish. 'He
says we're not to touch,' Cody translated for her. She
spat at the guard, but still dropped her hands and stood inches from the
American, drinking in the details of his bearded face, his full mouth, his
brown, unruly hair. Suddenly she
saw revulsion in his eyes. She
stepped back, dimly aware that she must be disgusting to him. Cody
held out the bag of things that Sister Maria-Theresa had sent for her.
Tanya glared at the soldier, expecting him to take the gift, but he had
already rifled through its meagre contents and now he made no move to stop her.
She slowly reached out towards the stranger's hand and plucked the
offering from his fingers. She
turned quickly from him, shielding the prize with her body, and opened the bag
close to her face, peering into it. Cody
watched. She seemed to be having
difficulty seeing what was inside in the dim light.
The girl carefully laid the articles out on the bed, one thing at a time;
a small bottle of shampoo; a face cloth; a bar of soap.
She drew out a toothbrush. Struck
by a sudden thought, she shook the remaining contents onto the bed and grabbed
the small tube of toothpaste. In an
instant, she was scrubbing her teeth with such force that white foam frothed
over her lips. As suddenly, she saw
his face and wiped the bubbles from her mouth with her sleeve.
Bob noticed that it had turned pink with blood from her ulcerated gums. Abruptly,
shamed by the woman's degradation he turned to the guard.
'Bring her some water, quickly,' he said in Spanish.
'She must have water to wash with!' 'Si,
Padre!' the soldier said sullenly and went in search of water. Tanya
stared at the tall visitor. 'You're
a priest?' she said. She looked at
his jeans and touched the sleeves of his open-necked shirt.
She denied it for him. 'You're
not a priest!' Her voice rose
insistently, 'You're not a priest.' The
woman seized him and started to shake him.
'A priest?' she screeched, 'Do you see any God in here?' Suddenly the violence of her reaction made her clutch at her
belly. She staggered back against
the bed and sank down on to it, her arms across her swollen body, rocking in
pain. Cody
hurried forward bending over her, holding her shoulders.
She was panting. He felt her hand moving down his arm, feeling him, exploring
him, and he had to concentrate to keep from flinching from the intimacy of her
touch. He
spoke softly, saying, 'You're right, I'm not a priest.
The soldier thinks I am one. He
thinks I'm going to give you the sacrament.'
Cody looked about him. 'He
doesn't want your soul on his conscience, whatever else he may think of your
worldly needs!' A deep sense of
outrage seethed just beneath his fragile humour.
'In the name of God, how long have they kept you like this?' Tanya
turned from him and pointed to the eternity of scratches on the wall. Cody
straightened, following her finger. For
the first time, he saw the great pattern of crude marks.
Some were deep, scraped violently into the crumbling whitewash with God
knew what implement. Others were as faint as memories. He crossed the small room, considering the rough calendar.
Involuntarily he traced her first days with his fingertips, trying to
imagine how it must have been for her, alone, confused.
He found he was counting them. The
first row alone spread the distance of an arm's length from left to right and
below that were five more, no, six. In
all, there were more than two hundred of these forlorn scratches.
Dear God, two hundred days. 'Is
this right?' he asked. 'Are these
days? You have been here all this
time?' He
turned as the guard pushed through the doorway, water slopping from a bucket on
to the earth floor, and saw the naked hatred in the girl's eyes. Cody
pointed savagely at the wall. 'Is
this right?' he asked in Spanish, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.
'You've kept her here all this time?' The
guard faced him, sullenly. 'Estoy
solomente militar, Señor.' 'Only
a soldier!' Cody snapped in
English. 'That's what they said at
Auschwitz, I was only a soldier!' Furious,
he seized the bucket and crossed to the girl in two strides.
'Get cleaned up,' he cried. 'We're
going to get you out of here. I've
been sent here by the Catholic Church and, believe me, they will not let
these people get away with this!' He
turned. The ugly black muzzle of an
automatic pistol was pointing at his chest.
It didn't waver. Cody
froze. He tasted salt in his mouth
and his hands were suddenly sweating. He
looked down at the gun and then into the soldier's eyes.
They were unmoving. The two
men measured each other in silence. At
last, Cody lifted his arms cautiously in a gesture of conciliation.
'OK, I'm sorry,' he said. 'No
need for the gun. I'm sorry.'
The other man's eyes never left his own and Cody remembered he didn't
speak any English. 'Perdon, Señor,
esta bien?' He waited until the
soldier considered it safe to lower the gun before he turned slowly to the girl.
'I'm sorry,' he told her softly. 'Please
clean yourself up.' She
bent quickly towards the bucket and Cody had an image of her stripping naked in
front of him to wash. Quickly he
turned away. 'I will leave you
alone,' he said but she seized his arm. 'No.' 'I
have to.' He looked about him. 'Don't
leave me!' He
prised her hands free. 'You need
privacy. I'm supposed to be a
priest, remember. ' The
girl watched him moving away, leaving her.
The jailer had put the gun back in its holster and stood waiting.
Cody said, 'I'm going to find out why you're here, Tanya.
Believe me, I am.' Then the
door swung shut and she listened as the bolt scraped home in the lock before she
sank down onto the bed, alone again. * It's a shambles - not because of the earthquake - it has always been a
shambles. I had taken a taxi there.
At first I thought I might go shopping – perhaps that was what he'd
expected me to do – or had he thought I'd just laze around the hotel and
sunbathe all day while he was gone? But
once I was in the city, once I'd seen the ruin, the devastated remains of all
the places I'd known so well before the earthquake – I knew I would end up at
the Museum, the Museo Nacional de Nicaragua. * They have stuff in there that even they don't know about.
I have always loved it, the cool after the heat of the day outside, the
dry, musty smell of history. I
loved that smell, like breathing the past. There was so much to unearth, and the people running it knew even less
about it than I did. But they
remembered me from my previous stay in Managua, and they greeted me with such
friendship. They trusted me,
allowing me to drift wherever I wanted in the chaos of their archives. She remembers the building. Upstairs,
away from the public area, the rooms are shadowy, with cold stone floors and
small windows, and there's everything from Mayan skulls to a Spanish soldier's
breeches. But she passes them by,
seduced by a room at the end of the corridor.
This is where she is always most at home, in amongst the written records,
turning the dry papers, reading the black, spidery handwriting of people
long-dead; people for whom the world had been flat. Something from the 1750s had sidetracked me– like finding a new word in
a dictionary – I had followed the new scent, something to do with the British
colonisation, but in amongst the papers was a document from much earlier.
It had no right to be with this stuff from the 1700s.
It came from two centuries before. I
remember how it felt in my hand; dry as dust, it crackled as I turned it over
and saw the extravagant Spanish of a bygone age. That is what first catches her attention, the language, and as she reads
it she realises it has been written by the captain of a man-of-war - or maybe by
his secretary – and talks of the year 1524 and of the San Juan River. Is that why I'm here? She
reaches out for the presents the bearded man has brought her.
She handles the shampoo and the soap, then looks closer into the small
pile of clothing. There is a shirt.
And underwear. There is a
clean skirt. Perhaps he is going to
get her out of here. Perhaps these
are just the first steps. She
levers herself up again and holds the ankle-length, drab skirt against herself,
stretching the elastic waist till it fits across in front of her.
She drags off her filthy bush-shirt and tears stream down her cheeks as
she kneels on the wet earth to scrub in the cold, soapy water. * The
asymmetric rectangle of sunlight had slipped across the wall, so that it was now
folded into a corner of the cell, lighting her dimly where she sat on the edge
of the bed. The door that she had
been quietly watching opened again and there he was. She had no recollection of his name, but the smile he gave
her stirred a feeling, which she had not known in an endless time – a sense of
belonging again. Unbelievably,
and despite the heat, he was carrying two steaming mugs.
'I managed to get you some coffee,' he said without preamble.
'I guessed you'd take sugar.' She
nodded her head enthusiastically and for a second, through those startling blue
eyes, he glimpsed the girl within. Her
newly washed hair, still dishevelled for lack of a brush, bobbed and her eyes
were alight behind long lashes in the fine-boned face.
Scrubbed clean of the prison grime she was really very pretty. 'Good.'
He grinned and passed her the strong black coffee.
'I've been talking to the guard while you were washing.
I don't think he's such a bad guy. He's
just doing his job, after all, isn't he?' He
added as an afterthought, 'Do you know, I think he's frightened of you?' The
light went out of her eyes as she dropped her gaze to the floor.
'He's a pig!' she hissed. There
was another much longer pause while a terrible thought occurred to him.
Was that why she was pregnant? He
broke the silence abruptly, saying, 'Has he abused you?'
As the words came out, he realised how absurd they were.
Of course the man had abused her. He
abused her everyday, just by keeping her here.
'I mean, has he...' He could
think of no easy way to frame his thoughts, 'What I mean is, were you pregnant
before you were brought here?' The
girl took the coffee without another word and Cody waited, hoping for some
gesture of denial but there was nothing. At
last, he decided to start again. 'I'm
sorry if I frightened you earlier, when I lost my temper.
We never got the introductions out of the way properly.
I'm Robert Cody.' He held
out his hand. 'My friends call me
Bob.' She
put down the mug and stood up, smoothing her hands down the long skirt he had
brought. 'Whose was it?' she asked,
ignoring his hand. She
was not tall, a little over five feet he thought, and her arms were as thin as
her gaunt face. Her blue eyes held
his steadily. Could
I have endured all this? he thought. She
was watching him in silence and suddenly he remembered her question.
He looked down at the dark-blue, shapeless skirt.
'Oh, by the look of it, one of the Sisters of Our Lady must have sent
that.' He returned her smile
apologetically. 'But I don't think
she was... expecting.' Embarrassed,
he suddenly laughed and, for an instant, she saw another man.
A laughing face with eyes that flashed from under bleached brows. She
clung to those eyes, as she had so often, willing them to live, but as she
watched, they grew dull, motionless, dark.
Dead. Dead eyes in a
lifeless face surrounded by blond hair. Hair
that floated back and forth pointlessly in still water.
'Jimmy?' she said, holding out her hand to him. Cody
felt the hair on his neck rising; the girl was staring past him.
He looked round. The room was empty, as he knew it would be.
He had stopped laughing. 'Excuse
me?' he asked. 'He
was here, just now,' she said, rocking herself gently, caressing her baby.
'This is Jimmy's,' she said, then, suddenly.
'You're not Paul.' He
took her hand and helped her to sit down on the bed. 'No, I'm Bob,' he said.
She continued to rock, backwards and forwards, her arms across the unborn
child and he asked very gently, 'What's your name?' 'I'm
Tanya,' she said. Her face
brightened. 'And you're Bob.' He
nodded, pulling the chair up from under the window. 'Who's
Jimmy?' he asked. He
sat in front of her and waited. 'Jimmy's
gone.' 'Listen,
Tanya, I need to know where you've come from.
I've been sent to help you, and I want to, but I can't if I don't know
who you are.' She
stared through him. 'Well,
can you tell me why you're here?' Her
eyes focused on his face. 'Don't you
know that?' she asked. 'No,'
he said. 'I don't.' She
sat, rocking her baby. 'Is
it drugs?' No
answer. 'You're
here for dealing in drugs or something like that?' No
answer. Cody
eased the sticking shirt from his back, but the girl didn't seem to notice the
heat in the humid cell. 'OK,'
he said. 'Let's start with who you
are. What's your second name?
Tanya what?' 'Mitchell,'
she said to the room. 'Good,
Tanya Mitchell. From...?' 'Wherever
you like,' she said. 'I've come
from wherever you like.' She leant
forward, conspiratorially. 'Where
have you come from, Bob Cody?' Cody
leaned towards her. 'If I tell you,
will you tell me?' 'Maybe.'
She sat back suddenly. 'I'm
from Boston,' he said. She
thought about that. 'What's it like
in Boston just now? Is it summer?' What
season was it in New England? Bob
looked instinctively towards the barred window but saw only the hot jungle.
He thought harder. 'It's
winter,' he said at last, nodding to himself.
'Winter.' 'With
snow?' 'Not
yet.' She
looked disappointed. 'OK,'
he nodded, 'yes there might be snow.' 'Is
it Christmas?' she asked. Suddenly
she lurched to her feet and he scraped the chair back out of her way. 'No,
it's not Christmas. Not yet.'
He waited till she had sat back down before he said, 'And now it's your
turn to tell me where you're from, Tanya. I've
told you, now you have to tell me.' She
was silent and he prompted her, 'You're from England.' She
nodded. 'London?'
he started with the name he knew best. 'Yes!' He
sighed. At last they were getting
somewhere. 'You have family there?' She becomes still Music is floating down from an upstairs bedroom buoyed up on the heavy,
motionless air. It is hot, the
doors and windows of the London house are open and yet there isn't a breath of
wind. Scratchy blues music floats
down the stairs and insinuates itself into her consciousness as she swats for
her A-level exams. Francis must be
back from veterinary school. Francis, the brother who never had to cram for an exam.
Francis, the boy who cruised his way to straight A-grades and Cambridge
University while she has to flog her stupid girl's brain to understand something
as simple as Bismarck's policy on the Balkans.
'For God's sake turn it down!' she bellows up the stairs and the music
stops abruptly. Well, she got there. She got
her degree. She showed them in the
end that he wasn't their only child with any wits. She puts her hand on her stomach. She had it all going for her finally, and for what?
For this? For a stinking
room, for a tin roof that fries her brains out every day?
For eight month's of no-one but herself to tell how stupid she has been!
And the baby! Jesus, she
never wanted a baby. Why didn't it
just die? Why couldn't things just
go back to how they were supposed to be? All
she'd ever wanted was to show her stupid, bigoted father that being a daughter
didn't make you invisible. She'd
done everything he'd asked her to - the riding, the sailing, the travelling.
It wasn't her fault he'd had a girl! She
seized the man's hand and thrust it roughly onto her belly.
'Is it still living?' she cried, 'What do you think?
Do you know about these things? Can
you tell? Is it dead?' She was practically screaming at him. 'I want it dead. I
don't want it – do you understand? Not
the baby, not any of this!' 'You
can't mean that.' His heart
hammered. Could you tell if a
foetus was alive like that? What
did she mean, is it still alive? He
wanted to shake her, to snap her out of her madness. 'You
can't tell me what I want,' she hissed, pushing his hand away.
'It's not your baby, it's mine.' Cody
was on his feet, upsetting the chair. 'Why
are you talking like this?' She
wheeled away from him. 'Jimmy's
dead,' she said. 'I killed him and
now I'm carrying his baby. Did you
feel it move? Is it alive?' 'Stop!'
he cried, overturning his chair. 'I'm
trying to help you and God knows you need help - but you don't need me.
I'm just a theology graduate from Boston.'
He banged the dust off his hat and crossed to the door.
'You need a shrink!' He
wanted to knock on the door, to call the jailer to come and open it for him, to
let him out. But from the depths of
his past, he remembered a different scene.
It was in a police cell. A
boy of thirteen sat on the bed where she had been - the boy was Bob Cody, young
and alone - and instead of himself being the interviewer, there was another man,
a wiser, grey-haired man – a probation officer who spent hour after patient
hour with the boy, talking to him, helping him, trying to sort his life out for
him. The
girl was still standing, looking at him. There
was fear in her eyes, he could see it. She knew that she was driving him away and the knowledge
terrified her. He couldn't ignore
the pleading in those eyes. Slowly
he walked back and picked up the overturned chair. 'I'm
sorry.' He dropped his hat onto the
floor again. 'Sit down, won't you.' She
sat, submissive, facing him. 'You're
Tanya Mitchell, from London, England, and you're here because you killed
somebody called Jimmy. Am I close?' She
nodded, slowly, glad that the man had stayed, determined to try harder not to
make him angry again. 'Do
you have any friends in Nicaragua? Anyone
else who knows you're here?' She
shook her head and they looked at each other in silence. 'Didn't
you ask about somebody, when I came in? You
thought somebody had sent me, don't you remember?'
Cody sank his forehead onto his hands and rubbed his temples, trying to
clear the ache that pulsed inside his head.
He looked up and she was watching him. 'You
did,' he sighed, feeling impatience welling up inside him again.
He fought it, saying slowly, 'You mentioned a man...'
The name wouldn't come, but quietly she said 'Paul.' Cody
looked at her, astonished how clearly she had said it. 'Paul!
That's right. You said You're not Paul, didn't you?
Who's Paul? Is he here in
Nicaragua, somewhere? Who is he,
Tanya?' He realised that he had
asked too many questions. She was
confused again. He took her hand
quietly and said, 'Paul who?' 'Paul
was going to look after me,' she said. 'He
was going to come back soon. Have
you seen him?' Cody
sensed that she was really trying. 'Tell
me who he is.' She
looked desperately into his face. 'You're
doing good, Tanya, real good. Tell
me who he is.' He squeezed her
fingers and said, 'Try, Tanya, try and concentrate.' 'He
was going to come back for me,' she sobbed, hopelessly.
'They took him away and he said he would come back, but he never came.
I don't know where he is. I
don't know.' Bob
Cody released her hands and she wiped her sleeve across her eyes, then he said
gently, 'His name, Tanya? Tell me
his name. If he's in Nicaragua, we
should be able to find him. The
police must know if they took him away. I'll
ask the Ministry of Justice in Managua. Just
tell me his name!' 'Nash,'
she said slowly. 'Robertson-Nash.
He was on the boat too, when they caught us.
Him and me and Jimmy.' She
checked herself. 'Jimmy was dead,
but they brought him too.' Cody
had pulled a pen from his pocket and was writing down the strange surname.
'Robertson-Nash. Paul, you're sure?' Tanya
nodded. 'Paul.' 'Great!
Good girl!' he squeezed her hand. 'We'll
find him for you.' Above
their heads, the afternoon rain began to beat steadily on the tin roof and they
heard the jailer sliding the bolt on the door.
Bob stood up. 'I've got to
go now, Tanya, but I won't be far away. I'm
going to stay in the village tonight.' The
soldier was in the room with them. 'Try
and think of anything that'll help me,' Cody said. Tanya rose with him, unwilling to let go of his hands. 'I'll be with you tomorrow morning,' he said. 'I promise, OK?' He eased her fingers from his own and moved towards the open door. 'God bless you, Tanya.' A thought crossed his mind and he turned to the guard, motioning for a moment longer. 'Do you want to pray with me now, before I go?' He waited. 'Do you?' She
shook her head, but a gentle smile crossed her lips and she said 'No, Bob Cody,
but say a prayer for my baby.' * 'She
is loco, right, Padre?' The
bolt scrapes as he locks the door behind them. Cody
waits for the man to turn to him before replying. 'No. She's not
mad.' The anger has been washed
away by the pathos of the woman's condition.
He hasn't the strength to feel anything for the guard, except, strangely,
a kind of pity. 'Why do you keep
her here?' he asks frankly. 'Is she
such a threat to somebody?' The
Guard shrugs 'who knows?' and pushes past into the office that Bob had seen for
the first time, all those hours ago, when the sun still shone and he had not met
the woman with her unborn baby. The
soldier says. 'You are going back
now?' 'No,'
Cody says. 'Tomorrow.' 'Then
you will stay with me tonight.' The
guard opens the front door. It's
not an invitation, more a fact. 'The
chief has said I can stay with him,' Cody looks through the doorway, out at the
wet jungle, where grey clouds sit on the tops of the trees and the warm rain
falls to the ground ceaselessly. 'You
are here on government business, Padre. You
will stay with me.' Cody
shrugs. If that was the protocol,
he could go along with it.
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