Chapter 3

Despite riding a success-high. I’m all too conscious that I’m not firing on all cylinders and could easily drop my hard-won prizes.

So the belt, threaded through the buckle to give me a handle, is firmly looped around my wrist at one end. The other end… It’s a bit of a contraption, but I’m working with what I have. Juliana’s bra, knotted to the belt by its own straps, gives me another eighteen inches or so.

My rope, lengthened with braided strips of Juliana’s blouse, is weighted at one end with rolled-up vinyl, cannibalised from the top half of the boots, tied into a ball with thread picked out from belt, skirt and anything else I could find. The hairs from the silver wig look promising but are too short to be useful, for this at least.

Of course, the bottom part, with the spiked heels, would be heavier, but they’re far too precious to risk losing.

With my makeshift bola, I take a swing, letting out the length of the ‘cord’ and releasing the ball.

The weight impacts the wall with a dull thud, and drops to the ground…

Hmmm…

That’s never going to work…

Not enough space to swing…

I’ve worked with most hand-weapons you could think of. But this is my first time with a bola. I know they’re used by the local gauchos to bring down cattle when they’re separating one from the herd. My ambitions are smaller.

And it’s not as if I don’t have the time to practice the technique.

I try again, this time spinning the weight on a foot or so of cord, then letting it out gradually before releasing the bola in the direction of the bag.

It misses the bag entirely, instead spiralling itself into a knot around a chair leg. Still…

Count your blessings…

An even pull on Juliana’s folding wooden seat… The grate of timber over concrete…

… and I have somewhere comfortable to sit for the first time in…

How long?

Don’t think about it…

The wooden slats are a bit rough against my backside, but they beat naked concrete hands-down. The spandex skirt does for a cushion and I’m immediately much more comfortable.

My bola unravelled and at the ready again, I make another cast. This time, the bola drops over the bag, but tugs free again as I pull.

At attempt nine or ten, I strike gold. The bola brushes over the tops of the paired handles, drops, and winds itself into a neat coil, binding them together. And as I haul in the biggest fish I ever caught, the scents of ham and honey, onions and cheese, and cinnamon and chilli, surge up.

Lord of all I survey, in my tiny kingdom, enthroned, I unwrap my banquet:

Chicken, encased in a flaky crust, seasoned with cilantro, chilli and a squeeze of lime. A plastic container homes a crisp green salad dotted with cherry tomatoes, croutons and sliced egg, dressed with olive oil and lemon juice. A roll is wrapped in tissue, still with that flawless crusty-soft combination that makes for perfect bread. As I crack it open, I find I have that everyday Brazilian luxury, pao de queijo: bread stuffed with cheese.

There’s even a small steel flask of… I twist off the cup, unscrew the cap and inhale…

Coffee…

Heart yammering under my ribs, I force myself to sit quietly, take a bite from the bread roll and slowly chew…

… Then another…

… Followed by a sip of the coffee.

The last time I ate like this, I fell into despair afterwards: I was Juliana’s prisoner, and my situation seemed hopeless.

This time, it’s different. I eye the metal hoop connecting my chain to the wall. It will take a while, but those spiked heels are hard enough to make an impression in the cement.

And who knows what else might be in the bag?

Another bite. Cheese, pungent and chewy, stretches elastically from the bread, and I wind a thread around my finger to prevent its escape before sucking my finger clean. It’s piquant and savoury, melting over my tongue.

After I get out of here, I’m going to learn to cook real food…

Perhaps James would give me a lesson or two…

I’ll work best if I eat a little, get my blood sugar up and set my brain to working properly. Then, I can work my way through what I now have… calmly and with measured action.

Another sip of the coffee…

It’s Brazilian of course: fragrant and delectable, with an undercurrent of chocolate. Sweet steam sets my mouth running. I’d have preferred it unsweetened, but the sugar will be helpful right now…

A final sip then, carefully, I screw the lid back on to keep in the heat.

One more bite from the bread roll, then I wrap it back in its napkin and set it to one side.

The bag…

What’s in the bag?

I clap my hands together, rubbing palms…

Rummaging through, it’s the usual magpie’s nest I would expect from Juliana. Losing patience, I upend the bag and tip the contents over the ground. A potato rolls out and flinging out a hand, I field it before it drops into the water channel, then set it carefully aside.

Hairbrush…

Tissues…

Another potato…

Bingo! Cell phone!

And it’s powered up.

There’s no signal down here of course, but once I’m above the surface…

I switch it off to preserve the power…

…

Cable charger…

Wallet containing… Coins and notes… Quickly I tot it up… Two hundred Brazilian Reals or thereabouts… By no means a fortune, but still a useful sum.

… A bank debit card… Local bank in the name of S. Diaz… … Five assorted credit cards, in the same name… Driving licence…

A bag of brigadeiros… the local favourite candy. I don’t have a particularly sweet tooth, but I pop one in my mouth, then whistle back between my teeth as the intense chocolate flavour dances the rumba up my jaw muscles. It washes it down nicely with a couple of gulps of the coffee.

More of Juliana’s treasures: perfume, tampons, nail file, a furry-pink-owl keyring with car keys and some others…

Car keys???

Of course… she came by car…

Keys???

A high-speed inspection of the keys… Then, another slower, more considered examination… But none of them are right for the padlock…

Fuck…

Still, it begs the question of what the keys would unlock...

I continue my looting of Juliana’s goods…

… A packet of band aids, sunglasses, hair clips, cosmetics…

… A notebook with a slim pencil slotted into the spine…

I flick it open, angling it to the light as I peer at the details…

Spidery writing in pencil: names… addresses… strings of numbers…

Numbers? Phone numbers?

Codes?

Passwords?

Hmmm…

What else?

The body…

Methodically, I go over Juliana’s corpse, stripping off the wig, hairpins, a pair of flashy crystal-stud ear-rings, matching rings and necklace…

… a pair of band aids from heels where the boots would rub…

At the end, satisfied that I’ve looted everything lootable, I take another mouthful of the coffee, savouring the smooth, aromatic, slightly smoky flavour while considering the riches laid before me.

Hairpins…

Could I be that lucky?

One way to find out…

It’s not easy, bending to work on my own ankle, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need a good view. This is something I can do by touch.

Wriggling fingers, I crack my knuckles, then make a fist a few times, easing stiff muscles. Choosing a pin at random, I straighten it out and pick off the rubbery blobs on the ends. Poking it into the lock, a quarter of an inch or so, gives me the traction to bend the end of the pin slightly to the left.

A second pin, folded back on itself, gives me my lever. I’m ready. To push it inside the lock… apply pressure to one side… and…

Nothing happens. The pin won’t enter the lock.

?

I push harder, prodding, then stabbing with my improvised lock-pick.

It won’t go in.

WTF?

Doubling over, twisting to the side, craning my neck to see, I peer at the keyhole of the padlock… Then, at the tell-tale smear, draw a fingernail over the slight roughness.

Superglue?

She fucking superglued the lock closed…

My heart jackhammers…

Juliana would never have released me…

Calm down…

You already knew it…

It’s new proof. Not new information…

There are alternatives…

Drink some more of the coffee…

*****