Chapter 40

Five minutes later, the light clicks off. For one mind-numbing moment, I think she’s left me in the dark,
but as my eyes adjust, the light is merely very dim: blinking green from the activation light of the
camera.

I’d thought my stomach was empty but, as it turns out, I’ve not done yet. As Juliana’s footsteps dwindle
to silence, my gut heaves. I have just enough time to react by throwing myself to the edge of the water
channel before my stomach relieves itself of the last of its burden. The piquancy and fragrance of
Portuguese street food were good on the way down, but chilli and spices are less appealing on the way
back up.

Retching and puking, I let my body do its worst. Part of me knows this is the monkey brain acting: fear
and panic running their course. Another part, the human brain, sits in the passenger seat, waiting
calmly to take the wheel again.

And now, with the immediate freak-out passing albeit with muscles still twitching and dancing the
adrenaline fandango, I sit back against the wall, breathing heavily, swiping chill sweat from my face.

Mitch…

Time to weigh up my position…

My resources…

My stomach evacuated, I want nothing more than to rinse my mouth, drink something bland: milk or
weak tea perhaps…

Not an option…

Water?



I eye the turgid flow in the channel beside me, now even darker in the restricted lighting. Clots of
garbage float, waterlogged, on the oily surface, bobbing beside the bloated remains of a rat. Grey foam
speckles the base of one of the inlets.

Drinking from there is not to be considered.

What then?

From one of the narrow inlets to the main channel, somewhat above me, a thin stream dribbles. I
stand, reaching for the flow, then as the ankle cuff nips, pick up a loop of chain to relieve some of the
weight.

This time, it’s a stretch, but I get there, swiping through the trickle with a fingertip. Cautiously, I sniff,
then lick. It tastes a little brackish, but not putrid; rainwater run-off probably. A mug or a glass would be
nice, but I doubt Juliana is planning to supply such home comforts. A cupped palm collects a bare
mouthful, enough to rinse my mouth with. Another palmful, and fresh water eases some of the
tightness in my throat.

Mitch…

Got to warn her…

Get word to Hickman…

Or James…

Gotta get the fuck out of here…

First order of the day… That steel cuff…

The key?



It hangs on its nail, at about eye-level, the brass a sullen yellow-green reflection in the bleak lighting.

Juliana surely hung it there deliberately, leaving it well beyond my reach.

Still, gotta try…

I’m by no means short. I top six feet and I’m long-limbed with it, but even at full stretch, letting the metal
gnaw into my ankle, I’m at least two yards short. No amount of reaching and straining will get me there.

And in the process, I discover the purpose of Juliana’s painted line. It marks the end of my range. With
my arms and legs at full extent, straining against the cuff, letting it bite into my ankle, that white line,
already dirty with muck, divides the world into two part: the one I can reach, and the one I can’t.

Okayyy…

Next target…

The padlock:

Something to pick the lock with…

Pin…

Wire…

…

…

A quick self-survey of my resources: the clothes I’m wearing; shirt, pants…

Belt…



The cheese-wire…

Or the tongue of the buckle might make an acceptable lock-pick.

I reach for the buckle, and it’s not there. My belt has gone.

Fuck…

And now that I’m looking, I realise, so have my holster and knife sheaths. Anything with more
substance than the thin linen cloth of my shirt has been stripped.

Lucky she didn’t leave me naked…

… I suppose…

I cast around at my surroundings.

Bare concrete, fetid water and slime.

The cuff is welded to a loop of chain. The chain in turn welded to a post on the wall embedded into
fresh cement. The cement is fresh and hard. My fingernails make no impression, simply ripping at the
top and leaving me bleeding at the quick.

Above me, the camera eye: aimed directly at me.

And doubtless, she’s on the other side of the lens, watching me on a laptop or via a phone app.

This hasn’t been set up in minutes or hours: even days. Juliana’s had this planned for some time.

Just as she did when she had Jenny kidnapped… even though at the time, I believed Baxter and
Finchby were behind it.



Perhaps they even thought they were…

At the thought of Baxter, my stomach churns.

What she did to him…

Again, she wasn't trying to kill. She left him a physical ruin; in a condition where he’d live, but he’d
never be the same man again. And she left him for me to find.

At the time, I rather appreciated the justice of it.

But, that was then.

And now, she’s brought me here… Wherever here is…

If all Juliana wanted was to take her time murdering me, she could have chosen any abandoned
building a little out of the way. But she’s not done that. This place is… what?

She drugged me twice to bring me here. So, several hours travel at least.

Out of the city? Away from São Paulo…

Where the fuck am I?

It’s a water system, a sewerage or drainage network. No-one builds them in the middle of nowhere.
Drains imply people.

How far underground am I?

I peer up the dark water inlets, looking for daylight.

There’s nothing. Every hole gapes unrelieved black.



And now, sitting in my gaunt cell, I listen.

Water trickles…

Echoing from somewhere is a chittering sound…

My own breathing…

My heartbeat...

The pulse inside my ears...

… All minute sounds, magnified by the otherwise utter silence and my spiralling imagination.

Standing, I listen at my sweet-water inlet. It’s a little above my head-height, but tip-toeing, I cock an ear
to the narrow channel.

Dripping water is the only sound.

No voices. No traffic. No rumble of underground trains.

No people.

If I were trapped in the city, yelling or screaming might draw someone. But if there’s no-one. If Juliana
is truly the only person who knows where I am.

Buried alive.

*****


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