The Colombian Mule by Massimo Carlotto, Christopher Woodall Page A

the door at once, failing to notice the expression of terror that contorted Arías Cuevas’ face the moment he saw, standing before him, Alacrán and Jaramillo.
    â€˜Take it easy, hombre, easy,’ whispered Alacrán, as he sat down beside Guillermo on the bed and wound an arm around his shoulders.
    Alacrán talked to Guillermo for over an hour, explaining that he had been sent over to Italy by La Tía to make quite sure her little nephew didn’t take it into his head to tell the police about matters relating to the family. His auntie had forgiven him and was really looking forward to him getting released from prison and returning home to Bogotá. She was going to place him in a high-ranking position within the organization because, one way or another, he had demonstrated that he had cojones. Alacrán then asked Guillermo to tell him the name of his Italian offloader but Guillermo said he didn’t know the man’s identity.
    While Alacrán tried to reassure Guillermo–who didn’t believe a word of what he was hearing–Jaramillo went to the toilet, expelled from his rectum a small plastic tube and checked its contents. He then prepared a cup of very sweet coffee which Guillermo, worried only that they would slit his throat, drank without suspecting a thing. A total idiot, mused Alacrán, giving Guillermo a big hug and kissing him on both cheeks. The two new inmates then made their beds and settled down to watch TV.
    Guillermo lay wide awake all night and was amazed to be alive the following morning, when Alacrán and Jaramillo were taken to the court. As soon as they were out of sight, Guillermo called the guard and demanded that his compatriots be transferred to another cell block. The guard, however, explained that there was no need, since the two Colombians were sure to be deported as soon as the trial was over.
    Arías Cuevas heaved a huge sigh of relief. He had never been so afraid in his life. He slipped on his shoes and went down to the yard for his hour’s exercise. After about a quarter of an hour, he felt a bit tired and short of breath, but thought nothing of it. He hadn’t closed his eyes all night. He was bound to feel exhausted.

Bonotto called me on my cell phone. ‘A colleague of mine in Venice by the name of Francesco Beltrame, appointed by the court to represent Arías Cuevas, has just phoned me with an excellent piece of news. Cuevas has decided to make a voluntary statement putting Corradi completely in the clear. The investigating magistrate has scheduled a new interview for next week.’
    â€˜I’m so pleased to hear that.’
    â€˜Of course, I doubt if it’s enough to prevent him being indicted, but at the very least it blows a huge hole in the prosecution’s case.’
    â€˜Right. I think we might call off our investigations for the time being. What do you say?’
    â€˜Maybe that would be best. I’ll be in touch.’
    I waited till the evening to pass on the news to my associates. Sitting in the club at my usual table, we ordered ourselves a round and drank a toast to our success. ‘It’s always such a pleasure to fuck over the cops,’ Rossini commented.
    I didn’t take Virna home that night. I stayed behind at La Cuccia with Max, drinking, smoking and talking about prison. Every now and then you feel the need to do that. But you have to have been there to understand it.
    â€˜It’s strange,’ I said. ‘I’ve been out for years now but every now and again it still comes back in a rush, flooding my mind like acid. Just when you think you’re over it, it kicks in again. Do you know what I mean? They say time helps you forget, but that’s bullshit. Prison is still right here with me, like a wedge stuck right in the middle of my life.’
    Max the Memory wiped the beer foam from his moustache.
    â€˜It’s something you’re never going to get over, Marco. You