A screech rips from my mouth. I stand, stumble back against the wall, the bricks damp and wet beneath my fingertips. This must be the segregation cell. They put me in segregation. But they can’t do this! Not to me. Do they not know? Do they not understand? I turn to the wall, smacking my forehead on it, once, twice, the impact of the pain jolting me into reality, calming me. Slowly, I start to steady myself when I feel something, something etched into the masonry. Turning, I peer down, squint in the blinking lights, feel with my fingers. There, scratched deep into the brickwork, is a cross.
A shout roars from outside. I jump. There is another shout followed by banging, ripping from the right, loud, like a constant thudding. Maybe someone is coming. I run to the door and try to see something, anything. The banging reaches a crescendo then dies.
I press my lips to the slit. ‘Hello?’ I wait. Nothing. ‘Hello?’
‘Go away!’ a voice screams. ‘Go away! Go away!’
The yelling smashes against my head like a hammer- slam, slam, slam. I want it to stop but it won’t, it simply carries on and on until I can’t take it any more. My hands rake through my hair, pull at it, claw it. I cannot do this, cannot be here. I need my routine. I want to go home, see my bare feet running through the grass along the hills back to my villa, the sun fat and low. I want to sprint the last leg to the courtyard where the paella stove is fired. Garlic, saffron, clams and mussels, the hot flesh melting in my mouth, bubbling, evaporating. That is what I want. Not this. Not here. Think. What would Papa tell me to do?
Numbers. That is it. Think of numbers. I shut my eyes, attempt to let digits, calculations, dates, mathematical theories-anything-run through my head. After a moment, it begins to work. My breathing slows, muscles soften, my brain resting a little, enough for something to walk into my head: an algorithm. I hesitate at first, keep my eyes shut. It seems familiar, the formula, yet strange all at once. I scan the algorithm, track it, try to understand why I should even think of it, but nothing. No clue. No sign. Which means it’s happened again. Unknown data. Data has come to me, data I do not recall ever learning, yet still it appears, like a familiar face in the window, a footprint in the snow. I have always written the calculations down when they emerge, these numbers, these codes and unusual patterns, have always recorded them obsessively, compulsively. But now what? I have no notepad, have no pen, and without inscribing them, without seeing the data in black and white, will it exist? Will it be real?
More shouting erupts and my eyes fly open. There are so many voices. So loud. Too loud for me, for someone like me. I clamp my hands to my ears. My head throbs. Images swirl around my mind. My mother, father, priests, churches, strangers. They all blur into one. And then, suddenly an illusion, just one, on its own, walks into my mind: my father in the attic. And then I see Papa getting into his Jaguar, waving to me as he accelerates off, my brother, Ramon, by my side, a wrench in his hand. There is no sound, just pictures, images. My breathing becomes quick, shallow. Am I remembering something or is it simply a fleeting dream? I close my eyes, try to will the image back into my brain, but it won’t come, stubborn, callous.
There is more banging-harder and louder this time. I tap my finger against my thigh over and over. Papa, where are you? What happened to you? If only I had stayed in Spain, then none of this would have happened. No murders. No blood.
I clutch my skull. The noise is drowning me, consuming me. The banging. Make the banging stop. Please, someone, make it stop. Papa? I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.
My breathing now is so fast that I cannot get enough oxygen. So I try cupping my hands around my mouth to steady the flow, yet the shouting outside rises, a tipping point, making me panic even more. I force myself to stand, to be still, but it does not work. I can hear guards. They are near. Footsteps. They are yelling for calm, but it makes no difference. The shouts still sound. My body still shakes.
