Condensation slowly worked its way like snails down the hot water pipe and then onto the neck of Torado, the cold droplets tickling him before running down his back where they were dried out by the heat being emitted from the pipe the Mexican midfielder was shackled to. The room was dark now but out of the porthole window he could see thousands of diffused lights they appeared to be hanging in the sky, glowing orange behind the fog that curled and wrapped itself like a cloak over the estuary of the Thames. As the black ship slipped silently through the water toward the city; huge power stations along the river bank jutted up high above the boat spitting poisonous smoke into the air, turning the sky completely red. In the distance a clock towers bell rang out and clanged twelve times. Torado tried to move his left leg. It had fallen asleep and when it finally awoke it started to tingle as if it had been wrapped in a blanket of green nettles. The ropes that bound his legs loosened a little as he shuffled his body; just enough to let the blood start to flow back down his leg awakening it from its slumber.
In the distance he heard the bells of a clock tower chime, the clang crossed the still waters and shroud of fog before reverberating twelve times around the engine room of the boat, the pipes ringing back in response. There were more lights coming through the small round window of his cell now and as the billows of fog parted for a second, he saw a foreboding looking building that loomed over the banks of the river. Torado did not know that this was the seat of British government but the scene reminded him of a painting of London that his school teacher Signor Bolivar had once shown him. In the painting was a similar looking building he could still hear Signor Bolivar’s voice telling him and the rest of the class the tragic story that accompanied the picture. The demise of a heroic character called Guy Fawkes, they had all decided in the class that day that this man was a true Rio Grandean at heart.
He watched as the ship started to pass the building that was pushing its chest out over the river with a colonial arrogance. Torado thought of Guy Fawkes, his old teacher Signor Bolivar, the classroom he had sat in as a child that looked out over the hills of Rio Grandé. He thought of his beloved Papito’s avocado farm where he and Suarez had played as children, then of his friends and team mates and the homeland and life he had been torn from. He felt a vacuum of loneliness engulf him, pulling his memories from his mind, at that very moment he knew he was to die completely alone.
Alone in the floating cell, only the hum from the engine to break the silence Torado craved companionship even a moment would do, just another human being to remind him he still existed. He thought of the young ship mate Artur who had bought him the delicious soup with the feather light dumplings, the kindness the young man had shown and how Torado had hoped he would see him again. But no one came and as the ship started to leave the city behind in its wake, the lights become fewer and fewer their glow starting to fade until they started to twinkle and then blink on off winking at Torado; he felt his eyes start to lose focus and his head became groggy. His eyelids shut pulled their shutters down and one by one the lights were flicked off in the jumble aisles of Torado’s mind until all became quiet and visions of the Rio Grandean hills floated behind the Mexican midfielder’s eyes.
The sound of the ships horn awoke Torado with a start, he would have jumped up if he his arms and legs had not been bound to the water pipe. a rhythmic tapping came from the glass of the porthole window, it was daylight now a steady rain was falling outside and clattering against the walls of the engine room of the ship. Torado felt the boat come to a standstill, he could still here the propellers running below though, churning up the murky green Thames waters. A huge bird squawked and beat its wings as it flew past the small round window , Torado watched as its long yellow beak snapped itself around the tail of a small squirming fish. From above his head on the ship deck he could hear the muffled sounds of raised voices, then silence. After a minute or two from somewhere on the riverbank came the unmistakeable lilting sounds of a Spanish guitar. The music sounded both mournful and defiant at once, Torado cocked his ear to hear more clearly, the sounds of the strings reminded him of home of Suarez of everything he loved; a single tear wound its way down his cheek like a small tributary searching for its river. The ships engine roared into life, the horn sounded and the sounds of the guitar were drowned out by the humming that filled the engine room. Torado’s aquatic prison lurched forward and they were on the move again. The boat must have not moved forward more than 100 yards before it came to an abrupt halt again, the engines were killed and once again the sounds of the guitar drifted through the window, Torado listened as each string struck filled the empty void of the four walls of his prison.
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