LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      THE SLOT ON the door opened and lunch was delivered. Niklas ate beans and rice. It was tepid and bland and there were no herbs to pick out, but he was hungry and cleared his plate in silence.

      His cellmate did the same.

      It was how they both survived.

      He refused to let the constant noise and shouts from other inmates rile him. He made no comment or complaint about the bland food and the filth. From the first day he had arrived here, apart from the odd necessary word, he had been silent, had conformed to the system though some of the guards had tried to goad him.

      As he had entered the jail they had told him of the cellmate they had for him, of the beatings he could expect. They’d told the rich boy just how bad things would be in there for him as he’d removed his suit and shoes and then his watch and jewellry before they searched him and then hosed him.

      Niklas had said nothing.

      He had been hosed many times before.

      There was no mirror to look in, so after his hair was shaved he’d just run a hand over his head. He wore the rough denim without real thought. He had worn harsher clothes and been filthier and hungrier than this on many occasion.

      Niklas was streetwise. He had grown up in the toughest place and survived it. He had come from nothing and he’d returned to nothing—as he had always silently feared that he would. This anonymous, brutal world was one that he belonged in, and the one he truly deserved. Perhaps this was actually his home, Niklas had realised—not ten thousand feet in the air, swigging champagne as caviar popped in his mouth; not considering a home in the mountains and a family to take care of. He had been a fool to glimpse it, a fool to let down his guard, for those things were not his to know.

      Assets frozen, friends and colleagues doubting him … The eventual snap of cuffs on his wrists had provided temporary relief as Niklas went back to the harsh world he had known one day would reclaim him. He’d returned to another system and navigated it seemingly with ease. But the temporary relief had soon faded and a sense of injustice had started to creep in. His head felt as if it would explode at times, and his body was so wired that he was sure he could rip the bars from the cell window with his bare hands or catch bullets with his teeth—but then, as he had long ago taught himself to, he simply turned those thoughts off.

      Not for a second did he show his anger, and rarely did he speak.

      His cellmate was one the most feared men in the prison. He ran the place and had contacts both inside and out. The guards had thought it would be like two bulls put in the same paddock. The motto of São Paulo was I am not led. I lead. So they had put the rich boy who led the business world in with the man who led the inmates and had waited for sobs from Dos Santos. But Niklas had held Fernando’s eyes and nodded when he had been placed in his cell. He had said good evening and got no answer, and from that point on Niklas had said nothing more to him. He had ignored his cellmate—as suited Fernando, as suited him—and over the months the tension had dissipated. The silence between the two inmates was now amicable; both men respected the other’s privacy, in a friendship of no words.

      Niklas finished his lunch. He would exercise soon.

      They had not been let out to the yard in over a week, so in a moment he would use the floor to exercise. He paced himself, sticking to routines to hold onto his mind. For while he slotted in with the system, while he followed the prison rules, more and more he was starting to reject them. Inside a slow anger had long been building and it was one that must not explode, because he wanted to be here when his trial date was set—did not want solitary till then.

      He lay on his bunk and tried not to build up too much hope that he might be bailed in a fortnight, when he appeared for the pre-trial hearing. Miguel had told him that he thought bail was unlikely—there were too many high-profile people involved who did not want him to have freedom.

      ‘But there is no one involved,’ Niklas had pointed out at their last meeting. ‘Because I did not do anything. That is what you are supposed to prove.’

      ‘And we will,’ Miguel said.

      ‘Where’s Rosa?’ Niklas had asked to see Rosa at this visit. He liked her straight talking, wanted to hear her take on things, but yet again it was Miguel who had come to meet with him.

      ‘She …’ Miguel looked uncomfortable. ‘She wants to see you,’ he said. ‘I asked her to come in, but …’

      ‘But what?’

      ‘Silvio,’ Miguel said. ‘He does not want her in here with you.’

      And Niklas got that.

      Rosa’s husband, Silvio, had complained about Rosa working for him. Niklas and Rosa had once been an item for a few weeks, just before she had met Silvio, and though there was nothing between them now, her working for Niklas still caused a few problems.

      As he lay there replaying conversations, because that was all he was able to do in this place, Niklas conceded that Silvio was right not to want Rosa to visit him here.

      Nothing would happen between them, but it was not just Rosa’s sharp insight he wanted. The place stank of testosterone, of confined angry male, and Rosa was open enough to understand that his eyes would roam. She would let them, and he knew that she would dress well for him.

      He tried not to think of Meg—did not want even an image of her in this place—but of course it was impossible not to think of her.

      As his mind started to drift he turned those thoughts off and hauled them back to his pre-trial hearing. His frustration at the lack of progress was building—his frustration at everything was nearing breaking point.

      He climbed down from his bunk and started doing sit-ups, counting in his head. And then he changed to push-ups, and for those he did not bother to count. He would just work till his body ached. But anger was still building. He wanted to be on the outside—not just for freedom but because there he could control things, and he could control nothing here except his small routines. So he kept on doing his sit-ups and as a guard came to the door Niklas carried on, ignoring the jeering, just kept on with his workout.

      ‘Lucky man, Dos Santos.’

      He did not miss a beat, just continued his exercise.

      ‘Who did you pay?’

      Still Niklas did not answer.

      ‘You have a beautiful wife.’

      Only then did he pause, just for a second, mid-pushup, before carrying on. The guard didn’t know what he was talking about. No one knew of Meg—they were winding him up, messing with his head, and he chose not to respond.

      ‘She’s here waiting to see you.’

      And then the slot in the door opened and he was told to get up. There was no choice now but to do as he was told. So Niklas stood, met Fernando’s eyes for just a second, which was rare. The change in routine was notable for both of them.

      Niklas put his hands through the slot and handcuffs were applied, then he pulled his cuffed wrists back as the cell door was opened. He walked along the corridor and down metal steps, heard the jeers and taunts and crude remarks as he walked past. There were

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