The Albanians were now closer. Ilir and Artin, he believed, were their names. They claimed to have been wrongly arrested simply for helping refugees flee oppression. The prosecutor's charges were a bit different: that they spirited young girls away from their homes and set them up working in brothels in Scampia, a grim suburb of Naples. The altruistic argument they made--that they were saviors of the oppressed--fell on deaf ears, as most of the girls they "rescued" came not from North Africa but from the Baltic states and small towns in Italy itself, lured by their promise of modeling careers.
Garry didn't like that the men had sped up and were just a few steps behind. He diverted, hoping to avoid them.
But it was too late.
The squat, swarthy men lunged and flung him to the grass.
"No!" Gasping, his breath knocked from his lungs.
"Shhh. Quiet!" Ilir--the smaller--raged in Garry's ear.
His brother looked around to see there were no guards or other prisoners present and drew a long, thick piece of glass from his pocket, a shiv. The base was wrapped in cloth, but six inches of razor edge glistened.
"No! Please! Come on, I haven't done anything!" Maybe they thought he'd been with the prison police, just now, informing on them. "I haven't said anything!"
Artin smiled and eased back, letting Ilir hold him down. In thickly accented English, he said, "Now, h
ere. Here it is. Yes? Here is what is going to happen. You are knowing Alberto Bregia?"
"Please! I haven't done anything to you. I just--"
"Now, now. You are answering me. Yes, there you go. Answer me. Do not baby-cry. Answer me."
"Yes, I know Bregia."
Who wouldn't? A huge, psychotic prisoner--six foot four--who terrified everyone who crossed him, even if their betrayals were pure figments of his bizarre imagination.
"So, it is this. Bregia has problem with my brother and me. And he is wishing to murder us. Now, now. What we are doing is this."
Garry struggled to push Ilir off. But the wiry man held him down firmly. "Stop," he muttered. Garry complied.
"We are having to hurt you some. Stabbing you, yes." He held up the glass knife. "But we not kill you. Cut you some much. But you will not be dying. And then you will be saying that Alberto Bregia did this."
Ilir said, "So he will go to other prison. For dangerous prisoners. We have seen into this. It is how this works. All good."
"No, don't! Please!"
Artin was nodding. "Ah, it won't be much. Six, seven times. Which is nothing. I am being stabbed. Look at these scars. People here in prison, they talk. They say you should have balls cut, you rapist." He brushed the point over Garry's crotch. "No, no. We are not be doing that." They both laughed. "Just some girl you fuck? Who care? So, you good. Just face, chest, maybe cut ear bad."
"Cut off," his brother said.
"Has to look like Bregia, something he would do."
"Look, baby-cry, stop that. Okay, Artin. Cut him and we go. Hurry!"
Artin muttered something in Albanian and Ilir clamped his filthy hand over Garry's mouth and gripped him with fierce strength.
Garry tried to scream.
The glass point moved toward his ear.
And then a distant voice: "Signor Soames! Dove sei?"
From the doorway he'd just exited through, the hallway that led to the interview rooms, a man was calling him.
"Are you still in the yard?"
The Albanian brothers looked toward each other.