22
Drinking With The Dead
The defector’s mouth was indeed covered by a strip of silver electrical tape. His eyes bloodshot. His head shaven and peppered grey. His face soaked in sweat. His skin tanned from the Mexican sun, but flushed red from the sheer heat of a black mask in super-scorch weather. And a heavy stubble from sharp cheekbone to wiry neck. From left temple to forehead, ran a three-inch scar. And protruding over the tape, a familiar beaky nose.
His beady little eyes were fixed on mine. Was he thinking the same as me? That I’d like to take the penknife in my pocket and cut his head off very slowly while he was awake and alive? Or stab him and dump him in the market streets for La Firma to find?
I tore off the tape. Hard. Fast. Angry. Taking some of his stubble with it.
Nath
