Brazilian Escape. Sandra Marton
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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 a couple of shoves from the guard but Niklas did not react, just kept on walking while trying to work things out.
Miguel must have arranged a hooker, finally pulled a few strings.
Thank God.
Maybe now his mind would hold till the trial date.
Not that he showed any emotion as they walked. He’d learnt that many years ago.
Show weakness and you lose—he’d learnt that at eight.
He had walked through the new orphanage he’d been sent to—he had been on his third orphanage by then—and this one was by far the worst. Still, there was good news, he had been told—his new family were waiting to meet him. A beautiful family, the worker had told him. They were rich, well fed and well dressed and had everything they wanted in the world except children. More than anything they wanted a son and had chosen Niklas.
His heart had leapt in hope. He’d hated the orphanage, a rough home for boys where the staff were often cruel, and he had been grinning and excited as the door had been pushed open and he had prepared himself to meet his new family.
How the workers waiting for him in there had laughed at his tears—how they had jeered him, enjoying their little joke long into the night. How could he have been so bold as to think that a family might want him?
It was the very last time that Niklas had cried.
His last display of true emotion.
Now he kept it all inside.
He would not give the prison guards the same pleasure. Whatever their plan, he would not give them the satisfaction of reading his face.
But then he saw her.
It had not properly entered his head that it might actually be Meg.
He had not allowed it to.
She did not belong in here. That was his first thought as he saw her dressed in a linin shift dress. Her hair burned gold and copper, the colour of the sun at night through his cell window, and then he saw the anxiety in her eyes turn to horror as she took in the shaved head and the rough clothing. A lash of shame tore through him that he should be seen by her like this, and his expression slipped for just a second. He stared ahead as his cuffs were removed, and though he remained silent his mind raced. To the left was Andros, the guard he trusted the least, and he thought again how Meg did not belong here. He wanted to know who the hell had arranged this, who had approved this visit, for even though he was confined and locked up he still had a system in place, and he had told Miguel that everything was to be run by him.
He could feel Andros watching as she walked towards him, heard the fear and anxiety in her voice as she spoke.
‘I’ve missed you so much.’
She was playing a part. Niklas got that. But as her lips met his cheek it did not matter. Her touch was the first reprieve for his senses in months. Her skin on his cheek was so soft that the contact actually shocked him. He wanted to know the hows and whys of her visit here, wanted to know exactly what was going on, yet his first instinct was not to kiss her, but to protect her—and that meant that he too must play a part, for Andros was watching.
It was a kiss for others, and his mind tried to keep it at that—except her breath tasted of the outside and he drank her in. The feel of her in his arms allowed temporary escape and it was Meg who pulled back.
Meg stood with her cheeks burning red, tears of shame and hurt and anger in her eyes, and her lips pressed closed as one guard said something that made the other laugh. Then a door opened and they walked into a small, simply furnished room. The guard shouted something to them, and whatever language you spoke it was crude, before closing the door behind them. Meg stood and then realised that she couldn’t stand for very much longer, so she sat on a chair for a moment, honestly shaken.
It wasn’t just shock at the sight of him—seeing Niklas with his hair cropped almost as short as the dark stubble on his chin, dressed in rough prison denim. Even like this he was still the most beautiful man she had ever seen. It was not just the shock that she had again tasted his mouth, felt his skin against hers, relighting all those memories from their one night together. It was everything: the whole journey here, the poverty in the streets she had driven through, the sight of the prison as she had approached, the watchtower and the guns on the guards and the shame of the strip-search. Surely all of those things had severed any feelings she had for him?
But, no, for then she’d had to deal with the impact of seeing him again, of tasting him. For a moment she just sat there and wondered how, after all she had been through, she could still hear her heart hammer in relief to be back at his side. She wanted to be over him—had to be for sanity’s sake—so she tried not to look at him, just drank from the glass of water he offered her.
He stood and watched her and saw her shock, saw what just a little while in this place had done to her, and thought again how she did not belong here.
‘Why?’ He knelt down beside her and spoke in a rough whisper. ‘Why would you come here?’
She didn’t answer him—Meg couldn’t open her mouth to speak.
‘Why?’ he demanded, and then she looked at him and he was reminded of the last time he had seen her. Because even with the absence of her bared teeth he could feel her anger, could see her green eyes flash with suppressed rage and hear the spit of her words when finally she answered him.
‘You’re entitled to me, apparently.’
Niklas remembered the first time he had met her. She had been anxious, but happy, and he knew that it was he who had reduced her to this. He could see the pain and the disgust in her eyes as she looked at the man she had married, as she saw the nothing he really was.
And he did not want her charity.
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
He moved to the door, preparing to call for the guards. He might regret it later, but he did not want a minute more in this room.
As he moved to go he heard her voice.
‘Niklas.’ She halted him. This was not about what had happened between them, not about scoring points, she was here for one reason only. ‘Your people told me…’ He turned to face her. ‘I’m to tell you …’
He silenced her by pressing his finger to his lips and nodded to the door. He trusted no one—never had in his life, and wasn’t about to start in here. But then he closed his eyes for a second, for that was wrong. Because for a while he had trusted her, and did still. He came over to her, knelt down again and moved his head to her mouth, so she could quietly tell him the little she knew.