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MARCHING POWDER

didn’t say as much, because it was part of the same prison etiquette that the person asking for the loan couldn’t directly accuse you of lying when you said you had nothing. He would just continue on as if you hadn’t said anything in the first place.

‘You’ve known Angela for years,’ Jose Luis persisted. ‘We’ve asked everyone. You’re our last hope.’

Then the son, Jorge, knocked at my door. He was on the point of tears and it took him a while to compose himself. He had been negotiating with the lieutenant and believed that he would now accept one thousand dollars. Then he started crying. I pulled out a chair and guided him gently towards it.

Jorge sat with his head bowed, staring down at my table and crying quietly. The tears ran down the bridge of his nose and clung to its tip until the next one came along, making the two combined drops too heavy, and they would fall into a small pool directly beneath his nose. Having a grown man cry like that in my room made me feel ashamed for not helping.

While Jorge sat weeping, his father continued to beg. The whole family would be in prison. What hope would any of them have, then? He assured me that they did have the money, just not on them. They had made phone calls and it would be brought later that day, but the lieutenant needed it right now or Angela would be charged. And if I didn’t believe that their relatives had money, then Angela knew hundreds of people in Sweden who could wire it over. One thousand dollars meant nothing in Sweden. Three days. Maximum four. Still, I resisted.

Finally, Jorge raised his head as if to speak. He had stopped crying, but his eyes were red and there was still a silvery trail over his nose where the tears had run. He looked straight at me.

‘Thomas, you have to help her. Angela . . . she’s pregnant.’

I stared at him.

‘My God! Why didn’t you say anything?’ Jose Luis said.

‘We wanted it to be a surprise.’

‘Yes, what a surprise!’ his father said sarcastically. ‘My grandchild being born in prison.’ He looked down, shaking his head slowly, and fell silent. He looked like he was ready to cry too.

That changed things for me. I had seen enough children growing up in prison to know what it does to them. ‘There might be a possibility,’ I said. ‘Wait here!’