‘Is old Cockroach succumbing, Fermín?’ asked Number 17 every time he heard him slump to the floor. Fermín no longer bothered giving medical updates on his cellmate. If it happened, they’d soon see the canvas sack passing by. ‘Look here, Salgado, if you’re going to die, do so once and for all, and if you plan to live, I beg you to do it silently because I’m fed up to the back teeth with your foaming-at-the-mouth recitals,’ Fermín told him, tucking him up with a piece of dirty canvas. In Bebo’s absence, he’d managed to obtain it from one of the jailers after winning him over with a foolproof strategy for seducing young girls – by overcoming their resistance with carefully measured doses of whipped cream and sponge fingers. ‘Don’t give me that charitable crap. I know what you’re up to. You’re no better than this pack of vultures willing to bet their underpants that I’m going to croak,’ Salgado replied. He seemed ready to keep up his foul mood to the very end.
What do You think about The Prisoner Of Heaven: A Novel?
