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SNOWING IN BALI

He still thought he was somewhere near Ubud – where people very close by were probably finding inner peace, meditating and doing yoga classes, or relaxing by the infinity pool with a cocktail. They might as well have been on another planet. He thought of the irony of the Balinese image as being peaceful, gentle people, when these same people were sadistically bashing him with relish, trying to break him.

During the beatings, every so often they'd pause and snarl, 'Come on, use your tongue, give us names.' They were pushing him to set up a sting so he could 'change heads' and walk free. They held his mobile phone under his nose, taunting, 'You want to make a call? Look, here's your phone,' then dropped it in his lap. They spat names out. 'You know the coke guy? Rafael?' Alberto kept shaking his head. His phone was full of dealers' numbers but he knew there was no chance of the cops deciphering the nicknames.

The cops were randomly texting messages like: 'Can I score some hash?' But no one in the game ever used direct words, only euphemisms, so nobody was stupid enough to reply. Alberto kept singing the same tune, 'I don't do drugs business,' aware his denials were perilous, but now sure – to the core of his being – that he would never snitch.

Fucking rats. I don't even share the same table, the same bar, with people like that. Will you be strong and quiet and eat your own shit or will you give your mother to get away from your problems? That's what it boils down to, and that's what matters the most.

– Alberto

He knew these brutal bashings would eventually end, but if he turned rat he knew his soul would never recover. So he kept

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