The Lords of Creation

Silhouetted against the full moon, the shape of a headless cat strung up by its paws. Its blood has been collected in a bowl on the floor. Only a few drops continue to fall. As each one hits the bowl it makes tiny ripples, which grow until the whole surface seems full of tossing waves. Waves that shake to the noise of heavy rock being played at full blast. The cat's head is in the corner, its luminous green eyes staring sightlessly. Fifteen people are taking part in the silent ritual. The city is spread below them.

Warm blood is mixed with wine in a glass. The blood of a cat that climbs walls, leaps nonchalantly from fence to fence, walks on the silent pads of its paws across rooftops, vanishes effortlessly into the shadows of night. Cat's blood, full of the urge to pounce unerringly on its prey. Blood that conjures up strange energies, that speeds the brain.

Antonio recalls in a jumble of images the moment of his own initiation into one of the teenage gangs in a neighbourhood on the hills of north-east Medellin. In his feverish dreams as he fights for life, he sees himself on the streets again. Strange shapes appear in the sea of city lights. They raise the cup to seal their pact. There is no need for words, they all know what they are committing themselves to, what the laws are, the rewards and the punishment. From now on they will be all for one and one for all, they will be as one. They'll be the lords of creation.

But now Antonio is in the San Rafael Ward of the Saint Vincent de Paul hospital. A military ward, full of the wounded and the dying, the victims of an unequal war waged day and night along undefined fronts on the streets of Medellín. One Tuesday, three months earlier, Antonio was blasted with a shotgun as he boarded a bus in his neighbourhood. The shot perforated his stomach, leaving him hovering between life and death. Although only twenty, Antonio has often faced death, but has never felt it so close to him. He knows, even though he won't admit it, that he's not going to make it. He has a skinny body, a face drained of colour, dark eyes sunk in huge sockets. He begins to tell me his life story in a calm voice, searching inside himself, as if taking stock for reasons of his own.

* * *

Antonio

When I was a kid I used to get a bit of money using a horne-made pistol. Then Lunar and Papucho — they're both dead now — let me have proper guns, so I started to steal and kill for real. You get violent because there are a lot of guys who want to tell you what to do, to take you over, just because you're a kid. You've got to keep your wits about you, to spread your own wings. That's what I did, and off I flew; anybody who got in my way paid for it.

I learned that lesson from my family. From the old woman, who's tough as nails. She's with me whatever I do. She might not look much, but she's always on my side. The only regret I have in quitting this earth is leaving her on her own. To know she might be all alone in her old age. She's fought hard all her life, and she doesn't deserve that.

My old man died about 14 years ago. He was a hard case too, and taught me a lot, but he was always at the bottle, and left us in the lurch. That was why I had to fend for myself, to help my ma and my brothers and sisters. That's how I started in a gang — but also because it was something inside me, I was born with this violent streak.

Lunar, the leader of the gang, was only a teenager but he was tough all right. He'd been in the business for years already. He lived in Bello for a while and knew the people from Los Monjes. He learned a lot from them, so when he carne to live here he started up his own gang. He had a birthmark or lunar on his cheek, that's how he got the nickname. It was thanks to him and Papucho, the other leader, that I learned how to do things properly.

I'll never forget the first time I had to kill someone. I had already shot a few people, but I'd never seen death close up. It was in Copacabana, a small place near Medellín. We were breaking into a farmhouse one morning when the watchman suddenly appeared out of nowhere. I was behind a wall, he ran in front of me, I looked up and was so startled I emptied my revolver into him. He was stone dead. That was tough, I won't lie, it was tough for me to take. For two weeks I couldn't eat a thing because I saw his face even in my food ... but after that it got easy. You learn to kill without it disturbing your sleep.

Now it's me who's the gang leader. Papucho was killed by the guys up on the hill there. They set a trap for him and he fell for it. They asked him to do a job for them, then shot him to pieces. A friend of his was behind it, who'd sold out. Lunar made me second-in-command because we understood each other almost without speaking — we didn't need words.

Lunar didn't last much longer; he was never one to back down from a fight, never a chicken. He really enjoyed life; he always said we were all playing extra time anyway. And he was enjoying himself when he died: he was at a dance about three blocks down the hill when they shot him three times in the back. He was on his own because he reckoned there were no skunks down there. The kid who shot him died almost before he could blink. We tracked him down that same night, and sent him on his trip to the stars.

After Lunar's death another wise guy thought he'd take over the gang. I had to get tough and show him who was boss. For being such a smart ass now he's pushing up the dirt as well. It's me who gives the orders round here, I say what we do and don't do. There were about fifty of us to begin with, but a lot of them have been killed or put inside, and others have grassed. There's only twenty of us real hard cases left. They're all teenagers, between 15 and 18. I'm the oldest. A lot get killed or caught, but more always want to join, to get some action.

Whenever anyone wants to join I ask around: 'Who is this kid? Can I trust him?' Then I decide if he can join or not. They're all kids who see things as they are; they know they won't get anywhere by working or studying, but if they join us they'll have ready money. They join because they want to, not because we force them. We don't tell anybody they have to. Not all of them are really poor, some do it for their families, others because they want to live in style.

Before we finally choose someone we give him a test: to take something somewhere, to carry guns and to keep them hidden. Then finally we give them a job to do. If the kid shows he can do it, then he's one of us. But if he ever grasses on us, if he shoots his mouth off, if he gets out of line, then he's dead meat. Everyone understands that. Then again, we support each other all we can; 'If you haven't got something and I have, take it, friend — as a gift, not a loan'. We also help if someone's in trouble. We look after each other, but nobody can double-cross us.

We take good care of our guns, because they're hard to come by. The last kid I shot died because of that.

'Antonio, help me out will...