They speed back through the deserted shopping centre in silence. Outside, dusk is falling, tuning the sky’s blue up to purple.
Paloma turns in the direction of her apartment. ‘Are you coming up?’
Jonny slows, trying to catch her eye. ‘To yours?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ he answers, quickening his step, brain moving in an altogether different direction. The last time he set foot in his own apartment there was a photo of a dismembered corpse lying on the doormat. If it wasn’t for what’s still hiding under his floorboards he’d ideally never return there. And he’s got a whole lot more questions for Paloma. But what is she actually asking him – if he’ll walk her home? If he’ll come inside and talk? Eat, even? Or share a drink? Suddenly he finds himself having to hurry to catch her up. He’s never been inside her apartment before.
‘It’s just,’ she says quietly, ‘after everything that’s happened, you know …’
‘Right, right.’ Jonny stares at the sky.
They remain in awkward silence until they reach her apartment building. A neighbour buzzes them in. He’s still lagging when Paloma reaches her front door on the top floor.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asks.
Jonny can’t help but snort. He’s been hungry for what feels like days now.
‘It’s only bread and cheese,’ she adds.
‘Sounds great,’ he answers hurriedly.
123Paloma shoves open her door. Following her inside, Jonny finds that he’s holding his breath.
‘Beer?’ She kneels to open her fridge; it’s in the exact same spot as Jonny’s. He eyes the rest of her apartment – laid out identically to his bar a few more books in her bookcase, a few extra cupboards on the walls.
‘Are you having one?’
‘Sure.’ She pulls out a large bottle of Quilmes, puts it on the table between them, followed by a cellophane bag of sliced white bread and a couple of packets of processed cheese and ham.
‘Sandwiches de miga,’ Jonny pronounces, trying to get some sort of conversation going. An Argentine staple – sandwiches made from only the spongiest parts of a plain white loaf. But Paloma just throws him a frown.
‘I’ve always hated crusts,’ he adds. ‘I just never imagined anywhere would be able to turn it into a selling point when it comes to ham and cheese toasties.’
He waits for Paloma to sit down before following her lead. There’s a hiss and sigh as she snaps the cap off the bottle of beer, then takes a deep draught directly from the bottle.
‘Ham and cheese or just cheese?’ Jonny ploughs on, untying the plastic bag of bread.
‘Not for me. You go ahead, though.’ She puts the bottle down and pushes it towards him. ‘And don’t let me drink all this.’
Jonny swaps bread for beer. The ice-cold brew fizzes into his stomach.
‘Go on. I told you to, didn’t I?’ Paloma jerks her head at the food on the table. ‘You’re doing that weird thing you do when you’re so hungry you can’t concentrate.’
‘What thing?’ But Jonny is already reaching for the bread again.
‘You can’t tear your eyes away …’
‘From what? Food?’ Jonny crams a piece of ham into his mouth.
124Paloma lets out a brittle little laugh. Opening a cupboard, Jonny pulls out a couple of chipped white plates, moving to the drawer under the sink for some cutlery. He hesitates at the sight of a set of stubby-looking knives laid neatly side by side in a black velvet box. Knives of a kind he doesn’t think he’s ever seen before – short, almost dart-like blades with gleaming porcelain handles.
‘These look nice,’ he remarks lamely. ‘Where did you get them? Are you sure I can’t make you a sandwich too?’
‘From home. And no, thanks. I’m not hungry.’
Jonny eyes the box. Are these steak knives? He’s sure they’re usually slim and elegant. And why would anyone bring their own to Argentina, whatever their shape and size? Steak and its accompaniments are even more common here than the bread he’s slapping together into a sandwich. He decides to pull the crusts off with his fingers like he usually does rather than chance the knives.
Paloma pushes the beer bottle towards Jonny again, motioning that he drink up. ‘There’s more in the fridge if you want it.’
Jonny alternates between beer and food rather than ask any more questions. The growing silence takes on an almost physical quality, settling into the chair between them.
‘You can stay.’ Paloma’s voice echoes abruptly around the small room. ‘I want you to, I mean. Stay. If you wouldn’t mind. I’m just so tired, and I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep at all unless someone else is here.’
Jonny drains the rest of the beer to stop his mouth from dropping open. Stay? Here? With her? Where? His head revolves on his neck like some sort of brainless automaton, taking in the single bed, the linoleum floor, the two grubby cushions turning the top of the low bookcase into an extra seat. Paloma suddenly gets up, pushing back her chair with an uncomfortable clang.
‘Of course I can stay,’ Jonny answers hurriedly. ‘I’d, well, I’d prefer it too, to be honest. I mean, who wouldn’t? After everything that has happened today.’
125He swigs pointlessly from the empty bottle, tries to swallow down the urge to keep talking, to just keep rattling on like some verbally incontinent fucking idiot. After everything that’s happened today?
Paloma can’t even look at him as she turns around. ‘It’s just all so hard to believe.’
‘Try and rest,’ he says, pointing with the bottle at her bed in the corner. ‘I’ll be here, don’t worry. I’m so tired I could sleep anywhere.’ He lets out an awkward little laugh.
When he looks up, she’s disappearing into her tiny bathroom without another word.
Moving over to her open window, Jonny scans the street below, registers its comings and goings in a trance, suddenly with no idea what he’s looking for. Behind him, there’s a click as Paloma turns out the light. When he finally turns around, she is lying face down on her bed, still fully clothed.
Setting his bottle gently into the sink, he collects up her stray cushions, fashions himself a nest on the floor beside her. Only when he lies down himself does Paloma let out a soft sigh.
Jonny blinks into the dark, lying on his side, tries to find the words to formulate the question. What is she hiding from him? And more importantly, why?
‘Are you scared?’ Paloma’s voice is muffled by her pillow.
‘A bit,’ he answers after moment. ‘I know, I should be terrified. But the thing is, and I know it sounds crazy, it’s the thought of all those people and the way they died that’s stopping me being scared myself. It’s the thought of all those families that still have no idea what really happened. What right do I have to be scared in the face of that?’
The silence sharpens its elbows between them.
Jonny tries again. ‘Look, the fact that I’m not terrified enough says far more about me than it does about you. But I just can’t let it go. Is there anything worse than withholding information about 126where people are? Or about what really happened to them? The thought of being trapped in limbo, of not knowing the truth or having any sort of closure. And people not knowing who they really are? Or where they really come from? All those babies that might be living as other people? I don’t think even physical pain comes close to the thought of any of that.’
‘Neither do I,’ Paloma finally answers, her whisper floating in the space closing between them. An inescapable instinct twitches in Jonny before he can tamp it down.
Paloma sighs again, this time so long and deep that Jonny knows she’s sitting up – is she reaching out for him? But the sound that follows is so unmistakable his own breath stills in his throat.
Squinting into the dark, every fibre of Jonny’s body realigns itself in an altogether different direction.
A key is turning in the lock.