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Between two fickle slats in the blind, the tenuous streetlight lazily worked its way into the bedroom. The sort of misshapen little slats which, in the darkness of our bedrooms, let in a faint light; the kind that we only manage to make out after having been awake for a few minutes. Sandra, however, had spent hours in bed appreciating this light, lying down face up underneath the sheets, thoughtful. She knew by heart the exact position in which the little halos of light reflected, and the figures that they made on the wall. They had been sources of inspiration for her the entire night.
By her side, Javier turned over and blinked in the darkness. He still couldn’t appreciate the light. In silence, he kissed Sandra on the cheek, as his way of saying good morning, and moved over towards her, guided by the warmth of her body beneath the sheets. Then, he reached out his hand and placed it on her stomach, gently caressing it in small circles, to then gradually begin tracing over his wife’s voluminous curves with his fingertips. When he finished, he kissed her, and moved his hand down towards more southern regions. Sandra did not collaborate, but nor did she reject him. She just made a small movement beneath the sheets and sighed.
A short while later, the young man moved his hand away:
“You still worrying?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Javier blinked again and moved back lazily to the other side of the bed.
“I’m not looking forward to today either” he said.
The woman did not answer. Nor did she need to; some customs are only cast aside on very special occasions.
Shortly after she turned on the light, she pulled off the sheet in one firm movement and stood up, making her way to the bathroom.
“I have to get up,” she said, without looking back.
From where he was, Javier contemplated his wife’s naked body. Sandra had never been the most attractive, or the kindest, or even the best person. But for him, he had always been drawn towards such women: he had that mysterious desire particular to certain men whose low self-esteem prevents them from having any higher aspirations. And Javier was not a man of big ambition.
Five minutes later, Sandra returned.
“Aren’t you getting up?” she asked, now freshly showered and already half dressed.
“I’m getting up now.”
“I’m going to wake up Toni,” she said, walking out of the room.
Toni, at five years old, suffered the torment of having parents who worked shifts. On Good Friday, all of the children sleep until mid-morning, have breakfast in bed, and then play with their parents. But for him, his festive morning would take place at nursery, as usual.
When Javier arrived at the dining room to have breakfast, Toni was finishing off his glass of milk and Sandra had already put on her Atendo jacket, as she her job was assisting people at the platform at Renfe Ferrocarril train stations.
“Toni, finish up, now,” she called out to her son from the hall.
He didn’t say anything.
“C’mon, finish quickly,” Javier insisted quietly as he sat down.
“Are you working today as well?” asked Toni, in that cuttingly innocent way that only children can.
“Just for the morning,” he answered. “Come on now, finish your milk.”
The child brought the large glass up to his mouth. Sandra came into the dining room, carrying Toni’s little jacket. This time, her demands were directed towards her husband:
“And what about you, have you still not had breakfast?”
Javi finished off one last biscuit. As soon as he had swallowed it, he drank down his milk in one gulp and declared himself ready:
“Let’s go.”
In just a short moment, he went to the bedroom for a jacket, also picking up his phone, car keys, and wallet, before turning off the light. When he returned, Sandra and Toni were already waiting with the door open and the lift called.
“Will you drop me off at the station first and then take the boy to nursery?” asked Sandra as they went down in the lift. “It takes a little time for me just to get in.”
“Yes.”
The three of them got into the car, which was parked in front of the building. Barely five minutes later, Javier stopped in front of the raised entrance to the Ferrocarril station. Sandra kissed each of them, and then got out. The car continued on its way. In the city centre, Javier helped Toni out of the car, and held his hand. He didn’t even turn off the car engine whilst he accompanied him to the front door to the nursery.
Ten minutes later, the car made its final stop in the car park to the old Hospital Provincial. It was seven thirty in the morning. At eight o’clock, Javier would be starting his shift as emergency porter. This meant that he had half an hour to have a coffee, read the daily newspaper and get dressed into his work scrubs before signing in. Some days, he had arrived there with less time to spare.
He went in through the main door and made his way to the cafeteria. He took a newspaper from one of the tables and stopped at the bar counter whilst the waiter prepared his usual coffee: a little milk and two sugars. Whilst standing there, he eyed the front page:
La Región: ‘Four dead in four days. The police officer Miguel Dacal Santos is officially, since yesterday, the latest victim of the ‘Golf Ball Assassin’ (pp.2-3)’.
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Javier lingered thoughtfully over the title for a moment. Then he shook his head several times. He did not want to keep reading, and so he folded the paper and cast it onto the counter. Next, he downed the coffee in one and walked towards the exit.
“Excuse me,” the waiter called out to him, just as he was about to leave, “you haven’t paid me.”
In the doorway, Javier instantly closed his eyes and arched his brow, with his head bowed. He retraced his steps, took out a coin and placed it on the counter.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’d completely forgotten.”
The waiter put the coin into the till, with a smile on his face. He did not ask for any further explanations. Knowing his client, he knew that he wouldn’t lie to him.