HE BLINKED. AND blinked again. Scenes flashed before him like photos from a slide show.
A new shift. This doctor seemed to know nothing. He was sympathetic, if rushed. These papers to sign, these decisions to be made. He needed to think about costs, options. There were some good deals worth considering. Difficult, he knew, but necessary. So sorry for their loss.
The fine crescent of the dying moon dipped over the horizon and the sun began its relentless rise, whitening everything in sight. They stepped outside for a smoke. His stores were running low. It would be impossible to buy more here, in the hospital.
Alicia slipped her arm into his. She was with him, close to him, making him know that he was not alone. That she was not about to leave him.
The cigarette burnt his finger as he drew hard. He looked down: the pain called to him from a great distance, a barely audible scream from a ship sinking at sea. He stubbed the cigarette out on the ground, licked his finger, blew on it, and walked back inside. The automatic doors buzzed like a wasp as they swept back to swallow him in.
A paper cup of icy water was thrust into his hand.
‘You need to drink something. Here.’
The liquid cut into his teeth.
The body lay on the bed, a sheet covering as far as Hilario’s neck. His face still bore the signs of the twisting contortions of its final minutes. Cámara leaned over and tried to mould it back to its proper shape, an expression he could recognise. The skin was cold and oily under his fingertips. And it hardly moved. Best not to see him like that. He did not want to see him like that. He was told to stop, but continued nonetheless. A hand rested on his arm. It was Alicia. Stop. Come away.
His hands ached with exertion. A bead of sweat trickled into the corner of his eye.
‘I never thought it would be like this.’
‘I always knew it would be like this.’
There was a window of tinted glass at the end of the corridor. He stood by it, looking out over roads and motorways, the new river bed, patches of green, half-built abandoned tower blocks, cars and trucks and cars. And saw nothing.
The ceiling strip lights burnt and glared.
‘You’re in a state of shock. You should go home. I can take care of this.’
‘I’m fine. I can manage. Just a few more things to sort out. Then we’ll go.’
A call to Personnel. Family tragedy . . . compassionate leave . . . Have to be cleared. Call in again tomorrow.
‘Chief Inspector?’
A man in a grey suit, standing, not sitting. Refusing to sit. He heard the word ‘security’ and switched off.
The man spoke at length. He nodded when the tone of voice seemed to demand a response. Then the man walked away.
‘What did he say?’
She gave a concerned smile.
‘It’s sorted. They won’t be pressing charges, or even making a formal complaint. In light of the circumstances.’
‘I should have shot that doctor.’
A new figure, a familiar figure, standing in front of him.
Torres, holding out two packets of Ducados.
‘Thanks.’
Alicia stood up and Torres kissed her on both cheeks.
‘I’m going to get some coffee.’
And she left them alone.
Torres sat, one seat away. He stretched his arm across and touched his friend’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry.’
He nodded thanks, and chewed hard with his front teeth on a piece of food that had dislodged itself from somewhere in his mouth. Last night’s dinner? Lunch? What had he last eaten?
‘The squad send their condolences. And their best wishes.’
‘Thanks.’ His voice stuttered. He coughed to dislodge a ball of phlegm that had stuck in his throat, then swallowed. The morsel of food went down with it.
‘Thanks,’ he said again.
‘Laura’s running things on the case.’
‘Good.’
‘Everything’s fine. Everything’s sorted.’
He knew it was a lie.
‘Maldo?’
‘Don’t worry about it. We’ve got you covered. All of us. They love you, Max.’
Max. Torres never called him Max.
‘You can take a last look, if you like.’
Another new face. Another shift? Outside, the white midday light seemed to have softened. A woman this time. He felt the weight of his pistol in his jacket pocket. It must have been returned to him.
A last look? At what? A dead body? That was not Hilario. But yes, he would like to.
The buzzing again. The wasp had entered his skull.
The flat, their new life in Valencia, Hilario’s things.
There will be time for that later.
Alicia poured him a glass. Brandy, sweet, burning fumes. His shoulders gave one violent shudder, and then the tears came.
They wrapped into a ball on the sofa. His head would burst with so much crying.
The dying light of day cast slithering inky shadows over the walls.
‘Do you want something to eat?’
‘No. Thanks.’
‘Another drink?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Something else?’
She reached for the old coffee jar on the shelf where Hilario kept his home-grown. Inside, the slim red packet of cigarette papers nestled on the bed of dried green leaves. The smell, sickly and inviting, reached out to stroke his face.
‘Not tonight,’ he said.
Not tonight.
Above, high above, the black sky winked.
Amor y muerte, nada mas fuerte. Nothing is stronger than love – or death.