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He woke up, opening his eyes in a thin slit, and immediately after that the phone rang. Or maybe it was the irritating timbre that made him wake up. In any case, he found himself laying on the leather sofa in his living room. He was wearing a black suit and matching shoes, the same outfit he wore the day before. It was hot.
He could not remember clearly what had happened in the last few hours, but he was glad to be home. The last thing his memory recorded was that it was dark when he left the apartment, and he was at a bar with a glass of Jack Daniel's on the bar and that was the only clue that could help him rebuild the evening. That solitary memory made him turn his attention to an empty glass bottle that, in front of his dizzy eyes, was laying on the table in front of the sofa.
He sighed.
His eyelids were almost closed, for he was convinced that if he opened them completely, he would suffer an excruciating headache. He tried to move, but his left arm was asleep and it didn’t respond; he had fallen asleep on it. He felt an uncomfortable tingle in his fingertips when he finally released it with a sharp movement. Then he slowly lifted his left ear from the black leather, revealing the imprint his own stubble had left on the cushion. He had a metallic taste in his mouth, and an uncomfortable, doughy mass prevented him from swallowing. He decided that the first thing he would do after answering the phone call would be to brush his teeth. He got up with difficulty, and after muttering fuck and a couple of oh shit, picked up the phone with a simple hello.
"I'm Carroll.” Then a pause, “I hope I didn’t wake you up”.
The man looked around, disoriented and with a heavy hangover. It was still dark. The dim light coming from the outside lamps was sneaking through the window glass, showing part of the furniture shelves. A strong anger, followed by a strange feeling of frustration and helplessness, came to him as he followed with his glance the beam of clarity. Disorder was not the right word to define what he saw. The dozens of books and compact discs, the tennis trophies he had accumulated throughout his teen years, and a couple of modern vases that, while not worth a fortune, had a high sentimental value, were scattered on the floor. They were heaped up, dented and torn to pieces. Had he continued analyzing the room, he would have also found a blow to the center of his latest model television set that cracked the forty-six inches practically in its entirety. In an instinctive movement, he moved his hand to the back of his waist, where he usually carried his pistol. He was startled to feel the emptiness in his gun case, and sighed with relief when he found it on the table, inches from the bottle of whiskey. It was a Hekler Koch Compact, a weapon of almost 700 grams with the magazine prepared for 9 mm Parabellun bullets. Light, cold and manageable. He did not remember putting it there, and that was strange, because he had become accustomed to being aware of it at all times.
He frowned.
“Agent?” The voice persisted.
"What the fuck do you want at this hour, Tom?"
"I'm sorry for waking you up on your day off, but something has happened tonight."
Your day off! These words were supposed to mean something good. People used to take advantage of them to take camping trips with their families, to dine downtown with their partners, to play football with their children or, in good weather, perhaps to enjoy a greasy and high calorie barbecue with the neighbors. He, however, had other kinds of plans. He would sleep late, maybe until 2 or 3pm. Afterwards he would have for breakfast an ice-cold whiskey while enjoying Andy Murray's match on television. The day would end with Ania's visit, which, at any time that he requested it, she would make up for his lousy day off with a torrid, wild sex exercise on the bedroom carpet, both drinking up champagne.
But Carroll had called, something had happened that night. Something serious, the detective thought, keeping an eye on the shelf, which was bound to ruin his day off.
“Are you listening to me?” Insisted the voice behind the receiver.
“Tom, what do you say happened?"
"I think you should see it with your own eyes." Thomas Carroll's voice was trembling on the other end of the phone. “Cowley Road, number 219. My God...”
"Okay, don’t lose your temper. I’ll change in a second and run out there. Just tell me what to expect, give me some infor...”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. During the conversation, he had begun to feel a stinging in the area of his right forearm. He had actually noticed it ever since he woke up. In an instinctive act, he moved the other hand to the area of the itch to rub and scratch it. It was then that something sticky covered his skin. He was astonished at what he saw, and he understood that his discomfort was not only due to the hangover: three deep scratches ran down his arm from elbow to wrist. And judging by the bruised color that was making the skin bloody, they were starting to become infected.
What the fuck...
"A terrible murder has been committed tonight," Carroll said.
The detective swallowed.
After saying goodbye with the promise that he would be there as soon as possible, he hung up the phone and got up from the sofa. Stunned, he stared at the lock on the front door: it seemed to be intact. Then he staggered through the hallway of his house, helping himself by holding onto the walls. He reached the bathroom, and as he examined his appearance in front of the mirror, he began to sweat. He had to sit on the toilet to control the dizziness that was beginning to overwhelm him. His lip was slightly cracked (hence his mouth was so pasty), and some stains of dried blood littered his chin, his neck, and a good part of his shirt.
Someone, most likely a professional, had come into the house at night destroying the furniture, drugging him and giving him a good beating. And worst of all, what plagued him most was that he didn’t remember anything at all. For an insignificant instant, the agent panicked.