He has no choice. He has to go back. A choice necessarily involves more than one option and he has less than that. He has no idea either which is why really, he has to go back. They left him where they'd picked him up, literally, by the side of the road with his bike on its side in the bushes. He pulls it out and props it up, running his hand over the scuffed leather of the seat and down over the tyres. Luckily, the damage is limited. Limited to a few scratches and a dented mud flap. Then he runs his hand over his ribs and down his back and hopes he can say the same for himself.
He returns to her house, leaving the bike propped by the kerb on the driveway. Standing in the moonlight, he takes a moment to collect his thoughts and smooth the hairs on his head. Then he steps towards the door and knocks twice, with his fist curled up in a ball and his heart beating fast in his chest. She answers, eventually. Calling out first for Pepito to identify himself and when he does she swings the door open and stands there with her head tipped to one side and her hands hitched up on her hips.
"Can I come in?"
"She dips her head and steps back. He enters, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. She follows behind as he strides to the living room and stands there, in the middle of the room. His head swivels round as she brushes past him and throws herself down on the sofa. She kicks off her shoes, stretches out her legs and tilts her head back, watching Pepito from behind her lashes as he crosses the room towards her. As for Pepito, he tries not to look, tries not to notice that her skirt is too short and has ridden up to reveal a fleshy expanse of thigh. And he tires not to remember that the last time he saw her she was wearing a robe and was barefoot. He clears his throat and positions himself by the window with his back to the night and his eyes skipping nervously around the room.
"Carlos?" He eventually asks because it seems like a good place to start. He's biding his time, steeling himself before he has to confront her and ask why she lied. Or, at least, why she failed to mention that fateful night.
"He's asleep." She stretches, pushing her arms high above her head as she stifles a yawn. "What brings you back here Detective Pons?"
He decides to come straight to the point.
"I've just had an interesting meeting with Francisco Turó."
He crosses towards a chair and sits down noting the subtle expression that flits across her face. Whether it was fear or surprise Pepito can't be sure, it only lasted a second. He presses onwards.
"He told me Rosa was here with you that Wednesday night."
He waits for her to respond with his eyes planted firmly on her face, searching for a shift in her expression like the one he saw before. She stares back at him, eyes wide open, except for a small nagging twitch in the corner of her eye, her face is an expressionless mask. She rises from the sofa brushing her hair from her face and crosses towards the window with her back towards the room.
"Yes, she was here." Leaning forwards she touches the glass with her forehead and sighs. Pepito sits forwards. A desire to rush towards her and hold her, kiss her, have her blurt it out, all of it, her whole damn life if she wanted to, rises up inside of him but he swallows the urge and restrains himself with the seat of his pants firmly stuck to the chair. She turns towards him slowly, her eyes finding some blank spot somewhere above his head and starts to speak.
"She was here ... I tried to talk some sense into her, make her see that she was making a mistake ... guy's like Cisco are out for themselves, they don't give a shit about anyone else ..."
"Something you would know." He aims his words precisely and hopes that when they hit, they'll sting. They do. She stumbles forwards, her eyes still fixed on that place above his head, her hand stretching out in front of her and her knees buckling but Pepito reaches her before she crumples. He props her up, one hand skimming the small of her back and the other hooked beneath her shoulders. He'd lift her up but his ribs protest so he guides her towards the sofa where he eases her down gently and steps back. She draws her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her ankles. Somehow, she looks smaller.
"I know how this must look but I couldn't tell the police ..."
"And me?"
"I couldn't even tell you ... she came here herself, I swear ..."
"What time?"
"Around nine, she said I owed her money, that's all she cared about ... money," she spits the words out through her teeth, "then she told me she was leaving Carlos ... what could I do?"
She unfolds herself and looks up at Pepito, her eyes large and confused.
"How long did she stay?"
"Not long ... half an hour maybe a little more .. there wasn't much to talk about, she was set in her ways and didn't want to listen."
"Did you give her the money?"
She nods her head.
"I just wanted to get rid of her ... she took it and left. That was the last time I saw her."
She stands up and moves towards Pepito with her hair falling across her face in tangled strands and her hands stretched out towards him.
"I couldn't tell anyone because I didn't want Carlos to know ... I didn't want Carlos to know anything ... when she told me she was leaving him I knew his world would fall apart, he loved her." She turns from him suddenly, stifling a sob in the back of her throat as she crosses towards a bar in the corner of the room. "I thought that maybe she would just go away and he would forget about her ..." Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand she uncorks the cap of a bottle of malt with the other and slops a generous amount into a glass. "But he didn't ... he wouldn't ..."
She raises the glass to her lips and tips her head back.
"I wanted to tell you," she says as she places the empty glass back on the counter, "I wanted to tell you everything."
She walks back across the room, back to the sofa and sits down, drawing her legs up beside her. Pepito turns his back. He closes his eyes and starts counting. By the time he reaches double digits, he's already made up his mind. He believes her. Why shouldn't he? He could see how things turned out. He could see Rosa standing in this very room, those smiling lips drawn back and her face distorted. He could see how they talked, argued, shouted. A mother and an ex. At least, that's how he imagines it and perhaps that's why he believes her but maybe there's something else. He stares out the window trying to pick out familiar shapes in the darkness; a lemon tree, a geranium, the dented fender on his bike but his eyes keep straying back to her reflection and those endless limbs stretched out beneath her, stretching out into the night. He turns around to face her.
"How long have you known Francisco Turó?" He has to ask, although he'd rather not hear all the sordid details. He walks back towards her and sits down beside her, forcing himself to listen with his heart beating hard in his chest.
"Too long ... I used to work in a small place down by the port and he'd come in from time to time, I suppose it all started then ..." She stops for a moment and draws in her breath, "but things were never serious between us ... we were both young and then, one day he just disappeared ... I later found out that he'd spent some time in prison and when he came out I saw him around but," she stops again, choosing her words carefully, "things were never the same, we'd both changed too much ... I'd had Carlos by then and was working on my first club."
"Was that when you had Carlos adopted?"
She stares at him for a moment before answering.
"I had no other choice ... he had a better chance with a proper family."
Pepito shakes his head, "I didn't mean ..." But it's too late, he's already said too much.
"You think it was easy?"
She rises quickly from the sofa and starts to speak, her fingers restlessly picking at the hem of her skirt. "There wasn't a day went by when I didn't think about him ... wonder where he was .. what he was doing .. what he looked like." She strides towards the window and looks out. "Then one day, he showed up ... can you imagine that?"
Pepito shakes his head. She starts to laugh.
"He'd tracked me down ... said he wanted to know who I was and we took it from there and after all my trying to protect him from my life he didn't even question it, never judged ..."
"And he started working at the club?"
She nods her head.
"I got a second chance," she turns to face him. "Do you know what it's like to get a second chance?"
Yes, Pepito does. He knows and he nods his head slowly, his neck bent and his gaze fixed on his father's shoes. He stands up, wearily pushing himself upwards on the palms of his hands and walks to the window. He stands before her.
"Don't worry," his breath brushes her cheek, "no-one's going to take him from you again."
She leans towards him. She reaches out and takes his hand, running her thumb over the ridges on the back. She lifts her head. She smiles.
"Thank you."
Two words. Sometimes, that's all it takes. He feels his cheeks ignite, burning up his face. He dips his head and extracts his hand from her tapering fingers. He turns around. He clears his throat. He opens his mouth with a click of his jaw and closes it again. Too scared to speak. Too scared of the words that may spill from his mouth, fearful of where they may lead him. And then he remembers Bogart. So he turns around to reclaim the moment but the moment has already passed. Behind his back it fled, taking it's object with it. She's already walked across the room and is standing behind the sofa watching him, her fingers extended over the cushioned back are tapping softly. She opens her mouth to speak then closes it again, shaking her head. He moves towards her. He stumbles against the coffee table, grazing his shin on the corner and curses under his breath.
"It's late," she says and Pepito nods with a disconsolate droop of his head.
3.16 am to be precise as Pepito slips the key in the lock and steps into the shop. He closes the door behind him with a weary nudge from his foot and walks towards the doorway at the back of the room. He climbs the stairs with his feet dragging heavily on each step and his heart sinking fast in his chest. He's close and he knows it, so close he could reach out and grab this case by the throat and yet, something is eluding him. Some crucial piece of information that would tie the whole damn thing together. He stops at the top of the stairs, his hand clutching the banister and runs through the facts once more. Once more for old time's sake. First, there is Rosa but the image of the smiling girl in the photograph with one arm shielding her breasts is becoming blurred. The more he learns about her, the less he likes and the further that image fades, becoming distorted and out of focus as each new piece of information falls into place until he hardly recognises her anymore. Hardly knows that smiling face. He crosses the landing at the top of the stairs and pushes the door to the bedroom. Then there is Carlos, he slips into his thoughts as he shrugs the shirt from his back. Poor dumb schmuck. Caught up in the events of the last few days with no knowledge of how he got there and no reason why he, of all people, should be the main suspect. After all, what did he have to gain? As far as Pepito is concerned he had loved her, loved her without question. Loved her too much, perhaps, too much to see the truth that was dangling before him. He stands at the edge of the bed and kicks off his shoes. First the right foot, then the left. He sits down on the crumpled sheets and leans backwards, his arms stretched out on either side and his legs hanging over the edge. The last thing he remembers before he plunges into sleep is Mariquita, with her eyes closed and her back arched.
And she is dancing. She is dancing for him, again.
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