But what happened to Raphael? That persistent young buck, secreted behind the door in Francisco's house with his ear to the crack and his heart in his mouth - what happened when the phone clicked down? Had he watched as Francisco strolled over to the bar, picked up a random nut from a plate and cracked it between his teeth? Or was his attention diverted? Suddenly, by the sound of a car on the driveway. As the tyres chewed gravel he'd spun around, his eyes nervously scanning the front door and his feet ready to take flight. He could have escaped. He could have run back up the stairs, two at a time, out of the window, climbed down the balcony and out into the night by the time they switched the engine off but he didn't. Call it persistence, call it what you like, as the sound of feet pounded closer and someone stumbled on the stairs, Raphael lunged towards the nearest doorway and threw himself inside.
The room was small and dark, stuffed with coats and suitcases and so much junk that he had to hunker down with his knees drawn in tight. And he waited. Waited until he heard the click of the front door and the sound of bodies in the hallway. How many bodies? He couldn't tell but they jostled past his hiding place and disappeared down the hall. And he waited still, for a few minutes more, before he dared to duck his head out and check if the coast was clear. It was. It was then that he could have escaped. Crept up to the front door and lifted the latch. Slipped out onto the driveway and no-one would have known and perhaps that's was where he was headed except, he never reached the door. He stopped right there. In the middle of the hallway, completely exposed with one hand reaching out to freedom and the other hanging back. He cocked his head. Cocked his head and strained his ears as the familiar voice of Pepito wafted through the walls. But he couldn't be sure so he edged a little closer, closer to that door. Pressed his eye against that frame and peered through the crack once more. And there he was. Detective Pepito Pons, seated on a chair with his back to the door, brushing the dirt from his jacket with harried flicks from his hand.
It was then that he bolted. Took off into the night with the front door swinging, telling tales of his flight. Snaking through the trees and tramping over stones, he kept on running. Running out of breath and running out of steam until his legs gave up beneath him and he collapsed in the dirt. Collapsed completely, his face streaked with tears and his lungs screaming for mercy despite his tender years. He rolled over and lay flat on his back. Stared at the sky and counted the stars. By the time he reached a hundred, he was already heading back.
He was waiting at the house by the time Pepito left. Waiting and watching as Pepito walked from the place on his own two legs. And when he saw that Pepito was safe, he waited still in the bushes, crouched down low, obscured amongst the trees. Waited until the car pulled out of the driveway and slid down the road. Then he waited a little longer until all the lights went out in the house. Only the crickets were there to witness as he sneaked back up the steps, around the side with pale light of the moon to guide him and up to an opened window. Opened just enough for him to ease his hands beneath and pull upwards. Upwards and in, he slid his skinny body through the opening and stood up. He looked around, moved through the room, touching every surface with the oily pads of his nimble fingers until he stumbled on a desk pushed up tight in the corner. He stopped, twisted his head to check all around him as he pulled open the drawers and rifled through them, pocketing hastily, whatever came to hand. A wrist watch, a letter opener, a lighter and some other odds and ends and with his pockets bulging and a film of sweat spiking his brow, he moved quickly towards the door. But he wasn't finished yet. He poked his head out and scanned the hallway. He counted the doors until he reached that one - the one that had held Pepito captive more than an hour before - and when he was sure that his legs could carry him he darted towards it. Then carefully, with his back bent double and his heart pumping the blood swiftly through his veins, he pushed it open and ducked inside. He walked to the middle of the room and stood there with his hands propped up on the side of his hips, as his eyes flicked over the place. Some things never leave you, some things are in the blood. Like an eye for detail, a nose for a bargain and fingers that are sticky and light in their touch. With one such finger, Raphael scratched his chin. He'd already pondered his options and noted the exits - window in front, door behind and an enticing cabinet pushed up against the wall. It seemed like a good place to start. So he moved towards it, stepping lightly, fingers flexing as his instincts took hold. Of course, it was locked but he'd half expected it. Breathing deeply, he bowed his head and dipped his hand into his pocket to extract a long hooked wire which he held aloft, squinting at the end before he poked it forwards into the mouth of the lock. Eased it forwards, sliding it gently, positioning it carefully. Then he twiddled and twiddled. And twiddled some more. Wiping the sweat that slipped down towards his eyes with hasty swipes until the lock clicked and the door popped open. The door popped open and he staggered back, nervously flicking his head around to check he was still alone. He was. He was reaching forwards. Reaching in and running his sticky fingers down the cold, hard spine of a semi-automatic pump action shot gun. He had to step back and take a deep breath, expelling the air from his lungs with a long, low whistle. Then he muttered to himself, shaking his head and riffled through the rest of the things, papers mostly, letters, deeds, official looking stuff and some passports. He picked them up and examined their covers attracted perhaps, by their curious script. Archaic letters, gently curling, like beautiful mistakes from a long lost age. Choosing one, he opened it and flicked through the pages until he came to a photograph of a girl not much older than Raphael himself. He ran a finger over her unsmiling face. Traced it along her piercing blue eyes and down a strand of mousy hair that had fallen across her broad set face. There were others too. Twelve in all. All with the same lettering, each with a different face - dark, fair, grey eyed and blue. All women, all young, peering out from between the pages with the same tentative smile lighting up their face. He read their names, rolling the letters around in his mouth, tasting their sound on the tip of his tongue.
Olga, Sylvia .... Natasha.
Before he left, he placed them back in the cabinet, picking out the first one of the blue-eyed girl with the mousy hair.
Her name was Natasha and he placed her carefully in his pocket.
The room was small and dark, stuffed with coats and suitcases and so much junk that he had to hunker down with his knees drawn in tight. And he waited. Waited until he heard the click of the front door and the sound of bodies in the hallway. How many bodies? He couldn't tell but they jostled past his hiding place and disappeared down the hall. And he waited still, for a few minutes more, before he dared to duck his head out and check if the coast was clear. It was. It was then that he could have escaped. Crept up to the front door and lifted the latch. Slipped out onto the driveway and no-one would have known and perhaps that's was where he was headed except, he never reached the door. He stopped right there. In the middle of the hallway, completely exposed with one hand reaching out to freedom and the other hanging back. He cocked his head. Cocked his head and strained his ears as the familiar voice of Pepito wafted through the walls. But he couldn't be sure so he edged a little closer, closer to that door. Pressed his eye against that frame and peered through the crack once more. And there he was. Detective Pepito Pons, seated on a chair with his back to the door, brushing the dirt from his jacket with harried flicks from his hand.
It was then that he bolted. Took off into the night with the front door swinging, telling tales of his flight. Snaking through the trees and tramping over stones, he kept on running. Running out of breath and running out of steam until his legs gave up beneath him and he collapsed in the dirt. Collapsed completely, his face streaked with tears and his lungs screaming for mercy despite his tender years. He rolled over and lay flat on his back. Stared at the sky and counted the stars. By the time he reached a hundred, he was already heading back.
He was waiting at the house by the time Pepito left. Waiting and watching as Pepito walked from the place on his own two legs. And when he saw that Pepito was safe, he waited still in the bushes, crouched down low, obscured amongst the trees. Waited until the car pulled out of the driveway and slid down the road. Then he waited a little longer until all the lights went out in the house. Only the crickets were there to witness as he sneaked back up the steps, around the side with pale light of the moon to guide him and up to an opened window. Opened just enough for him to ease his hands beneath and pull upwards. Upwards and in, he slid his skinny body through the opening and stood up. He looked around, moved through the room, touching every surface with the oily pads of his nimble fingers until he stumbled on a desk pushed up tight in the corner. He stopped, twisted his head to check all around him as he pulled open the drawers and rifled through them, pocketing hastily, whatever came to hand. A wrist watch, a letter opener, a lighter and some other odds and ends and with his pockets bulging and a film of sweat spiking his brow, he moved quickly towards the door. But he wasn't finished yet. He poked his head out and scanned the hallway. He counted the doors until he reached that one - the one that had held Pepito captive more than an hour before - and when he was sure that his legs could carry him he darted towards it. Then carefully, with his back bent double and his heart pumping the blood swiftly through his veins, he pushed it open and ducked inside. He walked to the middle of the room and stood there with his hands propped up on the side of his hips, as his eyes flicked over the place. Some things never leave you, some things are in the blood. Like an eye for detail, a nose for a bargain and fingers that are sticky and light in their touch. With one such finger, Raphael scratched his chin. He'd already pondered his options and noted the exits - window in front, door behind and an enticing cabinet pushed up against the wall. It seemed like a good place to start. So he moved towards it, stepping lightly, fingers flexing as his instincts took hold. Of course, it was locked but he'd half expected it. Breathing deeply, he bowed his head and dipped his hand into his pocket to extract a long hooked wire which he held aloft, squinting at the end before he poked it forwards into the mouth of the lock. Eased it forwards, sliding it gently, positioning it carefully. Then he twiddled and twiddled. And twiddled some more. Wiping the sweat that slipped down towards his eyes with hasty swipes until the lock clicked and the door popped open. The door popped open and he staggered back, nervously flicking his head around to check he was still alone. He was. He was reaching forwards. Reaching in and running his sticky fingers down the cold, hard spine of a semi-automatic pump action shot gun. He had to step back and take a deep breath, expelling the air from his lungs with a long, low whistle. Then he muttered to himself, shaking his head and riffled through the rest of the things, papers mostly, letters, deeds, official looking stuff and some passports. He picked them up and examined their covers attracted perhaps, by their curious script. Archaic letters, gently curling, like beautiful mistakes from a long lost age. Choosing one, he opened it and flicked through the pages until he came to a photograph of a girl not much older than Raphael himself. He ran a finger over her unsmiling face. Traced it along her piercing blue eyes and down a strand of mousy hair that had fallen across her broad set face. There were others too. Twelve in all. All with the same lettering, each with a different face - dark, fair, grey eyed and blue. All women, all young, peering out from between the pages with the same tentative smile lighting up their face. He read their names, rolling the letters around in his mouth, tasting their sound on the tip of his tongue.
Olga, Sylvia .... Natasha.
Before he left, he placed them back in the cabinet, picking out the first one of the blue-eyed girl with the mousy hair.
Her name was Natasha and he placed her carefully in his pocket.
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