28. THE SHIT HITS THE FAN contd.

It's dark but his vision adjusts quickly to the dimness sufficiently to pick out the darting forms of rats, scurrying into the shadows. His skin crawls at the sight of them but his stomach is strong. He presses forwards, pushing the man in front with his left hand clamped around the shotgun and the right, pressing the gun into his back. They shuffle awkwardly, using various packing crates that are scattered around the room for cover. And then he sees them, standing in the middle of the cavernous space, lined up and ready for inspection with their feet bound together and their hands tied behind them. He moves closer, leaning forwards and hissing threats in the man's ear with a menacing whisper.
"Not a sound, not a fucking sound or I'll blow your fucking brains out." It was surprising how much he'd learned. They trip forwards, Pepito forcing the man in front with impatient prods from his gun. Trips forwards, avoiding the rats, until they come to a darkened clearing amongst the crates and stop.
Two shots in the air and he has their attention. He'd flash his badge but he doesn't have time. A movement in the corner as one reaches into his jacket but Pepito shakes his head. A slow, practiced gesture. He grabs his man around the neck and presses the gun to the side of his head.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS." He shouts with the authority of a pro and his gun cocked and ready but he's hoping that he won't have to prove it.
"I SAID DROP THEM ... NOW." He repeats his command, gagging almost as the words jostle forwards, fighting for space in his mouth. The two men glance at each other with a confused expression creasing their brow and then slowly bend forwards, placing their shotguns on the floor at their feet.
"KICK 'EM OVER TO ME." Pepito tightens his grip on the other man's neck as they push the shotguns towards him with an impatient flick of their toe.
"Shoulda dropped you when we had the chance." One of them says as he straightens his back and raises his hands in the air. Pepito pushes his man from him and bends forwards with his eyes flicking between the three of them. Larry, Curly and Moe. He retrieves the shotguns one by one and places them on top of a crate. Then he steps forwards with his gun trained on the one who spoke and his eyes darting between the other two.
"WHERE'S FRANCISCO?" He barks out the question as he moves towards them, his gun still held out in front and his hands slick with sweat. "I SAID WHERE IS HE?"
"He'll be here." He eventually says as he dips his head and spits on the floor.
Pepito checks his watch. 1.48 am and counting. He flips his head over to the girls who are huddled together, shaking with fear.
"WHAT'S HAPPENING TO THEM?"
"They're being picked up."
"BY WHO?"
"You'll find out soon enough ..." He drops his hands and reaches into his pocket.
"HEY, HEY, HEY." Pepito shouts his gun wavering in the air. "KEEP THOSE HANDS UP WHERE I CAN SEE 'EM."
The man laughs and pulls out a cigarette which he flips into his mouth. "Take it easy Detective Pons." He says through the side of his mouth. "You wouldn't happen to have a light now would you?"
Pepito shakes his head. He moves towards the girls with his gun still trained on the men.
"UNTIE THEM." He motions to the man he'd surprised out front, flicking his head impatiently although, he's not sure what he'll do with them. He's stalling really and stalling fast.
"I SAID UNTIE THEM."
He steals a glance at the other two before moving reluctantly towards them. As he unties them he jerks them around roughly, sneering in their faces as though they were the ones pointing the gun at the back of his head and not Pepito. But they can only rub their wrists and stare; bleary eyed through lack of sleep or drugs, or both; at the unfamiliar surroundings. Then they start to talk amongst themselves, cautiously at first, their voices rising as they begin to test their limbs until Pepito shakes his head and raises his finger to his lips in that international gesture of silence. They stop talking at once and shuffle up behind him.
How long? How long did Pepito have to wait like this? With his gun held high and his options running low the best he could do was to cover his back and sit tight. A trickle of sweat slips down his brow and stings his eye. He blinks. Closes his eye for a second as he wipes his brow with the back of his hand and when he opens them again the men are watching him. Two of them are slumped against a crate while the other drawing angrily on the end of the cigarette, narrows his eyes to a slit as he peers through the smoke.
"How's this gonna play out Detective Pons." He says as he pitches the butt onto the dusty floor with a lazy flick of his wrist. "I mean just so's I know ... you gonna shoot us?"
Pepito stands his ground but his arms are tiring, they feel limp and numb from holding the gun so tightly up in the air. How should he respond? If the truth be told, he'd never shot anyone. Never needed to. Never had to. And if one thing is clear as he points the gun, with a tremor in his trigger finger, he knows that he never will. But he has to bluff them somehow and act like he could, act like he should so he flicks his gun with his fingers squeezed tight to stop them shaking and motions for them to step forwards. One at a time. Real slow. Pushing them sideways with the barrel of his gun he herds them into the middle of the room and pushes them down to the floor. Face down, legs splayed out and hands behind their backs, he makes use of the ropes, with the help of the women, to secure their wrists. When they're done, he stretches upright and breathes an audible sigh of relief. Three down and one to go, at least that's what he's counting on - not to mention the police, if they ever show up. His original plan was to stay out of sight and watch the proceedings from a secluded vantage point but as things progressed he felt he had to act. He had to do something. He had to step in and step up to the challenge. The only problem now concerns Francisco and again he asks with the point of his toes nudging the nearest man's foot.
"Where the hell is Francisco?" As soon as the question trips from his lips he gets his answer. It comes from behind, on stealthy feet and cracks him on the skull with something heavy and something blunt. Pepito crumples forwards landing on his knees as his gun slips from his grasp and hits the floor with a clatter of metal. His hands reach up to grasp his head, stop his skull from splitting open but it's too late. The room starts spinning and he slumps forwards, his vision fading fast. The last thing he sees before his face kisses concrete is the stricken image of the girl in the passport as she reaches out to catch him.

A boot in the ribs and he winces with pain. They're urging him to sit upright, urgently, digging their toes into his back and stomach until he pulls himself sluggishly into a sitting position. They're shouting at him and waving their arms and then one slaps him across the face and he's down again. He tries to focus but a quick, sharp fist blocks his vision. He tries to sit up but his back is made of rubber, it bends when he least expects it, like a sapling in a gale.

And then the shouts. And then the shots. And then.

The place is swarming with uniforms. Pepito is being grasped beneath his armpits by a pair of thin, wiry arms. They pull him across the floor, the heels of his father's old shoes leave a snaking trail of leather in the dust as he's dragged out of the way. Out of the way of the bullets which are flying around the place and bouncing off the metal platform with a hollow, steely twang. They pull him to the edge of the room and prop him up behind a packing crate. Prop him up and dust him down. He can feel the fleeting pressure of hands as they skip across his torso, running up over his face to his head and pressing on the wound that has opened up on his forehead.
"Detective Pons ...." The voice is clear and close to his ear. "Detective Pons." It says again in a shrill, anxious whisper. "Detective Pons please ... you've gotta wake up." Pepito opens his eyes and blinks at the face before him. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession until the familiar lines of Raphael's face settle into place. He sits forwards, clutching his head and fights to regain his composure.
"We've gotta get out of here." Raphael says, his voice shaking as he twists his head in several different directions. "They're gonna carve up the place between them. You think you can you walk?"
Pepito dips his head slowly, although he's not sure his legs will agree. He reaches out and grasps the boy around the shoulders and pulls himself to his knees. Then he tests his legs, first the right, then the left carefully pushing up through his aching back until he's eventually standing. He looks around as best he can with his head swaying unsteadily between his shoulders.
"Come on." Raphael urges, pulling a weary Pepito by the edge of his sleeve. "There's a side entrance but we'll have to hurry."
Stumbling blindly forwards, one middle-aged man too old for this lark and his dubious accomplice, they make their way to the side of the building on tangled feet.
"Wait." Shouts Pepito as they reach the farthest wall. He pulls himself from Raphael's grasp with his head turning back to the scene behind him as he searches amongst the chaos of bodies and bullets and girls, who are being rounded up and herded out of the place like cattle at a market. But they're not his immediate concern, not now - now that the police had turned up and taken control of the proceedings. His immediate concern is Francisco and as he searches frantically through the debris, Raphael tugs impatiently at his arm.
"Come on come on come on ... let's go." The words spill from his mouth in an agitated stutter but Pepito stands firm and he won't budge until Raphael informs him that Francisco had already left in a hurry, as soon as the shit hit the fan.

28. THE SHIT HITS THE FAN

Later still, the sky cracked open and pissed on the whole damn town. It came down thick and it came down fast. Fell at an angle and bounced off the roads. Flooded the drains and cleaned out the gutters. Washed all the crap from the deserted streets. But not Pepito, not Detective Pepito Pons. For Pepito has a purpose, he even has a plan. He's crouched in the shadows with his back to the moon, shrugging off the last of the rain as it slips down his neck. Dabbing his face with the sleeve of his jacket, he checks his watch. 12.48am. He stretches his leg and cracks his knuckles, rubs his eyes with a bunched up fist. Not long now - it's what he keeps telling himself. Not long now until the shit hits the fan. All he has to do is sit tight, keep his head down and wait for the police to arrive. He'd asked Raphael to place the call earlier, an anonymous tip off, so to speak. If the police didn't buy it he'd told him to throw in Francisco's name, just for good measure - that would surely make them bite. The only trouble was, could he trust Raphael? His legs are cramping up so he rolls forwards on the balls of his feet and bounces on the spot. Bounces up and down with his mind ticking over, ticking like a time bomb, ticking back to Mariquita. Ticking over her arched, silky neck, down over those smooth, plump breasts and down down down. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and stands up abruptly. Draws his hand down over his face and bends his knees with cracking joints to keep the blood coursing freely through his veins and his wits at the ready. Ready for whatever the night may throw at him, be they badges or bullets, he's ready for both.

1am and a sleek black car pulls slowly into view, its tyres slicing neatly through the puddles collected at the kerb with a languid hiss of water. Pepito stops bouncing on his heels and straightens his back. The headlights dim, doors pop open and three of Francisco's men step out into the moonlight. They close the doors behind them with a forceful nudge from their boots and circle around to the back. One of them with his head twisting sideways, opens the trunk and reaches deep inside. Then they each take a turn, reaching in and pulling out whatever comes to hand. A roll of tape, thick and back; rope; a small sports holdall and three pump action shotguns, gripped tightly between two hands. Pepito feels his own gun pressed against his hip. Hooking his jacket behind him, he reaches back and touches the leather holster with his fingertips. He swallows hard and hopes that when the police show up, they come well armed. A fist punches out and pushes down hard on the lid of the boot, then all three goons stride sullenly towards the building with their shotguns slung over their shoulders. Pepito waits until they disappear inside before he stands up and shakes some feeling back into his legs. Then he checks his watch, again. 1.06am. He's used to waiting, we all know that but at this stage in the game - time is running out. How much longer does he have to wait? How many minutes more before the cavalry rides in? Pepito can't tell - besides, he's growing restless and he can't sit still. He lifts his wrist one last time and glances at his watch before finally comimitting himself to his only course of action. Pushing himself up on shaking legs he weaves his way towards the building with his back bent double and his arms pumping hard. Through the puddles, the garbage and the toppled neon sign laying abandoned in the dirt, he slips up to the side of the building without breaking into a sweat and bolstered by his cunning, he slips around the back. He stops, crushing his spine against the wall and catches his breath. Now all he has to do is find a suitable point of entry. A way to get inside without them even knowing. He tries the door where they'd entered that morning but as luck would have it, it's locked. He taps his chin with an anxious finger and lifts his head up in thought. Lifts his head and lets his eyes fall along the rusted length of an iron platform that hugs the wall above his head. He follows it all the way to the farthest end, where, tucked out of sight by a burnt out dumpster, he can just make out the rungs of a ladder hanging down behind. He hurries towards it, trips over stones in his excitable haste as he stumbles onwards. Hitching his leg as he reaches the ladder and climbs, one precarious step at a time, until he's standing on the balcony, high above the ground. He moves along, slowly, steadily with his back pressed up flat against the wall when he reaches the rotting boards of wood that are tacked across the window. He stops in front, prizes himself from the safety of the wall to take a better look. Then with a smile on his lips, he slides his gun from his holster. Nice and easy. Pushes the muzzle, with the safety catch on, into a crack in the boards and easing down on the handle, he pulls them apart. One by one, carefully placing the boards at his feet until he's finally satisfied. Satisfied that he can squeeze through the gap to the other side without any major mishap.
He lands in a darkened corridor, in a crumpled heap on the floor. He picks himself up and dusts himself off before he continues down the corridor, through the narrow stretch of shadows, with his gun poking out in front. He works his stealthy way along until his hand chances to brush against a doorknob and turning it, he steps out onto another platform. Looking down into the cavern of the club, he instinctively drops to the floor. It must be sixty feet at least, from the ceiling to the floor. He begins to crawl with his eyes shut tight and his gun tapping lightly on the cool metal floor. He feels his way, hands groping blindly, pulling him forwards until a voice cuts through the darkness.
"Stop." Pepito freezes.
"I said stop fuckin' around." Pepito opens his eyes and peers downwards.
"You want Cisco to know you been messin with them?" He dips his head and squints through the grating.
"Move her over, not that way ... her hair is all messed up ..."
"What time is it?" A nervous voice asks and Pepito checks his watch.
"Too fucking late."
"Something's wrong ... something doesn't feel ... right."
"Maybe they got held up ..."
"Maybe."
"Something else came up ..."
"Maybe they're standin' outside .. waiting for us .."
"Maybe you should shut the fuck up."
A pacing of shoes on concrete and a discreet clearing of the throat is broken by a voice Pepito hasn't heard until now.
"I'll go." It said.

He lifts his head and dares to look but he can't make out a thing. It's too dark but he knows that the girls are there, he can smell their fear wafting up through the dampness that permeates the air. And then there's the perfume. Edging his way back along the platform, head down and gun tapping, he moves back through the door and into the corridor. He can see the window at the farthest end with the light from the moon shining through. He makes his way towards it, like a beacon in the dark, his gun pumping up and down as he walks quickly forwards. When he reaches the window he leans on the wood to catch his breath. And suddenly, it strikes him, like a fist in the gut, that maybe the cavalry wouldn't make it on time, if the cavalry made it at all. He curses quietly beneath his breath. Curses Raphael and curses himself. And the more he thinks about it the more he's convinced that he'll have to go it alone. He pulls himself awkwardly through the window and back out onto the platform. He's winging it now, making it up as he goes along, one cautious step at a time back over the rusted platform. But he knows what he has to do. He's known it all along. As soon as his foot touches down on concrete he makes his way to the front of the building, sticking close to the side of the walls. Edging forwards, he pulls himself tight into the shadows, pokes his head out from the side of the building and checks the street. Standing in the moonlight, one of Francisco's men is drawing savagely on the end of a cigarette with one hand while the other has the shotgun hitched up against his shoulder. Stepping out from the shadows, Pepito cocks his gun and holds it up, pointing straight at the man in front.
"STOP." He stops. He stops sucking on the end of the cigarette and flicks the butt out into the night with a nervous twitch from his fingertips.
"PUT THE GUN DOWN." He bends at the knee and places the gun on the ground at his feet.
"HANDS UP." He raises them high in the air.
"STEP BACK." He steps back.
"TURN AROUND ..." He turns, hands above his head, upper body twisting round.
"REAL SLOW." He does as Pepito requests with his bottom half completing the movement with a languorous twist from the waist. And now Pepito stands before him with his eyes narrowed and his mouth set. Reaching down, he picks up the shotgun and swings it over to rest on his forearm. Instinctively, the man steps backwards, his hands held aloft and his head pivoting right and left as he checks out his means of escape. But there are none immediately forthcoming. Except for the squat, balding, middle-aged man in front whose gun, flicking from side to side, suggests that he turn and with sharp, rhythmic nudges in the small of his back, pushes him towards the building.

27. PERSUASION

By the time Pepito reaches her house he's already decided. Decided to confront her with the evidence and let the facts speak for themselves. He pulls the bike up onto the kerb and tips the helmet from his head. A breeze picks up and snakes its way down from Tibidabo, rattling a can from the edge of the gutter and spinning into the road. Pepito turns his head and lifts his chin with his face to the breeze and fills his lungs with the sudden gust of air. Then he runs a hand over his oily brow and smears the sweat on the tips of his fingers. He steps out from the bike, scanning the night with a sweep of his head and steps towards the house with his feet holding back from each anxious step and his heart pumping hard in his chest. He pushes onwards. Stumbling forwards, breathing subdued until he finally reaches her doorway. He lifts his hand to the darkened wood and is poised to knock when his body rebels. He drops his hand with a prick to his conscience and turns on his heel. Turns on his heel and stops. Stops dead in his tracks, with his foot hitched to go one way and the other holding back but his mind is made up. His mind has decided and there can be no going back. He turns back to the door and swallows the lump that is clogged in his throat. Steps up to the challenge with his hand clenched up tight in a fist and taps lightly on the gleaming, polished wood.
She takes her time, humming something low and sugary but he can hear the slap of her feet moving seductively across the floor. She calls out and he answers, his hand rising instinctively to his holster. She opens the door. She pulls him in and his hand falls idly by his side, limp and useless as she pulls him closer, so close he can smell the whiskey on her breath. He should open his mouth to protest but she covers his lips with her own and they stand for some moments with their spines melting and their bodies braced for a fall. She pulls him downwards, stretching her body beneath him, back arched and hips splayed, her hands expertly relieving him of his clothes. While Pepito, abandoning reason and caught in the moment, claws at her robe with clumsy fingers and plunges himself into those delicious folds of fabric without a second thought.

He just couldn't help himself. Some things are in the blood. Some things are so etched beneath the skin, like a tattoo, a blood red tattoo, that they will always remain a part of you. No matter how hard you scrub. It's always there, like ink beneath the skin. Or poison in the blood.
At least, that's what Raphael told himself, the moment that he was caught. Caught in the act, so to speak. In fraganti. And it happened so fast. It happened when he was least expecting it. Caught up in a crowd, caught up in a moment, with his hand half wedged in some stranger's bag and he barely got to touch it. Barely had time to grasp the wallet and feel its weight in his sweaty palm before he was grabbed from behind by a burly policeman, who promptly slapped the cuffs on. No warning, no words, no justice. He was marched towards the station. Literally, pushed in front with two plain clothed police behind him, his feet barely touched the pavement. And he tried to protest, he really did but of course, they weren't even listening. In short, they didn't want to believe him. To them he was simply raving. Raving mad or raving stoned, it didn't make any difference. They'd heard it all before and would probably do so again. All sorts of crap spilling from his mouth about gangsters and girls and a building. But he knew he had to tell them. He had to get their attention, it was all part of the plan. Part of the plan that Pepito worked out and he depended on Raphael. He depended on him telling, it was what the boy did best. Except, he was supposed to use the phone. He was supposed to keep his nose clean. That was what Pepito had said. Go back home, keep his head down and stay well away from trouble because he had to make that call. Why then did he find himself mingling amongst the crowds? He never meant it to be this way but then again, he never did. Some things just seem to dangle temptingly in front of him, like a crooked card game or an easy mark. Some things are in the blood.
And then they threw him in that stinking cell and he really started to panic. The reality sank home as the door slammed shut and he pressed his face to the iron bars. Pressed his cheeks against the cold, hard metal and pleaded for them to listen.
"You've got it all wrong ... see ..." He shouted out like a madman, shouted out loud to their receding backs and hoped that they would hear him. "You don't understand .. see ..." He shouted until his voice was hoarse and the tears ran down his face. "It's something big ... real big ... biggest scam I've ever seen ..."
And still they didn't listen.

He must have slept. Not for long but he must have slept. Dazed and chafed, he sits up in bed and rubs his eyes with lazy fists. He looks around. He pats the bed. He rises and stumbles on weary legs out of her bedroom and through the house, naked, pushing doors and peering inside until eventually, he finds her. She's standing by the pool with her back towards him staring out over the city below. The sun has just begun its descent at the eastern edge of a perfect sky. He walks towards her, reaches out to touch her hair and stops. Draws his hand back as though he's been stung and lets it fall tracing the length of her spine with a waft of air from his fingers. She turns to face him, standing for a moment with her face suspended in thought. He smiles and she moves towards him, circling her arms around his bulging waist and buries her face in his neck. She kisses there. And there. And there. Small, stifled little pecks, reaching out over his shoulders and down over the slope of belly. He laughs. He's nervous. Strangely now, he's nervous. He looks down over the flabby folds of his gut and pulls away from her tempting grip. Tempting to keep it up. Tempting to keep his mouth shut but he knows he can't. He knows he has to ask. And maybe that's why he blurts it out. She stumbles backwards like she's been slapped in the face and stares at him, mouth hanging open and hand on her heart. She shakes her head. She denies it. She goes over her story again, like she's learned if from a script and repeats her innocence with her eyes gaping wide and her hand clutching her throat. In fear, in shock. Or both.
How could he think it. How could he say it.
The words fill her mouth with an ugly taste and she turns her back in denial. And now, he moves towards her, he reaches out to calm her, pull her against him, feel her hammering heart as it beats against his chest.
"I'm sorry," he says again, and again but she pushes him from her and turns away.
"It was Francisco wasn't it?" She steps forwards, skirting the edge of the pool. "He put you up to this didn't he?" Pepito shakes his head, reaching out towards her but she moves too quickly for him. "He told you something .... didn't he?"
"No, Mariquita ... no." He stumbles towards her. "I had to ask, that's all ..."
"You had to ask if I'd killed her? You had to ask that?" She shakes her head in disbelief.
"I'm sorry." He says again for good measure. "But yes, I had to ask."
She sits down by the edge of the pool, skimming her robe up behind her and lowers her legs into the water.
"So tell me them ... Detective Pons," she flicks her eyes towards him, "what made you ask?"
He hunkers down beside her.
"Chlorine," he says, "they found traces of it in her lungs." He flicks his head towards the glassy surface of the water. "It was just something I had to clear up, that's all."
She stares at him for a moment before stretching backwards, her hands splayed out on either side and her head thrown back and starts to laugh with a ruckus spasm from the pit of her gut.
"Chlorine?" She eventually says but she doesn't wait to finish the thought as she shrugs the robe from her shoulders and slips into the water. Pepito stands up and circles the pool following her body as it breaks through the surface.
"I have a theory, " he says as she cuts through the water towards him.
"A theory, how interesting ..." She's playing with him again, but he's caught up in the moment and too far gone to see it. All he can see is is her tempting flesh as she flips on her back and strokes the water over her glistening breasts. She twists her head to check that he's watching. But we know that he is. With hungry eyes he watches her lift her leg and run her hand down the length of her thigh before she flips back over with the grace of a seal and swims to the edge of the pool. Reaching out to grasp her hand, he pulls her out towards him. They stand for a moment their bodies locked in a damp embrace as he tries to recall his purpose.
"Let's hear this theory of yours then, Detective ..." She purrs in his ear but as his lips close over hers, she braces her back and knows she'll have to wait.

Standing, across the street from the shop, feet crossed at the ankle and arms tucked beneath her chest, she watched him leave. Watched him push his head through his helmet and straddle the seat of his bike. Watched him kick off from the kerb with a hurried twist on the throttle and disappear amongst the cars racing for the lights. Standing, a little longer, she surveys the front of the shop. She takes her time, examining the entrance with its worn down step, the mottled brown door with the sign in the middle and the display window littered with stickers and giant cardboard cutouts of cigarettes. Then she turned her back. With her feet placed flat on the intricate spirals carved in the pavement, slapping the ground as she walked. She must have walked for an hour, at least. Wandered around with only her thoughts to guide her, perspiring in the afternoon heat. Thoughts that were cluttered, crammed up together, fighting for space in her head. And she tried to arrange them into appropriate places but as one thought was settled another would spring up instead. Eventually, she came to halt. Stopped dead in her tracks as she ran out of pavement at the edge of a building. Stopped short of the entrance, one or two metres as her eyes climbed up to the top.
He was glad to see her, of course. Babbled his surprise like an excitable schoolboy as she stood at the door to his flat. He ushered her in with a hand on her arm and guided her towards the living room. Eased her down in his best armchair and pulled up a seat for himself.
"This is nice .." he said with a flash of a grin and she had to agree because it certainly was, nice to be saved from the heat. Nice to stop walking. Nice to stop thinking. Nice to be loved by this man. This good, kind, quiet man who would never leave her, not for a moment, not even if she begged him to go. Leaning forwards, she grasped his hand and curled it into her own.
"Let's not wait," she said, squeezing his fingers, "let's not wait any longer, let's get married now."
"Now? You mean right now?" He pushed himself back in his chair, pulling his hand from her grip and stroked the long peppered hair on his mustache. "Well ... it's sudden, I'll say that ..."
"I know, I know," she said, easing herself to the edge of the chair, convincing herself it was right. "I know it's sudden but why should we wait?"
"Well, there's the family and the arrangements with the ..."
But she lifted her hand to silence him and the words died in his throat. "
"Gibraltar," she said with a tilt of her brow, "we can get married tomorrow in Gibraltar."
"What? Just like that?"
"Just like that."
Rising from his chair, he stepped over to the window. His mind ticking over, cogs whirring, neurons sparking, eyes clouded up with thought.
"Gibraltar you say?" He turned towards her.
"Yes," she said as she moved from the armchair. "Gibraltar," she whispered as she nuzzled towards him and buried her face in his neck.

It wasn't how she imagined it. Wasn't lit with fireworks or timed with explosives but at least is was something. A slow, unwinding of mechanical precision that culminated in a burst of release, like a balloon that is filled with a steady breath, then popped on the point of a knife. Turning over onto her right side she watched the hairs on his mustache flutter in the wake of his breath. In. Out. In. Out. His chest rising and falling with a ragged rhythm as he stared at some point on the ceiling. Turning his head towards her, sweat glistening in the lines of his face, he smiled. That's all, a simple flex of the lips. That's all that it really takes. Then he lifted his hand and reached out to touch the side of her face. She sidled in towards him with her hip bumping against his thigh, and as her flesh touched his a sudden fear that she could still lose him swept through her body. She shivered. Threw her arm over his chest and pulled him closer, pulled him tight. Shifting her head on the pillow, she gazed up at the ceiling. Picked out a spot where the sun slipped through a crack in the blinds she focused on the shaft of light and let her mind slip back. Back to the shop, back to Pepito, slipping even further through the layers of time until she came to rest, with her eyelids drooping from the weight of sleep, on her wedding day.
A bright, crisp day in Spring; a wind rustles through the trees and whips her veil from her head with a gust of breath. She can see her face, laughing. The high, clear lines of her cheeks, her mouth pitched open as her husband bolts from her side to catch it. But it flutters upwards, held aloft by the gathering breeze as he leaps in the air to catch it. Stretching upwards on the points of his toes, arms reaching above his head, he swipes at the veil with no success as the wind grows stronger and blows it further from his grasp. Further and further, she can see the veil billowing in the distance and her husband, with his long, straight back straining up to the sky, following closely behind it.
She must have slept. For a few minutes, at least but long enough to have remembered her dream and tasted the bitter ending. Unwinding the sheets from her tangled limbs, she slipped out of bed. Crept up to the chair in the corner of the room and hurriedly put her clothes on. And when she was dressed she tiptoed back to the bed to check that he was breathing. Bending over his prostrate frame she placed his ear over his mouth. He stirred in his sleep and muttered her name. Muttered his name with his papery lips still chapped and raw from their kisses. Leaning in closer, she brushed his cheek with the tips of her lips and pulled the sheet up. Tucked him in, straightened the pillow by the side of his head and retrieved his clothes from the floor. She left them neatly folded over the back of a chair. Left his trousers and shirt, all perfectly creased, with his socks tucked into his shoes.

Later that night, long after Pepito has left with a hand on his gun and smile on his lips, Mariquita stands by the edge of the pool. She lights a cigarette and blows the smoke out in curdling waves over the city sprawled at her feet. She cocks her head and looks at the moon before walking slowly back to the table. She sits down, grinding the cigarette in the ashtray as she pulls the phone towards her. She dials his number, pressing the buttons methodically with the scarlet tip of a nail. Pepito had told her everything, everything she had been waiting to hear. He'd spared no details and told no lies, except somehow, he'd missed out the obvious. And the obvious had been there all along. Sprawled beneath him with her hair in her face, easing his doubts with the thrust of her hips - it had all been part of her plan. And she'd played him from the beginning. How easy it had been. How desperate he was to believe her. How close he had come to the water's edge and stood with his back to the truth.
She rises, smiling secretly to herself, the phone cupped tight to her ear.
"It's me," that's all she needs to say. "I thought you would have left by now." She stops and tilts her chin upwards. "Everything's fine ..." and her gaze slips down to the water, falling on the liquid moon rippling gently on the surface. "Just thought you'd like to know ..." She waits for a moment, her fingers playing with a lock of hair that falls across her face. "Our problem has been taken care of ..."

26. THE DAWNING

It was the pathologist's call that set him thinking.
"Thought you might be interested to know the results of the test ... just came in this morning."
"Test?"
"The test on the water."
"What water?"
"The water in her lungs. Are you all right Detective Pons?"
Pepito nods his head. "Let's just say I've had a busy morning."
"Too much on your plate?"
"Something like that."
"Well, here's something else for that plate of yours ... the water contained chlorine and there's only one kind of water that contains chlorine ..."

Even Pepito knows that. She drowned in a swimming pool. Public or private, it was hard to tell - the only thing he could be sure about was that she drowned in a swimming pool, in a derelict building, in the middle of a housing estate, in the poorest part of town. Pepito twists both taps and lowers himself to the floor with his back resting against the bathtub and his legs stretched out in front. His head throbbed. His stomach was churning. But at least he was safe. Here. In his bathroom, in the flat above the shop, where no-one could find him. In fact, no-one would ever think to look. He runs his hand down the side of his face and shakes his head in disbelief. Chlorine. Who would have thought it, certainly not Pepito who was struggling with the evidence and the direction it was beginning to take. Could it be that simple? Could the answer have been right under his nose the whole time? Teasing him, taunting him. Staring him in the face and poking its tongue out at his blind lunges at the truth. And there was something else, something else the pathologist had said. He knew her time of death - she'd died around midnight. Pepito already knew her movements on that night. She had been with Mariquita until around nine thirty, or so the lady said. But what if she never left? He stands upright, his legs shaking beneath him and turns off the taps. Lifting his foot, he steps over the rim of the tub and into the water. Was this how it felt? This liquid melting of flesh. Closing his eyes he leans backwards and lets the cool water lap over his body. He tries to imagine the scene, an accident maybe, a rising battle with words that ends with a blow to the skull and a body in the pool but he just can't see it. Or maybe, he just doesn't want to look. He sits upright, disturbing the water with lapping waves that splash the sides of the tub and rubs his face. Then he stands up and grabbing a towel from the rail, wraps it around his waist. He steps out of the bath and stands in front of the mirror, twists his torso left and right as he checks out his reflection. He has his own ideas, hunches really and they all pointed towards Francisco. After all, he was the one who had the most to lose if Rosa had found out about his link in the chain of girls being smuggled into the country. A chain that stretched all the way back to Russia and reached out to God knows where. She had to have known and if she hadn't, then she must have guessed that these girls weren't willing participants. So she must have confronted him, outraged perhaps but most likely, she'd wanted her cut, blackmailed him even for her pound of flesh. It was only a matter of time before the police caught up with him themselves. In fact, at this stage in the game, Pepito was counting on it. The way things were panning out, he could use their help. But he has to be careful, he doesn't want them messing with his method so the best thing for him to do is keep his head down, stay close to the trail and follow. Follow fearlessly and follow surely but always with just that one step ahead.

2.36pm and Gloria stands by the sink with her hands immersed in the suds. She hears the bathroom door close and the slap of his feet on the tiles as he moves through the flat but she doesn't stop. Lowering her head, she continues with the dishes, swirling her hands through the soapy water with a studied concentration. By the time Pepito enters the kitchen she's running the cloth over the worktops with her shoulders hunched up around her. She doesn't turn around. She doesn't stop. Pepito hangs awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before pushing his way through the stifling air towards the cooker. He lifts the lid on the pot and sucks in the smell of the juices wafting up from the bubbling meat. He closes his eyes and his stomach gurgles.
"Smells good," he says, moving towards the table but Gloria doesn't answer. "Want me to put out the plates?"
She shrugs, a silent dip of the shoulders and moves towards the cooker. But Pepito is not put off, he can tell that something is brewing so he moves towards the drainer and reaches for the plates. Grabbing the dishcloth he rubs the surface of each one with rough circular movements before setting them down on the table. One opposite the other. He's reaching for the glasses when Gloria suddenly breaks her silence. Turning around she rests her back against the worktop, her hands pitched up behind her.
"I didn't make as much ... didn't think you'd be back in time." She waits for him to answer, her eyes following his movements as he shuffles around the table. He's aware that she's watching so he lowers his head to avoid the full impact of her gaze. He lifts his shoulders briefly and dips his head towards his chest. By the time he looks up, she's already turned back to the cooker and is poking the bubbling meat with impatient prods from a fork.
"This is almost ready," she says, her voice tripping out tersely from her tightly pursed lips.
Pepito nods and sits down in his place with his back towards the cooker. She turns, the pot gripped tightly between the serving cloth in her hands and stares at the back of Pepito's head. She hesitates, for a fraction of a second before she moves around the table and places the pot in the middle. Then she sits down in her own place with her back to the door and picks up a spoon with the twitch still flickering through her slender fingers as she serves Pepito, letting the meat fall absently with muffled plops onto the plate beneath.
"You know ..." she begins with a clear voice, her head held high and her eyes level with Pepito's face but the more she stares the more her conviction falters. Her voice fades, caught in her throat and she drops her gaze, letting it fall to the lumps of meat and potatoes on her plate.
"It's no use," she eventually says, her voice a sigh in the back of her throat. "I can't work here anymore." She drops the spoon and sits back in her chair pushing the plate away from her with a sideways sweep from her hand. Pepito grips his fork tighter with his eyes caste down and his leg jerking spasmodically beneath the table. He knows he should say something but the more he gropes for the right words to speak the more he is convinced that they will somehow fall short. He sits mute, his hand pushing the fork idly around the plate and his stomach complaining audibly.
"Eat something." Her eyes flick up to his down turned face. Lifting the fork he places the meat tentatively in his mouth and chews, slowly. Chews methodically and the food slides down his throat as he raises another forkful to his mouth. Then another. And another. She sits in silence as he clears the plate, watching him chew and swallow with deliberate concentration. When he's finished, she pulls the plate across the table towards her and carries it to the sink where she drops it in with a reckless dash from an angry wrist and braces herself against the drainer.
"Not hungry?" He addresses her back, his eyes focused on the hunch of her shoulders as she bends towards the sink. She shakes her head and closes her eyes. Closes her eyes and clenches her fists. She could scream right now but she knows she can't so she bites her lip and throws her head back. Alone and defeated, but defiant.
"Gloria?" His voice touches her with a shiver down her spine and she grips the sink even harder. "It doesn't ..." He starts to speak but the words stick in his throat. He tries again but they clog in his mouth, smothering his tongue so he clears his throat with an agitated rasp and stands up. What? What should he say? What could he say? It doesn't have to be like this. But he knows in his heart that it does. He knows in his heart that when all is said and done, she deserves more than he can give. She deserves to be loved, she deserves to be treasured. She deserves more than this. And if he was any other man he would take her in his arms and what? What would he do with a woman like her? He shakes his head and rubs his brow because somehow he knows, he's not. He's not any other man. He's Pepito Pons. Detective Pepito Pons. Something he can never forget and something he can never tell her. She would never understand. This longing, this need for his other life, it's the crux of the whole damn method. Especially now, when he's getting close to the end, so close he can almost taste it.
Moving around the table he picks up her plate and scrapes the untouched meal back in the pot. She turns around and watches him, with her back against the sink. "I'll put an advert in the paper." She speaks but her eyes are fixed on some distant spot on the table. "I can stay until you find someone."
Pepito lifts his head and nods, slowly, heavily as if a weight is pressing down on his neck.
"All right," he sighs, "if that's what you want."
And even though he speaks the words he knows, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut, that it's not. It's not what she wants, at all. He stands there with his hands placed on the table before him and his chin tucked into his chest. Not daring to protest, not even daring to lift his head as she brushes passed him and out the door leaving only a silent ruffle of air in her wake.

Something was beginning to happen, although he couldn't say what. But it started in his loins and quickly spread, clawing upwards, infecting every restless nerve with cloying insistence. Pepito can feel it. He felt it that first morning when he slipped on the clothes. He felt it as the dusty fabric stretched to life over his crumpled flesh. He felt it the first time he walked into one of those shady dives with his gun clipped in it's holster and his hand hovering close to his hip. And he feels it now. Now he sits across the street, outside Mariquita's club and waits. He's careful not to arouse suspicion. Careful not to enter the place with his shackles raised and his gun blazing. So he sits back on the seat of his bike, by the seat of his pants and waits. He bides his time. If there's one thing he's learned in the fictitious life then it's when to watch, when to wait and when to burst in on the action.
4.15pm and the door swings open. Two goons, the one with the head, the crusted gash on the side of his head and his partner in crime step out onto the street. Pepito scrambles from the back of his bike and ducks behind a dumpster. Luckiy for him he parked so close. Lucky for us they don't see him. It could have been nasty, it could have been rough. It could have been the end of the story. Shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun they dip in their pockets and pull out their shades. Then they turn on their heels and walk, in a synchronized swagger with a menacing slant, up to the end of the street. When they reach their car on the corner, they stop. They pop their doors open. They slip inside. Start the engine. Pull out from the kerb and swerve down the road with a screech of tyres and a waft of burning rubber. Pepito stands up, stretching to life from his cramped position he rubs the front of his legs. Rubs them hard and rubs them long until the blood returns to his toes. Then he steps towards the club, moving fast on tingling feet and raps on the door with the back of his knuckles. Raps once with impatience and twice with anger until eventually someone answers.

"Mariquita's not here." It was the barman who told him this. "S'funny but two other guys were just here asking the same thing." He plucks a glass from a tray in front of him and clouds it with breath.
"What did they want?"
Holding the glass up to the overhead lights he squints at his reflection and buffs the rim with the end of a dishcloth. "Wouldn't say."
"When do you expect her in?"
He places the glass on the shelf behind him. "Hard to say ... since Rosa was last here she's been in and out when she pleases ... comes in late, leaves early."
"When was Rosa last here?"
"Last Tuesday." Reaching forwards he plucks another glass from the tray.
"Was she working that night?"
The barman shakes his head. Holds the glass up to the light, buffs some more and places it on the shelf.
"What did she come by for?"
"She quit ... came to pick up her wages." He dips into the tray again.
"Quit when?"
The barman scratches his head with his free hand and twists the glass under the light with the other. He closes one eye. "Tuesday." And lifts the cloth to the clouded rim.
"You sure?"
"Sure I'm sure ... they were back in her office but I could hear them out here." He places the glass on the shelf and turns his back, running the dishcloth over the bottles in front.
"And this was all last Tuesday?"
The barman nods his head and turns around. "She in some kind of trouble?"
"She?"
The barman lifts his chin and stares at Pepito "I mean Mariquita, the boss ... she done something wrong?"
Pepito plucks a glass from the tray in front and holds it up to the light, one eye closed and the other fixed on the barman. "That's hard to say."

Almost a week to the day since Rosa went missing. Pushing through the door with a heavy hand he steps out onto the street. Two days since her body was found. He cocks his leg and slides on the back, grabs the spare helmet and slips it over his head. Almost four hours since the pathologist called. He starts the engine with a twist of the key and turns the throttle towards him. And tonight, tonight in an abandoned club, somewhere close by the docks, a deal will go down for the fate of some girls. Launching himself from the kerb with a hefty thrust from his foot, he skids off down the street in the direction of Collserola. His mind is playing tricks on him. Acting up, spinning tales, creating diversions, even making up excuses. But it won't last long, he won't allow it. Won't give in to his foolish heart. Won't deny where the truth may lead him, even if the truth has long, dark hair and scarlet lips. Scarlet lips and eyes like honey, softly melting in her golden skin.

25. DESPERATE MEASURES

Walking slowly on reluctant feet with the sun tossed high in an endless blue sky, she makes her way back to the shop. Makes her way back through the mingling hordes with her eyes pitched down and her mind made up. So she crosses the road, steps up to the door and slips her key in the lock. She enters. Shrugs the cardigan from her stiffening back and throws it onto the counter. Steps through the doorway at the back of the place and climbs the stairs to the flat. She knows what she has to do. She has to peel the potatoes, snap the greens and place the meat in the pot. For today, Gloria has decided, will be her last meal in that kitchen and her last day in the shop. The last time she stands behind that counter, counts the change and folds the notes, or lifts a cloth to wipe the shelves. The last time, in fact, that she chases the dust.

Stepping over to the cooker, she ignites the gas with the languid flame from a lighted match. Turns back towards the worktop and begins peeling the potatoes. As she slips the skin from their hardened backs, her mind turns over, digesting all her recent moves and swallowing the facts. She has accepted his proposal. It was as simple as that. Dropped her fate into his speckled hands and hoped that somehow, it would all work out. Not like the first time. Not like that pitiful lunge at life with her eyes half closed and her heart still green. When she was young and foolish and the world seem full, full to the brim with love and hope and the infinite scope of possibilities. Then the knife sank in, sank in deep and her youthful world exploded. But she wouldn't be so foolish, not this time. Not after all these years. And then there was Pepito. She had to tell him. She had to tell him of her future plans and there could be no turning back. No hasty words or awkward moments, no reason for her to keep up this farce when his heart was set, impervious to her touch.
When the last of the potatoes is thrown in the pot she reaches for the oil and slops a generous amount into the water, covers the pot with a battered lid and turns up the gas. Slipping the apron over her head she walks to the doorway, allowing the grease spattered garment to fall from her hands as she moves through the flat. But don't be fooled by this untidy lapse - she knows exactly what she's doing. She moves to the bedroom and opens the door with a bold hand gripped tight on the handle. Pushes forwards on her flattened feet and walks towards the bed. She stands there, at the foot of his bed with her hands eased up on the side of her hips and her eyes moving slowly over the room. Over every measly speck of it, from the sheets on the bed - pulled back in haste - to the garnish of dust on the table. Then she lifts her chin. Closes one eye. And stifles a sigh in her throat. Reaching out with a trembling hand, she rips the sheet from the bed. Yanks it hard with a crack of cotton and a fluttering wave in the air. Bundles it up in the palms of her hand and throws it onto the floor. She's caught her wind, her last great gasp, as she reaches for the pillows. Strips their feathered innards clean like a butcher skins a chicken. Throws them down on the floor at her feet and moves around the bed. Leaning forwards, dipped at the waist, she starts to thump the mattress with her palms stretched flat over those ancient springs as she rouses the dust from its slumber. Chases it out into the thickening air to dance around her head. Filling her nostrils and clogging her throat but she doesn't really care. She's past caring now. Now she has her wind up and is blowing out the sides of her mouth with rhythmic bursts of air. One last blow to the mattress and she straightens her back. Runs her hand over the sweat on her brow and up to the roots of her hair. Her work is done, her anger spent and for the moment, at least, she is satisfied.

Twisting the key with a squeeze from his fingertips, Francisco steps over the threshold and into the club. He closes the door behind him and slides the bolt on silken hinges, slowly into place. He turns around, slipping his hand over his thick black hair and down to the neck of his shirt. Then he steps forwards with his finger looped inside his collar, tugging the cloth from his skin. He stops. Loosens his tie. Unbuttons his collar. And slides the tie from his neck. Folding it carefully, he slips it in his top pocket and pats the bulge with a smirk. He moves forwards to the main room and walks towards the bar with his eyes fixed, not even a blink, on the window behind the stage. When he reaches the bar, he leans over the polished counter and grabs a bottle of whiskey from one of the shelves behind. He uncorks it with his teeth and spits the cork onto the floor at his feet. Then he reaches for a glass and with a nod to the window behind the stage, he pours himself a drink. By the time he flips his head back, Mariquita is already standing on the stage. She stands with her legs crossed at the ankle and her hands straddling her hips.
"You gonna pay for that drink?"
"Pay for it?" He pours himself another shot and lifts the glass to his lips. "I already paid for it." He takes a sip then turns towards her with the glass held up in the air. "To your health Mariquita ... live long and prosper." He smiles to himself with his lips pulled back in a curdling grin as he polishes off the liquor. Then he smacks his lips with the tips of his tongue as he sets the glass down on the counter.
"You took a chance coming here." She walks towards him with her hands still high on her hips. "What if Carlos were to walk in now and find you." She keeps on walking, one bare foot sliding bravely in front of the other until she stands before him, so close she can smell the whiskey on his breath. He leans in to her and his breath, hot and sticky, burns her ear.
"I'm feeling reckless ..."
She steps back, turns her head to the side and lowers her eyes. "You should have called first."
"Well, here I am." He spreads his arms wide as he strolls over to one of the poles rising up from the table and runs his hand down its smooth shiny surface. "Let's just say ... something came up."
"Is everything all right?"
"Depends ..." He turns back to face her. "Depends on what you mean by 'all right'".
She moves towards him, her feet kicking out sharply beneath her dress. "What's happened?"
"Your Detective Pons is what happened."
"He's not my Detective Pons ..."
"Oh yeah? Well who was it that hired him?"
"I had to." She turns from him and paces over to the stage. "Carlos wanted to go to the police."
"Ah yes, the prodigal son .."
"Shut up." She spins around on the balls of her feet. "I had to protect him."
"You had to protect yourself you mean."
"I said shut up ... I did it for him."
"Did you kill Rosa for him too?" She turns from him, hiding the fear that flashes through her eyes but Francisco doesn't notice as he strolls back towards the bar. Lifting the whiskey bottle he pours the honeyed liquid into the glass and raises the glass in the air.
"Drink?"
She shakes her head.
He shrugs his shoulders and lifting the glass to his lips, tips his head back.
"You see, I know ..... I know she went to see you that night ..." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sets the glass back on the bar. "And I know she never came out." He turns around to face her with his elbows hitched up on the bar behind him and his feet crossed at the ankle. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't plant a slug in your guts right now?"
It was a rhetorical question. She turns around slowly and lifts her head a fraction, her eyes skimming the floor, picking out some random spot on the tiles. She opens her mouth and starts to speak but quickly decides against it. She shakes her head as she brings her lips together with her teeth overlapping the bottom lip, biting down hard.
"In fact, make that two ... one for Rosa and one for the baby."
She shakes her head again, shakes her hair from her eyes and shakes the blood from her lip. It lands on the swell of her breast and she raises a finger to wipe the spot, smearing it into her skin.
"It's not what you think." She lifts her head and fixes her eyes on the dimpled dip in his chin.
"Like hell it isn't ... who you trying to fool with that act Mariquita ... it might work with your dip shit detective but it doesn't work on me and speaking of that detective, let's get back to why I'm here."
She breaks her gaze and breathes a sigh of relief as she walks towards the bar. "I'll have that drink now."
"I bet you will."
He pours some whiskey into the glass and hands it to her. She reaches out with shaking hands and pressed the glass to her lips. She flips her head back.
"That's right, soak it up."
She places the glass on the bar and reaches for the bottle.
"Another? So early in the day?"
She pours the whiskey, slopping it over the rim in her anxious haste and Francisco clucks his tongue, drawing the air tightly over his teeth with vicious relish.
"See that's a bad sign," he says as he watches her lower her face to the glass and draw off some of the liquid through puckered lips. "A bad, bad sign," he waits for her to finish her drink before continuing. "Just like your Detective Pons showing up at the club."
She whips her head towards him.
"Yeah, that's right ... showed up this morning in fact, creating all kinds of trouble but what I what I've been wondering is - how'd he find the place?"
"I didn't tell him." The words spill from her lips in a tightened, nervous clutter. "I didn't .. I didn't say a word, why would I?"
He regards her for a moment through the slit of his lids while he slowly strokes his chin.
"No, I don't suppose you would, would you?"
He pushes himself forwards and circles around behind her. "But that's besides the point 'cause he found the place anyway."
"I told you to get rid of him didn't I?" She slips out of his reach and walks quickly towards the stage.
"Yes you did, you certainly did but see ..." He follows closely behind her. "I'm a reasonable guy." He sidles up beside her. "And I need two reasons to kill someone ... I have my reputation to maintain after all, my standing in the community." A smile spreads out from the corners of his mouth, engulfing half his face. "And you know what else?"
She shakes her head.
"Seems to me he's your problem 'cause it was you that brought him into the picture."
She dips her head and traces the meandering line of a crack in the tile with her toe.
"You've got to deal with it ... you've got to keep him off my back. You understand?"
She nods. He reaches over and grasps her hair, twisting it up in his hand. She winces. He leans in closer, pulling her hair tighter and whispers in her ear.
"And don't think I've forgotten about Rosa. Or the baby."
Releasing his grasp, he pushes her from him and climbs the stairs to the stage. She follows quickly behind him, lifting her dress as she hurries up the steps and through the door obscured by a curtain. She stops, hanging back in the doorway to her office with the hem of her skirt still gripped in her hand and watches as he moves towards the safe at the back of the room. Twisting the lock backwards and forwards until the door pops open. Then he reaches in and pulls out a bundle of notes. He flicks through them, licking his fingers as he fondles the paper and moving his lips as he counts.
"You still owe me," he says, holding a bundle in the air as he stuffs the rest back in the safe. "Let's just call it what it is, shall we?"
"Extortion?"
"He turns towards her, closing the door with the tips of his fingers, his lips curling upwards despite himself. "We got a comedian now have we?" He dips his chin and shakes his head, just a fraction. He steps towards her, slowly, his head still shaking and his lips stretched tight across his face. When he reaches her he stops, raises his head with his eyes crawling up from her crimson toenails to the nervous frown on her face. He reaches out, winding his hand round the back of her neck and draws her in to him. Then he pushes his tongue through his parted lips and licks his way round her face, up over her cheeks with the barbs on his tongue catching on her skin. When he pushes her from him she presses her back against the door frame and lowers her eyes.
"I'll be in touch." He says as he brushes past her and out onto the stage.

She waits until she hears the slam of the door before lifting her hand to wipe her cheek. Wipe the stench of his breath from the pores of her skin with the back of her hand and the tears that streak down her face. Stumbling forwards, she moves towards her desk and wipes it clear with a sweep of her arm. She sits down. She sits down heavily on the sleek wooden top and reaches down to grasp the hem of her dress. She lifts it up, over her knees, over her belly and up to her face. And rubs. Moving the soft, shiny fabric over her cheeks in wild, wanton circles until her skin is red and raw to the touch. Exhausted, she lays back, stretching her spine out over the cleared surface with her dress fluttering down over her knees, falling softly into place. And she lays there.
She lays there for some moments, eyes closed, breathing quick and restless.

24. PERFUME

Midday and the heat is relentless as Candy steps from the taxi and crosses the tarmac towards a derelict club in a patch of wasteland, somewhere on the edge of the city. She steps warily, balancing on the points of her toes with her arms held out on either side as she picks her way through the abandoned terrain. Picks her way around the odd rusted can, bottles papers and splinters of glass, the soles of her shoes sticking to the melted tarmac as she walks. When she reaches the entrance she stops for a moment, her fist poised in the air and her head turning from left to right as she checks the scene behind her. Then she knocks. She knocks firmly, with a three second pause between each rap and the door swings open, swallowing her inside. Pepito pulls slowly into the kerb and flips back his bug spattered visor. He slips from the bike and removes his helmet. He shakes his head in the hot, clammy air and holds out his hand for Raphael to wait. Wait behind him, wait by the bike. Moving closer, with his head whipping round, he scans his surroundings, digesting the place as he fixes his bearings on the building in front. They must be somewhere on the south side of the city, close to the docks. He can smell the sewage, warmed by the sun and the hot, sticky breath of the salty sea as it wafts up his nostrils in sickening waves. He steps forwards, undeterred by the stench of the place, with his heart beating loudly in the crook of his ear and his cheeks bulging outwards as he holds his breath. Closer to the building, a run down club, with bars on the ground floor windows, paint warped and peeling from the walls and a large neon sign that had slipped from its hinges and now lay in the dirt. Pepito moves towards it, closer and closer until he stands beside it with his head pitched down and his lips moving slowly as he tastes the letters in his mouth. GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS. ALL NIGHT LIVE ACTION. By the looks of the sign it seemed that those girls had been out of action a long time. How long - Pepito can't be sure. He lifts his head and steps up to the entrance. Steps up to the door with a hand on his gun. He waits for some moments, head twisting around and his breathing clipped, packed down tight in bottom of his lung. Then he slips into the shadows, with his back squeezed up flat against the wall and his feet shuffling sideways as he disappears around the side of the building. Raphael loses sight of him until Pepito pokes his head out and beckons him forwards with an impatient flick from his fingers.

They enter. But not through the front. Best to keep their heads down and safely out of sight, so they'd circled the place until they'd found their point of entry tucked around the back. Raphael had picked the lock. It was the least that he could do in the circumstances and worth the endless fiddling as the door clicked softly open and Pepito stepped inside. He cocks his gun, pulls back the safety catch with the hardened skin of a resolute thumb and steps forwards into the dampened gloom. He makes his way slowly down a long, narrow corridor with Raphael following close behind, breathing down his neck. A few more steps and they reach a staircase. They reach a staircase and stop. They listen. Pressed up tightly at the foot of the stairs, Pepito flicks his eyes up to the top and lifts his nose in the air. He sniffs. He sniffs deeply. Opens his nostrils and sparks his memory with the undeniable scent of cheap perfume. He knew it was cheap, it was the perfume his mother had worn supplied faithfully by Pepito himself for the last six years of her life. It was the perfume she had dabbed on her wrists and neck each morning, filling the flat and descending like a wayward gas to poison the air in the shop. The same perfume he had used to sweeten her corpse as she lay on display in their living room, eyes closed and lid up. He steps forwards, drawn by the pungent aroma and climbs the stairs to the top with Raphael still close on his heels. They grope their way down another darkened corridor until they come to a door at the farthest end. It's here that Pepito stops. Outside the door, he wrinkles his nose. He catches his breath as he presses his ear to the splintering paint and listens. He listens with his heart in his mouth. He listens to the pulse radiate from his chest and the breath, thick and fast in his mouth. Only when he's satisfied does he lay his hand on the rusted handle and twists with a tilt of his wrist.
Raphael is the first to see her. Darting from behind Pepito's back, shuffling around his shoulder he hops into the room. And he sees her. Ninotchka or Natasha, he can't quite remember but he knows her face. Knows the cut of her sharpened cheekbones, the mousy tint of her light brown hair. She doesn't stir when they enter, doesn't even lift her head but lays there with her spine folded and her head tucked into her chest on a small, wire framed bed in the corner. Raphael moves towards her with his hand stretched out in front of him and his mouth falling open at the jaw. He stops when he reaches the bottom of the wire framed bed and tentatively reaches out to touch her foot. He shakes the foot, gently at first and then when she doesn't respond, he shakes it again with growing insistence.
"Hey," he calls, his voice a whisper, "hey ... hey ..." Of course, she doesn't answer. No flicker in her half-closed lids, no light switches on in her pupils and her foot remains unimpressed by his touch. Pepito stoops down and places his ear by the side of her mouth.
"She's breathing," he says as he straightens his back. "But I think she must be drugged."
"What are we gonna do? We can't leave her like this." Raphael's voice is urgent, pushing through his teeth with a shrill whine as it cuts through Pepito's conscience like a well-placed knife. Pepito raises his hand in the air to silence him, then turns and paces across the floor with his hands clasped close to his chest. He needs to think. He needs to think on his feet. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand he crosses to the door with decisive steps and pulls it open, just a crack. He pokes his head out and checks the corridor. He moves forwards, easing his bulk through the crack in the door and presses onwards on the points of his toes to the top of the stairs. He stops and peers over the banister. He listens for a moment with his head to one side and his eyes narrowed in concentration. Then he turns back to face Raphael, who is watching him from the crack in the door, and beckons him forwards with a flick of his head. Raphael moves out from the room with hesitant steps and joins Pepito at the tops of the stairs.
"Detective Pons," he says in a hushed voice, "we must do something, we can't leave her here."
"I know but there's nothing we can do just yet, it's too dangerous ... if they find us ..." He stops himself and places a hand on the boy's shoulder, shaking his head. "Listen, listen to me carefully now. I want you to go back and get the bike."
Raphael hangs his head and shuffles awkwardly on the spot, his shoulders drooping beneath Pepito's touch.
"Bring it round to the back entrance ..." When he starts to protest, Pepito cuts him off. "It's the best chance we have right now ... we're no use to that girl if we're caught."
"But .."
"No buts ..." Pepito says, his voice climbing above a whisper. He checks behind him with a furtive twist of neck. "I want you to bring the bike around to the back door and wait for me there with the motor running."
"What are you going to do?"
Pepito extracts his gun from its holster and raises it up to his face. "Don't worry," he taps the gun against his nose with a practiced swagger. "I've got it all worked out."

He waits until Raphael is safely down the stairs and retreating along the corridor before he turns back to the room with quickening steps. He slips inside, closing the door behind him and moves towards the girl on the balls of his feet. How small she looks with her knees tucked up beneath her chin. And young, she must have been Raphael's age, at least. Stretching forwards, he takes hold of her wrist and cups her hand in his. He can feel her pulse beating beneath his fingers, beating fast but beating strong and he wonders with a pang in his foolish old heart, how far she is from home. Lured, no doubt, by a broken promise, a bogus contract and the additional threat of a debt she'd never even heard of weighing heavily on those small, white hands. But that's the trick in this growing trade. The trade of flesh, freshly plucked from God knows where, duped by the chance of a better life and sold into slavery for the highest price. Sexual slavery. See, there's the catch because she'll have to work off that debt on the flat of her back. Again and again. And it's never enough. She'll never quite pay for being lured from her home, or pay for the chance of a better life. Pay for believing in a distant land. Or pay for the chance to start again.
Bending over, Pepito grasps her foot and removes her shoe. Reaching into his pocket with his free hand he pulls out her passport. Flips through the pages until he finds her photograph and takes one last look before he tucks it snugly into the sole of her shoe. Just in case she ever wakes up. Just in case he ever works out what he has it do. He's tying her laces when he hears them approach. Half forgotten that they were in the same place. He can hear their footsteps as he fumbles with the knot, footsteps approaching up the stairs, their voices growing louder with each shuffling step. He has no doubt where they are headed. No doubt at all as he drops her foot and spins wildly around him, searching for an escape. But there's no time to panic, no time left to think as he lunges towards the window and scratches with frantic fingers at the rusted latch. Pulling, prizing, coaxing, praying but the latch sticks fast, clawing with his nails and it still won't budge. And the footsteps won't stop. They're moving nearer with a clutter in their step. Moving up those stairs and onto the landing with their voices growing louder. And clearer. Two men and a woman. Closer and closer, until they are almost upon him, outside the door. A hand reaches out to grasp the handle and Pepito freezes. His number's up for sure, so he does what any heavily perspiring middle-aged man in a tight spot would do.
He drops to the floor like a dead man and squeezes under the bed.

Six feet. Four stylish brogues and an expensive pair of heels step into the room. The make their way over to the bed and Pepito holds his breath.
"This the only one that's here?" Candy is the first to speak. She moves up close to the girl and bends forwards with the pointed toe of her stiletto skimming Pepito's head.
"No, there's more .. we had to split them up, stop them talking amongst themselves."
"She drugged?"
"We had to ... this one's a live one, started screaming down the place."
"She's not gonna like this."
"Yeah? Who gives a fuck ... she's not the one taking all the risks here ..."
"Okay, okay ..." It was Francisco's turn to speak. He stops for a moment as he dips his hand into his pocket and retrieves a pistachio nut which he slips between his teeth. "We all know who's taking the risks here so let's just keep calm." Biting down he spits fragments of the shell through the side of his mouth onto the floor at his feet.
"Yeah well, I'm only saying ... I've got enough things to worry about."
"We all do ..." He kicks the shells beneath the bed with a sideways sweep from his foot.
Candy walks over to the window and pulls out a cigarette. She holds it up to her mouth and lights the end with shaking fingers.
"When's the exchange?" she asks, blowing the smoke out through tightly pursed lips.
"Tonight."
"You sure."
"It's all arranged ... what's your problem anyway?" Francisco moves towards her, his feet stopping in front of her shiny patent heels. "Worried?"
She nods her head.
"There's nothing to worry about, it's all been taken care of .."
"And the detective?" She turns around to face him.
"Detective Pons?" He flips his head back and laughs, "I already told you, he's harmless .. and he doesn't have a clue ... he's never gonna figure it out and by the time he does, it'll all be over."
"You think?"
"I know." He moves back to the bed and reaches over the girl. He touches her face with the back of his hand. He strokes her hair. "Tell you what ... if he comes poking around after tonight, I'll take care of him."
"How?"
"How else ..."
"Do you think he knows who killed Rosa?"
Francisco stops with his hand poised in mid-air. "You kidding me? He's not even close ..."
"Maybe so but I think he's following the wrong trail ... he thinks you had something to do with it. You didn't did you? I mean ..." She laughs, a nervous flutter from the pit of her gut, lifts one heel and rubs it awkwardly against the back of her calf. Straightening his back Francisco turns to face her. He steps towards her with his hands clasped behind his back and the sides of his mouth arching upwards in a menacing grin. He stops in front of her with his head bowed and the grin spreading out slowly from the corners of his mouth. Then he lifts his head, leans in close and opens his mouth a fraction so that the words fall from his lips in a whisper.
"What do you think?"
She shakes her head and lifts her shoulders. Takes one step backwards for safety's sake.
"Nothing, I mean no, of course not."
He's watching her squirm, with her shoulders dropped and her spine flexing backwards.
"No, of course not," she says again, "I mean ... how could you? Why? You didn't ... did you?"
He shakes his head, slowly, holding her gaze with deliberate intent so that she doesn't have time to acknowledge the flat of his palm as it comes crashing in from the left. Strike one. Strikes just above her cheek. Strike two is far more obvious as it swings up from the right and lands across her mouth. She lifts her hands and turns her back. Turns her back and touches her face, with her fingers creeping gently over the long, red welts spreading over her cheeks.

Raphael wheels the bike around the back of the building and props it against the wall. He slips the helmet over his head and stands with his arms crossed over his chest. Cocking his wrist, he checks his watch. 11.46am. He lifts his head and stares at the door. Then he checks his watch again. 11.47am and counting. He steps backwards and tilts his head upwards and scans the upper windows. Calculating the distance between the top of the stairs and the door he guesses it'll take Pepito ten minutes to make his escape. Five for the run and five extra as a penalty for his age. After a moments thought, he adds another five minutes. Fifteen minutes in all - five for the run, five for his age and five for his gut. It had to be a hindrance. He steps forwards to the bike and pulls it upright. He swings his leg over and settles himself on the seat with his feet placed flat on the ground. He's already decided. He'll wait another fifteen minutes, it's the least that he can do and if Pepito's not out by then, he'll just have to go back in and get him.

All things considered, it took him a fraction of a second to squeeze out from under the bed. He stands upright and brushes the dust from the front of his shirt with impatient flicks from his hands. Tripping towards the door, he presses his ear against the blistered paint and listens. He listens with his tongue jammed to the roof of his mouth and his heart hammering hard in his chest. He can hear them in the hallway, talking amongst themselves. Francisco is giving orders and the other man responds in a low, gruff voice that scrapes the back of his throat.
"You want me to keep her doped up until tonight?"
"Yeah but make sure she's conscious by the time we have to move them. I want them all standing on their own two legs when we make the exchange."
"Okay."
"And you ..." He guesses he's talking to Candy. "You can tell her majesty that it's all set for tonight."
"She won't be there."
"I know, doesn't want to get her hands dirty." He lets out a low guttural chuckle. "Just make sure she knows it's all going ahead."
Pepito waits until the sound of their footsteps fade before he pulls the door open a fraction and squints through the opening. When he's sure that they've gone he eases himself out of the room with a backwards glance at the girl on the bed and makes his way with nervous steps to the staircase. He stands at the top gazing down with his foot hovering above the first step and his hand glued tight to his holster. And he's just about to take that first step when Raphael appears at the foot of the stairs with his helmet jammed to his head. He lifts his chin with a nonchalant slant and smiles through the streak on the visor. Cursing under his breath Pepito presses forwards but is stopped in his tracks by the sudden appearance of one of Francisco's men in the hallway behind Raphael. It's one of the goons, the one with the head, a squat, thick-boned man he stands for some moments in shock or surprise as he looks from Raphael to Pepito, then back again. But it doesn't take long for him to regain his composure as his mouth falls open and he shouts his disgust from the depths of his lungs and rushes towards Raphael. Raphael spins around in terror. Pepito knows that Raphael doesn't have a chance which is probably why, with a scissoring motion, a graceless leap, he throws himself from the top of the stairs in the general direction of the squat, thick-boned man at the bottom. Quick thinking really but if it wasn't for Raphael's timely push, he would have missed him altogether. They hit the floor in a messy heap and Pepito scrambles to his feet, grazing his shins on the squat man's teeth in their horizontal scuffle. Grabbing Raphael by the scruff of the neck, they run. The run for their lives. Back along the dingy corridor with their feet tripping up in their hasty flight and out through the door at the back of the building. Raphael is the first to reach the bike. He straddles the seat and starts the engine as Pepito clambers on behind him but he doesn't have time to slip the helmet over his head. Doesn't have time to pull out his gun as the door swings open and the squat man appears. Without thinking Pepito launches the helmet towards the thick-boned skull and with a crack of impact that cuts through the air they make their escape.
It was a close call but it would have been closer if Raphael hadn't been bored while he was waiting. So bored that he'd taken a walk over to their cars, a nonchalant little saunter, got down on his knees and carved his initials into their tyres. His own little token in Pepito's master plan and a chance for them to escape if anything should go wrong. Which is just as well really, after all - it's the little things like that, that can make all the difference.

23. A MOTHER'S KISS

Barely there and partially dressed, Carlos awakes. He sits up in bed, sluggishly, pulling himself from the depths of sleep and blinks in the light that floods the room. Slowly, his mind is returning. Reluctantly, he remembers. Drawing his knees up to the bulge of his chest he wraps his arms around his shins and squeezes. Just for a moment. But long enough for the light to fade behind his closed lids and the lump in his throat to soften. By the time Mariquita knocks on the bedroom door he is standing in front of the window with the blinds drawn up, staring out at the pool. She tiptoes in behind him and reaches for his hair. Looping her fingers through the strands at the back she leans forwards and kisses him softly on the nape of his neck. Kisses him softly just there, where his skin meets the fine, downy hairs on his hairline and inhales, drawing the scent deep into her lungs. A scent so hypnotically sweet, a mother never forgets it. He tilts his head towards her and rests his cheek on the top of her head.

"I checked on you a couple of times but you were so soundly asleep ... you were sleeping like a baby." She dips her head and extracts her hand from the coils of his hair. "I have breakfast for you if you're hungry."
He shakes his head.
Taking both his hands she turns him towards her. "Come on now ... you need to eat, a big strong hulk like you ..... you need something inside you." She leads him towards the door, pulling him forwards by the palms of his hands. "That's right," she coaxes, "you'll feel better once you eat something."

She leads him out to the pool and guides him into a chair with her hand pressing down on his shoulders. Then she circles around behind him and pulls out a chair for herself. Stretching forwards she picks up a carton of orange juice, pours some of the pulpy liquid into a glass and presses the glass in his hand.
"Here, drink some."
Carlos takes the glass from her outstretched hand and lifts it to his lips. He holds it there with his lips poised on the rim and peers at his mother. Mariquita nods her head, a smile oozing outwards slowly from the corners of her lips so he opens his mouth and tips his head back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and places the empty glass back on the table. Satisfied, she averts her eyes and reaches for the bread. Picking up a knife, she slices inwards with a heavy thrust and lays the two halves on the table. Then she reaches for a tomato, the biggest on the plate, slices it down the middle and squashes it onto the bread. Her eyes flick up to his face as she rubs one half of the tomato over the soft doughy flesh of the bread but his mind is elsewhere and his eyes are vacant, staring at some distant spot on the horizon. He doesn't seem to see her and she bites her lip as she reaches out and grabs a small bottle of oil which she drizzles all over the juice from the tomato. Drizzles with gusto, drizzles with force until the bread is soaking and the oil spills over, seeping onto the table.
"Damn." She rises from her seat and dabs at the oil with a fine cloth napkin. Dabs at the stain with her blood pressure rising, her back bent over at an awkward angle and her hair falling forwards, covering her face. Covering the stain, like a blood red tomato, that seeps through her skin, burning her cheeks. Leaning forwards, Carlos takes her wrist and gently extracts the oil soaked napkin from her hand. He lays it on the table and cups her shaking hand in his.
"Don't," he says and lifts his eyes to look in her face. "You don't have to."
But we know that she did because she wants to. She needs to. She needs to make up for all that time when she wasn't there and she wasn't his. She wasn't his mother and someone else made his breakfast, wiped the crumbs from around his mouth, comforted him when he wept and kissed that soft, sweet spot at the nape of his neck. Standing up, she slips in behind him and circles her arms around his chest. She pulls him tightly to her body and rests her chin on the broad expanse of his shoulder.
"You have to forget her Carlos," she whispers in his ear, "it's the best that you can do."
But Carlos doesn't think so, in fact, it's the last thing that he wants to hear as he struggles out from her tightening grasp and rises from the chair. He turns, turns quickly, roughly, trying to escape from her greedy arms and knocks the chair to the floor where it lands with a clatter, splitting a tile.
"Carlos ..." She moves to restrain him, her arms reaching out to gather him in again but he shakes her off and strides over to the pool. Bending, knees jutting forwards, he sits down at the edge with his arse kissing concrete and dips his feet in the cool, glossy water. Mariquita slips up behind him with the hem of her robe crushed in her hand and sits down. Sits down beside him, scrunched up close, her legs stretched forwards and swinging in the water and her hands, crosses at the fingers, laying mutely in her lap. She wants to touch him, wants to unfurl those fingers and walk them through his hair. Bury her face in the nape of his neck and breathe in that scent she could never forget. But she can't. She doesn't dare.
"Why didn't you call the police?" He's staring straight at her with his eyes opened wide and his lip curling upwards. She doesn't answer so he asks her again. And again.
"Why didn't I want to call the police when exactly?" She seeks to appease him, her eyes pitched down, avoiding his gaze.
"That morning ... Thursday morning, when I came here and told you she hadn't come home ... I asked you to call the police ... why didn't you want to?"
"Of course I wanted to Carlos ..." She reaches out towards him.
"But you didn't ... you didn't call them ..." He stands up abruptly like a petulant child and walks back towards the table leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake. Reaching out, he picks up the bread which she so carefully prepared and crushes it into a ball in his fist.
"They asked me why I hadn't called them."
She stands up slowly. "Who asked you?"
"The police, who else?" He spins around to face her. "They thought it kind of funny that she'd been missing three days and I hadn't thought to call them."
She walks towards him softly.
"But I did, didn't I? I mean ... I wanted to ..."
She nods her head as she slips up beside him. "What did you tell the police Carlos?"
"What did I tell them?" he laughs, a slow release of air forced out between his teeth. "I told them you stopped me."
She stands before him and he turns his back. She reaches out and touches the soft, sloping curve of his neck with a cautious finger. A spasm ripples down his spine and she catches her breath. Catches her breath and clenches her fist.
"Carlos ..." Her voice is firm but trapped in her throat. "Carlos. I called in Detective Pons. I asked him to look for her. The police ... they suspect you for God sake, I knew they would, that's why I didn't call them. They don't give a shit for people like us, as long as they have someone to pin it on they're happy. But Detective Pons isn't like that, he's ..." she pauses, "he's different ... you'll see." She moves in to touch him again but he shakes her off. "Carlos please ..." Her voice is rising. "I did it for you. I did what I thought was best."
He spins around to face her with his hand beating off his chest. "Maybe they could have found her ... found her before ..." He breaks off.
Mariquita shakes her head. "No Carlos, no ... they wouldn't have found her in time." Stretching upwards she takes his head in her hands and shakes gently. And Carlos submits. He gives up the fight, the anger, the hurt and the waves of grief roll up from his body, flooding his throat and piercing his eyes.

She leads him back into the house with one hand cupping his neck and the other looped through the crook of his arm. Once more, she guides him to where she wants him to go. A chair, for example, plumped and worn, tucked in by the window.
"Here," she says, pressing him downwards with the tips of her fingers. "Everything will be all right, you'll see."
He tips his chin upwards and gazes into her face.
"Everything happens for a reason Carlos, sometimes things we don't like or things we don't expect but we just have to accept that and make the best of it." Kneeling down in front of him she takes both his hands in hers and kisses them, her lips moving over his knuckles and down to his wrists. "You have to be strong ... we have to stick together, if we stick together, we'll get through this."
He rolls his head back and closes his eyes. "i just wish it had never happened ... I wish we could go back, a week, a year, anything ... I wish we could go back and start again."
Turning her head, she picks out a spot on the floor where a shaft of light has slipped through the blinds and is basking on the polished tiles. If she could turn back the clock she would, in a heartbeat, turn it right back to the beginning, when he cried for life in his mother's arms. Cried for life and cried for her milk. And she would cradle him, soothe him, let him drink from her breast with his soft, pink lips. Cling to his body for her very life. And never let go.