Antonio Hill - The Good Suicides

In layman’s terms, Héctor translated: Are you going to let me finish my damn shift? Agent Fort opened his mouth to say something, but the inspector beat him to it.

“Let’s go,” decided Héctor, not looking at his subordinate. “Then you can explain the thing with the boys, Fort.”

The booth where the images of what happened on the platforms were recorded was small and a thick odor hung in the air, a mixture of sweat and must.

“Here you are,” was all the guard said. “Though don’t expect too much.”

Héctor looked at him once again. Either there were people born to carry out a specific job, or the job molded those who did it until symbiosis between person and task was achieved. This wan-faced individual with sour breath, slow-moving and a monotonal voice, seemed the perfect candidate to sit there for eight hours, if not more, observing this bit of subterranean life through a low-resolution screen.

The camera focused on the platform from the end at which the train entered, and Salgado, Fort and the guard silently contemplated the arrival of the metro at exactly 01:49. In an instant Héctor remembered his dream: perhaps because of the diffuse, grayish shade of the screen, the individuals waiting on the platform looked like bodies with blurred faces and syncopated movements, like urban zombies. Just when the whistle was announcing the train’s departure, a group of kids, dressed in baggy jeans, hoodies and caps, came running onto the platform and, furious on seeing they’d missed that train, they beat against the already closed doors-a reaction as absurd as it was useless. One of them made a telling gesture with his finger to the camera when the metro pulled out, leaving them in the station.

“They had to wait six minutes because-” said the guard, his voice finally expressing something resembling satisfaction.

Agent Fort interrupted him. “There she is, Inspector.”

And indeed, a woman entered from the other end. There was no way of telling if she was short or tall. Dark-haired, with a black coat and something in her hand. She was so far from the camera that her face was hardly visible. Because of the distance, and because again and again she turned her head back to where she had come onto the platform.

“See, Inspector? She keeps looking behind her. As if someone is following her.”

Héctor didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the screen. On that woman who, according to the clock showing the countdown to the next metro, had a little more than three minutes of life remaining.

She was keeping away from the tracks, her profile to the camera. Close up, two of the four kids had sat down, or rather fallen onto the benches. Héctor then made out a girl among them. He hadn’t seen her before. Tiny black shorts, very high heels and a white anorak. Beside her, one of the boys tried to grab her waist and, bad tempered, she broke free and said something to him that made the other two erupt into laughter. The kid turned to them, threatening, but both continued making fun of him.

Héctor’s eyes were fixed on the woman. She was uncomfortable, that was obvious. At first, she made as if to go toward the kids; however, on hearing the laughter she stopped and clutched her bag tightly. No one else had come down to the platform, but she kept looking stubbornly behind. Maybe it was an attempt to ignore the teenagers, obviously of Latin American origin. Finally she shifted her gaze to what she had in her hand and, thoughtful, took a couple of steps, which put her on the yellow line that marked out the safe area, as if she wanted to gain a few seconds by being at the edge of the platform.

“She’s looking at her cell,” Fort pointed out.

And then everything seemed to happen at once. The kids leapt up, taking up the entire image at the time the train entered the station.

“She must have jumped just at that moment,” said the guard, while on the screen the convoy stopped, the doors opened and the platform filled with curious passengers. “But you can’t see it because of those Latinos. In fact, it was the driver of the train who raised the alarm. Poor guy.”

Strange, thought Héctor, he feels more pity for the driver than the suicide. As if she was inconsiderate in her final act.

“Are there no other cameras that capture the image from another angle?” asked Salgado.

The guard shook his head and added, “There are the ones monitoring the turnstiles, so that people don’t sneak through without paying, but in that time no one came in that way.”

“Okay. We’ve seen it now,” declared Salgado. And if Fort had known him better he’d have recognized that that dry tone didn’t bode well. “We’ll take the tape so this man can close up and go home.”

The guard didn’t object.

“For Christ’s sake, Fort, tell me you haven’t made me come at this time just to show me a tape where you can’t see anything.” Fort had been under his command for only a couple of weeks, so the inspector expressed his disgust in the most polite way possible over the short distance separating them from the platform, although speaking quietly didn’t manage to conceal his bad mood. He took a breath; he didn’t want to be too harsh, and at that hour of the morning it was easy to get carried away. To top it all, the agent had such a contrite expression that Salgado took pity on him. “It doesn’t matter, we’ll talk about it later. Since I’m here, let’s sort out those boys.”

He hurried down the steps, cutting Fort off mid-sentence.

The boys, just two of them, were sitting on one of the benches, the same one they’d occupied before. Not laughing now, thought Héctor, seeing them totally rigid. The party had ended all of a sudden. As he went toward them, he tried not to see the black plastic bags scattered over the track. He turned to the agent.

“Make sure they’re finished, and remove the body immediately.”

The faint station light made the boys look dirty. Two uniformed agents stood in front of them. They were chatting, seemingly removed from the kids, but without taking their eyes off them. When Salgado approached, they both greeted him and took a step back. The inspector remained standing and fixed his eyes on the adolescents. Dominican, almost certainly. One of them was around eighteen or nineteen; the other, who judging by appearances must be his younger brother, was younger than Guillermo. Thirteen, fourteen tops, Héctor decided.

“Well, boys, it’s very late and we all want to finish as soon as possible. I’m Inspector Salgado. Tell me your names, what you saw and explain to me what brought you back,” he added, remembering what Fort had told him. “Afterward, we’ll all go home to bed, okay?”

“We didn’t see anything,” the younger one retorted, looking at his brother with a certain resentment. “We were out partying and we were going home from Port Olímpic. We changed from the yellow line to the red, but we missed the metro. Only just.”

“Name?” repeated the inspector.

“Jorge Ribera. And that’s my brother Nelson.”

“Nelson, you didn’t notice the woman either?”

The older boy had very black eyes and his face had a hard, distrusting expression. Impassive.

“No, sir.” He looked ahead, not fixing his eyes on anyone. The tone of his answer sounded hostile.

“But you saw her?”

The little one smiled.

“Nelson only has eyes for his girl. Even though she’s mad at him …”

Salgado recognized him as the one who’d been pestering the girl with the white anorak. Nelson gave his brother a withering look. Jorge must have been accustomed to it, because he didn’t so much as flinch.

“Good. Was there anyone else in the station?” Héctor knew there wasn’t, although there was always the possibility that someone had entered the station at the last minute. However, both boys shrugged. It was clear that they’d been entertained by the argument between Nelson and the girl. “Fine. Then what did you do?”