Antonio Hill - The Summer of Dead Toys

“Yes.”

He gave her a quick kiss. Like her, he wasn’t a fan of public displays of affection, but it left her a taste of his mouth, wanting more.

“Why don’t we head toward the beach? I’ve spent a week suffocating in the heat of Madrid. I want to see the sea with you.”

The beach bar was proclaiming the arrival of Friday night with disco music, and the customers, their bodies glistening with suntan lotion, allowed themselves to be seduced by that rhythm somewhere between smooth and monotonous, and the offer of mojitos prepared by a beautiful young Latin American woman in an annexed bar. Knees bent and feet resting on the seat opposite, Tomás lit his third cigarette and ordered his second beer. He’d finished the first in almost one swallow and was watching the beach, already half empty, and that tranquil city sea, almost waveless, a dull blue.

“You don’t know how I’ve been longing for this. .” he said, relaxing his shoulders and blowing out smoke slowly, as if he were expelling something within that was tiring him. He’d taken off his jacket and undone the top buttons of his shirt.

Leire smiled at him.

“You can have a dip if you want. They’re not pure and crystalline waters, but they’re not bad.”

“I’m not wearing my trunks,” he said. He yawned. “Also, right now I want to smoke and drink. Do you only want a Coca-Cola?”

“Yes.” She tried not to have the smoke in her face. Why did smoke nearby make her feel nauseated though her own didn’t?

“Well, what have you got to tell me? Any interesting cases?”

“The odd one or two. But let’s not talk about work, please. I’ve had a horrible week.”

“You’re right. Although at least yours is interesting. Audits at times of crisis are depressing.” He pulled her toward him and put his arm around her. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.”

She didn’t answer and he continued talking.

“I’ve thought of calling you a few times, but I didn’t want to smother you. For a week it was rather intense.”

Intense. That was the word. One of them. Just being at his side, feeling that strong arm, awoke all the impulses of her body. It was strange. Pure sexual chemistry, like they were each made to take pleasure in the other.

“But the other day I couldn’t take it any more.” She didn’t ask why. “I knew I had to see you. At least this weekend.”

Leire kept her eyes on the sea, on some clouds moving at top speed on the horizon. She didn’t want to see them. “It’s going to rain,” she said.

“Don’t you like being on the beach in the rain?” “I’d prefer to be in bed. With you.”

They barely waited to enter the house. The proximity on the motorbike, combined with the tense atmosphere of the storm, was raising their temperatures and he began to touch her while still on the stairs, shameless. She didn’t resist at all. They kissed greedily on the threshold until she let go and dragged him inside by the hand. He didn’t let go of her for a moment, not even when he searched for her underwear with his fingers while he brushed her lips with his tongue without fully kissing her, leaving her wanting more. Their hands, interwoven against the door, were descending as she became more and more excited. When they reached her hips, he kissed her for real, forcefully, and pulled out his playful fingers. Then he lifted her and carried her to the bed.

Tomás wasn’t one of those that slept after making love, something that frankly was all the same to her. In fact, that day, she would have preferred it. Luckily, he wasn’t one who talked either: lying by her side, he stayed in physical contact, enjoying the silence. Outside, an intense rain was battering the streets. She let herself be soothed by the sound, by the contact, while she thought that this was the time. Maybe he didn’t have any right to know, as María had stressed the previous night, but she, in good conscience, should tell him. She wasn’t planning to ask him for anything, or demand any responsibility of him. Just tell him the truth.

“Leire,” he whispered. “I want to tell you something.”

“Me too.” He couldn’t see her smile, in the dark. “You go first.”

He turned her face toward him.

“I’ve done something crazy.”

“You?”

“Don’t get angry, OK? Promise me.”

“Promise. And I say likewise.”

“I’ve rented a boat. For next month. I want to go to the islands, Ibiza or Menorca, for a few days. And I’d like you to come with me.”

For a moment she couldn’t believe it. The idea of travelling with him, just the two of them, of entire nights of non-stop fucking in a cabin, of beaches with blue waters and romantic dinners on deck, left her speechless. She thought of María, carrying buckets of water to construct the surgery in the African village, and started laughing.

“What are you laughing at?”

She couldn’t stop.

“Nothing. .” she stammered, not able to avoid another giggle.

“Do you think I can’t operate a boat or something?”

“It’s not that. . really. .”

He started tickling her.

“You’re laughing at me! Are you laughing at me? You’ll. .!”

“Stop, stop. . Stop, please! Enough!”

The last order came out as definitive because he stopped, although he said in a threatening tone: “Tell me you’ll come. . or I’ll tickle you to death.”

Leire exhaled. Now. She couldn’t put it off any longer. The rain seemed to have eased off. A storm moving away, she thought.

She inhaled and began.

“Tomás, there’s-”

A telephone interrupted her.

“It’s yours,” he said.

Leire jumped out of bed, relieved by the momentary breathing space. She took a few moments to find her mobile because she didn’t know where she’d left her jacket. She found it on the dining room floor, beside the door, and managed to answer it before they hung up. The call was brief, barely seconds long, but enough to tell her the terrible news.

“Has something happened?” he asked. He was kneeling, naked, in the middle of the bed.

“I have to go,” she answered. “I’m sorry.”

She scooped up her clothes at top speed and ran toward the bathroom, still overwhelmed by what she’d just heard.

“I’ll come back when I can,” she said before leaving. “And we’ll talk, OK?”

It had already started raining when Héctor arrived at the station. He went in hope of finding Martina Andreu, but her office was empty. He greeted a couple of acquaintances, feeling very uncomfortable, as if this were no longer his place and, unable to avoid it, he looked sideways at the door of his own office. Although technically he’d been on holiday, everyone knew what had happened. He’d spent many years in stations, and they were like every place of work: a hotbed of rumors and comments. Above all if they were about someone who up to then had distinguished himself with an unblemished record. With decisive steps he went toward Leire Castro’s desk and then he saw the report, placed on the computer keyboard in a file. Leaning against the desk, he looked through the report on Aleix Rovira’s calls. This kid was turning out to be an inexhaustible source of surprises, he thought on seeing the names Rubén Ramos García and Regina Ballester. However, the first name was more a suspicion confirmed than a true surprise, he said to himself, remembering the conversation he’d just had with Óscar Vaquero.

He’d arranged to meet him at the door of a gym in the city centre, and while he waited for him he thought the boy must have taken the idea of losing weight seriously. However, when a young man, not very tall but with broad shoulders, bulging arms threatening to rip his T-shirt sleeves and not fat at all, approached him he had to look twice to recognize him from the description he’d been given of Óscar Vaquero. Of course, two years had passed since that video which ended in Marc Castells’ suspension and Óscar’s changing schools. And judging by the results, he’d made good use of the time. Then, sitting on a street terrace despite the clouds beginning to cover the sky, he could see that the change in Óscar wasn’t only physical. Héctor ordered a black coffee and Óscar, after a little thought, opted for a Diet Coke.