Antonio Hill - The Summer of Dead Toys

When the screen began to display its contents he was stunned, and that quick irritation toward others, the disappointment that overcame him on realizing, again and again, that he was surrounded by idiots, seized him. He reproached himself for being angry with Gina now the poor thing was gone, but. . Fuck, she had to be stupid to get the devices mixed up and give him her Art History notes. Annoyance gave way to another even more intense alarm. Damn. The USB was still in Gina’s bedroom, within reach of her parents and the police: that stern sudaca and the agent who’d be a good lay. It took him five minutes to be dressed and running out for his bike. Well, he thought maliciously, at least his father would be happy.

Standing before the stately, black-grilled door that led up to the Martís’, Héctor consulted his watch. He had fifteen minutes before meeting Castro, whom he’d called on leaving Joana’s house, and he told himself another coffee wouldn’t be a bad idea before facing what awaited him upstairs. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who thought so, since as soon as he entered the café, out of the corner of his eye he saw Fèlix Castells at the end of the bar, paper open, absorbed in his reading. He was someone he wanted to speak to one to one, so he didn’t hesitate for a moment. He went over to him and greeted him, using the ecclesiastical address almost without thinking.

“Call me Fèlix, please,” he said, affably. “No one calls us father these days.”

“Would you mind if we took a seat at this table?” Héctor indicated one at the back, relatively isolated.

“Of course not. In fact, I’m waiting for my brother and Glòria. Given the situation, we thought it best to arrive all together, and stay only as long as is necessary.”

Very considerate, thought Héctor. The Castells, en masse, offering condolences to Salvador and Regina on the death of a daughter who might have killed their son and nephew. Of course, if there was something for which he should be grateful to all those involved, it was that, up to then, they had behaved with the greatest delicacy. Even Salvador Martí’s outburst the previous night had sounded more tired than insulting.

Once seated, cups of coffee in front of them-Fèlix had ordered another to join the inspector-Héctor hastened to bring up the subject before the others arrived.

“Does the name Iris mean anything to you?”

“Iris?”

Stalling, thought Héctor. Eyes lowered, spoon stirring the sugar: more stalling. A sigh.

“I suppose you’re referring to Iris Alonso.”

“I’m referring to the Iris who drowned in the pool during a summer camp years ago.”

Fèlix nodded. He drank his coffee. He moved his cup and rested both hands on the table under Héctor’s penetrating gaze.

“It’s been a long time since I heard that name, Inspector.”

It’s been a long time since I thought about Iris, remembered Felix.

“What do you want to know? And,” he hesitated, “why?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. First tell me what happened.”

“What happened? I wish I knew, Inspector.” He was recovering, his voice was gaining strength. “As you said, Iris Alonso drowned in the pool of the house for summer camps we rented every summer.”

“Was she one of the little girls in your care?” He already knew the answer, but he had to extract more information: he wanted to get to Marc, the six-year-old who saw that macabre image.

“No. Her mother was the cook, a widow. For a little over a month, she would move into the house with us.”

“Us?”

“The monitors, the children and me. The kids arrived in groups and stayed for ten days.”

“But Marc stayed all summer?”

“Yes. My brother has always worked a lot. Summers were a problem, so yes, I took him with me.” He lifted both hands from the table with a slightly impatient gesture. “I still don’t see-”

“I’ll explain it all to you at the end, I promise you. Please continue.”

Héctor told himself that the man before him was more accustomed to listening than to expressing himself. He held the priest’s gaze without blinking.

“How exactly did Iris Alonso die?” he insisted.

“She drowned in the pool.”

“Yeah. Was she alone? Did she have stomach cramp? Did she hit her head on the side?”

There was a pause. Maybe Fèlix Castells was determined not to be pressured; maybe he was simply organizing his thoughts.

“That was many years ago, Inspector. I don’t-”

“Did many little girls drown while they were in your care?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Then permit me to say that I don’t understand how you could have forgotten her.”

The answer came from his soul, if souls exist.

“I haven’t forgotten her, Inspector. I assure you. For months I couldn’t think of anything else. It was me who took her out of the water. I tried to give her mouth to mouth, revive her, everything. . But it was too late.”

“What happened?” He changed his tone, perhaps softened by the pain in the face in front of him.

“Iris was a strange little girl.” He looked to one side, beyond Héctor, beyond the café, the street, the city. “Or maybe she was at an especially difficult age. I don’t know. I’ve lost the ability to understand young people.”

The priest gave a faint smile and continued speaking without Héctor having to pressure him.

“She was twelve, if I’m not mistaken. Full pre-adolescence. That summer her mother didn’t know what to do with her. The previous years she’d been a happy little girl, secure; she amused herself with the other kids. She even took care of Marc. But that summer it was all rows and sulky faces. And then there were mealtimes.” He sighed. “In the end I had to speak to her mother and ask her to ease up a little.”

“Iris didn’t eat?”

“According to her mother, no, and it’s true she was skin and bone.” He remembered her soaked, fragile little body and shuddered. “Two days before her death she disappeared. God, it was awful. We searched for her everywhere, we scoured the wood for a whole night. The townspeople helped us. Believe me, I mobilized everyone to find her safe and sound. Finally we came across her in a cave in the wood we would usually go to on hikes.”

“Was she all right?”

“Perfectly. She looked at us so coldly and told us she didn’t want to go back. I must own that at that moment I got angry. I got very angry. We took her home. On the way, instead of being more docile and understanding the fright she’d given us, she was still indifferent. Insolent. And I was sick of it, Inspector; I told her to go into her room and not come out; she was being punished. I would have locked her in if there had been a key. Maybe you think I’m exaggerating, but I assure you that during those hours of searching I prayed without stopping that nothing serious had happened to her.” He paused. “She even refused to apologize to her mother. The poor woman was devastated.”

“Nobody went in to see her?”

“Her mother tried to talk to her. But they ended up arguing again. That was the evening before she died.”

This man’s story in essential points coincided with the one on Marc’s blog. But the end was missing, and Héctor hoped the priest could shed some light on it.

“What happened?”

Fèlix Castells lowered his eyes. Something that could be doubt, or guilt, or both, took over his appearance for a moment. It was a fleeting expression, but it was there. Héctor hadn’t the least doubt of that.

“No one knows exactly what happened, Inspector.” He looked him in the eyes again, in an attempt to ooze sincerity. “The following morning, very early, a little boy screaming woke me. It took me a minute to figure out that it was Marc and I went running from my room. Marc was still screaming, from the pool.” He paused and swallowed. “I saw her as soon as I got there. I jumped into the water and tried to revive her, but it was too late.”