Antonio Hill - The Summer of Dead Toys

It was best, he repeated almost aloud, convinced that, given the circumstances, he’d done what was right. The poor little girl was past all help, in the hands of the Lord, but everyone else, those who were still living, were his responsibility. He had to decide and he’d done so. He’d spent all day telling himself that, but as soon as his eyes fell on the blurry photo of Iris on his nephew’s blog, his self-assurance collapsed into a thousand pieces. Because he knew this claim of having done the right thing that summer was built on the unsound foundations of a lie. Iris’s little face reminded him of that.

Tonight, opposite the image of that little blonde girl, Fèlix lowered his eyes and asked forgiveness. For his sins, his arrogance, his prejudices. While he prayed he recalled Joana’s words a few days before, when she said that blame wasn’t atoned for, it was carried. Maybe she was right. And maybe the moment had arrived to take a step back, to let justice take its course with all the consequences. Enough of playing God, he told himself. Let everyone take their share of the blame. Let the truth come to light. And may the Lord forgive my deeds and my omissions, and may the dead rest in peace.

“RIP” read the note that appeared on the saddle of his bike that evening, stuck to the lifeless body of a kitten. Aleix had to overcome all his disgust to take it off, and hours afterward he could feel the touch and smell of that tiny creature on his fingers. Time was running out and his problems, his problem, was ever further from being solved. He didn’t have to be a genius to deduce who’d sent that message, or what it meant. There was little more than forty-eight hours left until Tuesday. He’d called Rubén several times with no answer. That in itself was another message, he thought. The rats were abandoning ship. He was facing the threat alone.

Holed up in his room, Aleix went over all the possibilities. Fortunately, his brain still functioned at times of great stress, although a teeny line would have helped him dispel his doubts. Finally, as he contemplated the darkening sky, he realized he had only one option. Although it would be the hardest thing he’d ever done, although his stomach churned at the very thought, there was only one person to turn to. Edu would lend him the money. For better or for worse. He didn’t want to mull it over any more: he left his room and walked with quick, feverish steps toward his older brother’s room.

Leire picked the inspector up at the foot of the tower without asking questions, and tried not to notice his tired appearance. He was still wearing the same shirt she’d seen on him that morning and he spoke slowly, as if he had to make an effort to pay attention. But as she was bringing him up to date on Rubén’s statement, those tired eyes took on an interested gleam.

“I’m sorry I acted off my own bat,” she said when she finished her tale.

“It’s done now,” he replied.

“See, Inspector? We have a witness, a stoned witness who believes he saw someone push Marc Castells. Not the testimony of the year, but I’d swear he was telling the truth.”

Héctor tried to focus on the case, but it was difficult. Finally, when they reached the city centre, it occurred to him, not without a certain shyness, to invite her to dinner. If it seemed odd to her, she said nothing, probably because she was dying of hunger and had nothing at home she felt like eating. The thought of some duck dim sum, the speciality of a Chinese restaurant she knew, overcame all other considerations.

“Do you like Chinese food?”

“Yes,” he lied. “And don’t be so formal. At least for a while.” He smiled at her and continued in a low voice, thinking that by the following day he might no longer be an inspector but someone charged with murder. “Maybe forever.”

She didn’t fully understand the phrase, but sensed that questions were out of place, so she bit her tongue.

“Whatever you say. But, in that case, we split the bill.”

“Never. My religion forbids it.”

“I hope it doesn’t forbid you eating duck as well.”

“I’m not sure about that. I’ll have to seek advice.”

She laughed.

“Well, seek it tomorrow. . just in case.”

Héctor’s decision to pay for dinner had been unyielding, so it was Leire who, in a fit of female equality, suggested going for a drink in a small bar nearby where they served “the best mojitos in Barcelona.” REC was a small space, decorated in white, gray and red, which was usually full in winter, when the customers preferred cosy interiors to street terraces. That night there were only a couple of people at the bar, chatting to the owner, a muscular guy who greeted Leire with two kisses.

“From what I see you’re well known here,” commented Héctor, when they had sat down at a table.

“I come a lot,” she replied. “With a friend.”

“Leire, two mojitos?” asked the owner.

“No. Just one. A virgin San Francisco for me.”

He winked at her, with no comment; if Leire wanted to abstain that night in front of this companion, that was her business. He brought them the two drinks and returned to the bar.

“Is it good?” she asked. She was actually dying to have one, but the image of a baby with three heads suppressed any temptation to try it.

“Yes. Are you sure you don’t want one?”

“I’m driving,” said Leire, grateful for once in her life for the hundreds of checkpoints scattered across the city on Saturday nights.

“Good girl.” He stirred the sugar at the bottom of the glass and took another gulp. They’d been going over the case during dinner and come once again to a dead end: Iris, or, more accurately, Inés Alonso. They’d agreed that Leire would go to the airport to collect her and ensure that the young woman arrived safely at Joana Vidal’s flat, or wherever she wanted to go first. Obviously, en route she would talk to her about Marc. Héctor had opted to stay on the margin, though Leire didn’t know why. Nor could he tell her without getting Andreu into trouble. For the umpteenth time, he looked at his mobile, which remained insolently silent on the table. Not even Ruth had bothered to answer.

“Expecting a call?” asked Leire. She hadn’t been drinking, but something in her impelled her to be forward. “A friend?”

He smiled.

“Something like that. And tell me, why is a girl like you free on a Saturday night?”

Leire shrugged.

“Mysteries of the city.”

He looked at her with that old-dog irony, and all of a sudden she felt a huge wish to tell him everything: her conversation with Tomás, her fears.

“I don’t think I can handle any more mysteries,” he replied. She took another sip and lowered her voice.

“That’s easily resolved, really.” He was going to be the third person to know, after María and Tomás and before her parents. But she couldn’t take it any more. “Can I give you an exclusive piece of news? Not to Inspector Salgado from the morning but to Héctor from tonight?”

“I love exclusives.”

“I’m pregnant.” She smiled as she said it, as if she were confessing a major indiscretion.

The words caught him mid-gulp. Smiling, he moved his glass to the San Francisco and touched it lightly.

“Congratulations.” His smile was warm, and despite the wrinkles and the fatigue in his features, he seemed to be happy.

“Don’t say anything, OK? I’m only a few weeks and everyone says not to announce it in case something happens, and-”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted her. “I know. And I’ll be as silent as the grave. An Egyptian grave. I promise. I’m getting another mojito. Another old-lady fruit juice for you?”

“No. It’s awful. It must have kilos of sugar.”