Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

Slowly, carefully, I pop my head over the garden wall but I can’t see Quique anywhere. I hear a noise behind me. I turn and see Sultán coming through the privet and, behind him, Quique’s head wriggling through a hole in the wire fence like a weasel. I signal him over to the kumquat tree. Sultán sniffs the hiding place suspiciously before padding inside, Quique pushing him because he’s blocking his way.

‘So, what’s the story, kid?’

‘They’re combing the whole barrio … They’re looking for you guys, aren’t they?’ he says to me, untangling a branch that’s caught in his hair.

‘Thanks for the newsflash, kid,’ I interrupt him. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘This dog is fucking retarded,’ Chueco says, backing away from Sultán.

Quique heroically ignores him and looks at me again.

‘What d’you want me to say? There’s more of them than flies on shit, they’re crawling all over the place. Remember when El Sapo Medina smacked that young cop down by the station, and the whole fucking force came out looking for him? Well, this is way worse. These guys are much better organised and they’re seriously carrying.’

‘What do we do, Gringo?’ Chueco says. ‘This is turning to shit —’

‘Hang on, let me think for a second.’ I shut him up.

I spark up a cigarette. Chueco immediately holds out his hand for one. I give him the pack, but his hands are shaking so much he can’t get the cigarette out.

‘What’s the matter, gunslinger?’ I take it out for him and give him a light. He’s a mess.

‘What if we hole up with my people for a couple of days?’ he stammers, sucking on the cigarette with all his lungs.

I tell him no. I glance at Quique, who shakes his head and blinks slowly.

‘What?’

‘They’ve already been round your squat,’ Quique says. ‘Broke old man Soria’s nose. And that posh guy, what’s his name? Willi? They nearly fucking ended him. Beat the living shit out of him. The guy couldn’t speak. They thought he was holding out on them, so then they really laid into him.’

‘How d’you know all this?’

‘Because I saw them, Gringo. I’m telling you, these guys are fucked up. They even stopped that arsehole Santi in the street and put a gun in his mouth. Dumb fuck shat his pants. Told them he didn’t know where you guys were, that if he did, he’d tell them everything.’

‘They been round mine?’ I ask, thinking about Mamina. If they’ve touched her, I’ll fucking die.

‘They went in the back way, posted a lookout, smashed the place up,’ Quique says, and from the look on my face, he can already tell what I’m thinking. ‘Don’t worry about your grandma. She’s staying over at the hospital tonight to keep my mamá company. And if she comes back in the morning and this shit’s still going down, I’ll stop her.’

Chueco’s eyes are popping out of his head. Quique pokes at the ground with a stick. We say nothing for a bit, but my brain’s working overtime. Quique sighs and looks at me. What I see in his eyes isn’t worry or fear, it’s sadness.

‘This is going to end badly, Gringo,’ he says. ‘Take my word for it —’

‘You’re the one who’s going to end, you little shit,’ Chueco roars. ‘You and your predictions, fucking bird of ill omen.’

Sultán pricks up his ears. Sniffs the air. He’s sensed something. Inside the house Oliveira’s dog senses it too and starts yapping. Sultán barks back.

‘Quiet, Sultán,’ Quique whispers and slaps the dog’s nose.

‘Take a hike, will you, and take your fucking dog with you before you fuck everything up.’

‘Chill, loco ,’ Quique says. ‘Stop stressing.’

This only makes Chueco worse.

‘Go on, Quique,’ I say softly as Chueco is still fuming and cursing. ‘Take the dog and go. But stay close, and when you see the coast is clear, give me a whistle.’

He nods and looks greedily at the cigarette I’m raising to my lips. He pats Sultán’s flank and gets to his feet.

‘Quique.’ I call him back.

‘What?’ He half turns.

‘Take care, yeah?’ I say and offer him a cigarette.

‘You too, Gringo.’

AS I DROP onto the roof of Fat Farías’s place, I hear the first gunshot. I duck automatically and as I turn I see Chueco standing there like a pillar of fucking salt on the neighbouring roof. He’s bricking it so bad he can’t move. More gunshots. And people inside the bar start returning fire.

‘Jesus, move it. You looking to get killed?’

Chueco takes a step back then jumps. We slink along the corrugated-iron roof like weasels. Bullets whining just above our heads like a swarm of angry wasps. I didn’t expect it to sound like this. It’s enough to make you piss yourself. When we get to the back of the roof, I grip the gutter with one hand, swing my torso down, and thump three times on the kitchen door. The answer is a shotgun blast that rips past my face leaving the metal door looking like a sieve.

‘Don’t fucking shoot,’ Chueco yells. ‘It’s us!’

Though my mouth desperately opens and closes, not a sound comes out. My heart stopped when the gun went off. My turn to play statues now. Inside, someone shouts something I can’t make out and the door is kicked open. Chueco scrambles over me, drops from the roof, using the force of his fall to wing into the kitchen. I turn myself round so as not to drop head first and follow him. A fat guy with a sawn-off Itaca slams the door shut as soon as I’m inside and leans his back against the wall. For protection. I stand there, staring at him, hypnotised by his huge grey moustache. It looks like a dead rat. The fat fucker stares back at me hard.

‘Hey, guys, the cavalry’s arrived! We’re saved!’ El Jetita shouts from the far side of the kitchen, gun in one hand and a police radio in the other.

It takes me a second before I notice that, between El Jetita and where we’re standing by the back door, there’s a ton of people. The narrow kitchen looks like the carriage of a train at rush hour. A night train speeding through the darkness. Pitch dark, no moon. Heading straight off a cliff. This much I can tell from the looks of uncertainty and panic on the faces of the passengers. Riquelme, the old whore, is standing next to me sobbing, her whole face distorted so her wrinkles look like furrows of despair. Rubén is scratching his ear with the double barrel of a shotgun and chain-smoking. Eyes wide open but vacant. Staring at some fixed point.

Yanina is sitting on the kitchen counter. She looks like she’s about to cry. Her eyes meet mine. Her chin quivers. She clutches her old man’s shoulder tightly, hanging limply against him like a rag doll. With his turban of bandages, his dislocated jaw and his empty eyes, Fat Farías looks like a ghost.

Next to him, El Negro Sosa is necking a bottle of gin, his frown screwed up tighter than a fist. A semi-automatic dangles from his right hand. His shirt is spattered with blood.

Pampita looks up at me pitifully from the floor, pleading with me for I don’t know what, but I do know that whatever it is I can’t give it to her. She’s calm. Not crying. Barefoot. Wearing a sort of shabby, tattered dressing gown. With one hand she cradles the head of the skinny guy, Fabián, using the other to press a crude improvised bandage against his chest. The spreading red stain of the wound is screaming for someone to take him to hospital. Lying in a pool of blood, Fabián gasps, his face twitching like he’s got a nervous tic. I don’t know shit about anatomy, but from the site of the bullet wound, I figure it hit his liver.

There are no windows in the kitchen. It’s just a built-in unit at the back of the bar. It’s the best place to hold out against the siege. But it’s a breeding ground for fear. Panic pervades the room, bouncing blindly off the walls, ricocheting inside our heads. We’re all aboard a night train, and the most dangerous passenger is fear. If the train goes off the rails, fear will be to blame. Simple as. Because it’s fear that’s laying siege.