Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

‘See you tomorrow, Turk, sleep well,’ I say, smiling politely and giving him the finger.

‘Sweet dreams, Gringo,’ he says and bursts out laughing.

Fuck him.

THE CART IS full to bursting point. Car tyres, lumps of wood, cardboard boxes, iron bars and a trash can full of large bolts, screws and ball bearings. A handful of the fuckers weighs about a kilo. I put them back into the bucket and keep walking.

‘Ammo for the catapults,’ El Chelo explains, not that I asked. ‘Things are getting heavy and we’ve got to be prepared. Didn’t you have a glock?’

I feel a coldness in the small of my back where the gun’s tucked into my belt. And that’s where I’d like to leave it. I’m feeling like butter. I don’t know if I’ll be able to use it, but I nod anyway.

‘Better bring it then, we’ll need it,’ he says.

One of the wheels gets stuck in the mud and the carts tips.

‘Need a hand?’ I say, gripping one side of the cart.

‘No, leave it, you’ll only fucking tip it over. Just give me a cigarette.’

While I take one out of the pack and light it for him, El Chelo pulls the cart out of the mud with a single jerk. He holds the cigarette carefully between two fingers like it’s a spliff, or like his hands are greasy. He takes a deep drag. Blows out the smoke and stares at me, his head tilted back.

‘So what you going to do now?’

‘Don’t know … Get the fuck out of here, I suppose.’

‘Not got much choice, have you? I mean, after Chueco, you’re next.’ He raises an eyebrow. He’s right. It’s obvious.

El Chelo sticks the cigarette in a corner of his mouth so he can use both hands to pull the cart. At least he’s heard. At least he knows. Saves me having to give him the news, him and the rest of Chueco’s tribe. Or what’s left of them. Something I’d rather avoid. How the fuck can I tell them what happened to Chueco when I hardly believe it myself?

‘Why don’t you come down the demo with me?’ he says. ‘Sooner or later the march is bound to head to the city centre. Because it’s fucking pointless hanging around here. Then, when the coast’s clear, you can bail if you want.’

Makes sense. The kid’s doing my thinking for me. Must realise that at this point my head’s not screwed on straight. El Chelo might come across as a loser, out with his cart sifting through trash, but it turns out the kid’s cool. He’s throwing me a lifeline and I didn’t even ask.

‘You seen Santi?’ I ask.

‘Disappeared off the face of the earth,’ he says. ‘Couldn’t hack the pressure Charly’s people were putting on him.’

And it’s like he’s making excuses for Santi. Some fucking friend he turned out to be. It’s hardly the first time he’s had someone pull a gun on him, and the guy didn’t even stick around to find out the lie of the land. Just fucked off and left me and Chueco to fend for ourselves. Didn’t think twice.

‘What about Quique?’

‘No clue,’ he says.

Me neither. I’ve been wandering around making the call of a non-existent bird for fucking hours. But there’s no answer.

‘We’re here,’ El Chelo says, balancing one end of the cart on a mound so it doesn’t tip over. ‘Take the handle of the cart for me, I’ll be right back.’

He nips into the shack where Chueco was living a couple of days ago. Not any more. He’s in a different barrio now. It’s not like I don’t know the shack, I used to swing by here looking for him, I just hadn’t realised we were headed that way. I was just trailing round after El Chelo like a dog, head in the clouds, not thinking about where we were going.

‘You look like shit, Gringo.’ El Chelo interrupts my thoughts. He’s back already.

He shakes my shoulder with his free hand. The other hand is holding a bunch of worn-out blankets he brought from inside. He stuffs them into the cart as best he can. They look pitiful. They’re filthy and torn, with more holes than blanket … They’re fucking pitiful.

‘Probably be a long night … These blankets are for the old women,’ he explains, ‘and for the kids when they get cold. Don’t know why the fuck people are bringing kids on the march, but I guess they’ve nowhere to leave them …’

He’s talking to himself, I’ve stopped listening. He’s fucking pitiful himself. He’s taking this whole thing serious. He’s passionate about it. Passion is all he’s got left. Everything else is piled into this cart. If he could see himself the way I see him … But he doesn’t need to, because he sees me through his eyes and it’s the same thing. I’m guessing I look pretty fucking pitiful myself. Standing here in the dark like a spare prick at a whore’s wedding. Fucking borderline psychotic and not saying a word. But even that’s not right. It’s not about us, it’s this whole situation that’s fucking pitiful. The night itself is wretched and the barrio is just a gaping hole of misery and fear in the dawn light.

‘Right, I’m heading off,’ he says when he’s finished repacking his load. ‘Hang out here for a bit if you like, Gringo, it’s no sweat.’ As he says it, he jerks his head towards the door, and pushes me gently. Like I might not understand the words. I must really be fucked up. I give him a wink and thank him by offering him a couple of cigarettes. It’s not like anyone ever needed an invite to crash in this crackhouse before. The fact Chelo feels he has to issue one says a lot.

I watch him trundle off with his cart, then I go inside. The stench hits me like a fist and, weird as it sounds, it clears my head. It’s a pungent mix of urine, vomit, sweat and years of built-up filth. Inside is dark, but I don’t waste time looking for a light switch, even assuming there was a working light bulb. By the time I’m a couple of steps inside, my eyes have adjusted to the gloom. Old man Soria is slumped on the table, a carton of cheap wine within easy reach. In a low voice he drivels drunkenly, an interminable litany of threats, curses and prayers. They broke his nose. It’s swollen and purple as an aubergine. A trail of dried blood runs all the way down his chest. At least I now know where the stink is coming from. The old man’s pissed himself and thrown up all down one side of his body.

Against the tin wall, someone shifts on a straw mattress. From outside comes the rustle of the trees shaking in the breeze. Nothing else. Ever since I had that nap at Zaid’s place, I haven’t heard a single shot. This dubious silence is enough to drive you mad. It scares me shitless.

The silence seeps in from outside, but inside is a symphony of murmurs. The old man saying his rosary is joined by the whimpers and sighs of the body on the mattress. I wander over and one eye stares up at me, blazing like a white-hot coal. The other is swollen shut. A hand flies out and grabs my shoulder.

‘Gimme something, Gringo,’ a voice stammers. ‘Whatever you got. I can’t fucking take it any more.’ The plea comes as a feeble murmur from lips that are bruised and split in several places, but the hand grips my shoulder hard. It takes me a second to recognise the face behind this mask. They really did Willi over. His own mother wouldn’t recognise him, if he had a mother.

‘Don’t have anything, champ,’ I say, pulling his hand off me.

The guy is soaked to the skin. He’s sweating like a pig, he’s dehydrating. He’s in withdrawal, going cold turkey from the pills, the merca , the acid or whatever the fuck he’s been putting in his body. He’s the first casualty of the war between Charly and El Jetita. The war between suppliers has left him with no supplies. And right now, he’s in hell.

That makes two of us, though at least my hell isn’t chemical, unlike his. And the body is implacable. The body gives the orders, I think. Then I remember that I still have a small lump of the weed we robbed from Medusa and Silva.