Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

by Matias Nespolo

  Guilt starts eating away at my insides. Up to now, all I could think about was getting myself out of here and fuck everyone else. Look after number one. That’s the law of the streets, what can you do? The question is whether I can get out of here. And I can. Otherwise why the fuck am I calmly waiting for Santi to show? So, what am I beating myself up about?

  My head’s spinning. I light one cigarette after another and still the loco doesn’t show. Just as well, because I’ve still got to work out what to do. It’s like a half-gutted cat hanging from a wall. Doesn’t matter who killed it. That’s beside the point. The point is what you do. You can fuck off out of there, but it won’t bring the cat back and the body will still be there. You’ve got blood on your hands whatever you do. Blood and guts. But if you stay, you have to finish the job whether you like it or not. And to do that, you have to stick the knife in, whether you want to or not.

  What I really don’t want, I say to myself, is to lose it completely. It’s getting colder and I can’t stand still. I spark up the last cigarette in the pack and look over at the Turk who hasn’t taken his eyes off me. Why doesn’t he just go back to staring at the photo of his dog and leave me the fuck alone? Maybe I was talking to myself again and didn’t realise it.

  I go over to the bars, ask for a pack of cigarettes and the Turk just stares at me.

  ‘Why don’t you go get some sleep, kid? Whatever shit’s going to happen is going to happen,’ he says. ‘Right now with your bawling and fretting and waiting for a miracle you’re making me nervous. Why don’t you just get out of here?’

  ‘And why don’t you mind your own business and stop busting my balls?’

  Fucking retard usually can’t string two words together and when he finally does he gives me a sermon …

  He throws my change onto the little counter and doesn’t say anything. I scoop up the money and he’s still staring me in the eye. Coldly, now, his eyes half closed. There’s no defiance, no hatred in those eyes. But there’s no sympathy either. Fuck knows what goes on in his head. The Turk’s always been unfathomable.

  As is the night. It’s pitch black. I haven’t heard a gunshot for a long while. And by now, it’s obvious Santi’s not coming. It’s pointless hanging around waiting for him. But I stay a little longer, smoking just for the sake of it. If it wasn’t for the fact it’s only late summer, I’d swear it was freezing hard. I pace up and down to keep warm and every time I turn round, the Turk’s still standing there staring at me. Doesn’t give up. Now he’s starting to make me nervous. I’ve had enough. I pick up my bag, sling it over my shoulder and take my leave.

  ‘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.

  SUPPLIES AND MUNITIONS

  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.

  ‘Actually, I have got a bit of weed, Willi,’ I say. ‘Give me some skins and I’ll roll up.’

  The guy leans up on one elbow, desperate, rummaging through his pockets. He pulls out a crumpled cigarette paper. I smooth it with my fingers and notice that the edge is damp. The loco’s even sweating from his fingertips. He’s practically in a coma. I crumble the weed quickly, take out the seeds so it burns properly. When I start rolling, the paper comes apart in my hand. If I ask him for another skin, he’ll only make it wet and that’ll get us nowhere.

  I open my bag, take out the whale book and rip out a page. It’s smooth and thinner than the rolling paper. It’s perfect. I tip all of the weed on to the paper and roll it using both hands. It’s not a spliff, it’s a fucking Cuban cigar. It looks like one of those huge blunts Bob Marley used to smoke. I spark it, take a couple of tokes and pass it to Willi. Now the gleam in his one good eye has a partner, a burning coal in the darkness. The guy tokes on it hard and fast, not taking it from his bruised lips. He smokes like a fucking chimney.

  The weed chills me out a bit. My thoughts become fuzzy. I’m guessing it does the same for Willi, because he’s not shaking any more. Or whimpering.

  ‘Thanks, Gringo, you’re a god, you’re fucking Gardel.’

  Yeah, Gardel. The plane crash. Like a dog, I look for a corner where I can curl up for a bit. I find a large burlap sack. Old Soria’s mumbling sends me off to sleep. Top-class fucking weed, has to be, because now this shithole smells of jasmine.

  BACK IN BLACK

  BEFORE IT GETS light, I leave the shack, moving quickly, pressing ahead like I’ve got somewhere I’ve got to be, like I’ve got someone waiting for me. But neither of those things is true. Truth is, I’m no one, I’m nothing, an empty space. So I wander in circles around the barrio in the dawn’s early light. Panicked. And what’s really freaking me out is how quiet it is. There’s not a soul around. It’s like I’m a ghost in a ghost town.

  The only sign of life – and even that’s barely a murmur – comes from Fat Farías’s place. A sound so faint that – given the distance – I’m not sure if it’s real or if I’m imagining it. I want to go closer, but I don’t dare. I see two figures coming down the alley that leads to the station. Hand in hand. They’re about the same height, both dressed in black. They don’t say a word. I can’t be sure, so I hide behind the skeleton of a clapped-out car and wait.

  ‘Where are you headed, Grandma?’ I emerge from my hiding place when I see her.

  ‘M’hijo! You gave me such a fright …’ Mamina says.

  I recognised her in the distance from her clothes. I didn’t recognise Quique. He looks different. He’s wearing his hair gelled down, a white shirt and a black jacket and trousers. He’s even wearing shoes. He looks perfect, like he’s making his First Communion. Mamina’s a crafty old dear. God knows where she got the cash to dress him up like that. I stand there dumbfounded, I don’t get it.

  ‘We’re going to the church, for his sister’s …’ Mamina can’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

  ‘Oh, Jesus … Oh shit, I’m really sorry, loco,’ I say to Quique and hug him hard.

  I have to fill the silence, but the minute I open my mouth I regret it. Just words. He stands there like a stone. Stock-still. He doesn’t react. He barely moves his eyes, huge and round as the day that’s dawning. They flit wetly from one thing to another as though unable to make sense of the world. He doesn’t even seem to recognise me. He’s staring into the distance, towards a horizon that isn’t there.

  ‘And where are you off to with that bag?’ Mamina asks.

  ‘Wherever …’ I say. ‘If I stay here in the barrio, they’re going to kill me.’

  ‘Have you seen the way they’ve wrecked the house? Didn’t I tell you not to get mixed up with those people? What do I have to do to get through that thick skull of yours?’ Mamina scolds me. But it’s a waste of breath, there’s no way to fix this now.

  ‘I’m sorry, abuela,’ I say, staring at the ground like I used to when I was a kid.

  But I know that it’s too late for apologies. You can’t put things right just like that …

  Mamina pinches my cheek roughly and gives me a slap. She slaps me hard, but with love.

  ‘You’re like Antonio. You get mixed up with a bad crowd, get involved in all sorts. You’re going to end up just like him.’

  There she goes again. But I’ve had it up to here with her hints and insinuations.

  ‘What the fuck did Toni ever do to you, Mamina?’ I explode. ‘Just give it to me straight, because he’s back here in the barrio.’

  ‘To me? Nothing. It was what he did to you. Don’t you remember?’ she answers in a whisper. Sweet and gentle as ever. I bite my lip, ball my fists, my eyes blazing. ‘No, obviously you don’t want to remember,’ she goes on. ‘You don’t remember how he seduced your mother, how he took her off to Zavaleta and made her work as a prostitute … ? It’s his fault that Cecilia wound up in a ditch, and that’s something I can never forgive him for.’

  Cecilia. Mamá’s name. I haven’t heard it in years. Cecilia. Now it’s just an empty word. Hollow. But it echoes inside me. I count: one, two, three … seven letters. Together they spell out something I’ve forgotten, then suddenly something clicks. And I remember. Inside my head, the images rain down like blows. Toni flirting with her as she hung out the washing and mamá laughing. I remember that he always used to say to her, ‘You’re only starving to death because you want to, Cecilia.’ I remember them whispering together in the street … And I remember a shape wrapped in a blanket lying on the hard shoulder next to a police car and Mamina pulling me away so I wouldn’t see �
�

  ‘You’re all grown up now, Gringuito, you’re your own man. If you need to leave the barrio, then leave … But if you go, that’s an end of it. Don’t come back crying to me,’ Mamina whispers and the look of scorn on her face unnerves me.

  ‘Don’t worry, abuela, I know what I have to do,’ I say defiantly, but I can feel my heart sink.

  ‘Come on, your mother’s all on her own keeping vigil over your sister,’ she says to Quique, but she’s looking at me.

  ‘Hang in there, loco,’ I say, squeezing his arm. ‘You need to stay strong, to support your mother.’

  Quique nods at me and blinks. He stays strong. But on the inside, he’s shattered. He takes Mamina’s arm and calmly leads her away. As if it were true, as if Quique, in his First Communion suit, is the one who has to support Mamina. But it’s the other way round. Quique’s the one who’s about to commune with death. You might see the signs, but you never know when to expect it. Like with Chueco, taking communion from the Grim Reaper. I was the altar boy. The communion wafer was a bullet.

  If there’s one out there for me, let it come now, without warning, because I’ve had about as much of this shit as I can take. Now the sun is tracing everything in yellow gold. Like it’s all new. The puddles, the line of shacks, the rubbish bags ripped open by the dogs, the far end of the street, Mamina’s shoulders and Quique’s dark hair framed against the sunlight … Every outline shimmers as though something is about to happen, as though somehow it might be possible to start over.

  Cloudless. The clear morning sky greets the sound of bells. The call to Mass, a thankless, never-ending funeral. But it’s not the church bells ringing out, but shots. I can hear them clearly. Three bullet wounds in the silence of the dawn sky. It’s the signal.