The Killing of El Niño Jesús

by Jason Webster

  ‘What?’ screamed Mary. ‘Fucker! Those were mine.’

  She went to take a swipe at the animal, which hid behind Joseph’s cloak.

  ‘Careful,’ Joseph said. ‘He’ll charge you if you scare him. And he’s already had one fright tonight. He loved Jesús, he did. He’s lost a very dear friend.’

  ‘We all have,’ spat Mary.

  ‘All right,’ said Cámara, trying to calm the situation. ‘You.’ He pointed at Joseph. ‘Keep the animal under control.’

  He turned to the fourth man in the room, who was wearing bright pink jeans and a black silk shirt open to the navel.

  ‘You are?’ said Cámara.

  ‘I’m Israel, the manager,’ the man said. ‘The owner of La Figa.’

  ‘The rest of the staff had already gone by the time we got here,’ Pastor said. ‘These were the only ones still on the premises.’

  Cámara glanced around the room: costumes and more bags were strewn on the floor, some heaped beside a tower of beer crates in the corner. Next to them was an emergency exit.

  ‘My man is on the other side,’ Pastor said. ‘No one has left this room or even moved since we arrived.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cámara.

  Make-up cases, packs of wet-wipes, tissues, mobile phones and other personal objects were scattered over the tables. He could almost see the small packets of cocaine stuffed hurriedly into wallets and handbags once word had spread that the police were coming. He just hoped that the goat had not found any of them first. The last thing he needed on Christmas morning, apart from a dead dwarf, was a cloven-hoofed ruminant spaced out on Class A drugs.

  Inwardly he sighed – sorting this out, going through the motions, was likely to take hours. An investigating judge and the médico forense would be called, personal details of witnesses logged, liaising with the Científica, informing his superiors … And that was before his mind could even turn to wondering about what had actually happened here. Was it a suicide, or had Jesús been murdered? He could feel lunch with Hilario slipping out of his grasp.

  Unless … He and Torres were still the only investigators on the scene. Once the others arrived, the whole structure of formalities would inevitably fall into place. But he still had this lot to himself for a few minutes.

  ‘We’ll be taking your particulars in a second,’ he told the group. ‘Firstly, however, feel free to cover yourselves up.’

  The three angels reached for towels and pieces of material to wrap around themselves, Father Christmas slung a shirt over his shoulders, while Mary pulled up the side of her blouse to cover her chest. Next to her, Joseph unhooked his beard from behind his ears.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cámara. From behind, he could sense Pastor’s disappointment.

  ‘Now you,’ Cámara nodded towards the most confident-looking one, ‘Angel One. Tell me what Fornikation does. What’s your routine?’

  ‘We’re dancers, professionals,’ the woman said in a powerful voice. She must have been in her early twenties, Cámara thought. In fact none of them looked over thirty, except for Israel, who was probably mid-thirties.

  ‘May I?’ asked Father Christmas, reaching across the table behind him. ‘I’m dying of thirst.’

  ‘OK.’

  With his beard still attached to his face, Father Christmas grabbed a bright blue bottle of some isotonic drink, lifting it to his lips and downing it in one.

  ‘We’re the entertainment,’ continued Angel One. ‘We go up onstage and perform.’

  ‘And what does the performance entail?’ Torres had moved closer to the centre of the room and now stood beside Cámara, sensing his superior’s intentions; at times the two of them had an almost telepathic rapport.

  ‘It’s …’ Angel One paused and glanced at Israel before resuming. ‘We do an erotico-musical extravaganza,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive us,’ said Cámara. ‘Neither myself nor Inspector Torres here is certain what that means.’

  ‘We do an erotic dance,’ she said. ‘As a group. We go up onstage and try to turn the punters on, basically.’

  ‘And was Jesús part of this?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice trembling a little.

  ‘How many sets do you do?’ Torres asked.

  ‘Three or four, depending,’ she said. ‘We did four tonight, ’cause it’s Christmas, a special.’

  ‘And when you say turn the punters on …?’

  Again a glance towards Israel.

  ‘It’s not illegal,’ she said. ‘You’ve got licences and stuff, haven’t you, Israel?’

  Israel shrugged.

  ‘Not sure if that matters now,’ he mumbled.

  ‘So the performances –’ Cámara brought her attention back to him. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘We fuck people.’

  The voice came from the corner: Camel-man was talking.

  ‘Or at least they do,’ he continued. ‘Not many people want to get it on with a furry animal. Although you’d be surprised sometimes.’

  Baa-aah! cried the goat, as if on cue.

  ‘So let me get this right,’ Cámara said. ‘You perform an erotic group dance, complete with animals, and then …?’

  ‘And then some of the people get invited up onstage,’ Camel-man said, ‘to perform with us.’

  ‘You have sex with them onstage?’

  ‘No!’ All the members of Fornikation seemed to speak as one, as though disgusted at the very idea.

  ‘So what does happen then?’ asked Torres.

  There was a pause, before a new voice started speaking.

  ‘If they’re really into it we take them round the back.’ It was Mary. ‘And fuck them there.’

  ‘There’s another room on the other side of the stage,’ explained Israel. ‘The Fornikatorio.’

  ‘And that’s where you … that’s where you have sex with the punters?’ said Cámara.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mary.

  ‘But not the goat,’ said Torres.

  She looked at him incredulously. ‘We’re not sick, you know.’

  ‘How often do you go in there, into the Fornikatorio?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘Maybe three or four times a night,’ Mary said.

  ‘Each?’

  ‘Yeah. Some of us a bit more than others.’

  ‘Did Jesús go in there tonight?’

  She paused, looking around at the others for support.

  ‘I think so,’ she said at last. ‘Think I saw him in there a couple of times, perhaps. We’re usually in there between sets. There’s some mattresses and sofas. And a curtain down the middle.’

  ‘A curtain.’ Cámara’s ears pricked up.

  ‘To separate the straight section from the gay section,’ said Israel stepping forwards, trying to take control of the situation. ‘We’re anti-prejudice here, but some people – mostly straight boys – get a bit nervous if they see anything gay going on at the same time.’

  From the corner of his eye Cámara could see Torres’s shoulders hunching up, his black beard burying deeper into his chest.

  ‘We like to provide resources for whichever fantasies our guests wish to play out,’ Israel continued, switching into some kind of marketing persona. ‘And if they want to try out something they haven’t done before, this is the place to come. You can do as much or as little as you want. Even at Christmas-time.’

  Torres cleared his throat with a low, rumbling sound.

  ‘You mean to say,’ he began, ‘that for those who were so inclined, last night in La Figa there was a choice of being sucked off by either Joseph, Father Christmas or the Baby Jesus?’

  Israel did not miss a beat.

  ‘Or jerked off, or whatever …’ But his voice trailed away under the intensity of Torres’s gaze.

  ‘I like to think I’m a fairly liberal guy,’ said Torres, ‘and I’m not particularly religious, but even I have a bit of a problem with this. I mean, come on.’

  ‘Freedom of expression!’ Israel cried
. ‘You have no right coming here telling us what we can or cannot do! I demand—’

  ‘You seem to have forgotten,’ Cámara interrupted him, ‘that Jesús is now lying in the shower next door and will not be taking part in any more performances here. He is dead, and I think someone – possibly someone in this room – killed him.’

  Israel’s face lost its colour in an instant, his mouth hanging open with shame. Two of the angels threw their arms around each other and began to sob. Others held their hands to their faces as the drama of the moment sank in.

  ‘They only told us …’ Joseph said, wiping tears from his eyes, ‘We thought … I don’t know. No one said anything about murder.’

  ‘OK, listen to me,’ said Cámara. ‘Who found the body? Who found Jesús?’

  At the side of the room, Israel raised a reluctant arm.

  ‘I did,’ he said. ‘It was after the last set.’

  Angel One hissed at him.

  ‘I was already clearing up,’ Israel continued. ‘The place was almost empty and I needed a piss. The door was locked, so I thought someone must be in there. That’s the rule – since we lost the key everyone knows never to close the door behind them when they come out. I’ve been meaning to get it fixed …’

  He dropped his head.

  ‘Go on,’ Cámara said.

  ‘But the goat was there, bleating and butting the door all the time,’ said Israel. ‘It looked really upset. And when I knocked no one answered. So I started to get worried, thought something must have happened. And I bashed the door in. That’s when I found Jesús.’

  He wiped a tear from his eye.

  ‘There was a policeman outside,’ he said, ‘near the entrance, so I immediately went and told him.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Pastor told Cámara. ‘We usually send a car round here near closing time, just to check if everything’s OK. My men called it in straight away, which is when word got to you. I closed the place down as soon as I got here.’

  ‘I take it Jesús was gay,’ Cámara said.

  It was a sudden change of direction, catching everyone off guard, but Israel managed to respond.

  ‘We don’t like to categorise people here,’ he said with a sniff. ‘We’re all multi-sexual. These definitions …’

  ‘What the chief inspector is trying to say,’ said Torres loudly, ‘is – did he mostly fuck boys or girls?’

  ‘Boys,’ Israel said.

  ‘And did you have relations among yourselves?’ asked Cámara. ‘Or was it only with the punters?’

  They all looked away: no one wanted to say anything.

  ‘Let me put this more clearly,’ said Torres. ‘Did you fuck each—?’

  BAA-AAH!

  From behind Joseph’s cloak the goat bleated loudly and aggressively.

  BAAH!

  ‘Get the fuck off, you horrible fucking creature!’

  Everyone looked: behind Joseph’s back, Mary was engaged in a tussle with the goat over the lower fringe of her skirt, which it was in the process of turning into breakfast.

  ‘Help!’

  Mary started screaming while Joseph spun around helplessly, trying to see what was happening. From the corner of the room, Camel-man leapt forwards and began to pull the animal away.

  ‘Give me a hand,’ he called out.

  Finally understanding, Joseph bent down and pulled on the goat’s collar, disengaging it from Mary’s skirt, but not before it ripped out a mouthful, leaving her practically naked from the waist down.

  ‘Fucking thing!’

  Mary tried to beat the animal on the head, but Angel One pulled her away while Joseph and Camel-man led it to the other side of the room.

  Cámara turned to Pastor.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that given the circumstances we might allow the goat to be taken out to the front where it can nibble some grass. I’m sure one of your men won’t mind looking after it for a few minutes.’

  Pastor sighed and nodded. He walked over to the goat, taking it roughly by the collar from the dancers.

  ‘Be careful,’ said Joseph. ‘I borrowed her from my brother-in-law. He’d be pissed off if anything happened.’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ said Pastor, and he pulled the animal out of the changing room and headed to the front entrance of the disco, closing the door behind him.

  Baah! bleated the goat as it was dragged down the corridor. Then silence.

  For the first time since they had arrived, Cámara and Torres were alone with the members of Fornikation. The absence of the uniformed Policía Local officer changed the mood slightly, but time was running out. The crime-scene squad, the judge and the others would be arriving shortly and the dynamic would change, this moment would be lost. Cámara had a feeling that, tired and shocked as the dancers were, there was a chance that something might happen.

  Torres started speaking, sensing the opportunity as well.

  ‘You,’ he said to Joseph. ‘That rope around your waist – where did you get it from?’

  ‘A friend,’ said Joseph. ‘It’s made of hemp.’

  ‘You got another one?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Joseph looked a little worried. ‘Got a spare.’

  ‘Do you know where it is now?’

  ‘Should be in my bag,’ he said.

  ‘Can you look for it?’ Although Torres framed it as a request, the tone in his voice made it sound like the order that it really was.

  Joseph bent down and started rummaging in a stripy cloth bag near his feet.

  ‘It’s … it’s not here,’ he said at last. ‘I can’t find it.’

  ‘I might be able to help you,’ said Torres. ‘There’s a hemp rope, very like the one around your waist, currently in the bathroom next door. And it’s tied around Jesús’s throat.’

  There was a collective gasp in the room.

  ‘So let me come back to the chief inspector’s earlier question,’ Torres continued, his eyes drilling into Joseph. ‘Did you ever fuck Jesús?’

  A shrill ringing sound came from inside Cámara’s jacket. He looked across at Torres, trying to decide whether to answer or not. The call was ill-timed, but it already felt as though the moment, the opportunity of getting a confession out of Joseph on the spot, had been lost. Reluctantly, Cámara grabbed his phone and lifted it to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  He could not hear anything, and pressed the green button a couple of times.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘MAX! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?’

  His grandfather’s voice came booming out from the apparatus. Somehow Cámara had switched on the loudspeaker by mistake. He did not know how to turn it off, and now everyone in the room could hear Hilario.

  ‘I can’t—’ Cámara began, trying to end the conversation. But Hilario was not listening.

  ‘YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERE BY NOW. I’VE GOT THE PRAWNS ALL READY TO GRILL. I’LL EAT THEM ALL MYSELF IF YOU DON’T GET YOUR ARSE IN GEAR.’

  Cámara looked at the phone in desperation, trying to work out how to switch the loudspeaker off. The only option, it seemed, would be to hit the red button and end the call.

  ‘IT’S CHRISTMAS DAY,’ Hilario continued. ‘YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE WITH YOUR LOVED ONES. EL RECUERDO, COMO UNA VELA, BRILLA MÁS EN NAVIDAD.’

  Cámara killed the call as his grandfather finished the proverb. Just like a candle, memory shines brighter at Christmas.

  The changing room fell silent. Shaking his head, Cámara put the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘My apologies,’ he said, looking up.

  Seven pairs of eyes stared back at him: the three angels, Mary, Camel-man, Joseph and Israel. Only one pair – those of Father Christmas – were not visible, now covered by a trembling hand.

  Cámara waited for a second, feeling his way forwards.

  ‘My grandfather,’ he said at last. ‘He’s my only relative.’

  They listened in silence.

  ‘And I promised to be with him today. But then this came in, the d
eath of Jesús, and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it. He lives in Albacete, you see, and it’s a bit of a drive. But Christmas lunch has become a tradition for us. We’re the only members left of our family – Los Cámara – so we try to keep together, make an effort, you know.’

  No one spoke. But with his hands still over his face, Father Christmas appeared to have started crying.

  ‘He has a thing about proverbs,’ Cámara went on. ‘Thinks in them all the time, and he’s taught me a few as well. That’s the one he usually brings out at this time of year.’ He smiled. ‘Although he’s not religious. What was it again? El recuerdo, como una vela, brilla más en Navidad. But there’s a truth in it, I think, as there is in almost all the old proverbs. It’s about now that we tend to look back, that memories of happier times, of our loved ones, become more …’

  There was a low-pitched wail. Cámara stopped talking as Father Christmas plunged to the floor, ripping off his beard and wrapping himself into a ball. The rest of Fornikation turned around to stare.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Cámara asked.

  Father Christmas sobbed into his hands, unable to answer. His eyes were screwed tight, mouth stretched open like a cave. There was a pause as he took a deep breath, before letting out an ear-splitting scream. Then he fell silent, his body quivering on the floor, fists pummelling the sides of his head.

  The other dancers were motionless, too stunned to react. But after a couple of beats, Mary took a step closer and knelt down beside him.

  ‘Oh, you stupid idiot,’ she said. ‘You’ve done it now.’

  Cámara stood where he was, nodding very gently. And quietly, inaudibly, he uttered Hilario’s proverb to himself one more time.

  Sargento Pastor took some persuading, but when Cámara explained that they had a confession, and that Father Christmas had admitted to strangling Jesús in the bathroom, the Policía Local officer warmed to the idea. This was an easy coup that the murder-squad detectives were handing him on a plate. A few hours’ work, no more, and it would all be sewn up. There might even be a chance of a medal and promotion on the back of it. So he agreed.

  ‘Typical kind of thing among gay men,’ he said, quickly assuming a leading and all-knowing role. ‘Jealousy, crimes of passion. I had my suspicions from the start.’