The article was probably right, he thought. The question now, however, was whether Terreros thought the same.
And a comment he had heard recently came back to him, a light and delicate thought of the kind so easily missed. Something about prevention being better than reaction. He had used it himself recently. And almost forgotten where he had heard it first.
He had waited long enough. After another few moments, he called the waiter over and paid for his coffee. He stood up as slowly as he could, giving the boy a final chance to come forward. And he glanced once more at the reflection in the window: Dídac was skipping backwards, moving ever further away.
The entrance to the metro was close by. As Cámara descended on the moving stairway, he looked up at the sky and the heavy dark clouds moving in from the sea.
But it was not thoughts of politicians, declarations or churchmen that populated his mind as he was finally swallowed into the underground. It was the grinning bruise around Dídac’s neck.
And the hand that he now suspected had put it there.
FORTY-FIVE
HE WALKED WITHOUT looking. Eventually one of them would hit, find its mark, and send him on his way. He felt dressed for it now. Just another body, nothing special, nothing even to say who he was. Not even wearing a pair of shoes.
And with luck, he would never be identified.
An anonymous body seeking an anonymous death.
In some corner of awareness he was conscious of swerving cars, screeching brakes, honking horns as he stepped out, eyes fixed ahead, neither seeking it nor trying to avoid it. Letting it come in its own way, in its own time. Only soon, please. Perhaps at the next street crossing.
Would it hurt? A quick, sudden descent into nonexistence. Better than being only damaged, partially crushed, left destroyed but not obliterated. Ideally something big and heavy, travelling at a good speed. Like a bus, or a truck. A hard impact, full on. Close his eyes? Yes, that might work, help settle any last-minute fear or doubt. Close his eyes and he would have no idea what would be hitting him at all. Close his eyes now, and it was almost as if he were already dead.
Another kerb. His foot shot out, his eyelids fell, and he stepped down into the road. One, two, three steps …
A cold tingling sweat rushed up his spine as it happened, the hairs on his skin reaching out as though to touch the vehicle speeding at him, to press it back, to stop it in its tracks. He could not see it; he did not need to. His eyes might be closed but it was as if he were aware of everything around him, could sense it all through some other means.
And the car – for it was a car, not anything bigger, he was certain – was less than a second away from smashing into him. He stopped and braced himself: it would come in on his right side. A quick and final blow, and then liberation.
The brakes, the screeching, the attempt to avoid what could not be avoided. Did they not know that he himself had accepted this, wanted it, standing there, waiting willingly for it to come?
His heart and brain seemed to fuse together for the briefest of flashes. This was it; this was death. And with a thud, he felt his pulse surge violently within his veins. Counting: one, two, three …
No collision, no impact.
As though waking from deep, suffocating sleep, he opened his eyes. The street swirled around him. He heard voices calling out, saw a circle of stationary cars and lorries around him: blue, silver, white, red. Black.
The one nearest to him was larger than the others: a pick-up truck that was almost touching him. From the tyre tracks behind it on the tarmac it had swerved violently to the side only a second before. Its path had been true, its direction straight: this was the car that had been about to snuff out his life. Yet it had failed to do so. Why?
He tried to look through the window into the cabin, but the reflection in the glass obscured his view. Then the door opened and the driver stepped out, walking slowly towards him.
‘Is he all right?’ someone called from behind.
The driver did not answer. Then he lifted his hand and placed it on Dídac’s shoulder.
‘Come with me, hijo mío,’ he said. ‘It’s time to go.’
It took Daniel a few minutes to get rid of the other cars, convincing everyone that Dídac was all right, that he could look after him now. There had been some problems at home, he explained. The poor kid was not right. He had been lucky to get to him in time.
The incident had caused a traffic jam – never a difficult thing in Barcelona – but eventually things were sorted and they could drive on. Dídac slumped in the passenger seat, pale and drawn.
‘Do you need to be sick?’ Daniel asked. ‘If you need to be sick, let me know and I’ll stop. Just don’t do it in here.’
‘I’m fine,’ Dídac groaned. ‘I’m fine. His eyes opened and closed. Had he been run over after all? Was this death – being picked up by his father and driven away? How on earth had Daniel been there just then, at the very moment he stepped out into the road? Had he been following him?
He slid further down into his seat. It felt good to let go, let someone else drive him, make the decisions. All he had to do was sit there and be taken along. And a warm, comforting cocoon wrapped its hands around him, soothing and cradling.
He was loved after all.
‘Where are we going?’ he mumbled sleepily.
‘You’ll see,’ said Daniel.
He glanced over, registering properly the new clothes, the haircut.
‘It took me a second to recognise you,’ he said. ‘You look better like that.’
‘I never liked the dreadlocks anyway,’ said Dídac.
Daniel smiled, but Dídac did not see: he had already fallen asleep.
He was woken by the car swinging from side to side and a sensation of pressure inside his ears. Opening his eyes, he saw that they had left Barcelona and were climbing a winding road surrounded by forests. A few minutes later they came to a huddle of buildings at the top of a mountain where, at the centre, stood a tall church built of light grey stone. Above, standing on top of a central tower, stood a robed Christ figure, his arms outstretched as though to embrace the faithful.
Daniel parked the vehicle under the shade of a tree, and they walked up towards the church. Beyond, the city lay at their feet, stretching out under a haze towards a barely visible sea in the distance. Dídac could just make out the distinctive shape of the Sagrada Familia, its towers like fingers stretching high above the buildings surrounding it.
Daniel, usually so quick and businesslike, was ambling slowly at his side.
‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘Y-yes,’ Dídac said. ‘I think so.’
Daniel never asked how he was.
They drew closer to the church, and an entrance built of darker, yellower stone. Above, in bright colours, was a frieze showing some religious scene: Christ again, this time wearing a robe of blood red.
‘What is this place?’ Dídac asked.
‘This is Mount Tibidabo,’ said Daniel. He thrust his hands into his pockets, sniffing at the pine-scented air. ‘My father used to bring me here when I was little. Take me on the rides. You see that Ferris wheel?’
He pointed towards an amusement park on the other side of the church. Dídac saw the arm of a crane with a large toy plane suspended from it.
‘Been there for over a hundred years,’ said Daniel. ‘We’d come up at weekends, just me and him, spend the afternoon here.’
Dídac felt tired and began to sway on his legs.
‘You should sit down,’ said Daniel. ‘Here.’
They perched on a low wall. Dídac looked out again at the view; it seemed to call to him in some inexplicable way.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Daniel. ‘It’s my favourite place in the world.’
‘Your father,’ said Dídac, ‘my grandfather. You never talk about him. Who … who was he?’
Daniel coughed.
‘His was name was Daniel,’ he said. ‘Like me. And he was a soldier.’
Dídac did not move, his eyes fixed on the carpet of trees cascading down from where they sat.
‘He died when I was very young,’ said Daniel. ‘Fighting in the Spanish Sahara, the last real colony this country had.’
‘What happened?’ Dídac felt something twisting inside him, at once disturbing and reassuring.
Daniel shrugged. ‘There was a rebellion, local people wanting independence. The army was deployed. My father got shot when an attack was launched against a checkpoint.’
He turned and looked down at Dídac, who stared out, not meeting his gaze.
‘He was a very religious man,’ said Daniel.
For a moment, neither of them spoke; questions bubbled in Dídac’s head, but he pressed them down, willing them away.
‘This place, then …’ He wanted to break the silence.
‘That,’ said Daniel, looking up at the church, ‘is the Templo del Sagrado Corazón. The Pope made the man who built it a marquis because he liked it so much.’
‘And the name? Tibi …’
‘Tibidabo,’ said Daniel. ‘It comes from the Bible. Et dixit illi haec tibi omnia dabo si cadens adoraveris me.’
The air seemed to stick in Dídac’s throat on hearing his father quoting the words so perfectly.
‘It’s what the Devil said to Christ when he was in the wilderness,’ Daniel explained. ‘“And he said to him, I will give you all this if you fall down and worship me.”’
He swept an arm out indicating the view ahead.
‘But Christ resisted the temptation, and turned the Devil away.’
Dídac sat still, breathing heavily through his nose. His jaw was clenched tight, fists wrapped like balls.
‘You seem …’ he said. ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’
Daniel stood up slowly, stretching his arms and back as he did so.
‘I like it up here,’ he said. ‘People in Barcelona think that this is where the scene actually took place. But of course –’ he grinned down at Dídac – ‘it was in the Holy Land.’
He turned and looked out over the city.
‘But it’s such an amazing spot. You can understand why.’
Dídac began to feel something he had never experienced before: a gentle yet thrilling sensation, like a hand caressing his hair, calming and softening, as though drawing all burdens from his mind and making them vanish before him. The tension in his body of only a few moments before trickled and drained away, and a lightness entered his limbs. It was like the feeling he had had in the car earlier on, in the moment just before falling asleep, only stronger this time, less fleeting, more real. And he reached out to embrace it, the promise that it held of mystery and certainty.
‘I think it’s lovely up here,’ he said, his voice almost breaking as he spoke. ‘Thank you for bringing me.’
Daniel held his hand affectionately against Dídac’s cheek. And the new feeling inside cemented itself within him finally, securely and for ever.
‘And …’ he said. ‘Thank you for earlier. For what happened in the street.’
‘Someone has to look out for you,’ said Daniel, rubbing his thumb gently on Dídac’s temple. ‘Besides, you’re important. I need you strong and fit.’
Dídac stood up and they began to walk around the outside of the church, taking their time and stopping every so often to look at the world lying passively below, as though a merchant at a bazaar had presented his wares on a richly decorated cloth for them to examine.
‘I used to imagine sometimes,’ said Daniel, ‘that one day I might bring my own son up here, just as my father did me. I’m glad we’ve finally made it. Today feels like the right day for it, the perfect day, in fact.’
‘Today?’ asked Dídac.
Daniel looked him in the eye.
‘Because tomorrow is a big day. Everything I have been training you for will make sense tomorrow. And we have to be prepared, have to be relaxed and ready.’
Dídac’s heart thudded with sudden urgency.
‘What’s going to happen?’
Daniel kept his gaze fixed on Dídac’s face, as though looking deep into him.
‘I need to ask you,’ he said. ‘Sònia. What’s the situation?’
‘The girl?’
Daniel nodded.
‘It’s over,’ Dídac said with quick emphasis. ‘I dumped her.’
‘Good. That’s important. She wasn’t right for you anyway.’
‘I know. That’s why …’ But his sentence petered out. ‘What about Ximo?’
Daniel shook his head.
‘You don’t have to worry,’ he said.
Dídac glanced nervously at the floor; Daniel took a step away.
‘So about tomorrow,’ said Dídac.
Daniel leaned against the railings running along the top of the wall, placing his weight on his hands and hunching his shoulders. His eyes were fixed on the distant towers of Barcelona.
‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘everything has to change in order to remain the same.’
‘And which of those do you want?’ said Dídac. ‘For things to stay the same, or be different?’
Daniel lifted his head up and stared at the sky, then pushed himself off the railings and stood squarely before Dídac.
‘When the time for action comes …?’ he said.
‘I’ll be with you,’ said Dídac.
Daniel nodded and smiled.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘we should get something for that.’ He pointed at the bruising around Dídac’s neck.
‘It’s all right,’ said Dídac, the ache in his throat intensifying for a moment. ‘The pain makes me feel sharper.’
Daniel reached out and cupped his hands around his face.
‘My son,’ he said.
Dídac looked up at the church behind.
‘Would you like to go inside?’ said Daniel.
Dídac nodded.
‘It’s about helping people, right? The Church? Like our food bank.’
‘Yes,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s called Christian charity.’
He put an arm around Dídac’s shoulders and led him towards the entrance.
‘It’s a good place to talk. I need to go through some things with you. After that we’ll have lunch. And then we’ll go and get something for your feet. Some proper boots this time. Like my father used to wear.’
FORTY-SIX
THE STREET LIGHTS were flickering off – one, two, three at a time – as he paced down the Carrer de la Marina away from the police station and down towards the Sagrada Familia. The shops were still closed, but the streets were already busy with cars and motorbikes and buses as the people of Barcelona burst out of sleep into another day, the deep orange rays of a low burning sun reflecting like flames on their skin.
The scent of hot fresh coffee drew him to a bar and a window where he could order while still standing in the street.
‘Un café solo.’
Within seconds, the cup was thrust before him with a clatter. He picked up the large sachet of sugar and emptied it into the black liquid, then stirred it slowly, the spoon making a barely audible pinging sound as it brushed the sides.
There was a honking sound from behind, and he turned to see a man dressed in overalls skip out of the way and on to the pavement just in time to avoid being hit by an angry rubbish truck. The two men standing nearby greeted him.
‘Hey, Pau. You’ll get yourself killed!’
‘Everyone’s crazy this morning,’ said the man, drawing closer. ‘They’re all in a rush.’
‘Well, they’ll be closing off much of this area soon, what with the ceremony. Everyone’s trying to get stuff done before the gridlock sets in.’
‘That’s right, because the rest of the time there’s never any traffic jams, not a single one.’
The group laughed. Cámara knocked back the last of his coffee and turned to leave.
‘You should see the amount of police down there,’ he overheard one of them say. ‘Crawling
all over the place.’
‘Well, after the assassination …’
‘They’re nervous. That’s for sure.’
Cámara nodded a morning greeting to the men as he left, but they stared at him as though he were crazed: Barcelonans rarely did that; he was obviously an outsider. But Cámara ignored them and set off at a slightly quicker pace towards his destination: he had at least another five minutes to go.
There was a certainty about his movements, but he was ruffled by what he now felt certain was going to happen that day. Back in his cramped office, it had taken most of the previous afternoon to find what he was searching for. The computer was as slow as it looked and there were protocols to pass, levels of security, in order to reach the information he wanted, buried in the archives of the defence ministry. Even when he got to the records he was seeking, having finally remembered the special passwords he had access to as a chief inspector, there was no guarantee that the document he wanted would have been digitalised. If it existed at all, it would have been written down in the days when computers were still a rarity in public offices. And if it had been digitalised, there was every chance it was in a modern format that the antique computer he was using could not recognise. He felt trapped between the folds of the technological age – neither old enough nor young enough. But eventually, after much swearing at the screen, he had seen a name – the name he hoped and dreaded he would find. And as it burnt into the backs of his eyes, he almost felt sick.
The Legión, again. Should he have known? How could he have?
Now, as he walked briskly towards the Sagrada Familia, he spotted police barriers stacked at the side of the road, waiting to be set up once the order was given to divert the traffic. A group of policemen were standing in the shade, one of them with a radio pinned to his ear, as though waiting for the word to pounce. Seeing them, the cars accelerated, trying to get past before the flow was cut off.
A Body in Barcelona: Max Cámara 5 Page 23
