The Summer of Dead Toys

by Antonio Hill

  “No.” Gina suddenly opened her eyes and her bitter tone surprised them all. “I’m sick of hearing that, Mama! We weren’t brother and sister. I . . . I . . . loved him.” Her mother tried to take her hand but she shook her off and turned to the inspector more decisively. “And yes, we drank, we put on music. We made pizzas in the kitchen. It’s not that we did anything special, but we were together. That was what was special.”

  He let her speak without interrupting and gestured to his companion not to say anything.

  “Then Aleix arrived. And we had dinner. And we drank more. And we listened to more music. Like we had so many times. We talked about exams, Dublin, the notches on Aleix’s bedpost. It had been a while since all three of us had been together. Like before.”

  Regina’s gesture of surprise didn’t pass Héctor unnoticed. It was momentary, a simple arching of the eyebrows, but it was there. Gina continued, ever faster.

  “Then a song came on that we liked and we started dancing like crazy, and singing loudly. At least Aleix and I did, because Marc stopped immediately and sat back down. But we kept dancing. It was a party, wasn’t it? We told him so, but he wasn’t in the mood . . . Aleix and I turned up the volume, I don’t remember what was playing. We were dancing for a while until suddenly Marc turned off the music.”

  “Was he worried about something?”

  “I don’t know . . . He’d become very strange. More serious. I almost hadn’t seen him in the two months he’d been back. I was studying and everything, but he hardly called.”

  “But—” Regina interrupted. Her daughter cut her off:

  “And then Aleix said that if the party was over, he was going. They argued. And it pissed me off, because I was having a good time, like before. So when Aleix left I asked Marc what was going on.”

  She paused and looked on the verge of breaking into tears. “He said, ‘You’ve drunk a lot, you’ll feel awful tomorrow’ or something like that, and it was true, I suppose, but I got angry and I went to his bed and I waited there for a while . . . and, well, I vomited in the bathroom but I cleaned it all up and I felt cold all of a sudden and got into bed because the room was spinning and I was shivering.” Tears rolled down her cheeks but she didn’t brush them away. Her mother put her arm around her and this time Gina didn’t shy away from her touch. “And that was it. When I woke up, it had already happened.”

  The girl took refuge in her mother’s arms, like a baby bird. Regina held her in her embrace and, turning to the inspector, said severely:

  “I think that’s enough, don’t you? As you can see, my daughter has been badly affected by all this. I don’t want her to have to repeat the same story again and again.”

  Héctor nodded and gave Leire a sideways glance. She didn’t know what he meant by that look, but she was sure that at that moment, protected by her mother, Gina wouldn’t tell them anything else. And although the girl’s tears appeared sincere, she’d noticed a certain relaxation in Gina’s posture after her mother’s last words. Leire was going to say something, but Regina beat her to it.

  “I still remember how terrible the following morning was.” The spotlights were back on the principal actress, who was demanding to act her role.

  Héctor kept up the game.

  “How did you hear about what happened?”

  “Glòria called me first thing in the morning to tell me. God! I couldn’t believe it . . . And although she told me straight away that Gina was fine, that it was poor Marc who had . . . Well, I wasn’t happy until I saw her.” She hugged her daughter even tighter.

  “Of course,” agreed the inspector. “Had you been having a party at the Castells’ chalet?”

  The woman smiled ironically.

  “Calling it a party is an exaggeration, Inspector. Let’s leave it at a simple dinner with friends. Glòria is charming, and one of the most organized women I know, but parties aren’t exactly her thing.”

  “Who was there?”

  “There were seven of us: the Roviras, the Castells, my husband and I, and Enric’s brother, the monsignor. Well, and Natàlia, of course. The Castells’ adopted daughter,” she clarified.

  “Did it end early?”

  If Regina was surprised by the question, she showed no sign of it.

  “Early? I don’t know what to tell you; to me the night went on forever. I haven’t been so bored since the last Turkish film Salvador took me to see. Imagine, the Roviras, who dedicate more time to blessing the meal than eating, because they believe enjoying food is a sin of gluttony or greed or something. And Glòria, who spent the whole dinner getting up to see if the fireworks were bothering the little one. I told her the Chinese have spent centuries playing with powder but she looked at me as if I were an idiot.”

  Gina sighed with annoyance.

  “Mama, don’t be nasty. Glòria isn’t that hysterical. And Natàlia is a darling. When I babysit she always goes to sleep straight away.” Turning to the inspector, she added, “My mother can’t bear Glòria because she’s still a size eight, and because she’s studying for a degree.”

  “Gina, don’t talk rubbish. I’m very fond of Glòria; she’s been the best thing that could have happened to Enric: finding a wife.” If the comment was meant to be complimentary, her tone clearly expressed a certain scorn. “And I admire her organizational ability, but that doesn’t change the fact that the ‘party’ was a bore: my husband, Enric and the priest spoke at length and in detail about Catalonia’s disastrous position at present, the crisis, the lack of values . . . To top it all, one can’t even have a drink with the controls they put on the road during the night of San Juan.” She said it as if this were Inspector Salgado’s direct responsibility.

  “What time did you return?”

  “It would have been around two when we arrived home. Salvador returns from a trip tomorrow. I’ll ask him; he pays much more attention to time than I do.”

  While her mother was speaking, Gina rose and went looking for a tissue. Leire’s eyes followed her. The tears had stopped and in their place, for a moment, was something like satisfaction. Driven by an impulse, Leire rose and went over to the girl.

  “Excuse me,” she said to her, “I have to take a tablet. Would you mind giving me a glass of water? I’ll go with you, no need to bring it.”

  He feels a slap in his mouth, given with the back of the hand by the guy in front of him. It’s more humiliating than painful. A trickle of salty blood stains his lip.

  “See what passes for answering?” the bald one says to him, moving away a little. “Come on, be a good boy and try another answer.”

  The bald guy is so close to him that he feels his breath on his face. Warm air flecked with saliva. The other is behind him and has his vice-like arm around his shoulders. Rubén, sitting in the corner of the room, looks away.

  It’s not the first time Aleix has been in this place: an old garage in Zona Franca where he’s been many times to score cocaine. Because of this, he’s let Rubén bring him here, never imagining that the other two would be inside waiting for him. He doesn’t even know their names: only that they are pissed off. And with reason. Aleix is sweating, and not only because of the heat. The first punch in the stomach leaves him breathless. Truly surprised, he opens his eyes. When he tries to explain himself he feels another blow, and another. And another. He doesn’t even try to escape the fat one; he tries to make his mind go blank. They don’t know that from an early age he had to tolerate so much pain that it doesn’t frighten him any more. He repeats to himself: this is a warning, a threat. They want the money, not to kill him or anything like that. But when the bald one stops after beating him for just enough time, he sees his face. The fucker is enjoying himself. And it’s then he panics: seeing those eyes injected with satisfaction, a hand resting on his cock like he’s going to masturbate. He guesses what he’s thinking as if his brow were transparent glass with his intentions written on the other side. He fixes his gaze on the lump that has formed in the bald one’s crotch a
nd tries to transform the terror he feels into an ironic grimace. When the fat man gives him two more punches, he knows he’s succeeded and also welcomes the pain. It’s better than other things.

  “That’s enough!” Rubén has risen from the chair and comes over to the others.

  Baldy’s fist stays suspended in the air and the pliers slacken. Enough that Aleix slides like a liquid stain down a wall to fall to his knees. Amid a mist of pain he hears Rubén’s footsteps coming closer. Baldy kneels by his side and speaks to him in a voice so low he can’t even hear what he’s saying.

  “You’re lucky that this one’s here.” Baldy looks at his watch. “Four days: next Tuesday we’re coming to collect.”

  Aleix nods because he can’t do anything else. He feels a hand resting on his shoulder and it helps him get up. He leans on Rubén, who looks wounded.

  “Sorry, man,” he whispers in his ear. And Aleix realizes that he means it. Despite having to drive him to this trap, he’s worried about him.

  “Take him home,” Baldy tells him. “He already knows what he has to do.”

  Rubén grabs hold of his shoulders and brings him to the car. Outside, Aleix has to stop: his stomach is churning, his eyes streaming. And what’s worse, he’s weighed down by the fear of not knowing how to get out of this.

  In the kitchen, Leire drank the glass of water slowly while she wondered how to broach the subject. Gina watched her with a blank expression. There was something behind it, something Leire discerned as much in the bitter tears from before as in her apathetic expression now.

  “Do you have a photo of Marc?” she asked in a friendly tone. “I’d like to see what he looked like.” It was a shot in the dark, but it worked. Gina relaxed and nodded.

  “Yes, I have them in my room.”

  They went upstairs to the room and Gina closed the door.

  She sat down at the computer and typed rapidly.

  “I have lots on Facebook,” she said. “But these are from San

  Juan. I didn’t remember I’d taken them.”

  They were improvised photos. The pizzas, the drinks, the traditional pine-nut cake. There were a couple of Aleix, but the majority were of Marc. Hair closely shaven, a sea-blue shirt with

  white numbers, and faded jeans. A normal boy, handsome-ish,

  but too serious for being at a party. Leire looked at Gina’s face

  as much as at the photos, and if she had harboured any doubt

  that the girl was in love, it dissolved immediately.

  “You looked beautiful.” And it was true. It was evident

  that the girl had dressed up for that night. Leire imagined her

  dressing to please him. And she’d ended up drunk and alone,

  after vomiting in the bathroom. The question rose to her lips

  without thinking: “He’d met another girl, hadn’t he? In Dublin, maybe.”

  Gina instantly tensed up and minimized the screen. But her

  face betrayed the answer.

  “Wait.” A sudden memory came to Leire: Marc’s corpse on

  the ground of the patio, dried blood on the back of his head,

  jeans, trainers . . . And yes, she was sure, a light green polo

  shirt, nothing like the blue T-shirt. “Did he change his clothes?” Aleix had told her, “If all of a sudden you don’t know how to

  answer, say you don’t remember.” Gina tried to feign confusion. “Why do you ask?”

  “The clothes he was found in weren’t the same as the ones

  he’s wearing in these photos.”

  “No? To be honest, I don’t remember.” Her knee was trembling; she couldn’t stop it. She stood up and went toward

  the door. The gesture was unmistakable: the conversation

  was over.

  The old Citroën stopped on the same corner where it had picked Aleix up a few hours before. They hadn’t spoken throughout the whole journey: Aleix because he could barely pronounce a word, Rubén because he had nothing to say.

  “Wait a minute,” stammered Aleix.

  The driver turned off the engine. He stayed silent. Rubén lit a cigarette.

  “These guys are serious,” he said, not looking at him. “This

  time there’s a lot of money at stake, man. You have to get the money somehow.”

  “You think I don’t know that? Shit, Rubén!”

  “Get the dough, man. Ask your folks, your friends, your girlfriend . . . She’s well off isn’t she? If one of my friends needed four thousand euros, I’d scrape it from under a stone. I swear.”

  Aleix sighed. How could he explain to Rubén that it was exactly those who had the most money who were the most reluctant to let it go?

  The smoke was drifting out of the open window, but it left a faint odor in the car. Aleix thought he was going to vomit. “Are you OK?”

  “I don’t know.” He stuck his head out in search of air, a pointless gesture in this heat. He inhaled deeply anyway.

  “Listen.” Rubén had thrown the butt into the street. “I want you to know something: my head is on the line. If these people come to believe that you’ve kept . . . you know . . . They’re in a different league, man. I told you.”

  True. The deals between Aleix and Rubén went back a year, and they’d started almost as a game: the possibility of getting some free lines in exchange for moving part of the merchandise in circles Rubén couldn’t access. Aleix had enjoyed doing it: it was a way of breaking the rules, taking a small step on the other side. And when, weeks back, in light of the fact that business was booming, Rubén had proposed increasing the volume of sales courtesy of these new colleagues, he hadn’t given it a second thought. On the night of San Juan he was carrying enough to liven up half the city’s parties.

  “Fuck, how many times do I have to tell you? Marc got pissed off with me and threw it down the toilet. I couldn’t do anything. D’you think I’d be putting up with all this if I could help it?”

  “Why did you push him?”

  The pause was too tense: like a rubber band stretched to its limit.

  “What?”

  Rubén looked away.

  “I went looking for you, man. San Juan night. I knew where you were, so when I got tired of calling you I took the motorbike and I stood outside your friend’s house.”

  Aleix looked at him, astonished.

  “It was late, but the attic light was on. You could see it from the other side of the railings. Your friend was at the window, smoking. I called your mobile again and I was leaving when . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, from where I was I’d swear someone pushed him. He was still and suddenly he catapulted forwards . . . And I seemed to see a shadow behind. I didn’t stay around to check. I grabbed the bike and got the hell out of there. Then, the following day, when you told me what had happened, I thought maybe it was you.”

  Aleix shook his head.

  “My friend fell from the window. And if you saw anything else it’s because you were out of your mind that night. Or weren’t you?”

  “Well, it was San Juan . . .”

  “Whatever, best you don’t say you were around here.” “Fine.”

  “Listen, do you have . . . ?”

  Rubén exhaled.

  “If those idiots hear that I’ve given you some they’ll kill me.” Rubén rapidly prepared two lines on an empty plastic CD case. He passed it to Aleix, who snorted the first greedily. He looked at him sideways before giving it back.

  “Take the other one as well,” Rubén told him as he lit another cigarette. “I have to drive. And today you need it.”

  11

  Last visit of the day, thought Héctor as the car stopped just in front of the Castells’ house. One more and he could go home and forget all about it. Shelve this absurd favor and focus on what really mattered. What’s more, Savall would be happy for once; he would arrange a meeting with the boy’s mother, tell her it had all been an unfortunate accident and they’d move on. Du
ring the journey, his companion had told him the detail of the T-shirt and her reinforced belief that Gina Martí wasn’t telling them the whole truth. He’d made signs of agreeing, although he thought, without saying it aloud, that lying wasn’t the same as pushing a childhood friend out the attic window. A window which was visible now, above the creeper-covered railings. Héctor looked toward it and squinted: from that point to the ground was a good thirty-five or thirty-six feet. Where on earth did this custom of kids doing dangerous stunts come from? Was it out of boredom, a desire for risk, or simple irresponsibility? Maybe an equal amount of all three. He shook his head, thinking of his son entering adolescence, that awkward age plagued by stereotypes, during which he, as a father, could only arm himself with patience and hope that everything he had tried to impart in the past might have some effect in offsetting the hormonal turmoil and congenital stupidity of those years. Marc Castells was almost twenty when he fell from that window. Héctor kept his eyes fixed on it and realized he was overwhelmed by the sudden fear he’d felt at other times when confronted by absurd deaths: accidents that could have been avoided, tragedies that should never have happened.

  A middle-aged woman with South American features accompanied them to the lounge. The contrast between the house they’d just visited and this one was so huge that even Héctor, for whom interior design was as abstract a discipline as quantum physics, couldn’t help noticing it. White walls and low furniture, a painting in warm tones and Bach smoothly wafting through the air. Regina Ballester had made it very clear that Glòria Vergès seemed rather dull to her, but the atmosphere she’d created in her house was one of harmony, of peace. The type of house that a man like Enric Castells wants to come home to: calm and beautiful, with large windows and bright spaces, not too modern or too classic, in which every detail exudes money and good taste. Without wanting to, he noticed that the table runner flaunted a black-and-white geometric pattern, which he recognized as one of Ruth’s designs. Maybe that was what made him feel a stab of sadness, rapidly mixing with an ill-at-ease feeling, a bitter pang he recognized as unfair. Someone had died there less than two weeks before, and yet the house seemed to have recovered completely: the tragedy had been neutralized, everything had gone back to normal.