Read Online A Death in Valencia by Jason Webster - Free Book Online
Authors: Jason Webster
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say it was his.
With a frown, he quickly thought through what he had lost that afternoon: clothes, some books, a TV, music centre, pieces of furniture he wasnât too bothered about. The car. Perhaps, yes, the only thing he might really miss was his flamenco CD collection. It had taken a few years to build that upâthere were recordings there he wasnât sure heâd ever be able to replace. But with this slight pang of loss, he realised there wasnât much heâd pine for. Had this flat really meant so little to him? No, despite being rented, it had felt like hisâhis bolt-hole, his retreat. Yet it wasnât the objects there that mattered to him; it was the memories. Memories of when heâd first arrived, back in the late 1990s. A couple of parties heâd had back then. The girls who had been and gone. Not that many, but this had been the first place heâd made love to Almudena. And sheâd complained even then how messy it was.
It was over a year since theyâd split, but whenever something brought her to mind, he was always glad they were no longer together, and even found himself wondering how they had ever managed to get together in the first place, so incompatible were they. A poli and an interior designerâ¦
And then there was Susana. Heâd never felt anything more than a friend and neighbour, and if it hadnât been for little Tomás, he might never have chatted with her so much. Something about her being left on her own by Tomásâs father made him feel protective towards her.
Another push of wind, and the CD cover slipped past, and away down the street, unnoticed by anyone but him.
The dog barked. One of the firemen hissed for complete silence. Cámara stood up as the group collectively held its breath. He saw one of the rescue workers begin to clear away with his hands at the spot indicated by the animal, slowly, so as not to disturb the delicate structure created by the rubble. Piece by piece lumps of masonry were pulled up and placed to one side as the man tried to delve into the broken mass. Then he stopped. A torch was passed to him. He leaned in, pushing his hand through the remaining inches of debris before stopping and shining the torch down once again. He paused, checked once more with his hand, then stopped. After a couple of breaths, he stood up, shoulders tight and hunched.
The worst had been confirmed.
Â
Whether minutes or hours had passed, he couldnât say, but he had the feeling of not having moved for a long time when he heard footsteps close behind. Gradually he became aware of someone crouching down beside him, placing small hands under his arms and pulling him up. After a moment, he obeyed, and began to lift himself on to his feet.
âCome on,â a voice said in his ear. âYouâre coming home with me.â
Seven
Tuesday 7th July
The room was familiar, but in a distant, oblique sort of way, as though heâd slept so deeply heâd forgotten where he was. Yet he was certain he hadnât slept here the previous night. Nor for many nights before that.
The sound of a pneumatic drill down in the street buzzed through the open windows as a breeze blew in and played with the hairs on his exposed skin. Light reflected off the pale yellow walls, while the white cotton sheet felt soft and comforting. His fingers stretched out to find the edge, and he lifted it up to his eyes; the same thick yellow bordering as always. To match the walls.
Raising his head slightly from the pillow, he saw a bunch of white chrysanthemums in a vase on the bedside table. The sunlight was shining on them, casting a grey, hazy shadow on the parquet floor.
Yes, he thought as his head flopped down again, this room was all too familiar. As clean, neat, carefully arrangedâ¦and dead as it always had been.
But even then, comprehension was slow in coming. It was not until he heard a sound outside, a voice, that he fully realised
With a frown, he quickly thought through what he had lost that afternoon: clothes, some books, a TV, music centre, pieces of furniture he wasnât too bothered about. The car. Perhaps, yes, the only thing he might really miss was his flamenco CD collection. It had taken a few years to build that upâthere were recordings there he wasnât sure heâd ever be able to replace. But with this slight pang of loss, he realised there wasnât much heâd pine for. Had this flat really meant so little to him? No, despite being rented, it had felt like hisâhis bolt-hole, his retreat. Yet it wasnât the objects there that mattered to him; it was the memories. Memories of when heâd first arrived, back in the late 1990s. A couple of parties heâd had back then. The girls who had been and gone. Not that many, but this had been the first place heâd made love to Almudena. And sheâd complained even then how messy it was.
It was over a year since theyâd split, but whenever something brought her to mind, he was always glad they were no longer together, and even found himself wondering how they had ever managed to get together in the first place, so incompatible were they. A poli and an interior designerâ¦
And then there was Susana. Heâd never felt anything more than a friend and neighbour, and if it hadnât been for little Tomás, he might never have chatted with her so much. Something about her being left on her own by Tomásâs father made him feel protective towards her.
Another push of wind, and the CD cover slipped past, and away down the street, unnoticed by anyone but him.
The dog barked. One of the firemen hissed for complete silence. Cámara stood up as the group collectively held its breath. He saw one of the rescue workers begin to clear away with his hands at the spot indicated by the animal, slowly, so as not to disturb the delicate structure created by the rubble. Piece by piece lumps of masonry were pulled up and placed to one side as the man tried to delve into the broken mass. Then he stopped. A torch was passed to him. He leaned in, pushing his hand through the remaining inches of debris before stopping and shining the torch down once again. He paused, checked once more with his hand, then stopped. After a couple of breaths, he stood up, shoulders tight and hunched.
The worst had been confirmed.
Â
Whether minutes or hours had passed, he couldnât say, but he had the feeling of not having moved for a long time when he heard footsteps close behind. Gradually he became aware of someone crouching down beside him, placing small hands under his arms and pulling him up. After a moment, he obeyed, and began to lift himself on to his feet.
âCome on,â a voice said in his ear. âYouâre coming home with me.â
Seven
Tuesday 7th July
The room was familiar, but in a distant, oblique sort of way, as though heâd slept so deeply heâd forgotten where he was. Yet he was certain he hadnât slept here the previous night. Nor for many nights before that.
The sound of a pneumatic drill down in the street buzzed through the open windows as a breeze blew in and played with the hairs on his exposed skin. Light reflected off the pale yellow walls, while the white cotton sheet felt soft and comforting. His fingers stretched out to find the edge, and he lifted it up to his eyes; the same thick yellow bordering as always. To match the walls.
Raising his head slightly from the pillow, he saw a bunch of white chrysanthemums in a vase on the bedside table. The sunlight was shining on them, casting a grey, hazy shadow on the parquet floor.
Yes, he thought as his head flopped down again, this room was all too familiar. As clean, neat, carefully arrangedâ¦and dead as it always had been.
But even then, comprehension was slow in coming. It was not until he heard a sound outside, a voice, that he fully realised
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