Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

SWEET DREAMS

YANI IS SUCKING my cock. She’s naked, kneeling. Like she’s praying in front of an altar. Her mane of jet-black hair falls over her shoulders, curls shimmering blue in the sunlight. She arches her smooth back. I lean over and run my thumb down the ridged groove of her spine. I stop when I come to her arse. An inverted, fresh, mouth-watering summer pear, just waiting to be bitten. Beneath the blazing sun. She stops for a moment and smiles up at me. Her lips are moist. Oozing with the sweet nectar of the fruit. I’d like to taste them, but her face troubles me. It’s not Yani now, but some other woman, a woman who seems familiar. She grips my cock with both hands and goes on sucking. She’s good. She even plays with my balls. I’m just about to come when someone grabs my shoulder from behind and pulls me hard. Toni pushes me away. Suddenly I’m a kid again and he’s towering above me. He glares down at me, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth like a threat. He turns his back on me, starts fondling her tits, gives her arse a couple of slaps. I feel disgusted. When he’s finished pawing her, he puts a leash around her neck and drags her away. Like she’s some sort of animal. I’m left alone. I’m standing outside my school. The last teacher has gone home, they’re closing the front gate and I know mamá is not coming to pick me up. That she’ll never come and pick me up again. I fumble in the pocket of my school smock for change. I haven’t got a peso. What do I do now? I feel fear and sadness course through me and I start crying, bawling at the top of my lungs.

I wake up choking on my own tears, my nose dripping snot, my face soaked. They’re genuine tears. They broke out of my dream. The nightmare is not the one still echoing inside my head. The nightmare is waking up, because now I can’t even go on crying to console myself. Even though the terror is the same. Maybe worse.

Night has fallen around me. It’s cold. I’m still a little drunk. I fell asleep pressed against the bars of Zaid’s stall, my neck at a right angle, now I’ve got a cramp. My mouth is parched. I get up and ask Zaid for some water. At least he’s still here, like always. He gives me a bottle of mineral water. Cheap bastard always looking to make a sale. I only need something for my hangover. A glass of tap water would have done just as well. But I don’t say anything. I give him the money, and I don’t regret it. It’s sweet, delicious. The problem now is that my stomach hurts. Hardly surprising, it’s been at least twenty-four hours since I last had solid food. I ask Zaid if he’ll make me a hamburger and he can’t because he’s out of gas. He offers me a sandwich instead. It’s the last one. I stare at it under the filthy plastic cover that keeps the flies off. It turns my stomach but I say yes anyway. The bread’s stale, the tomato tastes slightly rotten, I don’t even taste the lettuce. I chuck it away because it’s all slimy and wilted. But the meat is fucking awesome.

I stretch my legs, go and piss against a tree, come back and ask the Turk the time. It’s nearly midnight. Santi should be showing up any minute now. In theory. Assuming Quique managed to track him down. Assuming he said he was up for driving me to Retiro, assuming he took the money. Assuming he didn’t bottle out at the last minute, assuming Charly’s people didn’t get to him.

It’s a lot of assuming, so I don’t hold out much hope. Anyway, even if he does come, then what? I’m just going to fuck off and disappear? I don’t even try to make the bastards pay for what they did to Chueco? I mean fuck sake, the guy was my compañero. And what if Santi shows without Quique? Am I going to do a runner and leave him stranded? And what about Yani? Didn’t I tell her to wait for me, that I’d go back and get her?

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.