The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands

CODA

Falcón sat outside La Bodega de la Albariza on Calle Bétis with a beer and a tapa of fried fresh anchovies. It was cooler today. There were a lot of people down by the river. He'd given up on his usual spot in the centre of the Puente de Isabel II. It reminded him too much of bad times and intrusive photographers. The river was no longer some Stygian limbo of hand- wringing strangers but, as it always had been, the life force of the city. Now he sat with people at tables eating and drinking, watching couples of all ages kissing as they strolled in the sunshine, at joggers and cyclists as they pushed themselves along the tow path on the opposite bank. The waiter stopped by and asked him if he wanted anything else. He ordered another beer and a plate of chipirones, baby squid.

There were two things from that last torrid week in July that just wouldn't leave him alone. The first was Rafael Vega and his son Mario and his answer to Calderón's question – what couldn't you bear your son knowing about you? He remembered the pity he'd felt for Mario as he was swept away Into his new family and he wanted the boy to know, not now but eventually, just one thing about his monstrous father. He wanted him to know that Rafael Vega had been returned to humanity by love and loss. He'd faced his conscience and been tormented by it. He'd died wanting some good to come out of his appalling life. How would Mario ever know that?

The second thing that he could not shake off and didn't want to was what had happened between him and Consuelo. She'd left him and gone away to the coast to be with her children. He'd tried to find out where she was from the restaurant managers, but they were under strict instructions to inform nobody. Her mobile was never switched on. He heard nothing back from the messages he left on her answering machine. He dreamed about her, saw her in the street and ran across squares to grab the arms of shocked strangers. He lived with her in his head, longed for the smell of her, the touch of her cheek on his, the sight of his empty chair opposite hers in a restaurant.

The waiter brought the chipirones and the beer. He squeezed the lemon over the squid and reached for his beading glass. The coldness of the beer brought tears to his eyes. He nodded to a girl who asked if she could take one of his chairs. He sat back and let the high palms of the Seville skyline blur in his vision. Tomorrow was the first day of September. He was going to Morocco in a few days' time. Marrakesh. He was happy. His mobile vibrated on his thigh. He nearly couldn't be bothered to answer it in the languor of the afternoon.