32-Red

Prologue.

It was the eve of the May 15^th, Festival of “San Isidro”.

The pueblo that is Maro was oppressive. It was sticky and humid at half past four of an afternoon in an early Andalucian spring day. “Jose” lay in wait in the shadows, he was growing increasingly conscious of his breathing, which was shallow and carried an ever so slight but distinct, wheezing quality. As the hour drew near, his body was becoming awakened by an alarm, which was carried along, sustained even, by his keen sense of purpose. The fear began to resonate as he imagined how his life would change during the course of the next few moments, he began to feel an intoxication which was in danger of giving way to nausea, he reproached himself, his head felt light, it began to swim, his balance was unsure, his condition was not one which could be attributed to alcohol. Though his wish was that it could. He attempted to gather a moist gobbet of phlegm into his mouth but with limited success, he struggled to swallow and he became pre-occupied with this most basic inability, he struggled with his position, which was becoming filled with helplessness and angst. His neck began to ache and his eyes began to lose focus. Then, in the distance, the large heavy doorway squeaked open and he became aware of an alarming scraping sound and then a thud as the elevator carriage began its descent. It was like an alarm clock going off and “Jose” instinctively grabbed at the wall, tearing off a nail in the process. He cursed himself. He was bleeding. It was a sobering curse and one which made him fully aware again of his purpose. He felt for his heartbeat under his shirt and he could not find one. The nausea began to relent. “Jose” had little time nor the inclination to withdraw from his challenge.

The atmosphere is even more oppressive when faced with the spectre of executing your first murder. “Jose” had only his thoughts and the moment. A deaf mute since his heroics in the last war, “Jose” knew his position, understood the opportunity and that it was unlikely to be repeated. He could see fragmented light between the passageways of the Caves of Nerja. An impressive array of stalagmites and stalactites. He became conscious of, but was increasingly alienated from the sound of the soprano voice echoing through the labyrinth from the Chamber of the Cascada, as the soprano began her recital. He knew that they were alone.

Upon first sight of Francesca, there was evoked a “chill”, in his heart. A heart, which was now beating more and more rapidly. As he scuffled towards the narrow passageway linking his vantage point to the high central column of the Cataclysm Chamber, he came within fifteen feet of his quarry. She was leaning hard against the wooden barrier and she seemed oblivious to his presence, she was lost in thought and showed little sign that soon, her life would be in peril. She was unaware that she was not alone.

“Jose” stared hard past the myriad of ground lights that skirted the narrow passageway, which coursed throughout the caves, and for a brief moment he became lost in a shallow wave of reminiscence.

There was something about the caves that had attracted “Jose” ever since his first visit in the early sixties, quests for acceptance, deep foreboding with lost love or perhaps it was just the sense of finality should a mistake be made, a misplaced foothold, an overextended leap. The dividing line between life and death was indeed thin. His heart began to pound. He surveyed the expanse of the ledge and with it; its ability to conceal. He trembled a little, salivating upon his shirtfront, which was now drenched and discoloured with a cold sweat. He looked outwards into the tall and impressive caves and felt profound. He knew that it was time. Slowly he wended his way, quietly and carefully towards her and as he felt for and scaled down the final four steps and onto her level, he became somewhat transfixed. “Jose” peered at Francesca intently.

As Francesca turned in acknowledgment, with the start of a smile, her expression quickly turned to that of puzzlement. Startled, she became a little detached from her circumstances and very conscious of her breathing. “Jose” without warning, jumped at her, knocking her backwards but not to the ground. Her pocketbook spilled however and emptied its contents. “Jose” pulled back his arm and released a blow so sickeningly hard that it caused Francesca’s eye to close immediately and the soft tissue high on her cheekbone to discolour and then seep with blood. As she tried to regain her balance, instinctively she lurched with a growing rage toward him. Again the thud! of his fist closed upon her face. Her nose exploded.

Blood and mucus formed a mass and seemed to converge with her thickening lips. She felt the tears come from her eyes. She was beginning to cry. She fought it back. “For Christ Sake!” she mumbled as she began the drift toward loss of consciousness, she felt for her mouth and for her teeth which had become numb and she felt herself falling toward the ground and she was beginning to acquiesce, she was angry with herself and though she was at the point of defeat it wouldn’t, couldn’t, didn’t stop her. Francesca had resilience.

Seemingly without really knowing it, she saw through blurred eyes, the image of “Jose” moving again toward her and as he neared she reached out, grabbing for his arm and biting hard into his wrist, moaning and growling at the same time. “Jose” reacted instinctively with annoyance, pulling away, tearing his arm from her grasp as she fought and then with a new found strength he cuffed her venomously across the throat, making her gasp for air. Francesca went down. Slowly she clawed at the ground beneath and somehow, involuntarily tried to scoop the contents of her pocketbook, a last inexplicable attempt at order. As her pathetic form engaged in this final act of dissention, “Jose” moved upon her and brought his right forearm up hard against her larynx, making a pivot with his left arm. “Jose” took a long hard deep breath. He knelt beside her and he squeezed.

As the soprano drew to her close in the background, so ebbed away the last breath of Francesca Luciani. Satisfied, “Jose” released his grip with a palpable relief and fell exhausted to the ground, alongside her now limp body. As he lay prone, gathering his senses he reached into his shirt pocket and took a swig from his flask of liquor for the strength that it would give him. He listened intently to the silence of Francesca Luciani. The few people, so distant, in the “sala de los festivales” began to applaud.

“Jose” looked down at his work. This had been a beautiful young woman.

The dull gash on her cheekbone had been joined by a fine cut on her mouth, which had now filled with blood. “Jose” was tired and now frightened.

Slowly, he placed his hand upon her neck, feeling for a pulse. There was none.

Relief! Francesca’s prostrate body was relaxed, limp, and without animation. “Jose” hauled himself up and with his feet and knees, he began pushing with all of his might at the body,