Page 16 of The Last Postcard

Lost in thought, he made his way back to the table. He’d bring the letter to a close; sign it off with his name. A first chapter, maybe …

He sat down and reached for the pen, only to stop. Everything was just as he had left it, except for the letter.

The letter was gone.

Alabazam

Take one teaspoonful of Angostura bitters and half a pony of orange Curaçao. Add to it one teaspoonful of white sugar and one teaspoonful of lemon juice. Then pour in half a wine glass of brandy. Shake up well and strain in a claret glass. Brief, dark and bitter.

We once had a conjurer visit the inn during the feria. He was a shabby-looking man with drooping moustaches and a threadbare velvet cloak. I wasn’t very impressed; no one was, until we saw his trick. He took a duck from a cage, and wrenched its head clean from its neck. The girls shrieked to see it, and flinched as he paraded around the courtyard, the body in one hand, the little feathered head in the other. Then, he put his hands beneath a red silk handkerchief, said a word and whisk! the duck was back, whole and quacking and pedalling its legs in protest.

That’s how I felt as I stood in the doorway, looking at the Señor as the life flowed out of him. I kept expecting someone to say a word and wave a cloth, for him to stop his empty gulping, open his bloodstained mouth and grin. But no one said anything. Neither of us moved until the soft, wet gasping sounds finally ceased.

Then, Elena staggered. The broken bottle fell from her hand, the bowl of ice from mine as I stepped forward to catch her.

‘I didn’t,’ she gasped, clinging to my apron, her eyes bulging and frantic. ‘I didn’t …’

She looked down at the Señor, his blank eyes fixed upon the ceiling. ‘Ramón!’ she screamed and dropped to her knees beside him.

She was gripping his face, trying to lift his head, but he was gone, the wound at his neck bleeding sluggishly. That’s when I heard footsteps on the stairs, and the echo of voices. I turned to meet Morales’ gaze.

I didn’t know that a life could change so drastically in the space between one heartbeat and another. For one trembling breath everything hung suspended, like alcohol in water: Elena holding the Señor’s head, me with blood on my apron, the dropped ice, the broken bottle. Morales’ eyes flicked to her daughter, before settling on me.

‘Murder,’ she said softly.

I started to cry out, to explain, but my voice was lost in hers as she shouted the word. The doorway behind her was filling with the reddened, sweating faces of the Señor’s friends, on their way to the parlour. I saw their redness curdle, their mouths fall open, and still I stood paralysed. Then Elena looked up. Her pretty face was tear-streaked, her fingers slippery with blood as she pointed at me.

It was enough. The world descended into hands grabbing, clawing, wrenching my arms behind my back as Morales shouted murder. I struggled and threw myself sideways, trying to see Elena. We locked eyes and I knew, in that moment, what she and her mother had agreed, without words.

I screamed at her, spittle flying from my mouth as I called her a lying bitch. It didn’t help my cause. One of the gentlemen hit me with his fist, a blow that folded me over in shock, made my eyes flood. A few drops of blood splattered from my nose on to my smock as they hauled me towards the stairs.

Morales was calling for help, calling for someone to fetch the guardia, to find Capitán Davila and tell him there had been a murder at the inn, tell him to bring men and a car to arrest the murderess.

Her voice slapped me into wakefulness. Capitán Davila – who came to the inn every month to inspect the premises and claim his ‘commission’. Capitán Davila who had known Morales for years, who at her word would throw me into a cell and shrug and call it a night’s work.

‘Elena,’ I choked, as they pulled me down the stairs. ‘It was her, he promised to take her away from here, he promised and she found out the lie—’

One of the gentlemen beside me faltered and glanced at the others. I recognized him from the night in the parlour. He was the one who had offered the Turkish Delight. ‘Please!’ I begged him. ‘Please, you know it’s true! Tell them!’

He flinched away, and I saw something in his eyes, a shred of belief. The Señor must have bragged of his nights with Elena, must have laughed over how he could make her do anything, for a handful of promises.

But the man was shaking his head, his grip weak. ‘I can’t have my name in this,’ he said breathlessly, ‘if my customers discovered, my wife—’

‘Does she know our names?’ Another man was interrupting, shaking me. ‘What if she talks?’

He was addressing Morales, who stood at the foot of the stairs. She looked at me, her eyes hard.

‘If she talks, who will listen?’

My strength faded when she said that. She was right. No one would listen. Bad blood, they would say, rotten whore, and they would be believed. The girls would be silent. Antonio the groom would be silent. Only Morales would speak out, to send me to be garrotted for murder in Elena’s place.

The thought made my head cloud, and I half fainted. They lifted me underneath each arm. My feet dragged uselessly, my hands brushing at my apron.

That was when I felt the weight of the knife.

We’d reached the bottom of the stairs. Through burning eyes, I could see the courtyard to my left, with its press of guests and tables. To my right, the open gate and the street, crowded with people, all drinking, shouting, making their way towards the river.

One chance.