Heâd avoided a police interrogation. Disappeared. Boxer had been seven years old on the day heâd been told and it was still fresh thirty-three years later. Even now he could feel the fissure opening up in his chest.
And what had happened then? Esme had sent him away to school. There was nothing else she could do. She had a production company to run, and theyâd just lost their director, the main creative attraction of the business. There were commercials to be shot all over the world. What had he done, the seven-year-old? Heâd hardened up, set solid on the outside, never let anybody see inside.
Amy disappearing had brought it all back: this feeling that all he had at his centre was his own hurt. Heâd noticed it more since heâd gone freelance, with less cameraderie but more time and solitude for it to pervade. And then, later, heâd been shocked to find a way of dealing with it. The first time, tracking down the Ukrainian kidnap gang member whoâd abused his young Russian hostage all the way to a dacha outside Archangel, forcing the gangster out into the forest in his underpants in -22°C, watching as his shivering stopped, the body stiffened, and finding himself whole again, the blackness inside down to an invisible point. Could he ever unlearn that? Or was it a part of him, in his DNA, like a black line spiralling up the middle of the double helix, a mutated gene affecting the whole?
He rang the doorbell, unsure of his reception. He sensed her on the other side looking through the peephole. What did she see? The door opened and she pulled him in, hugged him up on tiptoe, comforted him with the closeness of her body.
Isabel supplied food and drink in the effortless way she had and listened to him, gave him her full attention while he sat in the kitchen watching her, those brown eyes beneath her straight black eyebrows always on the brink of concern. It amazed him how she appeared dressed for every occasion. He couldnât imagine her slouching around in a big shirt and jeans. Even now on a Sunday evening she was in a tight-fitting dress, her bosom high, cleavage showing, make-up on. He couldnât take his eyes off that slight declivity beneath her cheekbones, the one that said kiss me, that said rest your tired face here.
He told her about his fruitless day. For all the time he was talking she held his hands across the table, but it made no difference. Something had changed in him over the long day or, perhaps, as he was standing outside her house. He was mentally slipping out of her hands, as if he was hanging from them over a cliff and she was losing her grip. Heâd thought heâd be able to tell her everything. But now he knew thereâd always have to be the one thing he had inside held back. He shouldnât, if he wanted to hold on to her, ever tell her that.
âWerenât we going to have a talk,â he said, âbefore Mercy called about Amy?â
âA talk?â
âDidnât you say . . . we needed to talk?â
She took his hand, held it to her chest and kissed him on the mouth.
âNo more talk,â she said, and led him upstairs to her bedroom.
Â
El Osito washed and scoured himself, thinking it would have been easier with a hacksaw, but he wasnât about to go out and buy one and have that traced back to him. And he didnât want anybody else involved. Nobody should know about this.
He was about to tie up each bag with its gruesome contents and put them in the shower to clean them off with water and bleach when it occurred to him that he would have to weigh them down so they didnât float in the river. He didnât want to go outside searching for rocks in the city. He went to his weights room. Everything had been bought over a year ago by one of his underlings from a big sports store, using cash, before heâd even arrived in Madrid. He selected four five-kilo weights and one ten-kilo weight for
And what had happened then? Esme had sent him away to school. There was nothing else she could do. She had a production company to run, and theyâd just lost their director, the main creative attraction of the business. There were commercials to be shot all over the world. What had he done, the seven-year-old? Heâd hardened up, set solid on the outside, never let anybody see inside.
Amy disappearing had brought it all back: this feeling that all he had at his centre was his own hurt. Heâd noticed it more since heâd gone freelance, with less cameraderie but more time and solitude for it to pervade. And then, later, heâd been shocked to find a way of dealing with it. The first time, tracking down the Ukrainian kidnap gang member whoâd abused his young Russian hostage all the way to a dacha outside Archangel, forcing the gangster out into the forest in his underpants in -22°C, watching as his shivering stopped, the body stiffened, and finding himself whole again, the blackness inside down to an invisible point. Could he ever unlearn that? Or was it a part of him, in his DNA, like a black line spiralling up the middle of the double helix, a mutated gene affecting the whole?
He rang the doorbell, unsure of his reception. He sensed her on the other side looking through the peephole. What did she see? The door opened and she pulled him in, hugged him up on tiptoe, comforted him with the closeness of her body.
Isabel supplied food and drink in the effortless way she had and listened to him, gave him her full attention while he sat in the kitchen watching her, those brown eyes beneath her straight black eyebrows always on the brink of concern. It amazed him how she appeared dressed for every occasion. He couldnât imagine her slouching around in a big shirt and jeans. Even now on a Sunday evening she was in a tight-fitting dress, her bosom high, cleavage showing, make-up on. He couldnât take his eyes off that slight declivity beneath her cheekbones, the one that said kiss me, that said rest your tired face here.
He told her about his fruitless day. For all the time he was talking she held his hands across the table, but it made no difference. Something had changed in him over the long day or, perhaps, as he was standing outside her house. He was mentally slipping out of her hands, as if he was hanging from them over a cliff and she was losing her grip. Heâd thought heâd be able to tell her everything. But now he knew thereâd always have to be the one thing he had inside held back. He shouldnât, if he wanted to hold on to her, ever tell her that.
âWerenât we going to have a talk,â he said, âbefore Mercy called about Amy?â
âA talk?â
âDidnât you say . . . we needed to talk?â
She took his hand, held it to her chest and kissed him on the mouth.
âNo more talk,â she said, and led him upstairs to her bedroom.
Â
El Osito washed and scoured himself, thinking it would have been easier with a hacksaw, but he wasnât about to go out and buy one and have that traced back to him. And he didnât want anybody else involved. Nobody should know about this.
He was about to tie up each bag with its gruesome contents and put them in the shower to clean them off with water and bleach when it occurred to him that he would have to weigh them down so they didnât float in the river. He didnât want to go outside searching for rocks in the city. He went to his weights room. Everything had been bought over a year ago by one of his underlings from a big sports store, using cash, before heâd even arrived in Madrid. He selected four five-kilo weights and one ten-kilo weight for
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