The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘Just arrived from our market garden in El Prat, behind the sulphuric acid plants.’

‘A premium bouquet. And tell me, my good man, does this establishment extend credit to suitable individuals?’

The waiter lost his cheerful expression and withdrew behind the bar, hanging his rag over his shoulder with a hostile gesture.

‘Not even to God almighty.’

‘I see. And would you consider making an exception in the case of a decorated disabled war hero?’

‘Scram or we’ll call the police.’

In light of the stringent policies being enforced, Fermín beat a hasty retreat, searching for a quiet corner where he could reconsider his plans. He’d just settled on the steps of the building next door when a young girl, who couldn’t have been a day older than seventeen but already possessed the curves of a budding starlet, walked past him and fell flat on her face.

Fermín stood up to help her and had only just taken hold of her arm when he heard a voice that made the words from the hostile waiter who had sent him on his way sound like heavenly music.

‘Look here, you goddam slut, don’t give me this crap or I’ll slice your face up and dump you in the street, which is already filled with unemployed cut-up whores.’

The author of such a notable speech turned out to be a sallow-skinned pimp with a questionable eye for fashion. Despite the fact that the man was twice Fermín’s size, and was holding what appeared to be a sharp object, or at least a fairly pointy one, Fermín, who was beginning to be fed up to his back teeth with bullies, stood between the girl and her aggressor.

‘And who the fuck are you, you loser? Go on, beat it before I cut your face up.’

Fermín felt the girl grip his arms in fear. She smelled of a particular mixture of sweet cinnamon and refried calamari. A quick glance was enough for Fermín to realise that the situation was unlikely to be resolved through diplomacy, so he decided to move into action. After a lightning assessment of his opponent he concluded that the grand total of his body mass was mainly flab, and that when it came to actual muscle, or grey matter, he was not packing a lethal punch.

‘Don’t talk to me in that way, even less to the young lady.’

The pimp looked at him in astonishment, as if he hadn’t taken in the words. A second later, the individual, who was expecting anything from this wimp except a fight, got the surprise of his life when a suitcase slammed into his soft parts and sent him to the ground clutching his privates. This was followed by four or five knocks in strategic places inflicted with the leather corners of the case that left him, at least for a short while, notably lacking in any mood to fight back.

A group of passers-by who had witnessed the incident began to applaud and, when Fermín turned to check whether the girl was all right, he was welcomed by her adoring look, laced with undying gratitude and tenderness.

‘Fermín Romero de Torres, at your service, miss.’

The girl stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

‘I’m Rociíto.’

The specimen at his feet was gasping and struggling to get up. Before the balance of the contest stopped favouring him, Fermín decided to distance himself from the scene of the confrontation.

‘We’d better make haste and shove off,’ he announced. ‘Now we’ve lost the initiative, the battle will go against us …’

Rociíto took his arm and guided him through the twisted web of narrow streets that led to Plaza Real. Once they were in the sunlight and in the open, Fermín stopped for a second to recover his breath. Rociíto noticed that Fermín was becoming increasingly pale. He looked unwell. She guessed that the emotions induced by the skirmish, or perhaps plain old hunger, had caused a drop in her brave champion’s blood pressure. She walked him to the terrace of the Hostal Dos Mundos, where Fermín collapsed into one of the chairs.

Rociíto, who might have been seventeen but had a clinical eye that many an experienced doctor would have coveted, proceeded to ask for a selection of tapas with which to revive him. When Fermín saw the feast arriving, he was alarmed.

‘Rociíto, I don’t have a céntimo on me …’

/> ‘It’s on me,’ she cut in proudly. ‘Gotta take care of my man and keep ’im well nourished.’

Rociíto kept stuffing him with small chorizos, bread and spicy potatoes, all washed down with a monumental pitcher of beer. Fermín slowly revived and recovered his lively colouring to the girl’s visible satisfaction.

‘For dessert, if you like, I can serve you up a house special that will knock you sideways,’ offered the young woman, licking her lips.

‘Listen, kid, shouldn’t you be at school right now, with the nuns?’

Rociíto laughed at his joke.

‘You rogue, you’ve sure got a mouth!’

As the feast went on, Fermín realised that, if it depended on the girl, he had before him a promising career as a procurer. But matters of greater importance claimed his attention.