The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

I swallowed hard.

‘Do you still have it?’

8

The parcel, pulled out from the back of a cupboard, lay on Isaac’s desk. When my fingers brushed the paper, the fine layer of dust covering it rose in a cloud of particles that caught the glow of the oil lamp Isaac held on my left. On my right, Fermín unsheathed his paperknife and handed it to me. The three of us looked at one another.

‘God’s will be done,’ said Fermín.

I slipped the knife under the string binding the parcel and cut it. With the greatest care I removed the wrapping until the content became visible. It was a manuscript. The pages were soiled, covered in stains of wax and blood. The first page bore a title written in diabolical handwriting.

The Angel’s Game

By David Martín

‘It’s the book he wrote while he was imprisoned in the tower,’ I murmured, ‘Bebo must have saved it.’

‘There’s something underneath …’ said Fermín.

The corner of a piece of parchment peeped out from beneath the manuscript. I gave it a tug and retrieved an envelope. It was sealed with red wax, stamped with the figure of an angel. On the front of the envelope was a single word, written in red ink:

Daniel

A cold sensation rose up my arms. Isaac, who was witnessing the scene with a mixture of astonishment and consternation, crept out of the room, followed by Fermín.

‘Daniel,’ Fermín called out gently. ‘We’re leaving you alone so you can open the envelope calmly and in private …’

I heard their footsteps as they slowly walked away and was only able to catch the start of their conversation.

‘Listen, chief, with so many emotions I forgot to mention that earlier, when I came in, I couldn’t help overhearing you say that you were thinking of retiring and that there might be an opening soon for the position …’

‘That’s right. I’ve been here too long. Why?’

‘Well, you see, I know we’ve only just met, so to speak, but I might be interested …’

The voices of Isaac and Fermín melted into the echoing labyrinth of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. Left on my own, I sat in the keeper’s armchair and removed the sealing wax. The envelope contained a folded sheet of ochre-coloured paper. I opened it and began to read.

Barcelona, 31 December 1941

Dear Daniel,

I write these words in the hope and conviction that one day you’ll discover this place, the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, a place that changed my life as I’m sure it will change yours. This same hope leads me to believe that perhaps then, when I’m no longer here, someone will talk to you about me and the friendship that linked me to your mother. I know that if you ever read these words you’ll be overwhelmed by questions and doubts. You’ll find some of the answers in this manuscript, where I have tried to portray my story as I remember it, knowing that my days of lucidity are numbered and that often I can only recall what never took place.

I also know that when you rec

eive this letter, time will have started to wipe out the traces of those events. I know you will harbour suspicions and that if you discover the truth about your mother’s final days you will share my anger and my thirst for revenge. They say it’s for the wise and the righteous to forgive, but I know I’ll never be able to do so. My soul is already condemned and has no hope of salvation. I know I will devote every drop of breath left in me to try to avenge the death of Isabella. But that is my destiny, not yours.

Your mother would not have wished for you a life like mine, at any price. Your mother would have wished you to have a full life, devoid of hatred and resentment. For her sake, I beg you to read this story and once you have read it, destroy it. Forget everything you might have heard about a past that no longer exists, clean your heart of anger and live the life your mother wanted to give you, always looking ahead.

And if one day, kneeling at her graveside, you feel the fire of anger trying to take hold of you, remember that in my story, as in yours, there was an angel who holds all the answers.

Your friend,

DAVID MARTÍN

Over and over again I read the words David Martín was sending me through time, words that seemed to me suffused with repentance and madness, words I didn’t fully understand. I held the letter in my hand for a few more moments and then placed it in the flame of the oil lamp and watched it burn.

I found Fermín and Isaac standing at the foot of the labyrinth, chatting like old friends. When they saw me their voices hushed and they looked at me expectantly.