I followed the red trickle that seeped from under his hand, its abrupt change of course as it met the invisible incline of the concrete gutter and flowed into it. I thought I knew the boy. I felt I ought to. An office girl with a tight, high bun of expensive Indian hair, nails glinting gold in the sun, brought her phone to her ear, her arm making a delicate stylish curve just before she spoke into it.
I watched her crimson lips moving. I stood up, ignoring the shock on all those faces fixed on me. They were reading me, I knew, studying my expression, waiting perhaps for the howl that would confirm for them that this dead boy was family. I did none of that. I simply stood over him. When the police came they rushed me. The largest one slammed my back against the wall, jammed a knee into my stomach and pressed an elbow against my throat. I choked on my breath and held his eyes. He did not like that. He threw me on the pavement, dropped his weight on my spine, then dragged my hands behind my back and handcuffed me.
A little car arrived. It stopped in the middle of the road. An apparition got out: a white head of hair; eyes like two knobs of flaming coals; lips that would look perfect on a battered leather purse. White Hair shouted something. The words came out of him like gravel on a grater. The weight came off my back. I was lifted to my feet, the handcuffs removed. Rough hands bundled me into the little car. All the while, people were out there protesting at my arrest.
All women. The men remained silent. They were, no doubt, less interested in my fate than in the way injustice takes its course. It made for better rumshop conversation. They took me to an old brick building backing the bus terminal, which stood over the sea. Above the entrance in big white type: San Andrews Police Central. Inside, I caught the faint smell of tar from the island schooners berthed against the jetty. Partitioned rooms retreated all the way to the back of the building.
From them came - 21 -. Amid the thunder of vehicles arriving in the concrete courtyard, White Hair sat me down in a chair by an untidy desk. He pressed a sandwich into my hand and a glass of orange juice.
He lowered himself in front of me and jabbed a finger at his chest. Now talk to me. What happm? You could point them out? Is obvious they plan it. Some looked nervous, some angry, most of them relaxed. A few were so terrified they could barely walk. The officers lined them up against the wall of the building. Chilman prodded me. Chilman looked at me. I squared my shoulders and glared back. Chilman leaned into my face.
To give an absurd answer. If the appearance does not satisfy me, you cannot persuade me. Administrador que administra, y en- fermo que se enjuaga, algo traga. But fate will have a different plan for her when she meets Alvaro, an attractive and affluent man who is emotionally destroyed after he discovers his wife has been unfaithful to him. The wheels are clogged ; the busi- ness does not prosper. To spring a leak. Bageye pushed down hard on the brakes and stopped the car.
I caught a whiff of rum. I want a result right now. If that is what you doing. He was so full of fury I felt myself leaning away from him. I had never seen such rage in another human. Still, when he turned to address the young men his tone was conversational. I could do that right now and turn my back. People out there know who been arrested. I know for sure that word already reach the brothers and the uncles and the cousins.
Your blood! As much of it as they can get until they satisfy. My job is to prevent that. So… oneby-one, you say your names and where you live exactly. Youngfella, you ready? I closed my eyes while the boys shouted their names and co-ordinates. I relived the heat of the afternoon, the sound of oncoming vehicles, and the heavy fruit-and-earth smell of the marketplace; the hot pitch of words, the exact timbre and inflections of the voices.
I have that kind of memory. I picked out every one of them. One was missing. It was easy afterwards. They betrayed themselves by pointing at each other. The old fella was smiling. He pointed at the sandwich. He pushed out a stiff hand. Officers in plain clothes criss-crossed the uneven wooden floor. All I could hear was the throaty rattle of his voice. Occasionally, I caught his eyes on me — a steady, coal-fire gaze. I pretended not to notice. He said something to an elderly woman who sat in the middle of the room under a big white ceiling fan. Two girls in swivel chairs, on either side of her desk, were stapling papers and slipping them into light-green folders.
Because of that look, I felt my heartbeat quicken. She had a detached, almost dreamy face, thick, charcoal-black hair swept back in a bun with a single streak of white following the curve of her head all the way from the hairline of her forehead. Chilman came over to me. His mother working she arse off in the nutmeg pool in St Johns to give him an education.
Only child — you unnerstand what that mean?
The office fell silent. A slow turning of heads in my direction. Expressionless faces. Chilman showed me a row of yellow teeth. That make you a witness. At least! I could make it worse. I could say you were handling the body when we got there. The old man raised his hand and curled a finger. A young officer in a crisp white shirt and impossibly pressed trousers rose from his desk in the far corner of the room and strolled over. We locked eyes, his nostrils flared and something in him stiffened. The youngfella refusing to cooperate. I want you to handcuff the gentleman and escort him through San Andrews market in the hot sun.
I want you to take your time so everybody could see you frogmarching the sonuvabitch round town. I squared my shoulders and held his gaze. I dropped back in the chair and told Chilman where I lived. Now you free to go. His voice — coarse as rock-salt — followed me outside. I not done with you. Me preguntaron por mi patrimonio, luego por mi apellido, les di el de mi madre. No les hice mucho caso. Eran ratas de alcantarilla que se ganaban - 26 -. La gente del mercado adoraba las peleas. Estallaron de golpe varias voces procedentes de los pandilleros.
Un jadeo. Todas mujeres. Los hombres permanecieron en silencio. Sin duda, les interesaba menos mi destino que la forma en la que la injusticia sigue su curso. Fuera, se escuchaban las bocinas, los bruscos cambios de tono de las voces femeninas en el mercado y el cacareo penetrante del vendedor de cocos conocido como Cocoman. Mataron al humano. Es obvio que lo planearon.
Vale chicos, traedles. Un par de ellos no abandonaron su arrogancia de mono.
Chilman me dio un codazo. Algunos me miraban con miradas asesinas. Haz que cualquiera de ellos diga algo. Apestaba a ron. Quiero resultados ahora. Ocultaba su enfado, baja su cara de cansancio. Por eso he ordenado a estos agentes que os lleven a todos juntos a la plaza del mercado, para que toda la - 29 -.
Toda la que puedan conseguir hasta saciarse. Mi trabajo es prevenirlo. Recuerdo ese tipo de cosas. A ocho. Faltaba uno. Todos me miraron. Caras inexpresivas. Eso te convierte por lo menos, en testigo. Lo que viene a ser contaminar las pruebas. El joven que se ha negado a cooperar. Puede marcharse.
No he terminado contigo.
Leone Ross Leone Ross writes magic realism, horror fiction, erotica and psychological drama. She lives in London and is working on a third novel. Other stories draw us straight into the world of the fantastical or the implausible with such meticulous and concrete detail that we accept these as reality: a wife returns from the dead and their marital bickering resumes, a headless girl barely lifts an eyebrow among her school companions, a security guard collects discarded hymens and uncovers a deeper empathy for women.
At the heart of the stories is Leone Ross's refusal to accept any boundary between the erotic and the most inventive kind of pornography. There is a seriousness here too, in the author s intentions: a vision of the fluidity of the person, the inequalities of the body politic from the deaths of black people at the hands of the police, to the deep shifts that signal subtle changes in the nature of capitalism.
This is a richly varied, witty and entertaining collection whose frankness may sometimes tickle, sometimes shock; but always engages the intellect and the heart. He sneaks a look. She glances up. Her eyes are like her politics: full of dreaming. Vertebrae marching in demonstrations, tibia spattered in tear-gas, mandible seesawing under deep brown skin.
Her electric ribs. She turns back to the Ambassador, but her bones remain tethered to him. He shifts; her gold chain dances the length of her clavicle. He crosses his ankles; her kneecaps bounce. The Ambassador is restless; he becomes condescend- ing, which makes her angrier. Nothing is accomplished. Her skull is fragile. When she leaves, the tight smile she gives him pours over the fourteen bones in her face. He picks up the phone. The professor is retired; colleagues have died; alumni forget.
Seven more calls. Then, finally, a familiar, gentle voice. They exchange pleasantries, eventually fall silent. The professor waits.
He can hear the old man smile down the line. She sits on the veranda with her girlfriends and they laugh together, pass the bottle hand to hand. Someone turns on music. She steps into the garden, wine aloft. Her friends follow and they are laughing-laughing and her teeth tinkle. He laughs too, spincter tight, nose against the window, like a small boy. The women dance as she raises her arm and smashes the bottle to the ground. There is a small noise in his left ear. No doctor will ever confirm it, but he knows. It is the sound of his stirrup bone splintering: one tenth of an inch, the smallest bone in the human body.
No pierde el tiempo y va directa al grano. El hombre de la ventana ha aprendido algo sobre huesos. Ella levanta la vista. Todo ha sido en vano.
Cuando ella se va, la tensa sonrisa que le dedica se forma en los catorce huesos de su cara. Ha estado fuera de casa demasiado tiempo. Es paciente. Lo sigue intentando. Y entonces, finalmente, una voz familiar, amable. Intercambian cumplidos, y de pronto silencio absoluto. El profesor aguarda. Ella se sienta en el porche con sus amigas e intercambian risas pasando la botella de mano en mano. Las mujeres bailan mientras ella alza su brazo y estrella la botella contra el suelo. Held her wrong so long his arm ached. Wrote a poem the night she was born.
Noted she was an Aries moon. He had a twin who looked nothing like him. She sucked a pencil. French or something. She sighed and put her hands on her hips. They gazed between her thighs, he and she, both befuddled. He kept his socks on. She stared at the ceiling when it began. Condom, soft sheets, candles, wine: boring as fuck. Entonces, retomarla ahora que andamos en los 40, y bueno, sin pelotudear. A ensayar y componer. Porque debe ser la pregunta de muchos de los que van a estar escuchando esta entrevista.
Yo he escuchado varias veces ya el disco, la verdad que me gusta mucho. Dentro de esa narrativa hay elementos para sorprender, como cambiar de tiempo, etc. Lo mejor que te puede pasar es que la gente de alguna forma conecte con la propuesta, pueden ser diferentes formas de conectar, y que tengan ganas de que vuelvas y te lo propongan.
Poder volver y alimentar esa experiencia. Bueno Pablo, la verdad que te agradezco mucho este ratito para conversar un poco y va a ser un placer recibirlos. PP: Seguro lo va a ser. Hemos tenido el placer de entrevistarlos:. Fue nuestro segundo concierto y tocamos para personas. Es una propuesta a largo plazo donde confiamos que en los bolos se vendan vinilos. Estamos construyendo redes, es un trabajo al que no estamos acostumbrados. Tenemos que llevar esas actividades que no nos gustan. Por otra lado, queremos aprovechar este momento y seguir trabajando para poder sacar pronto el siguiente disco.
El murmullo de la gente se deshace cuando el bajo suelta su primer acorde. El volumen es importante y la sala no es tan grande: se escucha fuerte. Tocaron casi una hora. Ian was looking at it for just finding a few in creating and making music all together with. From to they went on to perform a bunch of successful worldwide tours, gone on to produce a stunning array of studio albums , with a film and a comprehensive live series. It all rocketed the band into critical acclaim and significant music success around the globe.
Conciertos Image n. Letras durch. La lluvia dorada. No te excita el camillero ni los pechos de la nurse. O el volumen del tiempo. Sosteniendo mamuts. Descubriendo perlas.