Days of the Dead. David Monnery

       1

      Placida Guzmán shifted her swollen body on the twin bed, trying to ease the cramping pain in her lower abdomen. She was dressed only in T-shirt and knickers, but the erratic swish of the air-conditioner seemed devoid of any power to cool, and the heat of the day still clung damply to her skin.

      She manoeuvred herself on to her elbows, wincing at the pain. On the street outside the level of conversation seemed to be rising, and in the distance several sources of music were competing for attention. After a few moments she recognized Selena’s voice among the throng.

      The patch of sunlight had almost finished its climb up the peeling wall and perhaps a breeze would soon be blowing in from the sea. It would be so nice to go out for a walk on the famous beach, just a simple walk in the sand, just to feel free again.

      She sank back on to the bed, knocking a couple of empty laxative packets on to a floor already littered with them, and gently massaged her stomach with her palms. Fifteen months they had been on the island, fifteen months at his beck and call. And the call had come often. He had told her more than once that she was the most beautiful of the five, and it had sounded like a life sentence. She would still be there now if she hadn’t got pregnant.

      But that was all in the past. Him, the island, the shame. She just had to get through this, and a new life was waiting.

      Another wave of pain ran through her body and for a few seconds she had trouble breathing. Where was Victoria? She’d been gone for what seemed like hours. Placida hoped to God her friend hadn’t got lost in the strange city. It shouldn’t be that difficult to find a drugstore, but something had snapped inside Victoria during one of the nights with Bazua’s men, making her behaviour difficult to predict. Sometimes she seemed just like her old self, but at others it was like talking to a small child.

      The first thing they should do after this was over was to get help for her. But how and where? On Providencia all the girls had dreamt of going home, but once off the island, once away from him, Placida had found that the thought of returning to Cartagena, to the familiar streets and familiar faces of family and friends, seemed not only unreal but also, in some strange way, the ultimate surrender. It was as if the past could only be buried as a single entity; if she was ever to be happy again the slate had to be wiped completely clean.

      She wondered if they would receive the money they had been promised. The man had been angry last night, and she supposed he would be again if nothing had happened, but what else could she do? If he refused to pay them then who could they complain to?

      She grimaced, and felt another knot tightening in her gut.

      It was almost dark now, and maybe the air was cooler, but the thought of trying to open the window was too daunting.