The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands

Cristina Ferrera, who was sitting next to him and partially succeeding in engaging him. His hair was explosive and he had a wispy beard and moustache which disguised his good looks. His T-shirt was so faded that only the vaguest colours and the word 'Megadeth' were discernible. He wore long shorts and his lower legs were scabbed with sores. He smoked intensely while they sipped their coffees.

'When was the last time you spoke to your father?' asked Falcon.

'I don't speak to my father,' he said. 'He doesn't speak to me.'

'Have you seen a newspaper recently?'

'News has no importance for me in my circumstances.'

'Did you have any relationship with your Uncle Pablo?'

'He was always very entertaining when I was a child,' said Salvador. 'Which was a relief.'

'A relief from what?'

Salvador smoked hard and exhaled to the ceiling.

'Uncle Pablo was fun,' he said. 'I only spent any time with him as a child.'

'You were still at home when he brought Sebastian round to stay while he went on theatre tours and film shoots. How old were you at the time?'

Salvador's mouth operated but no words came out. He seemed to be biting off air in small chunks. Ferrera patted him on the shoulder.

'This is not a test, Salvador,' she said. 'I told you on the way here that there will be no repercussions. You are not a suspect. We just want to talk to you to see if we can help your cousin.'

'I was sixteen,' he said. 'And nobody can help my cousin.'

'Did you follow what happened to Sebastian?'

Salvador's cigarette hand trembled. He nodded and breathed down whatever was rising in him.

'You're a heroin user?' said Falcon, to move on to more certain ground.

'Yes, I am.'

'For how long?'

'Since I was fifteen.'

'And before that?'

'I smoked hashish from about the age of ten until… it didn't work any more. Then I moved on to the stuff that does work.'

'How does it work?'

'It takes me away from myself… to a place where my mind and body feel at home.'

'And where's that?'

He blinked and flashed a look at Falcon, unprepared for these sorts of questions.

'Where I feel free,' he said, 'which is nowhere.'

'You were already using heroin when Sebastian first came to stay with you?'

'Yes, I remember it was… all right.'

'What do you remember of Sebastian?'

'He was a sweet kid.' 'Is that all?' said Falcon. 'Didn't you talk to him or play with him? I mean, his mother had left him and his father had gone away. He must have thought of you as an elder brother.'

'It takes time to get the money together if you're a sixteen-year-old heroin user,' said Salvador. 'I was too busy stealing handbags from tourists and running from the police.'

'Why did you start smoking hashish so young?'

'Everybody smoked it. You could buy it in the bars with a Coca Cola in those days.'

'Ten years old is still very young.'

'I was probably unhappy,' he said, smiling with no conviction.

'Was that because of problems at home?'

'My father was very strict,' said Salvador. 'He beat us.'

'Who do you mean by 'us'? You and your sister?'

'Not my sister… He wasn't interested in her.'

'He wasn't interested in her?' said Falcon.

Salvador crushed out the cigarette and jammed his hands between his thighs.

'Look,' he said, 'I don't like… to be hassled.'

'I just want to be clear about what you're saying, that's all,' said Falcon.

'She could do what she liked, is what I meant.'

'So who is 'us', when you say he beat us?'

'My friends,' said Salvador, shrugging with a jerk. 'That's how it was in those days.'

'What did your friends' parents say about their children being beaten by your father?'

'He always said he wouldn't tell how naughty they'd been, so they didn't talk to their parents.'

Falcon glanced at Ferrera, who shrugged her eyebrows and looked at Salvador. Sweat stood out on his forehead, even in the high air conditioning.

'When did you have your last fix?' asked Falcon.

'I'm OK,' he said.

'I have some distressing news for you,' said Falcon.

'I'm already distressed,' said Salvador. 'You can't distress me any further.'

'Your Uncle Pablo died on Saturday morning. He took his own life.'

Cristina Ferrera lit a cigarette and offered it to him. Salvador hunched over and rested his forehead on the edge of the table. His back shook. After a minute he sat back. Tears streamed silently down his face. He wiped them away. Ferrera gave him the cigarette. He puffed on it, took the smoke down.

'I'm going to ask you again: did you have a good relationship with your Uncle Pablo?'

This time Salvador nodded.

'How often did you see him?'

'A few times a month. We had a deal. He would give me money for heroin if I controlled my habit. He didn't want me to steal and end up in jail again.'

'How long had that being going on?'

'The last three years since I got out and before they put me away.'

'You were done for dealing, weren't you?'

'I was, but I wasn't dealing. I was just caught with too much on me. That was why I only got four years.'

'Was Pablo disappointed in you?'

'The only time he got angry with me was when I stole something from his collection,' said Salvador. 'It was a just a drawing, some smudges on paper. I sold

it for twenty thousand pesetas' worth of gear. Pablo said it was worth three hundred thousand.'

'He wasn't angry?'

'He was furious. But, you know, he never hit me, and by my father's standards he was well within his rights to flay me alive.'

'And after that you did the deal?'

'Once he'd calmed down and got the drawing back.'

'How much did you see of Sebastian in that time?'

'A fair amount when Sebastian started at the Bellas Artes. Then I didn't see him for a bit until I heard Pablo had bought him a small apartment on Jesus del Gran Poder. I used to go there to get off the street to shoot up. When Pablo found out, he built another clause into our deal. I had to promise not to see Sebastian until I was clean. Pablo said he was in a fragile state and he didn't want to add drugs to the problem.'

'Did you keep to that?'

'Sebastian was never interested in drugs. He had other strategies for blocking out the world.'

'Like what?'

'He called it 'a retreat into beauty and innocence'. He had a room in his apartment which he'd soundproofed and blocked out the light. I used to shoot up in there. He painted luminous points on the ceiling. It was like being wrapped in a velvet night. He used to lie in there and listen to his music and the tapes he'd made of himself reading poetry.'

'When did he make this room?'