The Face of the Termites

Prologue

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There was a traffic jam on Gran Vía and the wide pavements were so crowded with people that it looked as if there was an enormous procession of pilgrims. The windows of the most exclusive shops glittered with tempting offers from the new spring season and a crowd of excited shoppers gathered at the window displays, eager to grab themselves a bargain. Despite it only being the mild month of April the thermometers on the big screens surrounded by advertising already showed that it would easily hit 40 degrees that day and, despite this, people were still wearing their stylish jackets as proudly as if they were on a catwalk in Milan. The shopping centre, Sol de Mares, rose in the centre of the busy avenue like a monstrous sea animal emerging from some prehistoric cave. Its double doors opened and closed relentlessly with customers entering, looking inside for high brand products or simply wanting to enjoy the comfortable, air-conditioned environment.  On the first floor a huge advertising poster announced discounts on stationery and office paraphernalia and next to the offers, in big bold letters, it announced the book signing that same day by Roberto García, the author of the popular thriller "Vanishing with Venom," which had become a bestseller and was top of the lists all over the country. Roberto’s return to his home city to present the book, after a couple of months of conferences and talks all over the country, caused a great stir. Although there were still some hours to go until the event was due to start a long queue was already snaking across the foyer of the auditorium, waiting for the esteemed author’s signing to begin.

****

Veronica had snuck out onto the balcony to have a few puffs of a cigarette, when she heard a noise, and threw the hardly touched Lucky into the street. She’d started smoking again a month ago and she felt like a little girl, hiding in corners, trying to hide the smell and the smoke, but she had no choice. It was either that or has a nervous breakdown.

You’ve started smoking again. There was no hint of reproach in his voice, but neither was there any indication that he would allow any excuses.

Veronica looked at her husband, pretending to be surprised, but this soon turned into the most furious irritation.

Yes, I’ve been smoking! She confronted him. Sue me!

Roberto looked at her without saying anything at all for a few long seconds and then turned and went into the bedroom. She ran after him with the firm intention of having a heated discussion with him.

I’m not a child; you can’t ban me from smoking!She shouted at her husband’s back.

I’m not banning you from anything, he said without looking at her, taking off his shirt, it’s just that you know I don’t like it.

I don’t like following you all over the country but I still do it anyway.

She had said it. They had avoided this conversation for weeks, but it was obvious that the bubble had to burst sometime.

What? Roberto approached her, bewildered. This is my job now. It’s what we’ve always wanted.

It’s what you’ve always wanted, she spat out angrily! It’s driving me crazy!

Darling...

Don’t ‘darling’ me! She hissed. I’ve spent months attending these book signings for hours on end, smiling like an idiot, stuck behind you, putting up with all these talks, discussions, geeks get-togethers and parties where I don’t know anybody and I just have to smile like the wallflower that you’ve turned me into...

Did you prefer the consultancy? He countered. Did you prefer not having any money left at the end of the month, holidays alone because I had to go to work, or unpaid bills piling up on the kitchen table?

She tried to reply but the words stuck in her throat and she decided to swallow them.

Sweetheart, that job was destroying me, he pleaded. It was you who encouraged me to publish the book.

I know. She turned, went back out onto the balcony, took the pack of cigarettes from where she had hidden them, and put a cigarette between her lips. It was you who encouraged me to quit smoking.

****

Half an hour before the event was due to start the queue had already reached the entrance to the shopping centre, crossing the hall and stretching all the way to the conference room. The organizers were literally jumping with joy.  A crowd of that size for an author was very unusual. If it had been for a rock star or a football player maybe, but for an author it was considered a success if even half a dozen people who had bought the book turned up for a signature.

The event started on time and the smiling, bestselling author spent two hours giving signatures, having conversations, and thanking his readers. Behind him stood Mario González, the organizer of the event for the shopping centre, and Veronica, the author’s beautiful wife.

A short fifteen-minute break was announced to allow the author to go to the bathroom, after which the book signing would continue for another half an hour and then finish with another half an hour of questions and a brief exhibition of the work.

****

For God’s sake, what do you want from me? Exclaimed Roberto.

They were both in the bathroom that the shopping centre had made exclusively available to them so that they could avoid uncomfortable encounters with the fans. Roberto had found his wife smoking again and the argument had flared, like a spark on a piece of oily rag.

What do I want? She answered with a sardonic smile. My life back, that’s what I want!

She threw the cigarette stub into the toilet basin and flushed it away; when she confronted her husband he took a step backwards.

"I want to go back to work, I want to cook in my own home and stop eating out in restaurants with the other diners staring at me, I want...no, I need to feel normal again."

Roberto opened his mouth several times to say something but couldn’t find the words. His wife did the same and just as she started to speak someone knocking on the door signaled that it was time for the signing to resume.

Roberto, what I really want...

The author walked out of the bathroom leaving his wife with her mouth open and the sentence half spoken.

...is a divorce. She said to the empty dressing table where only her reflection heard her.

****

There were only a few minutes left until the book signing was over and the doors to the adjoining room had already been opened. People were beginning to look for seats in the front row, in an orderly fashion, ready to ask their favourite author the questions they had prepared for him. Roberto noticed that his hand was becoming numb and he was running out of witty ways of thanking his readers on the inside covers of his books. He glanced at the queue and gave a sigh of relief when he saw that there were only about a dozen people left. After the quick round of questions he would be able to leave and his commitments to his editors would be over for this especially difficult year. He was planning on travelling abroad, perhaps to the Maldives, to find a peaceful, hidden place in which to begin his next novel.

Marisa! Screeched a voice in front of him.

What?  He replied, lost in a daydream.

My name is Marisa! Sang the young woman softly, enthusiastically holding out a copy of "Vanishing with Venom to him. I loved it, I love your book Mr. García!"

Oh, wow, thanks. He took the copy and scribbled another dedication from his repertoire. When he handed the book back to her with a smile she winked at him. It’s an honour.

The author turned for a second to catch a glimpse of his wife but another young man moved up the queue and shoved the inside cover of his book in his face.

Will you sign this? He asked eagerly.

Of course, that’s what you came for, isn’t it?

Errr, well... maybe. He hesitated. However, what he really wanted was to know something.

Roberto looked up at him. He had a well-well-proportioned and handsome, but somehow disturbing, face. The blue of his eyes was washed-out, as if he had been staring at the sun for a long time, and his blond fringe was matted and plastered on his forehead with sweat. A disconcerting, almost imperceptible, tic in his right eyelid lent him the impression of constantly taunting.

It’s an honour, but I don’t think that...

Is it based on real events? He burst out.

What?

Your book, he clarified.Did you base it on a real story, you know, like the ones that you read in the newspapers.

His olive skin paled and his forehead was covered in a heavy sweat. Roberto noticed that he was wringing his hands nervously but this was common behaviour for somebody when faced with a celebrity.

No, no I didn’t base it on any true story. The author was perturbed. But in the event that something did appear similar to an actual event, I indicated that any similarity to...

Because it seems very real to me, the young man interrupted. He seemed to be immersed in an internal monologue. I mean, it doesn’t seem impossible that it would happen in real life.

Yes, of course, answered the author, who returned the book to him without signing it. For some unknown reason he just wanted that young man to disappear right away. It’s a pleasure to...

Because all kinds of things can happen in this world he rambled on, but, with respect, I’ve found an error in your novel.

Roberto decided that this was one of those people who obsessively review everything they come across, whether it be a film or a comic. He tried to turn to look for help but the young man advanced a few centimeters and put his hands on the table, bringing his face close to the author’s.

You can’t be expected to realize. Drops of white spittle were gathering in the corners of his mouth. Writing about abuse isn’t the same as living through it.

Roberto stiffened and looked around for the security guards but a sweaty hand grabbed his chin.

But what disgusts me about what you did Mr. García, the young man’s accusing eyes were scarcely five centimeters from his by this time, is that you blamed the victim.

For God’s sake, it’s only a book! He shouted, feeling the quickened beat of his heart, It’s not real!

To me it is, he answered with a chilling coldness. There was no longer desperation in his eyes, just a cold, calm, peace.

In the blink of an eye, right before the arrival of two security guards, the young man took out a small knife, with a thin, short blade, and holding Roberto’s face he drove it into his head. Thanks to the author’s instinctive defensive movement the dagger did not have the full impact that it could have done but it caused a deep cut in his scalp burying itself around four centimeters into his right temple. At that moment everything seemed to be in slow motion but a second later he found himself lying on the desk. He tried with all his might to see his wife but the only thing that he saw was the shiny wooden surface of the desk and those two marks just in front of his eyes. The marks left by the sweaty hands of his attacker when he rested them there remained, as if they were tracks left on the surface of the moon. Those two sweaty marks were the last thing that Roberto García saw before his world was enveloped by darkness.

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THE  RETURN HOME

Chapter 1

The motorway had been almost empty since they took the north-west exit. They had less than twenty kilometers left to go but the fuel indicator warned them that they were about to run out of their reserve. They were both eager to get home as soon as possible but they did what had to be done and pulled into a small, deserted service station. Veronica thanked God for small miracles because the last thing she wanted after five hours at the wheel was to be drawn into small talk. A friendly guy filled the tank and took the payment there and then so that neither of them had to get out of the car. The attendant made an attempt at starting a conversation, more due to professional courtesy than because he wanted to, and when he noticed that Veronica wasn’t interested he was happy to leave it.

When they passed the sign announcing the name of the town Roberto shuffled in his seat and stared at the receding sign. That was the first and only movement he’d made during the whole journey. The GPS emitted an annoying beep to indicate that they were less than a kilometer from their destination and Veronica drove the Audi up a path covered in pine needles and flanked by boundary stones with the kilometer point engraved onto the surface.

The property was surrounded by large gardens of rhododendrons and rose bushes folding in concentric circles around the majestic, neoclassical house. A strip of sandy-coloured gravel edged a cobbled path that led to the front door of the house. Veronica drove up to the entrance and sat at the wheel for a few seconds, breathing deeply, gathering her courage.

It’s beautiful isn’t it? She asked excitedly.

There was no reply so she pushed the button to open the boot and went out into the persistent winter sun which didn’t seem to falter for even one day during the whole year in that part of the world. She searched in the side pocket of her travel bag and found the herringbone keyring that the estate agent had given her. She took a deep breath and strode purposefully to the front door. She had no trouble unlocking it, and found herself at the entrance to an enormous room where a golden light from the huge French windows reached into each corner. Impressed, she put her bag down and took a few steps into the house. She’d already seen lots of photos of it but at that moment, with her feet on the wooden floor, it couldn’t have seemed more perfect to her. She turned suddenly, excited, to go and find her husband, but as she turned she saw that his face was just a few millimeters from her own. Veronica jumped and the cry that escaped from her reached into every part of the house. Roberto remained where he was not taking his eyes off of his wife’s face. He was holding the two heavy suitcases that Veronica had packed for him with his clothes and all his things.

Isn’t it great?She said, getting her breath back.

Her husband held onto the suitcases and, without saying a word, went up the stairs to the next floor. Veronica really wanted to cry but she managed to restrain herself.

****

Nearly thirty kilometers from the capital of Murcia, Malón was what is generally known as a sleepy town. The few large companies that hadn’t closed down had moved to more profitable areas seduced by the facilities of an industrial park and a more affordable square metre. Malón was an important town. There were lots of unusually beautiful boroughs in the region but they were as poor as they were beautiful. The almost 15,000 inhabitants of Malón boasted about being one of the most beautiful towns in Murcia but everybody knew the precarious economical situation of the region. The canning factory, ‘Fruits of the Mediterranean,’ was the only large business in the town. It maintained almost half of the families in the region although there was only continuous work for a few months of the year, during the fruit canning, and the majority of  young people who needed to work did so in the capital or one of the nearby towns.

That day Malón was a hive of excitement and activity as Christmas was approaching and council workers were putting up lights and decorations. As they did every year they’d cut off access to the square where the town hall is, leaving one of the side roads purely for pedestrians, so that they could construct the enormous manger which would be open to the public the day before Christmas Eve. Despite it being mid-winter the sun shone on the streets of Malón and the temperature was mild and pleasant. The bars had put tables and chairs out in the streets to take advantage of the good weather and the terraces made it look more like the height of summer than mid-winter.

Cristóbal had been leaning on the same part of the bar for two hours. That was his corner and even though many had known him since they were children only a few people responded to his greeting. In such a small, family orientated town as Malón once you were an outcast you were an outcast for life. He raised his arm again without saying anything and left a five euro note on the counter, which was dirty and sticky in that corner. The waiter shrugged but put a bottle of ‘Estrella’ in front of the man and at the same time took the note, smoothed it out, and put it in his apron pocket.

The canning factory had announced that it would reduce the shifts to half a day during Christmas week. The joy spread through the communities because, while the contracted workers would enjoy their free afternoons, the temporary workers would cover these shifts. The factory’s machines never stopped and even though the employer boasted about how well they treated their employees they only ever did half of what they promised, and then it was only for show.

That morning the bars in the town hall square were packed because that afternoon there would be an event celebrating the jubilee year, attracting hundreds of devotees mixing with the temporary workers who would cover the afternoon shift in the canning factory. Before half past one the workers who had already finished their shift would join the throng and they would all enjoy a drink before returning home.

Although the bar Bocana was heaving Cristóbal Espejo had managed to get his usual spot. Maybe he’d been there since earlier when the bar was still empty but even if that were not the case that spot would have been left empty for him. It was an unwritten rule that, for some unknown reason, nobody but Cristóbal occupied that corner of the bar.

The smell of fried food pervaded the bar and plates of food and snacks were rushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen. Antonio, the bar’s owner, knew that this would be a busy day so had asked two of his son’s friends to help out as waiters and his sister-in-law had joined his wife in the kitchen. The bar was full, but not so full that it was stifling until the morning gang arrived headed by Agustín. Agustín was almost as broad as he was tall, exceptionally stupid, and full of bluster and boasting. He was the first of the gang to enter the bar, with a burst of laughter that sounded like a clap of thunder, parting the crowd of tourists with his enormous bulk. Following him was the canning factory day gang as Agustin and his friends were known locally. Before anybody could open their mouth to complain they had already pushed into a gap at the front of the bar and were loudly demanding pints of beer. A couple of elderly tourists looked disgusted at the antics of Agustín and his friends but nobody in the bar made any attempt to complain. Antonio left his son in charge of the tables and personally took charge of the noisy group. They didn’t usually cause trouble and the owner of bar Bocana had accumulated many years of experience behind a bar; enough to know how to deal with people like that no matter what, but he always had to be especially careful with Agustín

Shall I bring you a plate of squid, Agustín? He asked cheerfully.

Of course! Answered Agustín.And bring one of octopus too, we’ve been paid our bonus!

The bar was filled with shouts of joy from the rest of the gang who stood out from the crowd in their emerald green work uniforms.

Little by little as the bar emptied out, and Agustín and his gang extended their territory, the empty pints of beer on the formica counter increased in number. Whenever Antonio went to clear them away the chanting grew louder. Christmas had already begun for the day gang.

An hour later the bar was almost empty, maybe because lunch time was over or maybe because of the increasing level of elation of Agustín and his friends. As the beer flowed the chants grew louder until they became a loud and tuneless drunken noise. Agustín sang the chorus of a local, popular song at the top of his voice and began to dance along the bar, gesticulating wildly, while his companions cheered him on. When he did an especially difficult turn he lost his balance and staggered but at the last minute he managed to regain his balance, holding onto the bar. The sound of breaking glass caught the attention of everyone present and, for an instant which seemed to last an eternity, silence reigned in the bar. Agustín recovered his balance with the grace of a drunk and looked at the glasses that had become thousands of little islands on the floor. Amongst them, like a frothy sea, the beer created bubbles which were popping after the initial tsunami. Agustín looked at the remains of what had been a bottle without really understanding what he was looking at. He blinked a few times and looked at the rest of his gang for an explanation but they were quiet.

Buy me another. Whispered somebody behind him. The voice was calm but firm.

What? Agustín stuttered. He turned around holding firmly onto the bar. What the hell...?

Cristóbal Espejo had left his corner of the bar and was standing there. His shaggy hair hung over his forehead and covered the top half of his face. He took a step towards Agustín.

That was my beer. He whispered. Buy me another.

Calm down, killjoy. Joked Agustín. It was an accident.

Cristóbal took another step forward and stopped just a few centimeters away from Agustín. They stood face to face and, although it looked like a very unequal battle (Agustín must have weighed at least fifty kilos more), Cristóbal didn’t back off even a millimeter.

The beer was mine. He insisted stonily. Buy me another.

His voice remained sharp and calm.

You’d better not be threatening me, you drunken bastard. Agustín had acquired a colour between red and purple. Because if you are...

Cristóbal took another short step with no hesitation. He was looking at the floor, so you couldn’t see his eyes, and his hunched shoulders made him look like a life-sized puppet.

Buy me...

Agustín placed a thick, calloused hand on the man’s scrawny chest, holding back his advance. Cristóbal stopped, without trying to free himself from the hand that was stopping him, and looked up. The two men were face to face for a few seconds, looking at each other, until Agustín turned to the rest of the gang and gave a dopey smile. Anybody who didn’t know the leader of the gang would have sworn that he was frightened.

No problem, my friend! He raised his free arm to attract the attention of the bar owner. Antonio, giveCristóbal what he wants, I’ll pay!

Without waiting for a reply he removed his hand from Cristóbal’s chest and went to join his friends. Cristóbal returned to his corner of the bar. For the rest of the afternoon Agustín didn’t even look in his direction. A week later Agustín became the first person murdered in Malón in more than a century.

****

The company that Veronica contracted had followed her instructions to the letter, a fact that soothed her. Every single item that she had put on the shopping list for them was neatly arranged in the cupboards and the dinner set that she had ordered was set out perfectly, ready for use. The house was gleaming with not a speck of dust on the furniture or the large bay windows. The clothes that they hadn’t brought with them in their suitcases were hanging, impeccably ironed, in the wardrobes. There were even some personal details, such as pictures and photographs, carefully positioned around the house in the most suitable places. Veronica was delighted with the effect but her husband found every corner of the house disturbing. He should be living in a house that he had bought, cleaned, and arranged himself. He should have sorted out his clothes and then hung them up himself and he should also have chosen the pictures that he liked and hung them, and photographs of special moments in his life, but he hadn’t done any of that. It had all been done by a removals company dedicated to making moving house as smooth as possible. Strange then that they had got it so spectacularly wrong for him.

Since entering the house he’d felt even more disorientated than usual. For the past two years any change to his daily routine, no matter how small, had become a new challenge to overcome. He decided to deal with his anxieties by returning to his routines and, despite Veronica advising him not to begin again so soon, he put on his jogging pants and his Nike trainers, picked up his iPod, and went out for his daily 8 kilometer run. Exercise made him feel good and, although he’d never really been a sports fan, it was something he couldn’t do without since his accident.

The property they’d bought was an estate containing the land on which the house was built and another three hectares consisting of gardens, a small vegetable patch, and a part of some woods containing fir trees, black poplars, and holm oak, adjacent to a path that bordered the land and led to the mountain range that overlooked the area. Roberto didn’t know all the nooks and crannies but he remembered the country path covered in pine needles, which was only partly visible due to the twists and turns all the way to the top of the Espuña Mountain range. He set off at a good pace across the concrete pavement that surrounded the area with the swimming pool and the barbecue, and entered into the woodland surrounding the property. The temperature was pleasant enough, despite it being mid-winter, and he soon noticed the sweat trickling down his back. His body slowly began to wake up after days of inactivity and his initial reticence was transformed into energy. When he left the path that ran through the small woods and left his property along the pathway leading to the mountain range, his favourite song, ‘Layla,’ by Eric Clapton, was playing at full volume in his earphones and this spurred him on even more. He picked up the pace, trying to push his body to the extreme, and was delighted when his body responded. Nothing in his new life comforted him as much as going out alone for a run in places like that, where the only living things were small rabbits or trees. He felt a freedom that he only used to feel when he was writing, and since that moment in the shopping centre two years ago that had fallen to the wayside.

The iPod changed abruptly from Losing my Religion by REM to a more than lively Highway To Hell. He liked abrupt changes in his playlist to adjust his pace and make the run less monotonous.

The slope began to get steeper as he entered the woods of the mountain range and his calf muscles began to protest a little at the effort required of them. Soon they would be screaming in pain and the following day they would give him aches and pains in return for his lack of consideration for them.

He was panting as he approached the last few meters of the slope and suddenly he was faced with a sight that could have come from a children’s story. The path was totally buried in pine needles that had fallen last autumn and the straw colour they had acquired reminded Roberto of the yellow-brick road of Oz. A wood-chip sign announced that that place used to house a military barracks and Roberto stopped for a few minutes to read it. He vaguely remembered something about that place. The green sign had become a washed out blue-grey and many of the letters had worn away but it was easy to read that the place used to be called The House of the Marine.

Roberto continued at a gentle jog through the destroyed wooden benches that were strewn around and suddenly he was on a path where the trees arched over, creating a natural corridor. The temperature there was a few degrees lower because the dense, close-knit branches that formed the dome of the corridor only let a few weak rays of sunlight through. He quickened his pace, despite being captivated by the beauty of the woodland corridor. The cold began to penetrate the thin sports shirt that he wore for his runs. He considered going home but something, he couldn’t explain what, compelled him to discover what was at the end of the path. He picked up his pace and his calf muscles complained again, more bitterly than before. He tried to silence them by turning up the volume on his iPod which at that moment was playing Unforgiven and he ran the last five hundred meters, amazed at the beauty surrounding him. It seemed to him that he was entering an ancient cathedral where nature was responsible for such a great job without any need for either cement or bricks.

The path arrived at a terrace covered in brushwood with bits of rubbish strewn amongst it, like a cursed spiders web. He jogged along the path crossing the terrace noticing the sports tracks that hadn’t been used for a long time and also a children’s play area where a solitary swing swayed in the light breeze, anchored in a huge block of hardened sand in the form of a mountain range with lots of miniature estuaries in it. At the end a huge two story building, which looked Victorian, was silhouetted against an increasingly orange sky. The façade of the building used to be olive green but in the areas where the paint was affected by the inclement weather it had become a dull, dirty grey. The shutters on the many windows were all broken and hanging off their hinges, except for two on the top floor which seemed to have survived thanks to some kind of magic.

Roberto approached it, fascinated, and stumbled on a rusty can that had been left in the middle of the path. He stopped running at the entrance and turned off his iPod. It looked as if the door had been battered off its hinges and it was hanging precariously. He went up one of the three steps that led to the front door. He didn’t intend to enter the ruined house, he was just fascinated by the arched porch at the entrance which had an inscription in the brown granite doorstep. He moved onto the second step and examined the inscription which from that distance was almost illegible. Graffiti and the passing of time had blurred the outline of the words carved into the stone too much for them to be visible from where he was. He stepped up to the concrete porch. A blast of cold air escaped from the gap in the shattered wooden door and hit him in the face, slicing through his body like a hot knife through butter. A chill settled in his back and stayed for longer than was necessary, until Roberto shook it off. When he turned to leave that place, which scared and fascinated him in equal measure, he saw something that subconsciously bewitched him. Spurred on by curiosity and hypnotism like some ancient spell he retraced his steps to the entrance of the house. Splinters of wood, like deteriorating stalactites, hung from the doorframe.  They reminded Roberto of the teeth of a monster from his childhood. That brief sparkle again. He carefully crossed the threshold and found himself in an enormous room dominated by dust. Curiously the room was well arranged with the furniture intact, some covered in dirt and others protected with sheets. The atmosphere was oppressive, as if the specks of dust had mixed with something more primitive like rot and mould. It made breathing difficult. The broken windows let in blasts of air which freshened the atmosphere, but which also brought with them something else, heavy and ominous.

Roberto quickly approached the area where he had seen the object that had caught his attention and he found it between two armchairs that looked as if they could have belonged in a museum if they were not so  torn, with the stuffing hanging out of them like a partridge with its insides ripped out by a rabid