The Years That Followed Read Online Free Page B

sticky, its surface dotted with the bloated bodies of bluebottles.
    â€œOh God, oh God, oh God. Jesus help me.” Pilar stands there, rocking back and forth to the heartbeat of her whispered words of prayer. She cannot think of what else to do. The rocking is silent, comforting. Perhaps she’ll do nothing at all—just stand here and wait until . . .
    Finally, Pilar jerks into awareness: What am I doing? She finds sudden strength in her legs, just enough to flee. And then she runs, weeping, out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, out the door towards the lift, keeping one hand clapped over her mouth, just in case. She knows that she shouldn’t touch anything: something she has learned from all those cop shows she watches on late-night TV. She covers one hand with her apron and pulls the apartment door closed behind her. She cannot shake off what she has just seen. Wave after wave of nausea fills her mouth with a sickly, watery substance. She clings to the metal bars of the lift door. What is she going to do?
    The police. She must call the police.
    Pilar pulls open the door of the lift, hardly hearing the metal shriek. She tries to push the button for the ground floor, but her fingers won’t work properly; they feel like someone else’s, someone without strength or endurance. She tries to breathe deeply, to still the trembling of her hands. Suddenly, the lift jerks into life and begins its slow, almost rocking descent. She fumbles in the pocket of her apron, grips the single key to the portería , prays that she will not meet any of the residents when she reaches the entrance foyer. All she wants is to get to her telephone: that solid, black Bakelite instrument that will allow her to relinquish responsibility for the horror she has just witnessed.
    The lift door opens. The face of the marble hallway is blank, expressionless. Pilar turns with relief towards her door, opens it quickly despite the trembling of her hands, and closes it firmly behind her. She stays standing and calls the emergency number. She watches as the spinning chrome dial of the phone takes a long time to wheel back to where it started. And then a woman answers, with a kind woman’s voice.
    Hearing her, Pilar is undone all over again. She starts to cry, great hiccupping sobs that make speech impossible.
    â€œIt’s OK. You’re OK,” the woman’s voice says. “I’m here to help you. Can you tell me your name?”
    Such a practical request makes Pilar feel more stable. She can, finally, feel her feet upon her own solid floor. She can even see herswelling ankles. Yes, yes, she can do that: she can give this nice woman her name. And as an afterthought she says: “I’m the portera here.”
    â€œGood. That’s good,” the woman says. “Now, can you tell me where you are calling from, Pilar?”
    Pilar blurts out the address, overcome again by the fresh horrors of the sixth-floor apartment. She cannot get Madam Sandra’s marbled flesh out of her mind, or Mr. Alexander’s slumped and bloody form in the bathtub. And the flies: everywhere the fat, triumphant flies.
    â€œYou’re doing fine, Pilar. Really fine. Now, just one more question: Can you tell me the nature of the emergency?”
    The nature of the emergency. Pilar wants to laugh. Is that what this is? An emergency? Do two dead bodies constitute an emergency? There is hardly any hurry about them now. Pilar stops herself, appalled at her reaction.
    She stumbles out an answer: “I’ve just found them. And they’re dead; they’re definitely dead. The smell . . .”
    â€œHow many are dead, Pilar? Can you tell me how many?” The woman’s voice has changed. Now it is filled with urgency—a calm urgency, but an urgency nonetheless. In the background, Pilar hears other voices—nothing clear, just murmurations.
    â€œBoth of them. Madam Sandra is on the bed, and Mr.