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Sport 42: 2014

The Killer

The Killer

Another music bomb exploded from the spare room. Between them a fork and saucer vibrated on the kitchen table and then went still with the music.

‘God Jesus,’ she said.

He looked at the ceiling. ‘There she blows,’ he said, as if it was some small thing.

She dragged her fingers over her ears. ‘I can’t—’ ‘He’s Brazilian,’ he said, like it was an answer. ‘This is your scheme.’

‘And you’re doing the spending,’ he said, gesturing at the cigarette carton on the microwave.

‘Oh, right,’ she said, flying her hands by her shoulders. ‘What?’ he said, mimicking. ‘What’s this?’

She just looked at him. She lit a cigarette and just looked. ‘Well?’ he said, ‘I’ve given you the solution.’

Exhaling, she sat back, cupping her elbow. ‘That?’ ‘Yeah,’ he said, lighting up, ‘yeah, that.’

‘It’s wrong,’ she said, like wrong was a joke they shared.

‘He tramps or whatever, he’s always outside. There are cliffs and caves and shit like that. It can be dangerous. Especially for foreigners.’

They heard his footsteps.

‘Mr Barboza,’ she said, spitting the words. And there again the music came on and died.

Her hands shook. He was looking at her. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We’re not going back to that.’


‘You’re not. Jesus. What about his parents, the cops, the exchange folk?’

He took a long drag and turned out his arms, examining the rash there.

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She stood and looked. Softly he let the smoke from his nose.

‘I’m not thinking about it,’ she said, going towards the fridge. ‘I’m getting tea. That’s all I’m doing.’

‘Things blow over,’ he said.

And, as if to punctuate this truth, music again invaded. Ninety- three seconds of devil-metal that settled, once and for all, the very short life of Raimundo Barboza.