No Resurrection
Roberto Martínez Guzmán
Translated by Rachel Christina Hopkinson
“No Resurrection”
Written By Roberto Martínez Guzmán
Copyright © 2015 Roberto Martínez Guzmán
All rights reserved
Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.
www.babelcube.com
Translated by Rachel Christina Hopkinson
Cover Design © 2015 Alexia Jorques
“Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
No Resurrection
Contents
FOREWORD
PALM SUNDAY | 1
2
3
HOLY MONDAY | 4
5
6
7
Holy Tuesday | 8
9
10
11
HOLY WEDNESDAY | 12
13
14
15
MAUNDY THURSDAY | 16
17
18
19
GOOD FRIDAY | 20
21
22
23
HOLY SATURDAY | 24
25
26
27
RESURRECTION SUNDAY | 28
THE END
To my parents,
Roberto and Aquilina,
without whom nothing would be the same.
(Roberto Martínez Guzmán)
Contents
Foreword
Prologue
Palm Sunday
1
2
3
Holy Monday
4
5
6
7
Holy Tuesday
8
9
10
11
Holy Wednesday
12
13
14
15
Maundy Thursday
16
17
18
19
Good Friday
20
21
22
23
Holy Saturday
24
25
26
27
Resurrection Sunday
28
FOREWORD
You are holding in your hands the new novel by Roberto Martínez Guzmán: on this occasion, it is a detective novel full to the brim with murders, but also with hints of the psychological about it. Roberto presents us with a storyline marvellously set in two very uncommon cities, from a literary point of view, Vigo and Ourense, and during Holy Week, which is such a famous time in Spain. There is almost the very fragrance of incense within these pages so impregnated with blood and vengeance.
The two protagonists of this story are women, both of them highly intelligent. You will meet Emma, the executioner who leaves her mark on the corpse of each consecutive victim: a lone golf ball. There is no secrecy in this respect; Emma is the murderer. But... what compels her to commit such atrocities? Eva is the police officer charged with unmasking her; the one who will be hot on her trail, and who must discover what is going on in the mind of the disturbed author of these crimes. Emma and Eva will exemplify that not all is as it seems, and that sometimes the good are not always so good, or the bad so bad.
Thanks to the skilful pen of Roberto, you will become completely immersed within this story. You will taste it, enjoy it, and read it, whilst completely unaware of the passage of time around you. Discover what is hidden within these pages; wonder what could have so corrupted a girl like Emma; accompany Eva in her investigations and pursuit of the murderer and, when you finish and close the book, take a moment of refrain and ponder: what would you have done if you had been in her position?
The third-person narrative allows you to be taken by the hand and guided, by an omniscient narrator, through the thought processes of each character at all times, and as such enables you to become immersed in the story, and to reflect on what their next steps may be. Within these chapters, Emma’s story is interwoven with Eva’s investigation, allowing the reader to be able to follow the movements of each protagonist, along with those of the secondary characters, many of them the murderer’s victims.
To paraphrase the queen of the genre, Agatha Christie; the detective must not know any more than the reader. No Resurrection illustrates this point, as the reader knows from the very first instant the killer’s identity, and can progressively guess as to her rationale, whilst the inspector will have to make her way, step by step, through the wake of tragedy.
Can the past justify the atrocious actions of the present? Not always, perhaps, but at times it achieves a peace of mind that makes up for everything. I shall now detain you no longer, and I encourage you to turn this page and meet the true protagonists of this story, Emma and Eva; they will be able to guide you better than I. Happy reading!
Natalia Navarro Díaz
Administrator for the blog Arte Literario
(arte-literario.blogspot.com)
“... and I find nothing but doors,
that deny what they are hiding...”
(Joaquín Sabina)
PROLOGUE
Palm Sunday. In the heart of Vigo, at one o’clock in the afternoon, numerous people meet inside the Iglesia de Santa María to celebrate the beginning of Holy Week.
The aroma of laurel, olive, and incense overwhelm all, the heat is insufferable, and from the altar, the parish priest endeavours to explain the meaning of the Passion and the death of Christ, made difficult by the vast sea of people concentrated within the church at that time.
Off to one side, within the strict intimacy of a confessional, an enigmatic woman of almost perfect features serenely explains to a young priest not only the motivation that has dictated her life during the course of the last six years, but also her more than disturbing plans for the near future.
PALM SUNDAY
1
There was little else to say. The woman rounded off her serene exposition and remained silent, as if wanting to give the young priest some time to assimilate everything that he had just heard. It was necessary for him to take a few seconds, and he shifted nervously in his seat a couple of times. When he finally became aware of the fact that the woman had finished, he did not know what to say. Of course, he had felt uncomfortable in the confessional on a few other occasions, including those in which he had had to endure sexual propositions, but this one today was very different. He noticed how his blood had run cold through his veins, and the warm aroma of incense and laurel in the church had transformed within his small, enclosed corner, into a macabre stench of death. A sensation that was as indescribable as it was repulsive.
Finally, he stuttered several times, and only managed to say timidly:
“I cannot grant you absolution. At least, not right now.”
“I understand.”
The confession now over, the priest looked up through the screen, and could see as the woman was beginning to stand up, just as she was asking him one last question:
“Can I rely on you?”
The young priest hesitated for a moment. Not because he wanted to think about his response, but rather more as a result of the pure state of bewilderment in which he found himself.
“Yes, I will be there. The exact same time next week...” he answered, eventually, trying to find a sign of confirmation from her.
But there was no answer. Nor were there any more questions. The woman finished getting up, and then her image disappear
ed from behind the screen.
The priest slightly opened the upper part of his confessional and, through the narrow crack, he followed her with his eyes. Her features were rounded, as if created in accordance with an established model. Her hair, black and tied back in a ponytail. Nothing in those moments differentiated her from the rest of the people in the church and, in spite of the attractive curves that one could make out beneath her jeans and modest t-shirt, nobody took any notice of her.
In a few short seconds, he slipped away down the side nave, making his way discreetly towards the exit door. He did not stop to pray, or do a penance, or even pause at the Eucharist. Put simply, he just went.
The young priest tilted his head unconsciously, trying to follow her for longer, but it ended up being impossible amongst the multitude of people packed into the church. As soon as the woman had completely disappeared from his reduced field of vision, he could not avoid crossing himself quickly, in a compulsive manner, as if he had just seen the very Devil itself. A real one, of flesh and bone, and it had even told him its name: Emma.
He was certain now that he would never forget it.
2
Mother and daughter, Aurora and Emma, ate in silence. It had been some time since there had been any conversation in that house. Between the two of them, there were no shared celebrations, no shared confidences, or even rebukes.
As soon as they finished eating, Emma retreated back to her bedroom, and locked the door with the bolt, trying to make the least amount of sound possible. It was an old bolt, attached to an old wooden door in one of the many old and damp flats on the street Marqués de Valterra, in the north-west area of Vigo. In this part of the city, the salty sea air filtered in through the cracks, and impregnated everything with its characteristic smell, and its permanent dampness.
When she was sure that nobody was able to enter, she took a large suitcase out of the wardrobe and opened it up on the floor. Then she searched for the note that she had been keeping in the top drawer of her bedside table, and attentively cast her eye over it. On it was a meticulous list of everything that she should bring with her. For months now she had had the list consigned to memory, but she wanted to follow it point by point: enough clothes for a week, an alarm clock, a pair of glasses... Once she had finished fitting everything into the suitcase, she sat on the bed. In the background, she could hear people having a heated discussion on the same old television programme. She looked at the note again, this time with less enthusiasm, and so she gave herself a few minutes to regain her strength, or rather, summon up some courage.
It was not long before she was carefully unlocking the door and stealthily making her way to the bathroom. She still had to gather the rest of her necessities from there: makeup, hair-dye, a toothbrush, a comb, a small hairdryer, some razor blades... The television was still on, and the discussion coming from it had escalated in tone: loud enough for Aurora not to notice the comings and goings of her daughter through the narrow corridor.
But when she went to leave her bedroom for good, just after five o’clock, Emma found herself face to face with her mother in the hall, possibly alerted by the sound of the wheels on the suitcase, or even by pure maternal instinct. Aurora’s eyes immediately widened upon seeing the luggage.
“Are you leaving?” she asked.
Emma looked at her for a moment, and made her way forward, without answering. She then opened the front door and pressed the button for the lift. The wait on the landing seemed to last an eternity. She could feel her mother’s gaze burning into the nape of her neck, imploringly, but not once did she return the look. She just waited. It was the worst of all possible responses.
She entered the lift, awkwardly lugging her suitcase. Just then as she heard the door of the apartment close, and before she was able to start the lift, Aurora came in after her. Emma would have preferred to leave her parents’ home, in which she had been born and raised, and had also been living in recent years, in solitude and without goodbyes; without making that moment any harder than it already was. But, in the back of her mind, she understood her mother.
The door opened and Emma walked out, again pulling the suitcase behind her. Aurora limited herself to merely following her, searching her mind for some question to ask, but she was unable to find one.
The two of them approached the worn edge of the pavement and waited on the curb.
“I have called for a taxi. I don’t believe it will be late.”
When it arrived, the driver had no doubt that the two women must inevitably have been the ones who had called for his services, and he quickly got out and put the suitcase in the car. Meanwhile, Emma sat down in the front seat, lowered the window, and through the aperture she looked at her mother, who stood, paralysed, on the curb, and motioned for her to get in. What would be the harm in her coming along, she thought.
“To the train station,” she told the taxi driver.
“To Guixar?”
“Yes”.
The works going on in the main train station meant that, for months now, all trains had to depart from the old station situated in the Avenida de Guixar. Despite this fact, the driver had the well-mannered custom of always asking his clients which station they wanted. Normally, this simple courtesy served as the ideal means of leading into a conversation, but not in this particular case.
During the drive, Emma tried not to back down and say anything that she might regret, and Aurora simply felt defeated. Sitting in the back seat, she finally found a question she could ask:
“You’re not taking your own car?”
“No, I don’t need it,” Emma replied, brusquely.
She would have to keep thinking for another question now. The taxi driver skirted past the petrol station at Berbés, and then accelerated towards the Beiramar tunnels at top speed. Nobody drives slowly in Vigo, and this driver was no exception. At one point, he felt the desire to talk about the weather, as he would do with any other passengers, but his intuition told him that it would be more appropriate to limit himself to just driving. As for Aurora, she was increasingly conscious of the fact that time was running out.
“Aren’t you even going to give me an explanation?”
“No”.
Aurora registered her daughter’s short response, and did not feel she had the strength to pursue it further. She knew that she could search for a thousand questions but, deep down, she already knew all of the answers. That included the answer to the question she had just asked. To tell the truth, she had spent an entire year expecting this moment to come. But now she had discovered that she was not prepared to face it with any strength.
Once in the station, Emma strode confidently towards the ticket office and got in line. Three people, and five more minutes of agonizing goodbye. Aurora waited by her side. When her turn came, she looked at her mother out of the corner of her eye, and then directed attention towards the Renfe employee:
“A single to Barcelona Sants”.
“Would you like a sleeper?”
Emma hesitated.
“No: just a seat”.
“A hundred and five euros fifty, please”.
She took three fifty-euro notes out of a large wad, and gave them to the lady, and waited for the change. Then she turned and looked once more at her mother, but this time head on, and with an interrogative air.
“What...?” she asked.
“Don’t go off to Barcelona...” replied Aurora, defeated.
Emma thought that she would have to take more care over the details of her deception. Although from that point onwards, the only people she would have to concern herself with would be her other victims.
The two women slowly made their way towards the platforms. Somehow, the short walk from the ticket offices to the train substituted any kind of farewell. There were no kisses, or hugs, or even a simple goodbye. Emma got into the first carriage, and walked down the length of the entire train, until sitting down in the zone with seats, on the furthest side from the platfor
m.
Aurora followed her from the outside, and stopped when she was level with her. She stood there, looking at her, with eyes full of tears. In the deepest, darkest corner of her mind, she knew she would never see her again.
3
It was at 17:55 exactly that the night-train ‘Trenhotel’ departed from Vigo Guixar station in the direction of Barcelona Sants. Ahead of it was a long, fourteen-hour journey, the majority of which would take place during the night, and as such it was no surprise that many of the passengers would aim to get a ticket for a sleeper. Only a few, the bravest souls, or those who would be getting off at an earlier stop, would travel in the seated area. These seats were distributed out in rows of two to the left of the central aisle and, on the right, a row of individual seats. Emma had deliberately chosen the ones on the left, so as to be seated as far from the platform as possible whilst the train was still in the station. Shortly after having sat down, the adjacent seat had also been filled, although she had hardly paid any attention at all to her new companion, as a result of the tension of the moment.
Once the train started to move, Emma leaned back softly in her seat and, now much more relaxed, she took notice of the young man travelling by her side. Impeccable shirt, hair styled with product, smooth features... and still rather young. Given the lack of passengers within the carriage, she suspected that perhaps her feminine condition could have had something to do with his decision; in sitting by her side and, now, in amicably offering his help:
“Excuse me, can I help you with your luggage?”
From Emma’s appearance, it was fairly evident that the luggage must have remained in the aisle because of its owner’s inability to lift it into the rack. Emma allowed him to do it.
“I’m Alberto. And you?” the young man continued with his advance.
Emma hesitated in her response.
“Elena, my name is Elena,” she said with a pleasant smile.
Better this way, she thought.
“And you’re travelling to Barcelona in a seat?”
“No, I’m only going to Ourense.” In any case, he would notice when she got off.
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