Two weeks later, Ronald takes another day off, intending to visit Noel’s devastated mother. The house he was painting has long since been finished, and he and his coworkers have moved on to repairing a porch. Noel’s mother, however, wants no visitors for the time being and turns him away. With the rest of the day still free, he goes to an Internet café and tries to contact Robert’s mother or at least his sister, both still in Jalisco, Mexico. He cannot reach either of them—not through social media, at least, and he does not know their telephone numbers.
He is worried about his friend and wants to speak with someone who might advise or help him. He has not forgotten the last visit he made weeks ago. Over the course of the day, amid his attempts to speak with Noel’s shattered mother, Ronald learns that matters are growing steadily worse. Mr. Norman, Noel’s father and a police officer by profession, has been missing for three days. With Bring Spring in turmoil, Ronald concludes that Noel’s father, overwhelmed by anguish at the loss of his little girl, may have taken his own life. He is far from the only person who believes this.
His thoughts return to his friend. The last thing he wants is for Robert’s grief to drag him toward an end like the one Mr. Norman may have chosen. Ronald has little faith in psychologists, and he knows Robert trusts them no more, yet he considers seeking that kind of help. He spends the next three days looking for a specialist, but none seems to live in Bring Spring. Bringing someone from the capital, Atolón, will be expensive. He also spends several minutes trying Robert’s mobile phone, to no avail.
Since Noel’s death, it has been impossible to contact his friend this way. He does not want to lose touch with him, especially now that Norman’s disappearance has deepened his concern. He needs to know how Robert is and what he is feeling. Calling will tell him none of that; his close friend, his companion in partying and carousing, never answers. Ronald’s schedule is complicated by his work on the porch at Mr. Gong’s property. Mr. Gong is a Korean immigrant who settled in Bring Spring in the nineties.
Because of this, Ronald cannot visit his dear friend for several days. He knows he will have to wait at least two more before he can find the time. Detectives McMan and McBlonde contact him before that period has passed. Firmly resolved to take Robert to the Atolón police station the moment he sets foot outside—or, failing that, as soon as they secure an arrest warrant—the investigators try to persuade Ronald to convince his friend to cooperate.
The investigators’ intrusion into Bring Spring unsettles and even upends its peaceful, sometimes dull routine; the townspeople are ill suited to the pace the detectives attempt to impose. They do not believe the official story that Noel took her own life, the version the local police have already signed and sealed in their reports. Thanks—or perhaps owing—to their investigation, the case has not yet been closed. Their persistence finally bends Ronald’s will, though after the last visit he had no wish to bother his friend again.
They convince him with a simple argument: Robert must give a statement and cooperate with the investigation immediately. Otherwise, they will obtain a warrant and arrest him as their principal suspect. They are determined to solve the case once and for all. Circumstances leave Ronald little choice. The following day, he mounts his rusty bicycle once more and pedals to the home of his longtime companion in revelry. Again he knocks with the knuckles of his right hand; again he receives the usual response. Without wasting more time, he lets himself inside.
It is a dark night, following a long day’s work on Mr. Gong’s porch. No lights are burning in the studio, and gloom rules the room. Ronald is anxious to learn how his friend is doing—assuming he is home—because several days have passed without word from him. He feels his way through the absolute darkness, searching for the switch to the lamp hanging from the ceiling. What he does not immediately perceive is Robert, lying silently on the bed with his eyes wide open in the dark, staring at the same ruined and fissured dark wall.
After at least a minute of groping blindly for the switch, Ronald manages to turn on the light. Robert sits bolt upright. The little picture still hangs on the dark wall. The other walls, it seems, have begun to undergo the same decay as the first. The room reeks of confinement, urine and God knows what else. Ronald finds this especially disturbing, for Robert has always been fastidious and orderly—more so than many men his age.
Now that the light is on, Ronald looks around and recoils at the amount of debris on the floor, the filth, the revolting smell, the scuttling cockroaches and, above all, the darkness—far too much darkness. Even the dirt-crowned bulb sputters, overheated beneath its grime, then dies for good. The gloom closes around them again. Ronald hears the floorboards creak as Robert approaches. He remains motionless.
"I see you’ve been very busy," Ronald says, gesturing through the gloom at the ruined walls. "Yes… I’ve been killing time," Robert whispers, advancing without taking his eyes from the same wall as always. "How do you feel?" Ronald asks with exasperating innocence, overwhelmed by the lack of light.
He does not know whether the bedside lamp works or has suffered the same fate as the one that just went out. To find out, he must first locate its switch, once again fumbling blindly.
"The truth is, I feel quite well. I feel very well now," Robert answers confidently, his voice firmer than it has been in days. "Now, you say? What’s different now?" Ronald asks with genuine curiosity.
Robert straightens from a crouch and presses a cold, unopened can of beer against Ronald’s chest. Ronald takes it in both hands. Robert moves away and drinks from his own as the wooden boards creak beneath his feet.
"Now… what’s different now, my friend, is that I no longer have any doubts," Robert replies, continuing to retreat with stealthy steps. "I don’t understand. What doubts have you put to rest?" Ronald asks, genuinely confused.
As he speaks, he continues feeling for the switch on the bedside lamp. Robert has settled somewhere in the darkness of the studio, beyond even the mournful shaft of streetlight slipping through the crack beside the only window. Ronald cannot see him at all.
"They’re a little old, aren’t they?" Ronald remarks after taking a sip and tasting the beer.
Indeed, the drinks expired three months ago.
"Age is just a number," Robert replies dryly. "Your work called me. They asked whether I knew anything about you. They’re worried." "I don’t care." "Have you spoken to your sister or your mother? You used to talk to one of them at least once a week. Remember?" "I haven’t spoken to either of them." "The police are trying to reach you too. I assume they’ve come here. This is serious, Robert. These aren’t the local police, where you know everyone. They’re from Atolón—detectives from the capital, and they’re very persistent. They reopened Noel’s case. I don’t think shutting them out is a good idea. I can’t understand how they haven’t obtained a warrant to break down your door and take you by force. You’re their main suspect. They’re determined to speak to you, one way or another. They told me they’ll make you give a statement. They’ll arrest you, Robert. Do you understand?" Ronald warns, his concern unmistakably sincere. "I don’t care to speak with anyone. That’s what you don’t understand. And you shouldn’t have come. How are you, my friend? How are things? How’s your life?" Robert asks with such unconcern that it becomes alarming. "Didn’t you hear a word I said?" Exasperated, Ronald tries to help, but Robert is making it nearly impossible. "Stop talking nonsense, Ronald! Since when have I ever needed help? All I needed was a friend. Not help—no. Just one good friend. That was all." Ronald swallows after hearing those words.
The beer will no longer pass the knot in his throat. He sets the can aside on some unseen surface in the gloom.
"Well, here I am. I’m your friend. I’ve kept coming all this time. If you mean I’ve been absent these past few days… then I’m sorry. I’m here now. You can count on me for anything you need."
Ronald makes the offer while straining to see his friend, but no effort is enough.
"Can I? How lucky I am that you’re here…" Robert says ironically. "Would you show me your right shoulder… my friend?"
From his position, aided by the faintest light from the street, Robert can see Ronald while remaining concealed in the darkness.
"Come on, let’s talk seriously. Man to man, friend to friend. We still haven’t talked about what happened. We need to," Ronald pleads. "That’s exactly what I’m doing—or trying to do. Show me your damned right shoulder. Now!" Faced with the demand, Ronald can do nothing but remove his sweater and shirt. He drops them beside him and stands bare-chested. "Why do you want to see my right shoulder, anyway? To punish yourself? To punish me somehow? What’s the point? Don’t we have more important things to discuss?" Ronald’s anger begins to show. "Now turn around. I need to see your back. Show me!" Robert demands without courtesy. Ronald has no intention of complying. "I don’t like this. You’re upset, drunk and distraught over Noel. I’m not showing you anything." Ronald picks up his shirt to put it back on. "No! You… you’re not going any damned place. Leave that where it is, idiot," Robert orders, badly agitated, as he cocks a revolver drawn from somewhere in the dark. "What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?" Ronald asks at the sound of the weapon. He truly cannot believe that his best friend is aiming a revolver at him from an unseen corner. "What does it look like? I’m a police officer, after all. I’m allowed to do this. And you, you bastard, are only allowed the scraps I leave you. Remember? Heh, heh." Robert’s voice is low and firm, confident and resolved, though it breaks at moments. "I know perfectly well what you do for a living. What I never imagined was that you’d use your gun against me. Have you gone mad?" Ronald says, growing increasingly nervous. "You’ve been putting other things of yours inside what belongs to me, and no one said a word, did they? Now, are you going to show me your damned shoulder or not?" Robert demands again, manipulating the revolver in his hand.
Ronald is left with no doubt that the gun is ready to fire, and the knowledge fills him with terrible tension. He turns around and presents his back, showing Robert what he wants to see. Robert sees it clearly. The bare shoulder appears to have healed only recently; dressings still cling to the skin, with an almost perfect purple circle at their center.
"Are you happy now, you bastard?" Ronald asks, turning to face him again. "The truth? You want the truth? No. I will never be happy again. Never. I wish I’d been wrong." His voice sounds distant, reflective and wistful, almost tragic. "You are wrong, Robert…" Ronald says, though not very convincingly, as he finishes dressing. "I don’t believe I’m wrong at all," Robert says without haste. "Everything happened so fast, damn it. I met her in the street and we talked while she waited for the bus. It was pouring. She told me she was leaving Bring Spring forever. Forever, Robert… Away from you, away from me—from everyone. She hadn’t told anyone what she planned. I offered to take her home, but she refused." Robert cuts him off. "You offered her a ride on that lousy bicycle? What woman would accept?" Silence follows. "Go on, idiot!" Robert demands, gun in hand. "She told me Norman knew everything. I don’t know how, but he knew, and he would punish her severely. More than anything else, that was why she had decided to escape to the capital and stay with her aunt. I don’t know how the hell her father found out… but he knew. She said she had thought about seeing you, about telling you she was leaving forever, but she was certain you wouldn’t allow it and would only make things more complicated. She thought it best to leave town for good without warning anyone. She was tormented because she’d promised to come and see you that day." Ronald’s voice is anguished. "Ha! Tormented… I can imagine how tormented she was," Robert says, dripping sarcasm. "Yes. She even tried to give me your music albums so I could return them to you," Ronald admits in obvious pain. "So you went into her house to fetch them," Robert says, listening to Ronald’s quiet sobs. "Yes. How did you know? She asked me in. She… she couldn’t remember where she’d put them. She was afraid of taking too long and missing the eight o’clock bus. I went in with her, we drank coffee and… I don’t know, Robert. I don’t know what happened. It simply did. But we didn’t do anything we hadn’t done before. You know that… don’t you?" His voice is brittle now. "No, you damned idiot! You were never with her without me—not without me inside her. What made you think you could?" Robert explodes in fury. "I don’t know, damn it! I don’t know! It happened… it just happened." "And then what?" "Let’s not torture ourselves. I don’t know… I only know I felt terrible moments after… you know."
Outside the house, the rain intensifies again. Drops drum hard against the windowpane, the concrete floor of the open porch and the noisy zinc roof.
"Unfortunately, I had to learn what you did from her father." "What?" "She told him everything, Ronald. She told him what we’d been doing night after night for weeks. Norman punished her. He beat her, she fought back… and he shot her in the face. A father had to kill his own daughter because of you." "Because of me?" "What can a police officer tell the station after something like that happens to his daughter? Suicide, accident—any stupid lie rather than the truth. Do you know what’s under my bed because of you, you damned idiot?" Ronald does not want to imagine the worst, but somehow he knows the answer. "No…" is all he says. "You don’t know, or you don’t want to know? Of course you know. You never know anything. Under there is a man named McBlonde—or what remains of him. One of those idiots who leave their girlfriends or wives alone in expensive apartments in the district. And why? So men like us can go and fuck them. That’s the only reason. And the other idiot, that well-groomed McMan, rests in peace beneath half a meter of soil in my garden. You set all of this in motion, you son of a bitch. You know what? You ruined all our lives. All you had to do was keep your cock in your trousers. It wasn’t so difficult, was it?" Robert declares in such agitation that he springs from where he has been sitting.
He steps into Ronald’s view until they stand face-to-face, only centimeters apart, in the gloom of the deepest and rainiest night. Beyond the dark wall, the downpour beats without cease.
"How could you kill detectives from the capital? Have you gone completely insane?" Ronald asks, more of himself than of his friend.
A tremendous roar rends the gloom, followed by a violent report that illuminates the darkness of the studio. A piece of metal tears through flesh and bone, spraying blood in every direction. A second blast brings another roar, less powerful than the first yet no less sudden or effective. Then comes the clamor of Robert and Ronald falling. Both collapse onto the countless objects strewn chaotically across the room. Pools of blood begin soaking into the wooden floor.
"Seeing that wound on your shoulder was enough. That alone told me it was you," Robert says in an agonized voice. "Norman shot you, you bastard, and you went neither to the police nor to a hospital. The other day, not knowing what you had done, I had to kill that tough old man to defend you. And how do you thank me? You shoot me with that little toy you smuggled in, you fucking son of a bitch." Robert manages to force out the words from the floor, in terrible pain and with enormous difficulty.
A bullet has pierced his right lung, ricocheted among his ribs and lodged in the surrounding muscle. The pain is unbearable, and breathing becomes instantly difficult. He can feel the blood from his internal wounds about to spill from the corners of his mouth.
"You always were a miserable son of a bitch…" Ronald tells him.
At the same time, Ronald struggles upright despite the searing pain of the fresh wound Robert’s bullet has opened in the left side of his neck. It prevents him from forming his words clearly. Every effort makes him choke on his own blood, forcing him to swallow before he can speak. Robert pulls the trigger again. For one second the gunshot illuminates the room—everything except the dark wall.
"I love you, my friend… but I’ve never known anyone as despicable as you," Robert says before shooting him a third time, setting the night ablaze one last time with a flash of fire.
When it is done, Robert sinks to his knees amid the darkness and the desolate silence now settled over his home. Ronald lies on his back a few steps away, drenched in his own blood. He will never rise again; Robert has made certain of that. From the dead man’s left hand falls a .22-caliber revolver, almost every chamber still loaded—all but one. Robert drops his own revolver beside him. It bounces and vanishes into the gloom on the floor to his right.
From the streets surrounding the house, twelve more shots can be heard inside, small explosions like firecrackers in some macabre celebration, a New Year ushered in with blood. Then silence settles once more over the rainy night in Bring Spring. In Robert’s ears, only thousands of raindrops remain, drumming everywhere—ceaseless, heavy and hard. The very rain Noel Norman loved in life, when she used stormy nights as an excuse to cling to him.
Dawn will soon reach the town, bringing another new day of the kind that always renews hope in the most optimistic souls. The unbearable pain in Robert’s lung grows worse by the minute. Two patrol cars screech to a halt before the house. Seconds before the officers run toward the entrance, one final, lethal shot is heard from outside. The police carry an arrest warrant for Robert Allen, signed by the judge who spoke days earlier with Detectives McBlonde and McMan, accusing him of first-degree murder.
After issuing several warnings over loudspeakers, the police storm the house and batter down the door. The moment they enter, they encounter a scene of utter horror. On the bed in the center of the room lies Robert Allen’s body, one hand beneath his neck and the other hanging loose. He died three seconds earlier from cranial trauma caused by a gunshot wound to the right rear of his skull. The stench inside the house is repulsive.
Nearby, the officers find Ronald De Boers’s body half a meter from the bed. Beneath that same bed, they also discover the already decomposing corpse of Detective McBlonde. One of the German shepherds brought inside immediately follows its nose to the part of the garden where Detective McMan was buried and begins digging with its forepaws. The officers radio for ambulances and forensic teams. The crime scene is more appalling than any the quiet town of Bring Spring—so peaceful it borders on dull—has ever known.
Blood is everywhere, soaked into the wooden floor and spattered across the walls. The officers notice with surprise that one wall in particular is badly damaged, cracked, flaking and, above all, darkened. A solitary little picture hangs from the ruined surface. Still lacking the courage to holster or even lower their revolvers, the police exchange glances when they see the image inside its small black frame. Up close, they cannot hide their astonishment.
It is a clear photograph taken on a sunny day, showing three people happily embracing: Noel Norman, Ronald De Boers and Robert Allen. The image may have immortalized the last happy moment the three of them ever shared.
A happiness that ended when the days of the dark wall began.
THE END