No Resurrection by Martínez Guzmán Roberto; Christina Hopkinson Rachel;

Author:Martínez Guzmán, Roberto; Christina Hopkinson, Rachel;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Roberto Martínez Guzmán
Published: 2015-01-12T16:00:00+00:00

17

After a long, sleepless night, and when he had finished the last beer in the pack, Miguel got up off the bed and stretched. It was a little after nine in the morning, and he did not have to be at Lavacolla airport until three o’clock that afternoon. That was when he would be flying to La Habana but, for the moment, he was in no hurry.

He looked down at the floor by the bed, which was now decorated with twenty-four cans of Heineken. The contents of two twelve-packs: one from the previous afternoon and night, and the other from early that morning. He took his gun from on top of the bedside table, turned the safety off, and left the bedroom, kicking one of the cans. At the other end of the flat, the front door was still bolted and the key was still where he always left it. Nothing had been moved.

He advanced slowly through the hallway, and successively checked the bathroom, the spare room, and the living room. He carried out the same routine in each room: first, he would open the door, then he would reach out his arm whilst still standing outside to turn on the light, and then finally he would enter into the room. Everything was in order in each of the rooms, which were empty, and with the blinds down.

He repeated the same actions in the kitchen, which was situated in front of the living room, and to the side of the front door. Once inside, he carefully left his handgun on the counter, and set to making some breakfast. He placed two slices of bread in the toaster and took the butter and marmalade out of the fridge. Then, put on a pot of coffee and squeezed the juice from three oranges. Once the juice was prepared, he picked up the glass and sat down at one of the stools at the small kitchen table as he waited for his toast to brown and the coffee to be ready.

He had hardly tasted the juice when he heard his phone ringing on his bedside table. He hurriedly left the glass on the table and made his way quickly to the bedroom to get it. He didn’t recognise the number. He hesitated for a second, although in the end he decided to answer it.

“Hello.”

“Mr Miguel Sarmiento? I’m calling from the agency. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I need to inform you that there have been some flight cancellations, and I’m afraid that they will directly affect your travel plans.”

“How?” he asked, without disguising his unease.

“I hope I haven’t woken you, but I’m sure you will understand that I wanted to let you know as soon as possible,” answered the woman, certain that he had understood the first explanation. “You have booked a holiday to Cuba with us, leaving today, is that right?”

“Yes, for three days. But I haven’t heard that there would be any strikes arranged for this weekend.”

“The problem isn’t from Spain.

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