AFTER finding out that Hollywood Producer Jack Levy´s diamond ring is a fake, our hero Costa del Sol decides to take matters into his own hands, staking out a cemetery in the dead of night.
Costa lay in the dirt and heard a scratching nearby. Was it a rat or a cockroach? Which would he prefer?
What are you doing lying on the floor in a locked cemetery? He asked himself.
The full moon shone bright as bleached bone. The night was cloudless, starless and silent. Costa didn´t know what day it was: maybe Sunday, from the traffic? Days didn´t happen to him like they did to other people. Time didn’t work in the same way.
He needed to write his memoirs, settle down, live a normal life.
He heard a grinding squeal from the keyhole in the gate and, a second later, the roar and chug of bike being fired up. Off went the groundsman for his dinner.
Costa sat up and brushed himself off. The air was sweet with the sickly smell of dying flowers. He didn’t like cut flowers: sometimes thought he could hear them screaming.
Death was not so bad, Costa thought. It was dying that was awful.
He quickly found the tomb he´d seen the woman in front of. My god, that woman. Burnt into his mind. Never spoken to her but felt he knew her. Why had he come back?
Costa read the inscription and the dates on the tomb. Who was this? The woman´s father? Brother? She´d looked – what? – maybe mid-thirties, forties? Hard to tell.
Costa took out the fake, stolen ring andheld it up to the light.He heard a bestial snuffle from behind his back and turned to see a man mountain eclipsingthe moon.
“Hey! There you are,” Costa managed before the monster´s knuckle-duster collided with his cheek.