Maggie arrived a minute after he'd texted her. He answered the door, aware of a dull throb behind his eyes when he looked at her.
"Is it done?" she asked.
He turned away from her, led her into the sitting room, pointed at the bodybag, filled out, zipped up.
"Shit," she said. "You did it."
"Of course I did it."
"Shit," she said again. "Do you feel okay?"
"Fine."
"Really?"
"Yeah. How should I feel?"
"I dunno. In pain. Emotional. Horrible."
"I'm fine," Carlos said.
They stood for a minute, looking at each other, at the bodybag, back at each other. "So," Carlos said. "Give me a hand to lift this?"
Maggie didn't move.
"What?"
"How can you be 'fine'?" she asked.
"How many times do I need to say it?"
"I just find it hard to believe — "
"Maggie, we don't have time for this. Help me get the bag onto my shoulder."
"You can't be 'fine'."
"I assure you, I'm just fine. Por favor." He indicated the bag.
"You're right." She stepped forward. "You're right," she said again. "Looks heavy. You going to manage it?"
"No problem. Diet of vodka, she weighs next to nothing."
"Dead weight though." She looked at him, realised what she'd said. She laughed. "I'm sorry," she said.
"What for?"
"It's not funny."
"No," he said. "It isn't."
"I'm just nervous. I can't get my head round this."
"Don't think," he said. "Act."
"I didn't think you'd go through with it."
"Don't think," he said, louder.
"I should have stopped you."
They stared at the bag. He'd thought all bodybags were black. But the mortuary only had a spare one in tan.
"Charlie," she said.
"Yeah?"
"You killed your mother."
He grabbed her wrist. "For Christ's sake, Maggie. You knew I was going to do it. Why are you acting so surprised?"
"I didn't…" She pulled her arm away.
"You didn't what?"
"Forget it. It's done." She rubbed her wrist.
He spoke quietly. "You wish it wasn't? Maybe you should have talked me out of it."
"Not my call."
He took a long breath through his nose. Smelled Maggie's face cream. She was wearing lipstick too. For her, this was just a night out.
"Fair enough," he said. "Are you going to stand there, or are you going to help?"
Once Carlos had watched a delivery guy carry a washing machine on his back up three flights of stairs. Impressive. Even more impressive, the same guy had taken the old one away with him on the way back down. In comparison, carrying a body down a single flight of stairs shouldn't be too much of a task. Carlos took a couple of steps towards the door, testing out the weight on his shoulders.
Maggie looked at him.
"It's not so bad," he said.
He was wrong. He'd only managed three steps and already his legs felt leaden. And he kept thinking he was going to topple forwards. He couldn't balance properly, wanted to put his hand on the rail but knew if he did that the body would slip. Maybe the bodybag hadn't been such a great idea after all. This was an extra heavy duty job. Greater 'leakage protection', he was told, after he'd complained about the colour. Sounded just fine as a sales pitch, but the reality was that the bag weighed more than the standard model.
He considered turning round, walking backwards. Felt like it'd be a damn sight easier, leaning against the slope. But he needed to see where he was going. He'd stumble, fall, land on his neck or something.
Mierda. At this pace, he'd be here all night. Somebody might come home. Always a risk, even though it was late. If they did, there was the wedge under the front door and Maggie poised to stall them. But if someone who was already at home decided to head on out for some reason, there wasn't much he could do. Couldn't hide. Couldn't run away. He'd just have to own up. Which would ruin everything.
The thought had occurred to him before. He tried to remember why he'd decided it wouldn't be a problem.
Ideally, his mother's murder should have been committed elsewhere. But this was all for Maggie's benefit. Not that she could appreciate it. Or would if she could. He'd just have to get on with it. Tuesday night. One in the morning. Nobody was going to be coming in or out. Fuck it, everything'd be fine.
He limped his way down the rest of the steps, one careful step after another. By the time he reached the bottom, sweat was running into his eyes and the muscles in his neck and shoulder felt like they were being twisted around each other and pulled so tight they were about to snap. His thighs burned.
But so far, so good. Only ten feet between him and the front door. He took a breath, staggered forwards.
A few steps later, Maggie bent down, removed the wooden wedge from under the door. She fumbled the wedge, sprang back when it bounced on the floor with a clack. "Shit," she said. "Shit, shit." She picked up the wedge, her hand shaking. "Should I check outside?"
He wanted to nod but couldn't. And he was too out of breath to say anything. He let his eyes do the talking.
Yes.
She disappeared, returned a few seconds later. "Clear," she said. "I'll go open the van."
He still couldn't believe she was doing this.
Ten minutes later, Maggie removed her headphones, turned off her iPod. "Classical music. Bach," she said. "Thought I'd give it a go. Supposed to help you relax."
"And I thought you just didn't want to talk to me." Carlos grinned to show he wasn't serious.
"Hope Sofia's okay."
Their babysitter was a seventeen-year-old whose name Carlos couldn't remember. They'd used her before. Maggie was friends with her sister. Or someone. "She'll be just fine," he said. "Why don't you phone and check?"
"It's late," Maggie said. "I'm fretting. I have to worry about her, you know. Mother's duty."
He watched the white lines in the middle of the road, pushed the wheel of his palm against the steering wheel.
Maggie asked, "How's the shoulder?"
The pain was a fading ache now. "Gone," he said.
"Gone," Maggie said.
"Yeah," he said. "Just about."
Those white lines reminded him of when he was a kid, first time in a plane, looking out the window as they were about to land, still trying to work out how something so heavy could float in the air.
"What?" Maggie said.
"Nothing. Why?"
"You look like you're somewhere else."
"I do?" God, it was weird, but he felt some kind of sense of loss. Maybe it was because of what was going to happen to Maggie. A state of pre-mourning or something. His stomach felt empty. Not that he was hungry. It just felt like he hadn't eaten. And the sound of the car engine was too loud, high-pitched. Like an airplane.
"You know how I hate airports," he said, for something to say.
"I've noticed, yeah."
"You know why?"
She shrugged. "They're no fun. Nobody likes them. Security checks, all that crap."
"I've always hated them, long before the days of liquid bombs. First flight, I was nine or ten. We'd just got back from Spain, looking for Dad. The passengers were all clustered round the carousel at the baggage retrieval and there was this hubbub of chat floating around. You ever noticed airport acoustics?" He didn't wait for an answer. He was talking to himself anyway. "There's this swell of noise. You can pick out layers, but no words. And over the top you can hear the sound of rattling cutlery, like it's in your headphones, and someone's telling you he's dead. Your father's dead. And you look over to a coffee shop that's a hundred feet away and someone's stacking cups, that's all, and you go, fuck me, that's what I'm hearing, my dad's okay. That's what happened to me, anyway. After our failed trip to find Dad. But I thought my hearing was buggered for good, and it filled me with, I don't know, dread, I suppose, hearing that voice, and I felt this pressure behind my eyes and I burst into tears."