Free Art of Murder by José Carlos Somoza Page A

down still further to the garage to ask her brother for help.
    But her mind was made up.
    Trembling as she had never trembled before, not even on the day of her first communion, she pushed open the ancient door, and immediately breathed in a swirl of bluish dust. She was forced to step back, coughing and spluttering, which rather took the edge off her adventure. There was so much dust and such a horrible smell, like things fermenting, that Clara feared she would not be able to stand it. And worse still she would get her best Sunday dress filthy.
    But, what the heck, it takes a sacrifice to confront horror, she thought. Horror does not grow on trees, within easy reach. It's hard work finding it, as her father always said about money.
    She took two or three deep breaths outside the room, then went in again. She took a few timid steps into the evil-smelling darkness, blinking to get used to the unknown. She stumbled over bodies tied up with string, and realised they were old coats. Piles of cardboard boxes. A buckled chess board. A doll with no clothes and empty eye sockets, propped on a shelf. Cobwebs and blue shadows. All of this took Clara by surprise, but did not frighten her. She had been expecting to find this kind of thing.
    She was on the verge of feeling completely defrauded when all of a sudden she saw it. Horror.
    It was to her left. A slight movement, a shadow lit by the brightness outside the room. She turned to face it, strangely calm. Her sense of terror had grown to such a pitch she felt about to scream. This must mean she had at last discovered true horror and was face to face with it.
    It was a little girl. A girl who lived in the attic. She was wearing a navy-blue Lacoste dress, and had lank, neatly combed hair. Her skin shone like marble. She looked like a corpse, but she was moving. Her mouth opened and shut. She was blinking continuously. And she was staring at Clara.
    Her flesh crawled with terror. Her heart pounded violently inside her chest until it was almost choking her. It was an eternal moment, and yet a fleeting but definitive fraction of a second, like the moment of death.
    In some inexplicable but powerful way, she realised in that split second that the girl in the attic was the most dreadful sight she had ever seen, or would ever see. It was not only horrible, but unbearable.
     
    And yet, at the same time her happiness knew no bounds. At last she was face to face with horror. And that horror was a girl her own age. They could be friends and play together.
     
    It was then it dawned on her that the Lacoste dress was the one her mother had helped her into that Sunday, that the girl's haircut was just like hers, that her features were the exactly the same, that the mirror was huge, with a frame hidden by the darkness.
    'You got scared over nothing,' her mother told her, running up when she heard her cry out, and folding her into her arms.
     
    Dawn was painting the deep indigo of the roof a lighter blue. Clara blinked, and the images of her dream dissolved in the light streaming on to her walls. Everything around her was as it should be, but inside she still felt the swirling memory of her distant childhood, that 'scare over nothing' in the attic of their house in Alberca, a year before her father died.
     
    The alarm clock had gone off: half past seven. She remembered her appointment in plaza Desiderio Gaos with the mysterious Mr Friedman and leapt out of bed.
    Since becoming a professional work of art she had learnt to look on dreams as strange instructions sent by an anonymous artist inside us. She was puzzled as to why her unconscious had chosen to place this piece from her life long ago on to the board again.
    Perhaps it meant that the door to the attic was open once more.
    And that someone was inviting her in to confront horror.
     
     
    4
     

    Paul Benoit's eyes were not violet, but the lights in the room almost made them look it. Lothar Bosch studied them, and not for the first time knew he