The Garcia Effect - Diary of a Serial Killer

Part 1: A Senseless Murder In Barcelona

Chapter 1

The oppressively stinking corpse had by now begun to rot in earnest. And, at just under a day old, it was plenty stiff, bloated and veiled in putrefactive blisters. The flies swarmed, but not appreciably more so than they had done when the man had been alive. In their quest for a secluded nook, the lascivious teenage couple had stumbled upon the cadaver, which duly halted all and any lustful intentions in their tracks. The police would subsequently be called in and would chalk up the third strangled homeless man in less than a week; this was shaping up to look like the brutal work of a serial killer. The post-mortem stab wound in the heart, though, was a new twist – it perturbed the detectives: why would the killer bother to stab a body that was already dead? And why hadn't he stabbed his other victims?

None of the above, however, had even taken place yet. Those events were all several days hence.

Back in the present, Martin had no knowledge whatsoever of the dark destiny that was being mapped out for him. All the many killings; the run-ins with the police; serving jail time on being falsely accused of murder; becoming an in-patient at a Spanish psychiatric hospital; suffering the loss of his close friends, Spencer and Penny: none of this was visibly on Martin's horizon at this point in time.

On finishing class at 10pm, Martin had gathered up his books and left the academy promptly so as to avoid getting chewed out by the gruff, grumpy security guard. Then he decided to stop by the greasy, smelly bar on the corner a block away instead of going straight home.

There was a lot of weather that night. There had been a lot of weather all throughout April: this was no ordinary stormy spell, of course, but rather it was the shape of things to come, what with climate change being very much at hand.

As Martin was swept into the bar by the wind and rain, Spencer was there, as usual, heaped over the bar with a mediana (which was a 33cl. bottle of beer) in his right hand. Martin ordered a mediana as Spencer welcomed him: "Yo, my nigga, sup?" Neither Martin nor Spencer was black. Spencer listened to a lot of gangsta rap music, and it was a part of his charm –if one could call it that– to speak in a gangsta-rapper style. Martin often wondered whether Spencer ever toned down his locution whenever in the presence of black people, but he'd never yet been able to find out; most of their colleagues at the academy were white, with the exception of two British-South Asians (one of whom, Muhammad, was quietly enjoying a zero-alcohol beer three stools away from Spencer) and Spencer himself, who was a half-white, half-Japanese Canadian. (And then there was Joel, of course, who on this evening was minding his own business sitting in the corner catching up with his New York Times). Spencer didn't consider himself a racist, nor did he feel that his wholly excessive use of the n-word, in homage to his (black) rap heroes, should cause offence to anybody. Spencer was, to be sure, somewhat deluded. Be all that as it may, Spencer didn't, in any case, seem to show any restraint or sensitivity in the company of Jewish people: "Damn Spic barman Jewed me on the patatas bravas, bro! Just look at that tiny saucer of fries and tell me it's five euros' worth!"

"Well, he's gotta make a living somehow, Spence. Cheating us immigrants is as good a way as any other."

"Ah, whatever. This shit is da hood, man."

"Have you got any Upper-intermediate classes this year?"

"You know my specialty, bro: low-lifes".

"Well, there's a text in Speedway Upper-intermediate that we used in class tonight. Scary stuff. All about climate change. The Maldives, whose average height above sea level is about your height, are going to be completely underwater within 20 years."