A Shortcut to Paradise Read Free

façade wasn’t simply an excuse to justify a lack of staff and the consequent confusion, and, in addition, whether it wasn’t behind the sudden interest girls now showed for uniforms and the colour khaki and the way boys had converted to the lucrative creed of metrosexuality.
    After poking around and leisurely inspecting the broad range of toy pistols the market offered, Ernest selected a black and not very big item, which he thought could be mistaken for the real McCoy if he was fortunate enough not to bump into an expert. He paid in cash and had the forethought to ask them to wrap it up as a present, in case someone found it odd for a respectable-looking paterfamilias to be buying a pistol in a toy shop. A tense Ernest decided to catch a bus home straight away, with his innocent parcel tucked under one arm and evil machinations stirring in his mind.
    He knew nobody would be in during the day. He wasn’t expecting visitors and didn’t intend to pick the phone up. His wife Carmen was out at work. There weren’t good connections to her lawyers’ practice, so she always got a bite to eat in one of the bars in the area. Oriol was at the nursery, where they gave him lunch and an afternoon snack, and Jordi would be at school until six. Back at their flat, Ernest locked the door and went into the dining room. He put the parcel on the table, carefully unwrapped it and put the box and the wrapping paper in a rubbish bag. He hid the toy pistol in a pocket in his jacket, which he hung up among the other jackets in their bedroom wardrobe. Then he went out, in his shirtsleeves, dropped the rubbish bag in the bin and hurried home. But then he stopped at the kiosk. He’d kicked the habit eighteen months ago, though he’d been having second thoughts for the past few days. The moment he’d purchased the pistol, he’d decided the seriousness of the situation fully justified a relapse. That first cigarette after such a lengthy abstinence made him feel slightly queasy, but it tasted wonderful.
    He had to wait until the evening to implement his plan. He had twelve long hours ahead and felt uneasy. He switched on the television in search of distraction, but it didn’t help. Nor could he get any shut-eye or concentrate on the novel he’d just begun. By midday he’d made himself a sandwich, more to while the time away than because he was really hungry, and ate while glancing at the newspaper. At half-past four, feeling rather sorry for himself, he went out again, this time to collect the boys from school.

    It was a quarter to nine when his wife arrived home, weary and distraught. The Metro was down yet again due to construction work for the high-speed train. The boys were asleep and she didn’t dare go in and give them a kiss in case they woke up, even though it was Saturday tomorrow and they didn’t have to wake up early. Carmen wasn’t hungry and her back was hurting. She felt guilty, particularly because of Oriol, who was still only small and missed her. Rather than playing with her son, as her mother had with her when she was young, Carmen was forced to spend eight hours a day trapped in a windowless office for a derisory wage, doing a job that brought her nil professional satisfaction or social life. But they needed her income, and that was why they’d parked Oriol at a nursery at the age of three and why she and Ernest could only devote what remained of the weekends to their sons once they’d done the shopping and cleaned the house while their kids gawped at those cartoon series they’d sworn they’d never let them watch. While Carmen thought about all that and wept her heart out in the shower, Ernest cooked an omelette and set the table.
    He put on a cheerful front during supper and told her he’d arranged to have a drink with an old friend she didn’t know. He’d bumped into him quite by chance in the street when he went to buy the paper, and