Soul Fire

old address. I leave the park and head back towards the fishing district, trying to remember the way without my map. Sahara was right about one thing – the
chatter and buzz on the streets is getting louder. Javier said his fight with his father was drowned out on fiesta night and I guess tonight will be the same. There are signs posted everywhere, on
walls and lampposts, in Spanish or maybe Catalan. The only word I recognise is Correfoc . The fire run.
    The sea’s ahead of me now, in the distance, so I take a left into the dark streets of Javier’s neighbourhood. There are fewer tourists now. The deeper I get into this maze, the
quieter it gets. I guess if I can’t find the address, then I can always get a new map from the hostel, but I think if I’m methodical about it, and work my way up and down the gridlines
that make up the streets, I should be OK.
    What I say when I get there is the hard part.
    I take the first right: Sant Miquel. No, that’s not right. I go to the end, take a left: Ginebra. No, that’s wrong too. Right again. I’m trying to keep track, but I feel like
I’m already losing my bearings and the heat makes my head feel woolly.
    Carrer del Baluart.
    I take another right. This feels familiar, now, although all the streets look similar.
    And then I realise why it’s familiar: I’m back on Carrer de Balboa.
    I know it’s just a coincidence. And yet, Javier is always telling me he does not believe in coincidences. So perhaps there is a reason I’ve ended up here. I do have unfinished
business at Dulce. Last time I made things worse for Gabe. Perhaps I should seize this chance to try to make things better again.
    What was it Javier said? You could make him listen, Alice. You could tell him how I died. . .
    I walk fast, so I don’t have time to change my mind. But the café’s shutters are already down. I lean against them, listening for signs of life. Is the music coming from
inside? I hit the metal with my fist. Sweat drips down my forehead. I’ve had nothing to drink today except coffee. The shady street is getting darker – or is it that I’m about to
black out?
    I lean against the shutters, my face touching the grille. The metal smells rusty. Like blood.
    ‘Gabe?’ I call out. ‘Gabe? If you’re in there, let me in.’
    The shutter moves, suddenly. I only just get out of the way in time.
    ‘You!’ says Gabe. ‘I should have known it was you. Play-acting being ill are you now? What a bloody attention seeker!’
    He’s about to close the shutter again.
    ‘Wait! Gabe. Please listen. Um. Karina . . . Karina’s the middle sister. She had a toy that her father cut into pieces.’ I try to remember more. ‘And Rosa sings . . .
sang to Javier when he was hurt. She’s the baby.’
    Gabe stares at me. ‘Is this another bloody trick?’
    ‘No trick. Please give me a second to explain. I can’t hurt you anymore than I have already, can I?’
    He’s thinking. Then, finally, he opens the door a little wider. I go inside, and he locks the door behind me and pulls the shutter halfway down. The cafe´ is almost dark, except for
the tea lights still burning on the tables.
    ‘I wasn’t exactly in the mood for a big fiesta tonight,’ Gabe says. ‘Too many memories.’
    ‘Because J died on the night of the fiesta, didn’t he?’
    ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you, Alice? But you could have found that out online.’
    ‘You don’t have to believe me,’ I say. ‘You just have to listen.’
    ‘I don’t know what the hell to believe. But you know about me and J – which is more than anyone else did in Barcelona.’
    It takes me a few seconds to work out what he means. ‘You kept it secret?’
    Gabe nods. ‘Not my choice, but with his father being the way he was, I understood why. It’s less a big city, more a series of villages. Hell, I even call him Jay the
Australian way because the Spanish don’t pronounce their Js like that. To make certain no one local could ever make the connection between him and me.’
    ‘So if no one knew you were together, then when he died . . .’
    He nods. ‘Right. When he died, no one told me. He didn’t show up for the fiesta. I spent forty-eight hours getting angrier and angrier. He used to freak out, sometimes, about how his
dad would react if he found out. I thought he was just having one of those moments.’
    ‘Oh, Gabe . . .’
    ‘Then I picked up the paper. He’d been dead all that time. That’s why I’m not a