No such thing as goodbye, p.1
No Such Thing as Goodbye, page 1
NO SUCH THING AS GOODBYE
KARMEN ŠPILJAK
KARMEN SPILJAK
PRAISE FOR NO SUCH THING AS GOODBYE
'Lovers of swift-moving crime thrillers will enjoy this book, which packs a punch while delving deep into the human psyche.'
BookLife Review (Editor's Pick)
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‘No such Thing As Goodbye succeeds on every level- story, characters, dialogue. Karmen Spiljak offers thriller/crime/suspense and a cute kitty to expose corruption.’
Reedsy Discovery Reviewer
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'If you like spy novels, novels with strong female characters, or mysteries, I would recommend this book to you and I will look forward to other work from this amazing author.'
Goodreads Reviewer
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‘I think this book kind of has everything that a mystery/suspense novel should have: a dark and gritty backstory for the main character, a loveable cat, a quirky mysterious mentor, lots of disguises and tension filled scenarios…’
Goodreads Reviewer
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'Excellent thriller. A real page turner.'
Goodreads Reviewer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © Karmen Špiljak 2022
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher and copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, address: karmen@karmens.net
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First Edition, July 2022
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Cover design by Miladinka Milic
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www.karmenspiljak.com
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Paperback ISBN: 978-65-00-39697-3
Ebook ISBN: 978-65-00-39696-6
For Thomas
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Acknowledgments
Author’s note
About the Author
Before you leave
More by the Author
The Assistant
CHAPTER 1
Tomorrow, I’ll be dead.
Four floors below, the tarmac on Zócalo Square buzzed with life. Tiny dots strolled around the touts who tried their best to outshout the off-key street organ. There lay a promise of anonymity, the luxury of instant freedom. All I had to do was merge with the crowd, but I stuck to my hotel room, as if it offered more than a bed, free coffee and tiny bottles of shampoo.
Is this really the only way out?
Part of me wanted to abandon the plan, go back home and do what Jimmy asked, but I’d come too far to give up. Betrayal didn’t come cheap, especially not within the family. If Jimmy found out what had happened, he’d track me down. Nino would help him, no doubt, like an obedient little brother. My name and picture would blast the news until the message would sink in. There’s only one way out for a Morretti.
That’s why I had to shed my old skin. Changing my appearance was the easy part. New clothes, a different haircut, a new name. What about the rest? Could I change what’s beneath my skin? The things I’d done? Who I’d become? The closer I came to breaking away, the stronger the tug in my gut.
Once a Morretti, always a Morretti.
I emptied the miniature shower gel into the bathtub and opened the tap. Bending my knees, I buried my face in the foam bubbles, a warm liquid hug that smelled of honey-dipped cereal. The water twirled around my legs, reminding me of the endless canals that snake through my hometown. I’d miss Amsterdam, my beloved Mokum, but Mexico City had a lot to offer, too. A blank page, for starters. When I walked the streets, no heads turned, no words were exchanged under the breath, no prying eyes searched for a different, better version of me.
The memory of home made me scrub my skin so hard my fingernails left long, reddish marks on my arms and legs. I submerged my face and surrendered to the warmth. The water didn’t care about my name or Jimmy’s drug business. I soaked in comfort until the water turned tepid and my fingers wrinkled like wet paper.
Once out of the bathtub, I wrapped myself in a towel and took out my make-up kit. I’d done this often enough, so my movements became effortless. The thrill of putting on my secret armour hasn’t diminished. With each new layer, I blot out a part of the old me, mould it into something else, someone else.
First, I put in the lenses, a dull brown, the colour of mud. Blue would have been nicer, but too memorable. Next, I hid my eyebrows under a thick layer of powder. I worked my pencil to change their shape and enlarge the space between my eyes.
I slipped plumper into my mouth, a piece of silicone that makes my jaw appear wider. Then, I dabbed cosmetic glue over my chin and jaw and stuck on a curl of my hair in its natural colour, a mousy brown. I cut it to size and repeated it, till it all came together in a simple stubble beard, the ‘carefree’ kind, popular among hipsters.
For the final touch, I put on a Panama hat I’d bought at the market. A young guy’s face blinked back at me from the mirror. I had to make an effort not to smile. It’s the first give-away, when you’re pretending to be a man.
‘Hello there,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘Will you keep my secret?’
CHAPTER 2
Before I left the room, I wiped the man off my face. Going out in my disguise would have been careless. Hotel cameras are hungry for such mistakes. The last thing I wanted, was for someone to check the footage and notice a man who’d never entered. This was exactly the kind of thing that would fuel Jimmy’s paranoia, his conviction that I was planning to sell him out.
With all the essentials in my backpack, I gave the room one last glance. After I closed the door, there’d be no more bathtubs, fancy hotel rooms or free coffee. There’d be no more late-night calls, money laundering or arguments over guns, either, because the next day, there’d be no more Antonia Morretti.
In big cities, people vanish all the time, but that’s not the only reason why I chose Mexico City. I was more or less fluent in Spanish and wanted my new home to be as far away from my family as possible. This way, I could at least feel free, if not safe.
The sun was high, as I headed towards the place where I could buy my new life. First, though, I’d take basic precautions to avoid being recognised, or worse, remembered.
I stopped at a breakfast place and gobbled up a portion of fried eggs in spicy sauce. Afterwards, I went to the toilet, changed my clothes and gave myself a pixie cut.
Despite the heat, I kept the brown leather jacket on. Every so often, I patted the side to check that the money was still there. My savings, almost seven thousand euros, sewn into the lining. A credit card would have been more practical, but easier to trace.
As I reached Santo Domingo Square, I couldn’t help feeling smug. There I was, visiting a lucrative forgery market, while my brothers probably thought I was drinking beer and writing postcards. They had no clue I wouldn’t come back.
I stopped at the fountain and shielded my eyes. Under the stone arches were several print shops. Quite a few among them could print the ticket to my new life. Which ones, though? I knew I had to find someone in front of a shop. Someone who looked bored, but was paying attention.
The tourists were easy to eliminate. Some were taking selfies at the fountain, others were flashing their wallets, as though they wanted to prove their worth. Then, there were a few men in jeans and T-shi
Bingo.
A couple of tourists approached one of them, a guy in a white polo shirt and a baseball cap, and asked for directions. As he spoke, he kept his eyes on the square. Afterwards, he moved into the shade and started to flick through his phone. Every so often, he checked what was going on around him.
This is your guy.
‘Disculpe, Señor,’ I said. ‘Do you know where I can get a document?’
He skimmed over my Adidas trainers and must have concluded I wasn’t a cop.
‘What kind of document?’ he asked.
‘A medical certificate.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Come.’
We entered one of the print shops and passed the stacks of old books and colourful bindings. The man went for the door in the back and pushed it open. Inside, it was dark and smelled of mould.
‘After you,’ he said.
I held my breath and entered.
‘You need a proof of injury?’ he asked. ‘For insurance?’
The sweat that had gathered on the back of my neck started trickling down.
‘Not injury, accident,’ I said. ‘Fatal accident.’
Without a blink, he moved over to a shabby-looking desk with an old computer. The shelves above it were stacked with cartridges and piles of papers. He took one of them and fed it into the printer.
‘Three thousand pesos,’ he said.
I laid the banknotes on the table. He counted them, then took the money.
‘It’s best if you write down the details,’ he said and pushed the wonky office chair away from the desk. ‘Less chance for mistakes.’
I filled in the blanks with my name and data from a recent car accident. He skimmed over the text.
‘Come back in half an hour,’ he said.
‘Can’t I wait here?’
‘Sorry.’
Reluctantly, I left the shop. Waiting in front would have drawn attention. There was always a chance I’d been swindled, but that was a risk I had to take. Faking your own death came at a price. One thing I could avoid, though, was getting sunburnt.
On the square was a nice-looking church, a modest building made of reddish-brown and grey volcanic stone. Inside, the church was more luxurious than it appeared, though just as cool as I’d hoped. I sat on a bench, not far from an old man kneeling. His hands were clasped together, his eyes fixed ahead, his lips moving in silent prayer. At least he had someone to count on.
God and I were never close, but I said my own prayer, a run through my plan, the one that would grant me a new life. Tomorrow, I’d visit the civil registry and report a death. If they accepted my fake document, they’d inform the consulate. They’d register the death certificate and send word out to Jimmy and Nino. If something went wrong, though…
I patted the side of my jacket. There’d be enough money to grease the wheels. Not quite enough to buy a new passport, but I’d sort that out once I was dead.
The back of my throat tingled.
Is this for real? Am I almost there?
The irony of my actions didn’t fail to escape me. I could live a life away from murder, fraud and whatever else came with Jimmy, but I could only get there through fraud, forgery and bribes.
I returned to the print shop and walked straight to the back. When I pulled the doorknob, the door stayed shut. There was a roar in my ears.
Inhale, exhale, repeat.
I pulled again. Nothing. I knocked. Nothing. Then, a faint voice called from inside the shop.
‘Señorita.’
The woman at the counter waved at me. In her hand was an envelope.
‘Señorita’s paper is ready,’ she said.
I opened the envelope and checked the certificate. The text confirmed that Antonia Morretti had died. The data about the burnt-out car was correct.
‘Would that be all?’ she asked.
I flinched. ‘I already paid.’
‘Yes. So, this will be all?’
My shoulders dropped. ‘For now, yes.’
A passport with a new name costs twelve million pesos. I wouldn’t be able to afford that for a while, despite the fact that I’d saved some money by renting a dump on the outskirts of Mexico City.
Once outside, I drew in a long breath. The city smelled like popcorn and coffee, sweat and smoke. A sweet, metallic taste settled at the back of my tongue. This was it, I decided. This was the taste of freedom.
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For a moment, I indulged in a daydream, the same one I’d had for years. What would it be like when the news of my death reached my brothers? The message from the consulate would be impersonal, using limp words and cold sentences to inform them about the “accident”. Phrases like “regret to communicate”, “unfortunate circumstances” and “further proceedings” would fall like the fat raindrops of a summer storm. There’d be no funeral. The medical certificate would state the body was too badly damaged to travel. Besides, Jimmy wouldn’t have spent that much money just to have my body buried. They’d hold a fake ceremony, arrange some sort of closure. Then, with some luck, my face and name would fade.
The thought brought a smile to my face. I’d celebrate that night, in my new room, with a pizza and a cold beer. A modest celebration seemed in order, because my new life would be a discreet one. Tara Jenssen, my new self, would live the life that Antonia Morretti had always wanted. Quiet and reserved, following the rules, staying away from trouble. That’s why Tara would be Danish. The language was somewhat similar to Dutch, not impossible to understand and, if necessary, I could string some words together, enough to give the impression that I could speak it. Most importantly, though, the Danes are supposed to be the happiest people in the world. Maybe some of that luck would spill over from my new name into my new life.
Keeping my eyes on the square, I took off my jacket, peeled the sweat-soaked shirt from my top half and tied it around my waist. My flat chest didn’t raise any eyebrows and the pear-shaped birthmark under my breasts remained hidden. One can never take too many precautions.
I took off my rucksack and shuffled the contents around to make space for my jacket. As I was stuffing it in, someone screamed not far away from me. A short man sprinted away from the square, but all the attention was focused near the fountain.
People started to gather around what appeared to be a lifeless figure on the ground. My stomach sank. Whatever was going on couldn’t be anything good. An attack of some kind, a robbery perhaps, something Antonia Morretti wanted to stay away from. Wouldn’t Tara Jenssen want to help, though? If I couldn’t change my old habits, how could I ever change who I was?
I grabbed my stuff and rushed towards the fountain. A small group of bystanders gathered around a woman lying on the ground. Her eyes were closed, her face sunburnt, her yellow top stained with blood.
Shit.
I dropped the rucksack and checked the woman’s pulse. If I was fast enough, I could get away before the police arrived. The woman was breathing. She was alive but unconscious.
