Off the rails&;#063;

Change for Carlisle

It's a hot day. Blood heat.

Everyone is indoors, curtains drawn. The ceiling fans are the only
things that move, apart from the flies. OK, the dogs curled in the
scant shade offered by the adobe walls twitch their ears in response to
the flies. A mangy mutt yawns, shifts and re-settles.

Miguel Fernandes dreams. So far, all his roads have run dead.

Madrid's streets were not paved with gold. As much silver as there was
in Toledo, none of it was for him. He survived in London, but his hotel
porter job barely fed him.

He has fallen asleep in a train, dreaming of a village in Mexico, one
with the luxury of ceiling fans, one that doesn't exist. At least not
for him.

The tattoo on her shoulder - the rose on that soft skin - caressed by
Paulo!

The earth moved,
And angels sang,
And all I did was kiss her.

The earth moves yet,
And angels sing&;#8230;
For someone else.
I miss her.

That "someone else" is his brother.

In his head two figures arise from the blood red soil, unable
completely to detach themselves from mother earth in the cloying heat,
but still distinct. All is sticky, sanguinous. They size each other up.
As if they needed to - Paulo had always dominated. Took her from him
before he had a chance!

The curs stand, stretching, yawning, disturbed by the tension in the
sultry air. Two cockerels scratch the ochre dust, circle each other
warily, stretch, display&;#8230; A flash of spurs and the warm
trickle of blood down a neck. In the distance a hoot, a whistle.

Miguel wakes. In his sleep he has drooled. He hastily mops his saliva
with his pristine handkerchief. (Whatever his circumstances he always
has that.) His left leg is still asleep, and he shifts in his
seat.

He loves his brother.

He must kill him.

And change for Carlisle, according to the announcement.