The Fault

by Kitty Sewell

  Her new preoccupation awakened and energised her, taking her mind off the man in the apartment below. There was a story in this, a poignant story, both touching, brave and tragic. She could write Esther’s story. She knew she could. Esther was dead now and the money could be used to honour her life. Absolutely no-one knew about its existence except Imogen Sofia Luna.

  Sebastian

  He was sitting at the kitchen table eating a baguette stuffed with olive oil and grated tomato like Papito used to make it. He refrained from sprinkling on the essential raw chopped garlic, knowing he had to talk to people…and kiss Eva, although they’d not done a lot of kissing lately.

  ‘Honey,’ said Eva, coming up behind him and messing up his hair. ‘You ought to get a haircut.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said noncommittally.

  She was quiet for a moment, her fingers combing through his hair. ‘What to do about our mysterious cave? We ought to make a decision.’

  ‘I thought we’d decided already.’

  ‘No, you decided,’ she said, her hands withdrawing from his head. She came around the table and sat down opposite. Her lovely mermaid face looked tense. ‘Do you mind if I consult Brian on the matter? I think we need a third opinion.’

  ‘Brian, Brian, Brian… What the hell makes him the expert?’

  ‘Oh come on, Sebastian. He’s a sensible, intelligent, long-term resident. He knows about caves.’

  Sebastian looked her in the eye. ‘He’ll be on your side, of course.’

  She smiled a little. ‘I do declare, you’re a teensy bit jealous.’ She leaned across the expanse of the table over his heaps of papers, to take hold of his hand. ‘I think he’ll be impartial on this issue. Don’t forget he is one of the supporters of Frontiers.’

  He was tired, there was too much on his mind. ‘Whatever,’ he said with feigned indifference. ‘Do what you want.’

  She looked at him through an unconvinced frown. ‘You really mean that?’

  The issue of the cavern put a subtle frostiness between them in the coming days, though both tried to make light of it. That damned cave had gotten under his skin, for some reason. He wanted it for himself, and more importantly, going public with it would almost certainly create further delays to the project. He longed to go and spend time there alone, but Jonny Risso was unavailable, and, clearly, another man might beat him to it.

  As the hassles with the authorities went on, Sebastian felt increasingly removed from his project. He’d begun to realise he was fed up with it all. As far as he was concerned, his part in it was done and dusted. He’d created the concept, done the drawing and calculations, built the model. From that point he should be allowed to let it go, release it to be assembled – like a simple painting-by-numbers artwork – by teams of lesser engineers, surveyors and contractors.

  Like many mornings of late, he decided to forgo his taxi and walk to the site, having discovered all manner of different roads and paths over the last couple of weeks. Who would have guessed there was so much nature on this rock?

  He passed the morning prowling around the nature reserve of the Upper Rock; enjoying the idea that a person could get lost on it. On the way he sniffed out every hole and opening. There were quite a few unmanned entrances to the interior where anyone with motivation could access the tunnels. He was not dependent on people like Montegriffo to guide him.

  He reached the highest point of the Rock, and stopped in wonder at the sight of the sea beyond, and then the faint outline of Luna’s Crossing. If he could already see the bridge, it must mean something. He thought of the word ‘foreshadow’ and smiled. Now he understood the deeper meaning of it.

  The Levante flicked the air up over the crests. He balanced himself on the ledge of a cliff and allowed the turbulence of gusts and eddies to sway him. Yesterday he’d felt confused and fearful, wondering how it was possible to kill a man and then find him alive, but today he felt beyond danger. Today he felt powerful. He realised the universe he inhabited was so much larger than this Rock, so for today his own universe protected him. It was important to hold on to both feelings, both truths; being here, owning this place, but at the same time being in touch with these powerful universal forces. He could see that being around people brought him down. It had always done so, actually. He loved Eva and Mimi fiercely, but it was still a relief to be alone. Only he could understand the transformation taking place within him.

  In the days that followed, his expeditions began to take longer and he often arrived dishevelled and muddy to the works site. Not that it mattered in the least. It was a place where men worked, and there was no standing on ceremony where clothes were concerned.

  Some days he never made it to work at all.

  *

  There was no-one left in the yard and the sun was about an hour from setting. He walked towards Azzopardi’s hut and saw the man already dialling, with Pavlovian predictability, for his taxi. Sebastian waved and shook his head.

  ‘I need a leg-stretch,’ Sebastian said as he joined the security guard on his doorstep. ‘I think I’ll walk back into town.’

  ‘You shouldn’t really walk through the tunnel, Mr. Luna. They’ve not made provisions for pedestrians. A huge mistake in my view. Look at all the joggers going through there, they’re really risking their necks.’

  The tunnel had been closed for near enough a decade – due to a fatality caused by rock-fall – and since it re-opened it had brought ever more cars and pedestrians to his side of the Rock. ‘You’re so right. I’ll take some other route.’

  Azzopardi peered at him. ‘You’ve got a long way to walk though, the other way around.’

  ‘A man needs his exercise, and while I walk,’ Sebastian tapped his forehead, ‘I work.’

  Azzopardi laughed. ‘They say you’re a genius, Mr. Luna. I’d walk to Sotogrande and beyond, if I could averiguar a way to build a sundeck detras de la casa for my wife.’

  ‘If I have a moment, I could take a look at it,’ Sebastian said. He had grown quite fond of the man, and he hardly ever did anything personal for anybody.

  Azzopardi looked pleased. ‘I’ll bring some photos tomorrow and you could give me some advice.’

  ‘I don’t mind popping by your house if it’s of any help.’ Sebastian patted him on the back. ‘I’d better get started or I’ll be walking the whole way around the Rock in the dark.’

  Azzopardi was clearly touched by the offer. ‘I think I could help in turn,’ he said. ‘I have a friend with a car he doesn’t need and a parking space, very near where you live. He broke his leg at the weekend and can’t drive for at least six months. If you’d like to rent the car and the space, I’m sure he’d be glad for a bit of money to help with his own taxis while he’s recovering.’

  Sebastian looked at him, grateful that this ordinary man wanted to help make his life simpler. In fact he seemed the only friend he had in Gib, bar his family. ‘Listen, Jorge, that’s a very nice offer, but I don’t drive. I haven’t for nearly two decades.’

  ‘Really? How come, Mr. Luna?’

  Sebastian bit his lip. For once, it would actually feel good to confide in someone. ‘I’ll tell you why, so long as you keep it to yourself.’

  Azzopardi looked puzzled, but placed his right hand on his chest. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Good… Well, when I was eighteen I got my licence and my first car. So one morning I took it for a drive in the country. It’s relevant to the story that I had an enemy in my year at college. This guy tormented me constantly over some personal trouble I’d had. He went around and spread rumours. He really victimised me and made my life hell. Also, he nicked my girlfriend who I was besotted with. So early this rainy Sunday, I take the car out to practise my driving. As unbelievable misfortune would have it, my tormentor was himself out on a bicycle; he was a member of the university cycling club and was out for his morning training. He had one of those fancy road bikes with ridiculously skinny tyres. Because of his distinguishing cycling jacket and the fact that
he never wore a helmet, I recognised him as I came up behind him, and he looked back and saw me coming. Well, the impossible happened. It was very wet and slippery, and just before I passed he turned to give me the finger and the action made him slip and lose his balance. When I saw him going down, I slammed on the brakes and swerved away from him. But he’d slid under my front wheels. The bump I drove over was his head. It was crushed and he died instantly.’

  Sebastian stopped for a moment to take a deep breath. The telling brought the impact back to him, the feel and the sound of it, as though it had happened yesterday. ‘It was a very difficult time for me. In fact, I had a nervous breakdown and had a spell in hospital.’

  Azzopardi face was grave and he was shaking his head in sympathy. He put a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. ‘How terrible. I can only imagine the guilt and horror of causing this…to someone you know…and I wouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t in fact worse with someone you dislike.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right. So now you know why I don’t drive. I was too traumatised by the accident to take up driving again, and I still can’t imagine doing it.’

  The temperature had cooled and he half walked, half jogged towards Europa Point. At the roundabout, he turned up Europa Road for the long trek back into town. Cornering the roundabout was the Ibrahim-al-Ibrahim Mosque, an impressive place of worship donated by the King of Saudi Arabia. Sebastian stopped to peer through the iron railings. The beautifully inlaid marble forecourt was empty, and he wondered what King Fahad had been thinking when he chose the location. The mainly Moroccan worshippers would have a hard time getting out here to the very southernmost point of Gibraltar at the end of a day’s labour.

  Just as he turned his eyes towards his destination, a haunting chant issued from the mosque’s tower, calling believers to Salah, the evening prayer. He noted someone walking quickly across the forecourt towards the doors. The brown djellaba looked familiar, especially with its distinctive hood.

  ‘Mohammed!’ Sebastian called down. Of course there were many djellabas and many Mohammeds in the Moroccan community, but he felt sure this was the one he knew.

  The man looked up, removing his hood to see better. It was indeed the young trainee tunnel guide. ‘Mr. Luna,’ he called back.

  ‘Can I come and have a word?’

  It was hard to see his expression, but with obvious hesitation Mohammed waved in assent. Sebastian ran back, following the railings full circle and entered the mosque’s courtyard.

  Mohammed waited for him. As Sebastian walked up the stairs, the man standing there looked a striking sight against the beautiful façade of the mosque. He was a fine-looking young Arab, of Berber blood, probably, short but erect, with a long neck and delicate features. A sudden gust of wind made his djellaba flap dramatically, but at the same time revealed the yellow trainers.

  ‘The Levante,’ said Sebastian. ‘It looks to be a windy night.’

  The sun was setting and the translucent marble floor of the forecourt shone as though it were lit from within.

  ‘What can I do for you Mr. Luna? I’m going to prayer. I can’t talk for long.’ From having been such a deferential presence in the tunnels, here the young man looked very much on home ground.

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ said Sebastian jovially, not sure what to say next.

  He was about to make some comment about their extraordinary day in the depths of the tunnel system and what they’d had the dubious privilege of seeing, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate.

  ‘Can non-Muslims visit the mosque?’ Sebastian asked, stalling for time. ‘I’ve walked past here so many times, I’d love to see the inside.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But it’s always best if you make an appointment to be shown it.’

  ‘Right, I will.’

  ‘I can arrange it for you, if you like. Then I can let you know via Mr. Montegriffo, since you are neighbours.’

  ‘Wonderful. In fact, I wanted to ask you about Carlo Montegriffo…your association with him.’

  ‘What would you want to know, Mr. Luna?’

  What to ask? Really he wanted ask him outright what the hell the man was about. Here was someone who very obviously under Carlo Montegriffo’s authority, the only person he knew who had close contact with the man.

  ‘I heard he was in Both Worlds for a couple of weeks recently. I was worried that he was ill or something.’

  Mohammed looked at him, waiting to hear where this was leading. Sebastian battled with an urge to grab the kid by the shoulders and fire questions at him. Did he know if Montegriffo had some weird syndrome that mimicked death, some transient loss of consciousness or blackouts? He couldn’t get this out of his mind, much as he tried; it just didn’t make sense. He’d killed the guy with his own hands, yet he’d risen from the dead as if he was in some cheap horror movie. And worse…now he was blatantly trying to seduce Mimi, if he hadn’t already.

  ‘Mr. Montegriffo looks very well,’ said Mohammed said at last. ‘You saw for yourself how fit he was the other day, in the tunnels.’

  ‘Yes…yes, he was. Of course! How is the training going? You obviously know a lot about the tunnel system by now, Mohammed. When do you think you’ll be let loose on the French-speaking tourists?’

  ‘Soon, I hope.’

  ‘I thought it was incredibly generous and trusting of Carlo to show us his find. Don’t you?’

  Mohammed nodded but could not hold back a boyish grin. ‘When Mr. Montegriffo goes underground, his pride in his knowledge takes over.’

  ‘You reckon? I still can’t quite understand why he showed us those two corpses. I know about his pride, but wasn’t this find supposed to be shrouded in secrecy?’

  ‘It’s a macho Latin thing, you see?’ said Mohammed. ‘If I know him, he’s regretting it now, but he just couldn’t help himself.’

  ‘Perhaps he just tried to scare the shit out of us,’ said Sebastian, laughing too loudly.

  Mohammed did not look amused. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Or maybe he was going to show us the Operation Tracer bunker but changed his mind and didn’t want to lose face.’

  Sebastian nodded conspiratorially, but Mohammed was drawing back, clearly not sure where this conversation was heading.

  He wondered how to retain the boy for further questioning without sounding creepy and intrusive. ‘Does Carlo have many young trainees and friends? I mean, like you?’

  ‘We are not friends, exactly,’ Mohammed said cautiously. ‘But I owe him very much.’

  Sebastian smiled. ‘Perhaps Mr. Montegriffo sees himself in the role of protector of young people, like a benefactor, right?’

  Mohammed looked at him quizzically.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve met Imogen, my sister?’ Mohammed flinched. A long moment went by without an answer forthcoming, and this pause made Sebastian all the more uneasy. He felt the skin on his neck prickle. ‘So you’ve met my sister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Carlo Montegriffo has begun to take great interest in her welfare…now Imogen is only seventeen years old, and she does misunderstand…’

  ‘I know…nothing about this,’ Mohammed stammered.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What you were asking me.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Sebastian retorted on a hunch.

  ‘Look, it’s Mr. Montegriffo’s kindness,’ Mohammed said hurriedly. ‘He is worried that she might come to harm.’

  Bloody nerve! If Mimi needed that sort of safeguarding (she certainly did now) Montegriffo had no business taking on the job. Anyway, it wasn’t Mimi’s safety that the man was interested in, of that he was sure. Sebastian was about to protest but then looked at the boy’s expression and paused to think. Why did he look so anxious? Carlo must have discussed Mimi with him. Perhaps Carlo was exerting his nefarious power over him as well. If he wanted to know what was going on, he’d better ask the right questions.

  ‘What about you, Mohammed…where are your parents?’

&nb
sp; Mohammed looked wistfully towards his homeland across the strait where the proud summit of Jebel Musa rose. ‘I don’t know right now. They’re itinerant workers in the south of my country, very poor. Mr. Montegriffo has helped them… I am indebted to him very much.’

  Sebastian tried not to frown. Indebted or indentured? ‘How good of him. Is he a personal friend of your family then, or…?’

  ‘I trust him,’ said Mohammed, clearly beginning to sense the darker implications behind Sebastian’s questions. ‘He’s a very respected person in Gibraltar.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He paused again, studying the boy. He’d recently seen an article in the Gibraltar Chronicle concerning a truly sinister type of slave trade; young workers from Morocco, some underaged, were being ‘bought’ from their poverty-stricken parents. A large number were shipped to work illegally in Spain, but a few of them ended up in Gibraltar.

  ‘Mr. Montegriffo is right. I do worry about Mimi. She’s very vulnerable. Perhaps you could keep an eye out. I mean…’ He hadn’t really meant to try and engage Mohammed in anything like that, but maybe this kid could report back, tell him things he needed to know.