by Kitty Sewell
Enjoying a beer in a cosy bar with mainly English-speaking customers, she picked up a local English-language rag. In the Wanted ads she saw a car with UK licence plates for sale. Having wheels would make the future (whatever it held) so much easier. The ad said it was a ‘desperation sale’, so she dialled the number and agreed to meet with Mr. Eccles and his car.
It was with some trepidation that she took three of Mimi’s notes out of the safe in her room. She would give it back, every euro, because she now had an inkling where the money had come from. In her nightly ruminations it had suddenly come to her. Sebastian had mentioned it once: Mimi’s and Sebastian’s father had been well off in his day. The mother had engaged a shark of a divorce lawyer and managed to pocket most of his wealth, and the rest had gone on living expenses and on Sebastian’s education. Left was a paltry trust fund in Mimi’s name, some two or three thousand pounds. It wasn’t totally inconceivable that it had been invested astutely and had grown. A bit unlikely, but the only logical explanation. The trust fund had probably matured on Mimi’s eighteenth birthday, and she’d simply gone and cashed it in. It was an overwhelmingly generous gesture, handing her inheritance over without so much as a need for a thank you.
She took a taxi to the house of Bill Eccles, the desperate car owner. The thoroughly dented thirteen-year-old grey Citroen was perfect for her needs and, after a bit of haggling, they agreed on fifteen-hundred euros. She dug into her bag for the three five-hundred Euro notes and handed them to Mr. Eccles.
‘Oh, no,’ said he, holding his hands up. ‘I can’t take those. Nobody takes those big notes any more, they’re considered suspect; money laundering, and all that. I’ll give you a lift to the bank down the road and they’ll give you change for them.’
‘Can’t you take them to the bank yourself?’ she asked, perplexed.
‘No… I’ve lost my passport, and they ask for it. You’ve got yours on you, I hope.’
She didn’t feel altogether confident about Bill Eccles and this whole transaction, but the car was a bargain and she needed it.
Bill Eccles had been right. With a pinched expression the cashier asked to see Eva’s passport before she even touched the cash. Eva Eriksson’s passport changed hands. Claiming to need a photocopy, the cashier disappeared with it. Little by little Eva began to realise her mistake. She’d spent so many months in the lull of Sebastian’s shadow, she’d lost her edge. Suddenly her theory about Mimi’s multiplying trust fund seemed ever so implausible if not downright naïve. If this money had been stolen or otherwise used in some illegal transaction, the serial numbers would ring bells in some crime-fighting database within seconds, which would lead the law right back to Benalmadena. She realised it was an unlikely scenario; it wasn’t as if Mimi were a big-time outlaw, but even the remote possibility of being caught with dirty money or being the agent of further damage to Mimi’s life made her want to kick herself, and it was too late to change her mind.
After getting her change and giving it to Mr. Eccles, she dropped him off at his house and drove back to the hotel. In her room she began to gather up her things, pack her bag and make sure there was nothing left behind. She was about to grab the key card and go, but then hesitated. Was she being ridiculously over-cautious and in her haste hadn’t thought things through? Firstly, she must try and get hold of Adrian and suggest another meeting place, but how? She didn’t have the number of Jean – his mother – and the idea of talking to her made her recoil in any case. However, Martin, his half-brother, was someone who would pass the message on. He was very different from Adrian and she’d always got on well with him.
Retrieving her laptop from her suitcase, she sat down on the bed and turned it on, then went into Yellow Pages, Big Sur, California. She could have done this weeks ago; Linda wasn’t the only source of information.
Hepping’s Scaffolding Services came up immediately and – one by one – she pressed the numbers into her little mobile.
‘Martin Hepping!’ Her bygone life rushed back to slam into her chest. She tried to steady her breath and her voice.
‘Martin, this is Chantelle… Adrian’s Chantelle.’
There was a pause. ‘Holy shit, Chantelle,’ he yelled. ‘Where might you be?’
‘I’m in Spain, Martin. How are you? How are the kids and Gina?’
‘They’re good, they’re good. And you, girl? How’re you doing?’
‘Listen, Martin. I don’t really have time to chat. I need to ask you about Adrian.’
Again a silence. ‘What about Adrian?’
‘I think he’s in Spain, that’s what he told me over the phone. So I gave him a meeting place and I’ve been waiting for days now. I want to get this over with, Martin, I want a divorce. I know he’s livid. He’s been tormenting me with phone calls for weeks, and it’s got to stop. Listen Martin, you know the reason I left was—’
‘Chantelle… Chantelle…stop! What on earth are you talking about?’
She paused and took a breath. ‘I’m talking about meeting up with Adrian. I’m waiting here in—’
‘Chantelle… Adrian is dead.’
Mimi
It was early morning and Gibraltar had been washed clean by a sudden downpour. She walked quickly through the empty lanes and passages. The pavements were still glistening and she breathed deeply of the cleansed air. The pubs in Irish Town were closed, though last night’s dirty pint glasses still littered the tables behind the windows.
She slowed and took a right up Tuckey’s Lane. There was the barber shop and the betting office and the dark entrance between the two. First she peered into the dilapidated corridor and, as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she entered. She had to turn sideways to get past several flimsy clothes horses covered in discoloured laundry obviously belonging to the male species. A smell of exotic spices permeated the corridor; at least they knew how to feed themselves. She climbed the darkened staircase and knocked on door number 6. His footsteps were light and quick and he opened the door. He was fully dressed and looked surprised, as if he had been expecting someone other than her.
‘Hello, Mohammed,’ she said and kissed him on both cheeks.
‘Imogen!’ He looked troubled but gestured for her to enter. ‘I can’t see you for long. I’m meeting Mr. Montegriffo in ten minutes.’
‘This early? Now what does he want with you? Haven’t you done enough for him?’
‘We’re going down into the tunnels. He wouldn’t like to know you’d been here,’ he said.
‘So don’t tell him.’
‘He wants to be in control of things. You understand, don’t you?’
She ignored his alarm and smiled at him. ‘I keep looking out for your yellow trainers, but I don’t see them anywhere.’
‘I’d protect you with my very life,’ he exclaimed. ‘But I don’t—’
‘Aha,’ she interrupted, ‘only if Mr. Montegriffo tells you to.’
‘No. Absolutely not.’
She stepped forward and hugged him and he responded with feeling, kicking the door shut with his foot. There was nothing sexual about their contact and she was glad. They could be close and look after each other. That’s what they both needed right now.
‘I’m so sorry I’ve not called you. I’ve been so busy working at the mosque,’ he said, his mouth to her ear. ‘I think I might be able to get a permanent job there.’
‘Will it not scupper your job as a guide?’
‘I hope not, but I need money to eat and pay rent, Imogen. I can’t be an unpaid trainee forever.’
‘No, of course. How much do your parents owe Carlo?’
He pushed back the flop of hair over her eye to look at her. ‘I think about six thousand euros, but the interest is high so it’s probably more. Why do you ask?’
She disentangled herself from him and dug in her bag for the envelope. ‘Look, Mohammed. I won’t accept any protests.’ She held out the envelope to him. ‘With this you can free yourself. It’s ten thousand euros. If there is anythi
ng left over, give it to your parents or better still, use it to live on.’
Mohammed frowned, peering at the envelope. ‘What?’
‘Listen now! Ask Carlo to meet you at the Moroccan café on Canon Lane, on some pretext or other, and give the money your parents owe him in front of all the men there, so you have witnesses. Not that I think Carlo is dishonest, but don’t take any chances. Tell him your parents sent the money to you, and they want a receipt.’
He stared at her in disbelief. ‘Imogen…where did you get this money?’
‘You probably won’t believe me, but I found it. It belonged to someone who died. Just take it. I have more, and I don’t need it as much as you do.’
He held up his hands, clearly fearful of the thing she held out to him. ‘You can’t give me all that money. It’s not right.’
She went up to his food table and put it there. ‘I’ll leave it here. Accept it and do as I tell you.’
He came to her and took her gently by the shoulders. ‘You crazy girl. Why are you doing this for me?’
She looked into his dark eyes. They were so innocent yet she saw something old and tired there too. ‘I know what it’s like to be beholden.’
Mohammed nodded.
‘And Mr. Montegriffo?’ he asked after a moment. ‘What do you feel for him?’
‘Nothing romantic, if that’s what you’re wondering.’ She was happy to be able to tell him the truth. ‘He’s been good to me and I hope we stay friends, but that’s all.’
He shook his head. ‘Who says? You or Mr. Montegriffo?
‘It’s my choice, and he has to accept it.’
‘He won’t like that. He won’t accept it.’
His declaration made her uneasy. ‘Never mind. I’m on top of it,’ she said. ‘Let’s worry about you now. You just give him the money, get a receipt, and then ask him to keep training you to be a guide. With all this holy talk, I’d like to see how sincere the guy really is.’
‘Imogen… I have an idea. You could come with me to visit my parents. I’d like to show you my country. You’ll be totally safe with me.’
‘I’d love to, but maybe some other time. For the near future I have to be here for my brother.’
‘In that case I’ll be here for you,’ he said.
Sebastian
He’d not gone to work and his mind had been churning for four days and nights. The clarity that he’d experienced on the night of Eva’s departure had been the most amazing experience of his life apart from his vision as a teenager when he’d seen his brilliant future bared, as though curtains had been drawn aside. It was a gift he possessed, and it had been right both times.
He’d written scores of emails to people to explain what he’d discovered, about truth, about the universe, about his mission. But the clarity had begun to fade into fuzzy confusion. In order to recall the transparency that let him understand everything, he’d stopped taking his medication altogether. It was a case of waiting for the drugs to leave his body so that he could be whole again and transcend any residual limitations.
In the meantime, he continued fretting about Mimi’s safety. He knew he should remove her from Gibraltar. In one of his emails he’d even asked Jane to take her back and keep her safe in the Featherington-Haugh mansion until he found somewhere else where he could take her. Despite the acrimonious mother-daughter relations, surely it should be a safe haven for the vulnerable Mimi, at least until she got over Montegriffo and was out of his degenerate influence.
When not worrying about his sister, he speculated about Eva. What woman would treat her beloved like that? It was one thing to pull a stunt such as not telling him she was already married; it was quite another to abandon him without a good bye nor any explanation. She’d tried to call him a few times, but he had not picked up her calls and she’d soon stopped. A long email followed, trying to explain her actions but he’d already figured out what she was doing. Happier times kept coming back to him, and despite realising he’d misjudged who she was completely, he missed her terribly. She was the stranger he’d always known her to be, but never had courage to question. ‘Love is blind’: a ridiculous saying, but how true!
Mimi was always about, but he couldn’t force her to stay in the apartment. Sometimes he’d lie down on the floor in her bedroom and put his ear to the floorboards. He was sure he could hear her voice in Montegriffo’s apartment. There were sounds of them laughing, and strange moments of silence, Montegriffo grunting and snuffling, wet noises, like a hog foraging in a swamp. He knew better than to run down and kick the door in. He would lose Mimi, and that he could not bear. He could still count on her; she always returned to the apartment. His tearaway little sister had shown herself to be quite caring when he needed her. She saw to it that he ate some food and drank water, tea and juice. She’d even washed and ironed his clothes.
On the fifth morning, he woke from a deep sleep into a surge of renewed vigour. He decided to go back to work and discharge this energy in the way he knew best. Jumping out of bed, he stretched, trying to loosen the stiffness of having lain motionless for hours. His clothes were creased and sweaty. He tore them off and wrapped himself in a towel to go and have a shower. He washed his hair, brushed his teeth and had a thorough shave. Then he got dressed in his usual summer work clothes: dark blue knee-length shorts, a long-sleeved white shirt and sandals.
In the kitchen, he found a note on the table from Mimi: Gone to do some research in the library. Don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ve got my mobile on me so you can call me. He smiled. Research! What a sensible girl she pretended to be. He poured himself a cup of decaf she’d made for him and heated up a pot of porridge she’d left on the cooker.
Getting ready to leave the apartment, he began thinking of the state of the project and another catastrophe came back to him: the Unesco threat. He had completely put it out of his mind. Again, he felt that anger and distress gather in his body, fuelled by the unexpected energy that had befallen him. It was so unfair! While he was being made whole, everything around him was falling apart.
He found his phone and called up Henry Saunders on his private line.
‘Luna here.’
‘Oh yes, Sebastian. How’re you doing?’
‘Not great. What do you know of Gorham’s Cave being designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site?’
There was a brief silence. ‘I’ve tried to call you for four days, and talking to the boys at the site I was told you’ve been lying low. Are you ill or something?’
‘No, I’m not ill. I’m pissed off. So what about it? Is it just a rumour, or is it fait accompli?’
Saunders coughed up a wry laugh. ‘You sure took your time in asking. It’s a very good contender for a heritage site, and the submission is under consideration so it looks as though we might have to down tools for a while. If the project is laid down long term, I think we will recoup most of the moneys paid to the Gibraltar government. But of course, they have other suggestions about how it could be spent, like for example a housing estate on MOD property. It has severe ground stability issues and will need your—’
Sebastian cut him off. ‘So this is under discussion already without me being informed of it? A simple switch to a housing estate with ground stability issues, and you think I’m the man for the job?’
‘Take it easy,’ Saunders said. ‘There is possibly Japan. But you know, with the global economy as it is, it looks like people are biding their time. Big projects are few and far between. Right now I think we should be happy with anything that’s coming our way.’
‘Happy?’ Sebastian exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe you expect me to—’
‘There is no point in getting riled about it,’ Saunders cut in. ‘We’re all in the same boat.’
Sebastian bit his lip hard to stop himself from blurting out something he’d regret. The fucking arrogance of it! The principal engineer being left in the dark, and then told his own project is off and he should be grateful for ‘ground stability issues’ on
a housing estate! He’d never been treated this disrespectfully since he was a junior at his first job.
‘While I’ve got you on the phone, there is something else I’d like to talk to you about,’ Saunders said. ‘Are you having stress-related problems, Sebastian?’
‘Of course I am,’ he responded with gritted teeth. ‘We’re fucking talking about them.’
‘I’m referring to behavioural indiscretions,’ Saunders said, then paused for a second. ‘I’ve had a call from a Gibraltar resident who claims you have harassed and been abusive towards neighbours, including vandalising their property. Apparently the police were involved in one incident.’
‘Don’t even go there, Henry! This guy has had it in for me since day one. Yes, I kicked in his door, but if you know what this guy…’
‘Listen,’ Saunders interrupted. ‘Spare me the details. Take a holiday if you have to. Go away somewhere for a few weeks.’
