by Nesta Tuomey
Fernando shrugged. ‘I did my National Service with the Spanish Air Corps and I hold a commercial pilot’s licence.’
Terry looked at him with new interest. ‘Say, that’s great. It never occurred to me... I mean I thought ... ‘
Fernando smiled. ‘Do not take your eyes off the road.’
Terry grunted and settled his hands in a fresh grip on the wheel. They travelled on in friendly silence. Fernando nodded soberly through the window as they sped up along the road leading into Ronda. ‘That is the gorge where the Republicans flung the townspeople to their death during the civil war in our country.’
Claire looked out the window and shuddered as she imagined the falling figures and the screams.
‘To stand on the Puente Neuvo will give you some idea of the Ronda’s towering position,’ Fernando was saying. ‘It is the first thing tourists do.’
‘Looks jolly high.’ Terry spared a glance. ‘Hey! ‘That’s an idea. When we find this Miguel maybe we should toss him off the cliff.’
‘Very appealing,’ Fernando agreed, ‘But in Spain I fear you cannot take the law into your own hands or you will find yourself in grave trouble.’ He raised his hand. ‘Stop here, por favor.’
Terry parked the big car by the side of the Plaza and switched off the engine. He sat and glowered in silence.
Fernando glanced behind at Claire with an understanding smile. ‘On a lighter note, it may be of interest to know that one of Spain’s greatest bullfighters, Antonio Ordonez, was born here in Ronda.’
‘Oh yes?’ Claire asked absently, anxiously regarding the back of Terry’s head. She supposed their brief truce had been too good to last.
Fernando unclipped his seat-belt. ‘Actually, the Ronda school of bullfighting is held to be bullfighting at its purest. Nowhere else are matadors trained with such high emphasis on skill and courage.’
‘How very interesting,’ Terry said sarcastically. ‘This is beginning to sound more and more like a guided tour of Ronda.’
Fernando looked at him. ‘You feel we should not speak of anything but your sister?’
Terry frowned. ‘I’m conscious of how long it is since we last heard from her. Something very bad could have happened to her. Yes,’ he said consideringly, ‘I would be happier if we could cut all this tourist crap and go find her.’
Claire winced for Terry’s rudeness while, at the same time, feeling a sneaking sympathy with his views.
‘By all means let us not delay any further.’ Fernando held out his hand imperiously for the car keys.
Terry got out of the car and stalked up the street. Fernando paced after him, with his hands behind his back and his chin in the air. Claire sighed and followed them both. She wished they would hurry up and find Sheena and they could all go back to Nerja.
After a while Fernando unbent enough to tell them he had elicited the name of a person in Ronda who might be able to help them. Happily, he seemed to have unlimited contacts.
It was nearing eight o’clock that evening before they met their contact, who to Claire’s shock, turned out to be a woman. The Spaniard insisted on being paid before she would speak and then revealed that Sheena was being kept a prisoner by Delgado in a room over the bar of a local hostelry.
Claire, feeling a little sick, was unable to repress a shiver of fear and disgust. All at once her arm was gripped and, looking around, she found Terry close behind her.
‘The bloody swine,’ he said fiercely, his eyes bright with unshed tears, ‘When I get my hands on him he’ll wish to God he’d never been born.’
Claire looked up at him and nodded vehemently, a lump in her own throat. For a moment they stared wordlessly at each other, united by an overwhelming surge of love and loyalty for Sheena, and family and the past.
Later that night Terry and Claire went with Fernando to the bar in question and waited inside the door while he approached the counter. The room was full of men and in one corner a long-haired musician played a guitar, his frenzied shrieks splitting the air. Close to him another proudly postured, his heels drumming the floor. Cigar smoke hung thickly over the room.
Fernando glanced back and motioned to Terry to take Claire out again. When they were gone he ordered a beer and sipped it slowly, for he had recognised Miguel almost at once in a group of men squatting about the guitarist. Although Fernando knew the man by sight, he was reassured when he deliberately held the other man’s gaze and saw him glancing past without recognition.
Miguel deliberately let his own eyes slide past Fernando. He had already spotted him in the town that afternoon, so he was not surprised to see him now. Miguel had his contacts too and been warned that Alejandro’s brother was on his trail. Of Alejandro himself Miguel had neither seen nor heard anything since their furious exchange of words. The money owing to him had not been repaid but Miguel considered that he had already been amply rewarded by the opportunity to bring down the proud young man. As for the more senior member of that arrogant Gonzales family...
Miguel sniffed contemptuously at the naivety of his pursuer in expecting to pass unnoticed driving about Gibraltar in his flashy Mercedes. He had seen it too often in Nerja, and even driven in it on occasion with Alex, not to recognise it at once sticking out like a sore cock on a virgin.
Miguel waited until Fernando had paid for his drink then he got to his feet and went out to the back, as if to urinate. He paused in the shadowy passage, aware that Fernando was following him and when the man had gone past into the open, he lingered in the gloom until he judged it long enough for the other Spaniard to have gone back inside or given up.
‘Qué imbécil!’ Miguel sneered, and slouched back along the passage congratulating himself on outwitting his stupid countryman. But as soon as he stepped back into the light he realised his mistake.
Sheena came out of a doze in the darkened room and lifted her head at the tempestuous far-off sound of flamenco, the staccato shrieks and wildly drumming heels inspiring in her a feeling of dread. The nightmare was beginning all over again. She felt hysteria swiftly rising as she anticipated the sinister shuffle outside her room and the grating key in the lock, the coarseness and brutality which inevitably followed.
She had not long to wait and when hands fumbled the door handle, fresh tears of agony and despair slid from under her swollen eyelids and she huddled on the mattress and frantically rocked backwards and forwards. No! No! No!
‘Oh God,’ she prayed brokenly. ‘Please, please!’
Slowly, the door pushed open and, despite the futility of flight, Sheena scrambled off the bed and fled sobbing to crouch in an alcove cupboard
She clawed over the flimsy door in a feeble effort to conceal herself and as the footsteps drew nearer and came to a stop at the other side, she stuffed her hand into her mouth and chewed on the already raw and bleeding flesh to gag her screams.
Terry hovered with Claire at the entrance to the bar, undecided what he should do. ‘I feel Sheena is somewhere near,’ he told her anxiously. ‘I’ve got to find her before that bastard moves her again.’
Claire shivered and nodded. It felt good to have Terry confide in her again and see his gaze soften when he looked at her. She knew she would never be able to tell him about the baby because that would be like trying to stake a claim to him, but she was happier than she been for a long time.
Terry gripped her hand. ‘Claire, you’d better go back to the car. I’m going to scout about inside while Fernando keeps Delgado occupied.’
Claire shook her head. ‘No. I’m staying with you,’ she said firmly. ‘We’ll look for her together.’
When he saw that she was determined, he wasted no more time. ‘Come on then.’ He led the way round the side of the pub and ducked inside a doorway. Claire peered after him. There was a stairway leading to the next floor and already Terry was going up it. She quickly followed.
Terry tried the handle on the door nearest to him and the door opened easily. He peered inside but the room was empty except for a sa
gging bed covered by a fringed rug. He approached another door as Claire tiptoed near.
‘Look,’ she whispered. ‘There’s a key in the lock.’
They stared into each other’s eyes on the dim landing, and then Terry turned the key and cautiously opened the door. From below came a fresh burst of flamenco singing and the rattling thud of many heels. With a warning nod for Claire to stay where she was and watch out, Terry slipped into the room.
At first, he thought there was no one there and was about to withdraw, when he heard a piteous gasping whimper in the gloom.
His nerves on edge, Terry stepped deeper into the room and glanced about him. The noise was coming from a cupboard in an alcove between the window and the bed. He braced himself and flung wide the door. At once the sound ceased. As Terry stared down at what looked like a bundle of clothing in the corner, he saw it move and was conscious of eyes in the swollen bruised face regarding him in terror. For a second he did not recognise his sister and when he did, he was horrified. He dropped on his knee and cradled her fiercely against his chest.
‘Oh Shee, thank God to find you. Thank God you’re all right.’
She stared up at him in blind terror, and her unrecognising stare was more unnerving than her bruised and bloodied flesh. Then she began to scream and struggle in his arms and when he tried to hold her she fought him.
‘Sheena!’ Terry gripped her arms and shook her hard. ‘Stop! It’s me...Terry!’ She calmed, pulled back to look up at him, really seeing him, and the mad light faded from her eyes.
‘Terry!’ Sheena quavered, through swollen lips. ‘Is it really you? ‘ She clung to him piteously, her tears soaking his shirt. ‘Oh ‘Terry, I thought you’d never come... I’d given up hope.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have,’ he told her with gruff tenderness. ‘You must have known I’d find you, no matter what.’ He looked down and saw the raw mangled fingers clutching his shirt, the fresh blood leaving bright streaks on the cloth, and his anger and revulsion overcame him. What terrible things had been done to her? The thought made him shake and he forced himself to remain calm and continue to hold and soothe her, fighting his urge to rush below and vent all his hatred on the man responsible. Gradually she grew quieter, blubbering softly as she lay against him.
‘Shee...’ Terry was desperately conscious of the time. ‘Listen, we’ve got to move it. Now! At once.’ He pulled her gently to her feet and she staggered and nearly fell. He lugged her across the room, half-carrying her in his anxiety to be gone before they were discovered. In the doorway he collided with Claire, who had nervously come to see what was keeping him. She gave a cry of joy at the sight of Sheena.
‘Sheena, thank God. Are you all right?’
‘Claire. Oh, Clairey.’ Sheena began to cry again, pitiful jerking sobs and the two girls clung to each other. Terry had to forcibly separate them.
‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Save it for later. We’ve got to get out of here.’
Downstairs there was another tempestuous burst of sound, followed by shouting and clapping. The eternal strumming began again. Supporting Sheena between them, Terry and Claire went out to the dim landing, avoiding each other’s eyes, embarrassed and filled with aching pity. Half-way down the stairs Sheena’s knees suddenly gave and she sagged between them.
‘I can’t.... Oh please...’ She looked up at them pathetically and with her damaged hand held against her bruised lips, began to weep.
Claire crouched down on the step and put her arms comfortingly about her. ‘It’s all right, Shee... it’s all right,’ she told her gently. ‘Take a rest. You’ll be okay in a minute.’ She looked beseechingly at Terry, willing him to understand, and continued to soothe Sheena until she gulped and indicated she was ready to go on.
They reached the bottom without encountering anyone and made their way out of the building. Terry went part of the way up the lane with the girls and pointed out the road they must take to reach the car, then he gently detached Sheena’s clinging arms and turned to go back.
‘Tell Fernando to get clear of the town and wait by the roadside,’ he told Claire tersely. ‘I’ll be after you just as quick as I can.’
She was about to protest, but Terry gripped her arm urgently. ‘Please do as I say, Claire,’ he begged. ‘And get Sheena back to the car before she collapses.’ With a last whispered, ‘Good girl,’ he sprinted back to the pub.
Claire had to exert all her strength to support Sheena up the street. As they drew near Claire saw Fernando pacing up and down beside the Mercedes. He turned when he heard her calling him, and stared in amazement.
‘Madre de Dios!’ he exclaimed, and ran forward to help her support Sheena the last few yards to the car.
The singing in the bar had stopped and a card game was in progress. Miguel sat slumped at the counter, a glass of brandy on the counter before him. He swallowed it in one gulp and lit a cigarette, so deep in thought that he did not notice eyes watching him from the doorway. He was still thinking of his encounter with Fernando. He would have liked to have felt only contempt for this soft-featured brother of Alejandro Gonzalez, but he would not soon forget the way the man had suddenly come at him out of the shadows.
Miguel regarded the tip of his cigarette gloomily. For all his soft looks the older Gonzalez brother had dealt him a blow like iron in the solar plexus. Too late he had remembered that this was the brother who had been a pilot in one of the toughest squadrons in Madrid. When Gonzalez had threatened him with removal of his cojones followed by disembowelling and incarceration in a Spanish gaol, Miguel had shuddered and almost given way. Now he bolstered his flagging spirits with more brandy and decided he would ditch the bimbo and move on tonight. But first one more drink for the road. He flicked his long nails against the glass.
‘Carlos Primero.’
The barman laughed. ‘Only the best for Delgado, eh.’ He poured the brandy and leaned closer. ‘You have a customer awaiting you above in the room,’ he murmured as Miguel tossed it back. ‘A fine young Inglés,’ adding slyly, ‘Business is looking up for us both.’
Miguel frowned at this reminder of his obligation and threw the barman his cut, conscious he was running very low on money. What bad luck they had been forced to leave Estepona, Miguel thought, as he stumbled up the stairs. Word had quickly spread about the Inglesa and there had been a knock on the door every five minutes. He could have been rich if he had not been forced to move on.
The door to the room stood ajar. Miguel smiled at such impatience. That was good. The Inglés would be willing to pay more for his satisfaction. Maybe he was already hard at it. More strength to his cock. Miguel swaggered inside.
Terry heard the footsteps on the stairs and moved swift and soundless to take up position behind the door. He stood tensed as the steps drew nearer, swamped with pity and rage at the memory of Sheena’s terrified whimpers, her abused flesh. He thought of the indignities and atrocities she had endured and felt as though his heart would break.
‘Qué pasa, has she gone into hiding again?’ Miguel advanced smiling over the threshold, his gaze seeking out the corners of the shadowy room. ‘Do not be shy. Come out my little whore.’
A cold, murderous rage possessed Terry. He came swiftly and silently from behind the door and brought his hand down in a lethal, chopping motion on Miguel’s neck. The man dropped. Terry swiftly bent over him and searched through his pockets. He took the keys to the sports car and slipped them in his own pocket then waited for the Spaniard to come round.
After a moment Miguel groaned and tried to sit up. At once Terry caught him in an armlock and forced him on to his feet. There was a look of surprise and fear on the Spaniard’s face as he looked behind at his attacker and recognised him as the young man he had seen in the town that afternoon with Fernando. Miguel was under the impression that Fernando was behind this attack and it was to him they were now going, as Terry forced him in front of him down the stairs.
The barman looked up as Terry passed the door
with Miguel and he waved and called jovial greetings at the sight of another satisfied customer being escorted off the premises.
‘If time allows I will come back for you,’ Terry promised savagely, and prodded Miguel in front of him out the door. The Lamborghini was in an alley behind the pub. He gave Miguel the keys and kept his arm hooked under the Spaniard’s jaw as he drove. When they were out the road by the ravine he told Miguel to stop the car then reached forward and took the keys from the ignition.
‘Get out.’
Miguel got out of the car and looked about him, fully expecting to see the Mercedes parked on the roadway. When he realised that the way was clear he was surprised, then relieved. So it was to be just the two of them. Very well. This young Inglés would get more than he had reckoned. As they began the walk on to the cliff he suddenly turned on his captor with suddenness and ferocity. Miguel was strong and he tore at Terry’s face with his overgrown nails
Taken by surprise, Terry went over backwards with Miguel on top, and tried to protect his eyes. In size the two men were fairly evenly matched. If Terry was the taller by an inch or two, Miguel weighed ten pounds heavier. They were both big but Terry had the advantage on the Spaniard. He was lean and fit and in the peak of physical health. Terry’s fists were hard and punishing as they smashed into the man’s face.
‘This is for you, Sheena,’ he panted, venting all his anger and revulsion. ‘And this!’ Realisation dawned in Miguel’s pale eyes and his bruised lips stretched in a smile.
‘So the whore is your sister,’ he said thickly. ‘Let me describe to you then the clever tricks she does.’ A stream of obscenities poured from his split, bleeding mouth.
Terry wished he had taken a chance and brought his army pistol into Spain with him. He would have thrust it in the lewd face and blasted the vileness away. A little crazy, he pounded the face under him until it pulped red and grotesque.
Miguel’s eyes in the fleshy mask stared murderous hate and he reached into this boot for the knife he always kept there. Terry caught the knife hand at the wrist, holding it low down and trying to deflect the thrust as Miguel lunged forward. But he dodged too late and the blade sliced into his neck, drawing blood in a steady stream. He was aware of the warm, wet trickle and feared his injury was bad, but he was in it now to the death.
