by Les Lunt
‘Look on the bright side,’ I said to myself. ‘In a couple of months we could be back…maybe even permanently.’ Such thoughts gave me a wonderful warm feeling.
We returned to London on the Eurostar, both in a somewhat better frame of mind. We had one last drink at the Globe Hotel in Topsham where Carrie held my hand, whispering, ‘soon.’ Then we drove quietly back to Lympstone, I collected my car and drove out to a very depressing cottage.
Sue was watching television. The remains of a Chinese takeaway lay strewn on the floor. A quick kiss on the cheek, (noticing a drop of chop suey sauce which had dribbled on to her chin), then, feigning tiredness, I retired to bed and dreamed of Paris.
Next morning I was due at another base near Taunton. I would once again be attached to 42 Commando. Our overseas embarkation plans were kept secret. Families, of course, knew where and when we would be going, even the television people were there, but the news would be broadcast long after we were on our way to Brize Norton airfield.
All too soon we were at the Well House Inn in Exeter for our last meal together. Carrie looked divine. There would of course be a ‘Dining In’ night in the mess, a chance to meet my brother officers from Bickleigh and Taunton but. as it would be a formal dinner, there would be little chance of meeting up with Carrie. On this occasion it was lunch of course. After that we drove across to Barnstaple where our, you see, there I go, saying ‘our’ lawyer, had made a magnificent job of the will. He asked to see ‘Sue’s’ passport, which he held in his hand for a moment while telling us about a fishing trip he had just been on with his dad. He placed it upside down in the photocopier and then passed it back to Carrie without even looking at it. My passport and Mess bill were passed back without comment. I could have said my name was Prince Harry and I don’t think he would have noticed.
Witnessed and signed, the will was secreted in my room in the Mess. The next job was to ‘lose’ Sue’s real will. No problem. What dirty tricks men get up to! The following afternoon was spent in bed and by the time I was getting ready to go across to the Mess for dinner there was a message for me from the girl who tends our horses. Sue was ‘poorly’ again. I dashed to the cottage only to find Sue tucked up in bed, comforted by a small box of supermarket chocolates. It had come to that: she was eating rubbish. I would have to alter that! I would not have my wife eating cheap chocolate!
Sue was lonely and depressed. Suicidal? I hoped not, since I wasn’t sure where that would leave the will. Fortunately, she soon cheered up. After all, it was my duty to keep her happy. I promised to stay with her that night, which proved to be not too much of a chore. I drove into Topsham and ordered a takeaway meal. When I got back I found there was a bottle of my favourite wine, Vouvray, still in the fridge.. What more could a man ask for? Dining with a millionairess, a bottle of fine wine (perfectly chilled of course); a large portion of sweet and sour king prawns for Sue, followed by char sui with special fried rice and a large tub of curry sauce on the side. I nibbled at some shredded chicken and just a little boiled rice: after all, one has to be careful and king prawns are notoriously high in cholesterol. A second bottle of Vouvray followed. It was then time for bed.
My time at the cottage was not wasted since I was able to retrieve Sue’s will from the den. Before she waved me off, she slipped a small parcel through the car window.
‘Shall I open it now I asked?’
‘Wait until Afghanistan,’ she said. I could see tears in her eyes. As I drove away I watched her in the rear view mirror. My, my! How she had put on weight!
Just how to ‘dispose’ of Sue still evaded me. A conventional murder was totally out of the question. I would have to rely on fair nature, with a little help from me. Oh, I forgot to mention, before leaving I had replaced all of Sue’s Nitro patches with Nicotine patches. Carrie’s medical knowledge really came to the fore here: she estimated just a couple of weeks.
Meanwhile, I was soon entrenched in a mud wall compound in Nahr-e-Saraj District of Helman Province. Thankfully it was the Marines who went out on the patrols, not me; well, not too often. My role was intelligence. I liaised with local Afghanistan interpreters and only occasionally was required to venture out on patrol. On previous occasions I would have enjoyed the challenge. Now I was acutely aware that I didn’t want to die from a Taliban bullet or an IED before collecting my money.
Four weeks into the tour the call came through and I was airlifted out. Sue had been taken very ill and collapsed while out shopping in Exeter. She had been admitted to The Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital. By the time I reached the ward she looked awful. In fact when I entered the room I was quite sure she was already dead. For sure, she was unconscious. Surreptitiously I checked her arm for the nicotine patch, there was none. I quickly checked her admission medical records. There was no mention of a patch, presumably either the nurse admitting her had removed it or Sue had not bothered to put a patch on that morning: either way it was good news. I swiftly adhered a patch to her left arm; it was barely noticeable under the folds of fat.
Sue died that night, having never recovered consciousness. Feigning grief, I moved back into the cottage. Carrie, meanwhile, had kept a very low profile.
Two days after Sue’s funeral, I resigned my commission. I could see no point in putting myself in unnecessary danger. Two weeks later Carrie resigned her commission and a few weeks after that we put the cottage on the market and left to live in Spain. Our plan was coming to fruition.
After three weeks I thought it about time to invoke the will. I was so pleased to hear that Kevin had ‘moved on’. Exactly where to, I never discovered, nor did I bother to ask. Everything was in order and, after watching me sign a few documents, Mr Ian Harding shook my hand and repeated his most sincere condolences. I left the Barnstaple office nearly three million pounds richer.
*
We married in Spain. It was a romantic wedding with only one guest, Carrie’s father, Charlie. There was no need for a honeymoon: where would we want to go? We were already in one of the most beautiful parts of Spain. We had bought a four- bedroomed villa with a large pool and, my personal dream, a private orange grove. I planned to sell the oranges through the local co-operative.
Alongside the pool there were rooms used as changing rooms, a large outdoor kitchen, a shower, and a barbeque. Various brightly-coloured sunbeds were scattered around.
We soon slipped into a very pleasant routine. Carrie had taken up oil painting. She had joined a local art group run by a Spanish teacher who encouraged the group to take their easels into the hills and pueblos to paint the old ‘fincas’ or farmhouses. Several of her paintings now adorned the interior of the villa: her best effort to date was a painting of a valley with the almond trees in full blossom.
*
For a long time I lay beside the pool, watching our Spanish gardener sweeping leaves from the pool edge. Carrie joined me: she had an armful of holiday brochures. She kissed me and settled down beside me .She looked eatable, bronze from months in the sun. Ximo the Spaniard gathered the leaves and placed them in a barrow and wheeled it to a tall round concrete construction at the bottom of the garden which served as a ‘hoguera’ (bonfire).
Carrie was speaking to somebody, I could hardly turn my head to see who it was. I managed to grunt a few words but she ignored me. She spread out the brochures around the pool chair. I heard her say something about the Seychelles rather than the Caribbean.
The sun was climbing high in the sky by now and I was uncomfortably hot. Carrie now heard my grunts and called to Ximo, the gardener. He carefully placed a sun umbrella over me to provide welcome shade.
*
Carrie was looking at Caribbean cruises. Was I interested? Yes, I suppose I was. I liked that part of the world, but she wasn’t asking me. I was not to be included in this cruise. It was nearing the time for my meal. I heard the sound of a car and lay waiting for Maria to arrive: she was never late, three times a day my carer called at the villa. She brought the hoist across to the
pool and skilfully lifted me into the wheelchair, then wheeled me across to the shade of the terrace where she proceeded to put a bib on me and prepared to feed me.
Carrie meanwhile had packed her brochures away and was standing under the pool shower, cooling off. I turned my head to see Ximo opening the gates again. This time it was for Kevin. I watched Carrie touch Kevin. It was the tender type of touch, caring, with rather too much passion: they were clearly in love.
Just what she did to me I shall never know. I should have been more careful. Maria approached. She smiled.
‘Time for your injection,’ she said.
I could hear Kevin and Carrie cavorting in the pool. Later, they stretched out on the sunbeds and I heard Kevin say something about making a new will.
Yes, I thought. I suppose you ought to make a Spanish will. After all, if anything were to happen to me…
The End
Assumptions…
al-Qaeda ? Nothing is as it first seems….
The economic climate in Britain was certainly having an effect on our business, ‘Holiday Villas for You’. Normally by the end of April we would be fully booked but looking at this year’s bookings on the web-site I was quite despondent. In fact, looking at the picture of the villa on the Internet I began to wonder if we would ‘go under’ this year.
We needed the money. Having sold up in England, with the sole intent of running a ‘holiday let’ business, we had invested every penny in our villa. For three years it was successful and we made a lot of money in the summer. A local cleaning company did the changeovers and Tommy, a local Welsh guy, looked after the pool while we went off to Italy, to my wife’s parents’ place near Lake Garda. This year we would be doing the cleaning and changeovers ourselves to save money.
Francesca drew my attention to the latest booking. It was a good one, the last two weeks in June, prime weeks, an income potential of nearly £2,000.
‘But look at the names!’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘They’re foreign.’
‘So what? I’m foreign, you’re foreign: we live in Spain!’
‘Yes, I know, but these are Asian. Look.’
The names of Mohammed Bin Shakara, Abdul al-Latif and Mohammed Yacine stared out at me, names that represented nearly two thousand quid. What was the problem? I checked the telephone number, it was a mobile. Suspicious? Okay it was a bit suspicious, most of our British clients provided a home number as standard but hey, not everyone has a land line these days. I checked how many others were included in the party. Just three. Three males. Then a little warning voice did pop into my head.
Francesca stood behind me.
‘I don’t like it,’ she said. ‘They could be Islamic terrorists.’
The memory of the Madrid bombings came into mind. Francesca and I often travel to Madrid.
‘al-Qaeda?’
‘Could be, I suppose.’
‘Do we report it to the police?’
‘What for? For booking two weeks holiday? There’s no law against anyone with an Asian name booking a holiday.’
‘But.’
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘we need the money and we don’t judge people by their name. Do we?’
‘We go ahead then?’
‘S’pect so.’
‘You do agree don’t you? We do need the money, don’t we?’
Francesca looked at me.
‘We are overdrawn at the bank. Federico the manager is very kind and he is taking an enormous risk with us. Bookings are really down on previous years, then again, most holiday lets in the valley are feeling the pinch. Then there’s a bill due from Iberdrola, our electricity could be cut off, very embarrassing if we have guests here.’
‘And the pool wouldn’t pump.’
‘You mean the pump wouldn’t work?’
‘No pool. Go for it, book ‘em in. Oh and by the way, ask for a large deposit.’
*
One week later I was checking the web-site. Orders were beginning to come in: perhaps we might have a good year after all. That afternoon, the full amount due from our Asian guests popped into our NatWest account in England.
We don’t often have rain in Spain, in fact in our particular valley the number of annual recorded days of sunshine is around three hundred. But as it happened it was raining on the night I decided to check out our Asian guests.
First of all, MI6 have a web-site. I tapped out a simple note to MI6 with the basic info. and a query, ‘What should I do?’ I heard nothing from them. It began to worry me. The following morning I was sweeping around the pool when I noticed a car parked at the end of the lane. We live in a narrow cul-de-sac and it is rare for cars to venture down this far. I kept an eye it. I finished the sweeping and gathered the leaves and placed them into the wheelbarrow, one eye now continuously on the car.
I could see someone sitting there and I could hear the engine running. Whoever it was had the aircon on. It was a warm day, sure enough. The next job on the list was to vacuum the pool. This took me about an hour, still with one eye on the car. I cleaned the filters. He or she was still there when a second car arrived. I watched with interest. The car which had been stationary moved forward while the second car manoeuvred around so that they were parked parallel to each other. Then one of the drivers stepped out of the second car and leaned in through the other’s window, obviously familiar with the driver. It was clear we were the subject of their conversation.
After about ten minutes the first car set off, leaving the second in position to do whatever he came to do.
At eleven p.m. it was dark and I watched another car, its headlights on full as it swept past the villa. Next morning at 10 o’clock yet another car arrived. It took up position just like the day before: again, this car was relieved by a second one at around 3: 00 p.m. What the hell was going on?
I watched all of this with interest. Had my MI6 missive stirred up a hornets nest? I was tempted to ask the driver to account for himself but British reserve prevailed. I mentioned what I had done to Francesca and she was horrified. Just then a Guardia Civil car arrived: it was the large 4x4-type truck, probably a Land Cruiser, which the Guardia use around the hills and mountains of our region. I dashed inside the villa and grabbed my field glasses which I usually kept handy for bird watching.
One of the Guardia stepped out of the truck; I could see him tapping his revolver holster, probably ensuring his weapon was at the ready. His colleague stood watching. He was in radio contact with someone, presumably his control. The first officer approached the car. It was then that I noticed another car coming up the lane, this time a police car. It stopped beside the Guardia Civil truck. Words were spoken, two more officers got out and more words were spoken. From my position at the villa, they all seemed very friendly towards each other.
Nobody in the first car moved. I watched the officer indicate to the driver to lower the car window. Words were spoken and, very soon, the Guardia officer returned to his truck. He spoke to his driver and had a word with the officers in the police car. It took all of five minutes for the two police vehicles to turn their car and truck in the narrow lane. Through the glasses I could see a woman in the car she was talking on her mobile. I suppose if the police were satisfied with her presence, there was little I should worry about. But who was she and what was her business?
Two days later I mowed the front lawn and finished painting the front of the villa. I was up the ladder when I noticed a guy outside the gates looking in. I decided to investigate as few people venture this far down the lane and, to be honest, he looked a bit suspicious. I stepped away from the ladder and turned to find that he was already walking away. Now, we do get foreign workers looking for jobs; cutting hedges, trimming the palm trees, even offering to maintain the pool. Most of them are Bulgarians or even Russians, but this guy was obviously from north Africa, probably Algeria or Morocco. Given the goings on of the past few days I was more than suspicious. He couldn’t be one of the workers who pick the
oranges as there were none to pick, yet: the oranges wouldn’t appear in this valley until October. We’d enjoyed the orange blossom in March and then the soil surrounding the trees was channelled ready for irrigation in the summer with ‘agricultural water’. Who then was he? I wondered.
This really put the frighteners on Francesca: first the watchers, then the Guardia, then the police and now this stranger. I told her she was getting paranoid, but then so was I. The police didn’t appear to have any concerns about the people watching the villa, or were they watching our villa?
While having a beer in the local bar I mentioned the situation to Julio, my neighbour. He’s the bar owner in the local village. I wasn’t reassured when he shared my concern. He had lost a friend in the Madrid bombings. He slowly shook his head.
‘Ten cuidado, mi amigo. Ten mucho cuidado,’ he said. (‘Be careful my friend, be very careful.)
‘Los moros,’ he kept repeating. ‘Los moros.’
The Moors. I suppose for many good reasons the Spanish have a lot of respect for the ‘moros’, the Moors. After all, the Spanish inherited Spain from them; an Islamic nation that brought culture, art and the sciences to the Iberian peninsula. They built beautiful buildings, tamed and cultivated the landscape and produced the finest of wines. We owe a lot to the Moors. Secretly, Julio agreed. Nevertheless he warned, ‘Ten cuidado.’
Julio checked the names of our Asian guests which I had scribbled on a scrap of paper.
‘India, no. Africa, si.’
He stared at the list.
‘Estos nombres, African. Moroc y Argelia.’
I looked blank and he tried in English.
‘Argelino.’ I then understood. Algerian and Moroccan.
Jeeze, what had we done? Visions of 9/11 flashed through my mind; aircraft crashing into buildings, the smoke, the fire, the falling man. My God! I was too scared to tell Francesca. To reinforce my fear, that day the local ‘Bay Radio’ station news from Benidorm had a segment on atrocities in Africa. An Islamic group called Boko Haram had murdered twenty Christians attending church in Nigeria. I groaned. Just what had we done?
