I had left the bedroom shutter open, just a crack, but it was enough to wake me when the sun rose high enough to hit it. I felt refreshed, and hungry again, so I slipped on a knee-length T-shirt . . . nightshirt, really . . . and trotted upstairs. I dug out a couple of slices of bread from one of the loaves in the freezer . . . I had transferred the butter to the fridge the night before . . . stuck them in the toaster and pressed the lever down. Rather than wait for it to pop, I filled the electric kettle, from a five-litre flagon of drinking water that I’d found beside the detergent, and set it to work.
It was just coming to the boil, and I had just finished buttering the toast, when I heard a loud thump on the front door. My heart vaulted into my mouth; a slice of breakfast stopped halfway there. I froze, not knowing what to do, and so in effect doing nothing. Which was not what the people at the door wanted. Another bang, and a shout. ‘Open. Police!’
‘Oh my God,’ I said, aloud, reverting to my native language in my moment of crisis. ‘How the fuck . . .’ What options were open to me? Go back downstairs and get away through the garden? But was there an exit that way? I didn’t know. Try and wait them out? They didn’t sound like the types who’d go away before they battered the door down. Open the door and take what was coming?
The way I saw it I didn’t have a choice. I walked through to the living room, shouting, ‘I’m coming, be patient,’ in Spanish, then throwing the door open. Two officers stood there, in uniform, big guys, looking belligerent, guns on their hips . . . on their hips but not in their hands, I registered. ‘Yes?’ I barked at them, deciding that it was better to attack than flutter my eyelashes.
They didn’t take kindly to that; some cops don’t. One put his hand on the butt of his pistol; the other one snapped, ‘That your car outside? That ancient little blue thing?’
‘Not exactly,’ I replied.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ the pig . . . that is not meant to be the insulting noun often applied to police officers; this guy was a male chauvinist, impure and very simple . . . sneered.
As he spoke, I thought I heard a sound behind me, the sound of a door opening.
‘It means it’s mine,’ said a deep, familiar voice. ‘So tell me what your fucking problem is and leave my girlfriend alone.’
He walked past me, dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt that I’d never seen before, his wide shoulders filling the narrow doorway as he squared up to the two cops. They backed off straight away. Able to look at them more calmly, I saw that they were from the city force, and not of the considerably more authoritative Guardia Civil. ‘You shouldn’t be parked there,’ the non-pig explained.
‘It’s my house. Am I blocking anyone’s way?’ He stepped out into the street, forcing them to move away from the door.
‘No, but . . .’
‘No, but nothing; I’ve been parking there for years. You ask Jorge Lavorante; he’ll tell you that.’
Both cops seemed to flinch at the name. ‘One of your tyres is nearly bald,’ Porky chipped in, as if he was determined to get out of there with some sort of a result.
‘Thanks for pointing it out. I’ll replace it today.’ He kept moving, ushering them towards the Suzuki. ‘Let me show you the papers and insurance documents for the car; they’re in the glove box, and they’re all valid.’
‘We’ll take your word for it,’ said the kosher cop.
‘Thanks. Now if there’s nothing else you want to bother us about, my breakfast has a greater call on me than you guys.’
Piggy gave him a look, but not for long; he followed his mate to the patrol vehicle and they reversed it out of there.
He turned and came back towards me. I was standing just inside the doorway, stunned, speechless. I’d spoken to him less than a day before, and he’d said nothing about flying down to L’Escala. ‘Sorry for the surprise,’ he said, smiling. He needed a shave. I’d never seen his full eight o’clock shadow before; it looked good on him. ‘I got in very late. I guessed you’d be asleep, so I was very careful not to wake you when I came downstairs.’
As I looked at him, I remembered my thoughts in the Paseo de los Tristes, and the resolutions I’d made. ‘Maybe I wouldn’t have minded if you had,’ I murmured.
His eyes widened as he looked at me. I’d taken him aback.
‘Gerard,’ I began, ‘I can’t bottle things up any longer; and I sense that you can’t either. We have to talk, you and I.’
And then he laughed; he put his head back and roared with laughter. I felt the heat rush to my face.
‘He didn’t tell you,’ he chuckled. ‘The innocent, unworldly idiot didn’t tell you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I exclaimed, truly bewildered. ‘Who didn’t tell me what? Gerard, for . . .’
‘I’m not Gerard,’ he said. ‘I’m Santiago, Santi, his brother. His twin brother.’
It’s funny, but looking back, as soon as he said it, I knew; I saw all the little differences, the hair cut slightly shorter, the signet ring on his right hand, the Breitling watch on his left wrist, not the Tissot that was all Gerard would allow me to buy him the Christmas before, when I’d suggested a Tag Heuer or a Mont Blanc, the small, healing scar on his forehead, and most of all, the difference in the way he looked at me.
‘You’re right,’ I told him, softly. ‘He didn’t tell me, not that you’re identical. But now I think of it, he did warn me that you’d be here. He said we were not alone, and that I was being looked after. Gerard being what he is, I assumed that he was talking about God.’
‘My brother might be a priest, but he’s more practical than that. He’s hands on when he has to be,’ he smiled again, ‘although not in the way that’s often meant.’
‘So this is actually your house?’ I ventured.
‘No, it’s not; it’s Gerard’s. He’s half an hour older than me, and so when our mother died he inherited, naturally, under Spanish law. He offered me half . . . in fact he offered me it all . . . but if I’d accepted he’d have had nothing. Anyway, I didn’t need it. I’m an airline pilot; I’m rolling in money. I have an apartment in Madrid.’
‘But this house has been modernised. Gerard can’t have done that.’
‘No, I did it. I use the place a lot; I come here on holiday, and if I have a stopover in Malaga. He hasn’t been here for years; he has no idea what I’ve done to it.’ He smiled. ‘The car is mine though. I left it with him the last time I saw him, in L’Escala.’
‘You’ve been to L’Escala?’
‘Only twice. And we didn’t go out; not far, anyway. It would have confused the parishioners, we decided.’
‘Are you married?’
He blinked, not sure why I’d asked. ‘No; I have a girlfriend in Madrid, but she’s cabin crew with another airline, so our meetings are unpredictable.’
‘Sorry to be so inquisitive. It’s just . . .’ I explained what I’d found in the bathroom.
‘When I come here on stopover,’ he said, ‘I usually bring my co-pilot. One of them’s a woman.’ Then the implications hit him, and he laughed. ‘But you didn’t know about me. So you thought . . . Gerard? No, never.’ He stopped and his eyebrows rose. ‘Unless you and he . . .’
‘Gerard?’ I replied to the unfinished question. ‘And me? No, never.’ I almost added, ‘More’s the pity,’ but I didn’t feel that I knew Santi well enough.
Thirty-seven
I called Gerard on the mobile as soon as I went back downstairs. Breakfast was abandoned when I realised that I was talking with a stranger while clad in a long T-shirt and nothing else.
I told him of my heart-stopping visit from Pinky and Porky, and of my nick of time rescue by his doppelgänger brother. ‘You should have warned me, Gerard,’ I complained. ‘Have you any idea of the way I felt when he walked into that room and took on those two cops? I honestly believed it was you, that you’d climbed on a plane and come down to . . .’ I paused. ‘Even when he said that he’d got in late and had been careful not to wake me,’ I continued, ‘
I thought he was you.’
‘I imagine that could have been embarrassing.’ He sounded apologetic.
‘Could have been?’ I squawked. ‘Could have been? Bloody well was.’
‘You didn’t do anything . . . inappropriate, did you?’
‘Certainly not!’
I thought I heard a sigh of relief. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was going to tell you all about Santi, before you left from Shirley’s, but you talked across me and I was anxious for you to be on your way, so the chance never came up again.’
‘Did you know he was coming here?’
‘I sent him an email from a café in Figueras, telling him that I had a friend who was in trouble and that I was sending her down to Granada for a while. I asked him to keep an eye on you, if he could, even if it was only from a distance like me. Last night, after we’d spoken, I had a reply from him saying that he’d adjusted his schedule and was taking some time off. I didn’t expect him to arrive so soon, though.’
‘I’m glad that he did. I don’t know how I’d have handled those two cops if he hadn’t walked in and taken over.’ I recalled a detail. ‘Who’s Jorge Lavorante, by the way? Santi mentioned the name to them and it seemed to impress them.’
‘It would have; he’s a tough guy. Jorge’s a captain in the municipal police. We were at school with him.’
‘I bet you were tough guys too, you and Santi. They were backing off him even before he mentioned Lavorante. And you: you’ve got a temper on you; you can’t deny it.’
‘We could handle ourselves,’ Gerard admitted. ‘With the old man we had we’d no choice but to grow up tough.’ His voice was sad.
‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘you grew up nice with it as well.’
‘That was down to our mother.’ He stopped, abruptly. ‘I have to go. If I have the chance I’ll speak to Alex later today, to see if there have been any developments. I’ll try to call you this evening.’
‘Can you look in on Tom?’
‘Of course. I treat the boy like my own son, Primavera; you must realise that, surely.’
It had occurred to me, but it was nice to hear him say so.
I had another shower, and dressed properly for the day, before going upstairs to rejoin Santi. He was still in the kitchen, but he’d clearly been out shopping, for he was working on a mushroom omelette in a big frying pan, and a fresh baguette lay on the counter. There was coffee on the hob too, in one of those oldfashioned percolators that beats a filter every time, and fruit in a bowl on the kitchen table.
I offered to help, but there was nothing for me to do, other than set the table for two, and watch him as he flipped the omelette over and finished it off.
‘You make a damn good breakfast,’ I told him, as we ate.
‘I enjoy cooking,’ he replied. ‘Given my line of work, most of my waking up is done in hotels. I could list the breakfast menus in most of the Sheratons, Marriotts and Hiltons in North America and the Far East. Appetising they may be, but it’s volume food and you can have too much of it. There are few things I like more than working in my own kitchen . . . or in this case my brother’s . . . after sleeping in my own bed.’
‘I can understand that,’ I conceded. ‘I’ve been a nomad for quite a bit of my life, and I’ve eaten a few institutional breakfasts too.’
‘What sort of institution?’
‘The kind where they lock you in at night.’
He whistled. ‘Is that the sort of trouble you’re in now?’
‘Potentially, but I didn’t do it.’
‘I know. Gerard told me that you’ve been wrongly accused of something. But that was all; he made a point of not telling me more than that.’
I smiled at that one. ‘On the evidence, the accusation’s justified. But the evidence has been fixed, planted, fabricated. Gerard’s sent me down here to hide out, while he does his best to get to the bottom of it.’
‘So you have God on your side,’ he murmured. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked suddenly, throwing me off balance in the process. ‘My brother has never been one for filling in every small detail.’
‘Primavera Blackstone,’ I replied. ‘My house is next door, literally, to Gerard’s church.’
‘That big old house?’
‘You’ve seen it?’
‘Four years ago, just after Gerard was posted there, the first time I went to visit him; he drove me around, but we never got out of the car. Very imposing. You live there on your own?’
‘With my son.’
‘No . . . ?’
‘His father is dead. It’s Mrs Blackstone, by the way; that’s the name I choose to go by. Tom uses the Spanish form at school, adding on the mother’s surname, so on the class roll he’s Tom Blackstone Phillips.’
I caught his frown, and knew what was coming. ‘That’s an unusual name,’ he commented. ‘I go to the movies a lot, between flights . . .’ He paused.
I nodded. ‘It was him,’ I said, and filled him in on my connections with the rich and famous, alive and dead. I couldn’t tell whether he was impressed or not. It barely registered with Gerard when I told him.
I moved on, to fill the silence as much as anything else. ‘One of the few things your brother told me about you is that when he went into the church, you went into the air force.’
‘Yes. Our upbringing wasn’t . . . what should I say . . . wasn’t ideal. We both had to get out; otherwise we might have wound up like our father, heavy-handed bullies. I wanted Gerard to join the military like me, full-time, but his experiences sent him in another direction.’
‘Were you surprised by his choice?’
‘Not in the circumstances.’
‘What circumstances? The thing with your father?’ He nodded. ‘I thought that happened after he’d gone to the seminary, that he came home and found him beating your mother.’
Santi sighed. ‘So that’s the official version, is it? That’s how he explains it. For a priest, my brother can be indelicate with the truth, even if it’s for the best of motives.’
‘That’s something I’ve learned for myself, Santi, but what do you mean by it?’
He picked up the percolator and refilled his cup; the coffee must have been almost cold by then, but he didn’t seem to notice as he sipped it. ‘For all his many faults, our father never laid a hand on our mother in his life; on us, yes, and he abused her verbally, all the time, but she had brothers, and that thought may have restrained him. He was an awful man, though, hateful. We put up with it at home, and I suppose we took it out on others outside, for nobody messed with us, not even Jorge Lavorante. But our mother’s influence kept us more or less straight. She made sure we went to church; there was a good old parish priest, and he taught us proper values. Gerard, in particular, came under his influence.’
He put his cup down, picked up an apple from the fruit bowl, and bit a chunk out of it. ‘When I was nineteen, I applied to join the air force as a regular, rather than simply do national service. Gerard didn’t know what to do as a career, so he did his nine months in the marines, then came home to decide his future. While he was away . . . not far, only in Cartagena . . . he met a girl. Her name was Irena, nice kid, very churchy, like he was. When he came back, they got engaged, and she moved to Granada, to live with an uncle and aunt, down in the modern city, near Federico Garcia Lorca’s house. Gerard got a couple of jobs, as a labourer during the day and as a bar bouncer in the evening.’
‘A bouncer?’ I exclaimed.
‘Gerard never had to bounce anyone. He had a gift for turning away trouble. Anyway, he had a night off once, and he and Irena were going out. He was to go home from work to change, she was to meet him, and they were heading off from there. Unfortunately . . . Irena arrived early. Our father was there. Mother was visiting our aunt, her sister. The old man was drunk. To cut to the chase, he raped her; he dragged her downstairs and raped her. Gerard walked in and heard her screaming. He threw the old man out into the back yard and he beat the living shit out of hi
m. He’d have killed him too, for sure, but for a piece of luck that he believes to this day was divine. I was given a forty-eight-hour pass, for some spurious achievement or other. I arrived just in time to haul him off, something that only I could have done, I reckon. I dragged him inside, leaving an unconscious heap behind us. We took care of Irena, got her covered up, and that helped to distract Gerard. It didn’t calm her, though. She was bleeding and she was hysterical. He carried her upstairs and I called an ambulance. Gerard said that he was going for Jorge Lavorante. Knowing Jorge, that could have been to have the old man arrested or to finish him off, but neither came about, for Irena screamed, “No police, no police.” She wouldn’t make a complaint, not then, or afterwards, in hospital when they’d sedated her and stitched her up. I wouldn’t let Gerard go back to the garden. I went down myself, with no clear idea of what I’d do when I got there. But I had no decision to make, for the old bastard was gone. He never came back.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘We told her nothing about what had happened. After a while she assumed that he had simply left her, and she was happy.’
‘And what about Irena, and Gerard?’
‘She went back to Cartagena. He talked about going to bring her back, but he never did. Instead he went back to church, to our old friend the priest, and a few months later went to the seminary. A little while after that, I tried to trace Irena. When I did, I found that she’d committed suicide, a couple of years after the rape.’
‘Does Gerard know?’
‘Yes.’ He shuddered, as if to shake off the horror, then stood up. I felt pretty numb myself. I could understand why Gerard had no desire to go home.
‘Come on,’ he said, briskly. ‘That’s enough family history for a while. What would you like to do?’
I looked at him; blankly, I suspect. ‘Do?’ I repeated.
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