‘I’ve got something coming up. You might be able to help me out.’
‘Err … sure, depends what it is.’ I laughed nervously.
‘What have you got on tomorrow afternoon?’
‘I … err … might have to work here if it gets too busy,’ I lied.
‘It won’t take long. I just want to borrow you for an hour or so. Can you spare a friend some time?’ he grinned.
I was trapped. Refuse and I was refuting friendship, agree and I could be destined for a stretch of long lonely days in Santa Cruz prison.
‘No problem. What do you want me to do?’
‘Have you got a tennis racquet?’
‘Yes.’ He could see my confusion.
‘Meet me at the Altamira court at two. I heard you used to play and I fancy a game. None of these monkeys know one end of a bat from another.’ He nodded at the assembled primates.
Although the dilemma was a fraction as troublesome as it could have been, it was still a dilemma nonetheless. I was naturally competitive. What if I thrashed him? What if he was a bad loser? How bad would he be?
After a fitful night’s sleep and a morning shift in the bar, I dusted off my tennis racquet and met Micky at the court. He was dressed in brand new gleaming whites. Everything was top of the range; even the racquet looked like a sophisticated weapon.
The warm-up started well. We both appeared to be of roughly the same ability. Micky’s aggressive forehand was matched by my devious drop shots and we parried the ball back and forth for 20 sweaty minutes.
‘Shall we start?’ Micky had approached the net. His eyes were steeled with determination. Mine were focused on anxiety. The first few games were close. I wasn’t yet playing to my full ability. ‘You’re playing against the mafia,’ my conscience reminded me at frequent intervals.
However, the further we progressed into the match, the more my natural will-to-win kicked in. My serves got harder, my returns more aggressive and my runs to the net more frequent. Micky was getting agitated. He was cursing to himself, beating his thigh with his own racquet after every point lost.
By the last game the match was tied one set all. I was serving to win. My first serve fizzed over the net landing a good six inches inside the box.
‘Out,’ shouted Micky.
The second serve dropped just in front of him and he returned with a strong backhand. I parried the shot more in self-defence than anything and the ball bounced off my racquet, dropping just over the net. I ran in to follow it. Micky also sprinted to the net, straining to reach the ball as it dropped to the floor. He just managed to scoop the racquet underneath it at full stretch and flicked upwards but his momentum caused him to lose balance. He fell forward. The ball gained height then began its descent. I couldn’t tell if it was going to land on my side of the net or not. Micky crashed to the tarmac at full stretch. His head came to a rest at the bottom of the net, inches from my feet, where he lay motionless for a moment, watching the ball bounce just next to him. A wave of panic surged from head to toe. Not only had I beaten Micky the Mafia but I’d also drawn blood.
Micky picked himself up. ‘Fack,’ he said, looking down at his knees. A trickle of blood streamed down his left shin. Both elbows were also grazed, scraped raw on the unforgiving surface. ‘Fack,’ he said again.
I offered my hand. ‘Well-played.’
He looked up. ‘Fack,’ he said once more, reluctantly accepting a handshake. I helped him limp to the Smugglers where my mum was filling in for my absence. I poured him a beer and offered him a handful of Elastoplasts.
‘What happened?’ asked Joy.
‘I won,’ I answered sheepishly.
‘Oh, nice move,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I thought we were supposed to be staying on the right side of him.’
Micky didn’t take kindly to being beaten but fortunately he displayed his displeasure in a passive manner by staying away from the bar over the next few weeks. It was nice to be mafia-free, if only a temporary situation.
CHAPTER 15
At last it was the final night of summer. The number of breakfasts and lunches served daily had dropped into the 20s and we were all desperate for a break. The bar needed touching up after a hot and hectic season. Handprints marked the white walls like shadows from the ghosts of customers past; hundreds of green bottles on a high shelf lining the interior were caked in dust; the bar stools and wooden chairs needed repainting; and the outside tiles were ready for yet another industrial clean.
Perhaps worst of all, the bar needed fumigating and for this we needed to vacate the premises for at least 12 hours. It was Frank who brought the matter to our attention. He spent so much time hunched over the bar in moody contemplation that he knew every knot in the wood, every cigarette burn and every hairline crack where the roaches sought sanctuary. Despite unleashing dozens of cans of killer spray through the summer months, the romantic procreation of our resident bug population continued unabated.
‘You’re going to have to do something about these fucking roaches,’ said Frank, slamming his hand down on a procession of babies. ‘They’re getting worse.’
He offered to fumigate the bar himself, claiming he knew what chemicals to mix and a man who could supply them but I declined. I had visions of his lethal crop-dusting leaving a legacy of toxins circulating for weeks, our bar having to be decorated with red and white ribbon, deemed a no-go zone, whilst a team of boiler suits tried to find an antidote to the hazardous cocktail Frank had created.
Buster had become adept at leaping on the bigger ones but he made such a song and dance out of his assaults that he was bringing unwanted attention to the infestation. He would bat the bug from paw to paw until it toppled on to its back and started to spin, then end the show with an unappetising crunch in front of a horrified audience of diners.
There was a celebratory mood in the air. We had got through the first season of a new life without poisoning anybody, making too many enemies or being set on by the locals. It felt like a victory, albeit at the cost of David’s marriage. He and Faith were now communicating again but hopes of reconciliation were slim. There was no way she would come back to Tenerife and David, like Joy and I, was chained to the bar with a huge mortgage and loan.
In spite of our burdens, this last night of all-day opening was one to celebrate. A never-ending succession of beers were delivered to the kitchen by mum and Faye who themselves were making the most of their last night helping out with generous proportions of gin and less generous proportions of tonic.
By the time the final meals had been cleared and the kitchen tidied, we were all in party mood.
‘Are you lot on drugs or something?’ muttered Frank. As is the way with excess alcohol, everybody was our friend that night. Even an appearance by the two Johns couldn’t dampen the spirits, despite their usual antagonising.
‘Hey, Joe must have given you a good time last night,’ said John One to Joy. ‘Look at that smile.’
‘That’s the smile of a satisfied woman that is, eh John?’ added John Two.
‘No that’s the smile of a woman who doesn’t have to face your ugly mugs in the daytime any more,’ replied Joy.
‘What do you mean?’ asked John Two.
Joy explained that we were closing during the days and just opening at night until the Christmas crowd arrived.
‘But you can’t do that,’ moaned John Two. Where are we going to go for our fry-ups?’
‘Not my problem,’ smiled Joy.
‘Tell you what. Maybe Joy wants to deliver it in bed. Now that’d be good service. What do you reckon Joy?’ said John One.
‘I think I’m going to throw up at just the thought of it,’ replied Joy.
‘Is that right, then?’ asked Frank. ‘The bar’s going to be closed during the day? You lazy fuckers. I worked seven days a week when I was your age. I had to get up at five in the freezing cold and walk a mile to me uncle’s garage.’
‘Yes, and look what a happy chap that’s made you,�
� I said. ‘You know what they say about all work and no play.’
‘No danger of that here, is there?’ he sighed. ‘Anyway, what about my office? Who’s going to answer my phone?’
‘And where am I going to leave the keys for my renters?’ added John One.
Frank had taken to using the bar as his daytime office. Phoned requests for his DIY services were frequent, more frequent than our own callers at times. It had come to the point that incoming calls were immediately assumed to be for Frank and we would pass him the handset automatically, although he was always reluctant to take it unless we knew the caller. He was convinced that sooner or later one of the calls would be from Shark Bait.
The bar’s status as community HQ also involved taking on several other responsibilities. As one of the very few things that was guaranteed to be around for at least a few more months (so long as Frank resisted the urge to mess with safety valves again), the Smugglers Tavern had become more than a place to grab a drink and a meal. In addition to its crèche status, the bar also became a drop-off and pick-up point for begged, borrowed and returned goods.
‘When you’ve finished with the stepladders/surfboard/stuffed cat, if I’m not in, leave it at the Smugglers. I’ll pick it up later.’ was common. Our tiny outside storeroom began more to resemble a catalogue despatch centre than a booze cupboard. Behind the bar we would have all manner of notes, letters and keys to be passed on to second parties.
Keys in particular were a constant hazard. Apartment owners who rented out their properties had bestowed upon us the honour of being judged as custodians of spare keys. The title came with the burden of being listed in their ‘apartment manual’ as the ones to go to if there was a problem. We didn’t mind doing this for those owners we had befriended and who showed their appreciation in kind or cash. However, some saw it as our community obligation and at such a relatively early stage of our business we rarely refused if asked.
This key-holding service slowly developed into bigger and better things, at least for the owners. From time to time holidaymakers would ask us if there were any private apartments for rent. To save the effort of having to scroll through her phonebook each time the question was asked, Joy had compiled a list of telephone numbers of the four or five owners who would let their accommodation. The enquirer would then phone the owner direct and the owner could make all the arrangements with them. That was the theory anyway. In reality, the person wanting accommodation would make an initial enquiry and the owner would call Joy asking if she thought they were ok and could she pass them the keys if they booked.
In the eyes of the renter this tended to wrongly paint Joy in the role of apartment manager and any subsequent problems were then directed her way. More than once a complete stranger would walk into the bar and demand that we fix his leaking tap or inform us haughtily that his buttocks had been nipped by a broken toilet seat and what were we going to do about it? ‘Nothing.’ was usually the answer.
We had a final drink with David, mum and Faye after we had managed to herd the last of the customers out, then staggered down Cardiac Hill to our apartment. There was a fresh sea breeze blowing up the hill, the first inkling of fresh air we had experienced on El Beril. Overhead the sky was full of pinprick clusters, the moon casting a silver glow over the ocean in front of us.
We strolled past the apartment on our left and continued down some steps at the far end of the turning circle at the bottom of the hill.
The steps led to a part-finished promenade that ran half-way in front of the Altamira to the right and to the back edge of the El Beril complex to our left.
At intervals along the promenade were gaps in the knee-high wall where broken steps led to the black pebble beach.
We sat on the top step gazing at our world. A gentle surf raked the smooth rocks, rasping slowly back and forth at our feet.
‘It’s not a bad place to live, is it?’ I said.
‘No. It’s times like these that you appreciate it,’ agreed Joy. ‘Now we’re closed in the daytime we should start making the most of it.’
‘You’re right. Let’s spend the day on the beach.’
We watched a line of lights dipping and rising like a Mexican wave several miles offshore; night fishermen stretching their nets from boat to boat in search of tomorrow’s fresh catch. Beyond them, the dark silhouette of La Gomera rose from the water like a giant whale, the faint lights of Hermigua and Vallehermosa blinking above the moonlit ocean.
I thought about the view from Joy’s mother’s house where we had been living before we moved to Tenerife. Joy’s bedroom looked over Belmont Road, a busy byway linking Bolton with Blackburn West via the bracken and heather of Belmont Moors. Austin Allegros and Vauxhall Vectras would be parked outside the neat gardens of the facing bungalows.
Lace curtains would frequently twitch, those inside disappointed as fire engines raced past from the station half a mile up the road, reminding the neighbourhood that there was something exciting happening, but always somewhere else.
Over the bungalows, the terraced houses on High View Street would reflect the pale yellow streetlight off damp grey roof slates, casting a sickly pallor on the community like a fevered jaundice. The pale, damp glow of the night felt as claustrophobic as the low-hanging clouds of daytime. I felt pride, and relief, in our escape.
We wandered back to the apartment along the promenade.
‘Who’s that man in the car?’ asked Joy.
As we climbed the steps up to Cardiac Hill, she noticed a man sitting in darkness behind the wheel of an expensive-looking jeep. His seat was reclined back as if he was planning to sleep there but his eyes were open, tracking us as we walked in front of the bonnet and through the gate leading to the back of our apartment.
‘Seems a bit strange,’ I said, unlocking the door.
‘Go and see if he’s still watching,’ said Joy.
A hedge at the end of our garden obstructed the view onto the road so I slowly pulled back the curtain in the spare bedroom upstairs. The man was staring straight back at me.
‘Is he still there?’ shouted Joy.
‘Yes, and he’s watching us.’
‘Should we phone the police?’ asked Joy.
‘No, I’ll go and let the Altamira security guard know. He can keep an eye on him.’
‘Wait a minute, you’re not leaving me here alone.’ Joy was already shutting the door behind us.
I found the security guard asleep on a sunbed round the El Beril pool. One arm flopped towards the floor, the other was resting on his stomach, his thumb hooked through a pair of handcuffs. His mouth was wide open and he was rasping the deep sleep of someone who clearly wasn’t at his most vigilant.
‘Señor?’ I hissed without success. I tapped him on his arm but still there was no waking him.
Joy grabbed his shoulder, shaking him violently. ‘Hey, wake up.’
His eyes shot open. ‘Que? Que pasa?’ He looked at us as if we were going to mug him and fumbled for his baton whilst wiping a dribble of saliva from the corner of his mouth with the other hand.
I raised my palms to calm him down then signalled for him to follow us. Peering from behind a stack of bin liners piled at the top of Cardiac Hill, I pointed to the solitary car parked at the bottom.
‘A man … hombre … watching our apartment … mi casa.’ I scowled to show this was not good and gestured that the security guard should go and take a look but he didn’t seem keen. He gesticulated that he’d keep an eye on him from a safe distance, i.e. from where he was now.
As usual, the sun exploded round the blinds in the bedroom. Today felt different. Almost like the day we were leaving for Tenerife. I wasn’t sure why but then remembered that we weren’t going to open during the day for the next few months. I felt like we were on holiday.
I drew the blinds up, filling the bedroom with light.
‘He’s gone,’ I said.
‘Hmm?’ mumbled Joy. Her eyes were still closed.
‘That m
an in the jeep. He’s gone.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Beach today?’ I suggested. A smile slowly spread across Joy’s face as she came to the same realisation as I had.
An hour later we were on the way back from the airport, having dropped off Faye and my mum . It was late morning and I could feel a progressive hangover starting to kick in. ‘Nothing that a day snoozing on the beach couldn’t cure,’ I thought. Thin wisps of clouds threaded a near-perfect sky. A perfect day.
Just then my mobile rang. It was the fumigation company. They’d be at the bar at midday.
Normally you could rely on the Canarians to need several pokes with a sharp stick before they’d fulfil their obligations several days later than requested. This was the first time that one had been so speedy and efficient. It was very inconvenient.
The beach plans were put on hold. Hopefully they would turn up by 1 p.m. and be gone again by 2 p.m., which meant we could still get a couple of hours on the beach. The night before we had given Wayne a key so that when the fumigation had taken place he could let himself in and wash all the crockery and glasses. It was a job we were glad to delegate.
As promised, the fumigation man turned up at midday. Only his midday was more known as mid-afternoon in our world. After waiting from 12.30 p.m., pottering with small jobs that needed doing, like dusting the fan blades and polishing the beer pumps, our bug-buster sauntered in at 3 p.m. The beach would have to wait until tomorrow.
The exterminator was smoking a cigarette, a rucksack slung casually over his shoulder. He greeted us with a rasping ‘hola’ and a subsequent coughing fit. It sounded like he’d been inhaling toxins too long. He emptied the contents of two plastic bottles into what looked like a weed killer bottle and pumped on the top handle until the nozzle he was holding in his other hand spat a small globule of insecticide onto the floor.
‘Dónde están?’ (Where are they) he asked, gazing round the bar.
‘Well, everywhere,’ I gestured. ‘Here, and here, and here.’ I showed the man the small cracks in the wooden bar top, pointing with my finger. He gave each area a blast, barely giving me time to move my finger out of the way.
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