by Anna Smith
‘Can I help ye?’ A skinny girl popped her blonde spiky head up from below the reception desk.
‘I’m looking for Martin Gilmour,’ Rosie said, stepping towards the desk. ‘I believe he’s staying here.’
She didn’t want to say guest. It wasn’t the kind of place that had guests.
‘Gilmour?’ The girl licked her finger and flicked open a big red book and scanned down the names. She let out a sigh. ‘Martin Gilmour. Right. I see him.’ She chewed gum with her mouth half open, and looked Rosie up and down. ‘Aye. He’s staying here.’
Rosie gave her an impatient look. ‘Well, do you know if he’s in? I’d like to talk to him.’
She would have liked to wipe the bored expression from the teenager’s face.
‘I’ll go and see if he’s in the residents’ lounge. Everyone’s out of their rooms by this time.’ She rolled her eyes upwards. ‘Pubs are open. Most of them are out of here by now.’ She walked from behind the reception. ‘Who will I say wants him?’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Rosie said, giving her a look that dared her to try and stop her.
The girl said nothing and her high heels clicked as she walked along the corridor with Rosie at her back. They came to a door with a small glass window. The girl peered through the wire grille into the room.
‘He’s in there. I think that’s him over at the window.’
Rosie glared at her, irritated by the affectation of looking up his name in the book, when she already knew who he was and what he looked like. The girl gave her a dirty look and walked away. Rosie stood in the corridor until she disappeared.
Her mouth felt dry. This was it. For more than thirty years – long after she’d stopped waiting, long after she stopped hoping – she’d wondered what had become of her father. And now a door with a little window was all that stood between them. She put her head to the grille and looked in.
One man sat in an armchair sound asleep, his mouth open. Another was on the couch, reading a newspaper. Then, at the large bay window, a third man with his back to her stood gazing out at the rain.
He was shorter than she remembered, and instead of the shock of wavy black hair that had always been neatly slicked back, she saw a grey unkempt fuzz and a bald patch. The broad shoulders he used to carry her on were slumped. Jesus! Who was this old man? She tried to swallow but there was nothing there. Her stomach churned. She could turn about now, walk away and never look back. An image of her mother, the way she used to be when all three of them sat around the table listening to the animated stories of his travels, flashed behind her eyes.
Rosie felt the cold metal of the door handle on her fingers. She pushed open the door and walked in. The man on the sofa looked up.
‘Hello, hen,’ he said, and went back to his newspaper.
Rosie didn’t look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the man with his back to her, now turning around slowly, as though a sixth sense told him she was there.
Their eyes met. No words were spoken. They just stood there looking at each other. The only remnant of the man she remembered were the pale blue eyes she’d inherited. They’d grown dim with age, but they were his alright. Then, to her dismay, he began to crumple. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, and she could see tears well up in those blue eyes.
‘Rosie,’ he said, standing at the window as though frozen to the spot. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’
Rosie’s tears stung her by surprise and she couldn’t stop them. The old man on the couch looked at both of them, then he got up and left the room. Rosie put her hand to her mouth. She tried to speak but her throat was closed.
She took a couple of steps towards him as he stood gazing at her, tears now rolling down his cheeks. This was her father, this sad, weak old man, who used to make the world safe for her, who was now weeping. And she too was crying in this bleak, chilly, damp room, where the stories of thousands of desperate, broken lives must have unfolded down the years.
‘Where were you?’ Rosie’s heard herself saying in a voice that seemed to come from the child inside her. ‘Why didn’t you come back for me?’ She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
His head dropped to his chest.
‘I’m sorry, Rosie. I couldn’t. I couldn’t face it.’ He covered his face with one hand. ‘I’m a coward, Rosie. I failed your mammy.’ His chest heaved. ‘And I couldn’t come and get you … I knew I couldn’t take care of you on my own, Rosie … I was a waster.’
Rosie looked at this wreck of a man, remembering his strength, his laughter. She saw the tremor in his hand as he wiped his tears and sniffed. She saw the cuffs of his jumper, ragged at the wrist, and the shapeless trousers that were too long for him, bagging over his scruffy shoes. He wasn’t out of place here among the down-and-outs. What had he become?
Rosie shook her head. Even though she knew she owed him nothing, and she could justify it to herself if she turned and walked away right now, she couldn’t. Because, in the tired blue eyes that looked back at her, she could picture her mother and the look on her face when she saw her big strong man coming up the path from his travels and waving up to the window where they’d stood bursting with anticipation. Now it was Rosie who found strength.
‘Come on,’ she said, sniffing. ‘Let’s get out of here. We’ll go for a cup of tea.’ She watched as he picked up his jacket. He followed her as she led the way out of the room.
In the cafe around the corner from the hostel, Rosie listened as her father told her his story. While they’d hurried through the rain, Rosie noticed he was out of breath, and his face looked a little grey by the time they got inside. She motioned him to sit down at one of the corner tables, then ordered tea; and he asked for some toast from the waitress, who was looking at them from the counter as though she’d seen it all before.
Rosie waited for him to speak. Eventually he did.
‘I didn’t know, Rosie,’ he said, his voice just above a whisper. ‘About your mammy. I … I hadn’t been home for nearly two years before it happened.’
‘I know. We waited every day for you.’ She wasn’t going to make it easy.
‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head and looked at her. ‘I know it’s too late for that now – sorry’s not enough, but …’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’
‘So how did you find out?’ Rosie poured the tea for both of them, and pushed a cup towards him.
She was trying to be detached, as though she was interviewing someone. But inside she was shaking.
‘I came back. I’d changed my job. The boat I was working on went out of business and we were stranded in Brazil. I had to find another boat and that took time. Finally, I got a job and started making my way back home.’ He sipped his tea, searching Rosie’s face for a flicker of understanding.
‘You could have written a letter telling her what happened.’
‘I know,’ he nodded, ‘but I was that busy trying to survive and get some kind of job.’
Rosie said nothing. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe him, but it wasn’t enough just to say he was busy trying to survive. It wasn’t nearly enough, when her mother was being driven to the point of suicide with every passing week waiting for word from him.
‘So,’ he went on, ‘I came back in the December.’ He gazed beyond Rosie. ‘The boat that was heading to Europe was taking months, but it was steady work and at least I knew I was on my way. I left it at Liverpool and made my way back up the road. I had stuff for you and your mammy – presents.’ He almost smiled. ‘I was nearly at the house when I went into the pub for a drink and who was standing at the bar but big Joe Campbell from up the road from us. Remember him?’
Rosie nodded.
‘Well. He told me … I …’
He covered his mouth with his hand and started crying.
‘I’m so sorry, Rosie.’
Rosie felt her throat tighten. She wanted to tell him how, during that December, she was stuck in the children’s home in Dund
ee; how she’d sat at the window every night looking at the snow falling on the long, winding driveway, convinced that her daddy would come for her and take her home. But the words wouldn’t come. And so they sat, both of them imprisoned by memories that had haunted them for so long. Then her father reached across the table and put his trembling hand on hers.
Rosie’s mobile rang, crashing in on the moment. She fished it out of her pocket. It was Adrian. She quickly composed herself.
‘Hello, Rosie.’
‘Adrian. Hi. You okay?’
Adrian would not be calling her unless something was happening.
‘When are you coming back? I have very important information for you. Very important.’
‘I’m back tomorrow night, Adrian, I’ll see you then. But what’s happened?’ Rosie knew he wouldn’t talk much on the phone, but she was curious.
‘I know why the girl was taken. Why Amy was kidnapped. Is to do with her grandfather, Martin Lennon’s father. Something happened in Russia.’
‘What?’ Rosie was confused. All she knew about the Lennon family was that Martin’s father, who had owned the estate agency, had died of a heart attack while he was in Amsterdam on business a few months ago.
‘I can’t talk now. I tell you when you come. Call me when you are here.’ The phone clicked off.
Rosie looked at her father, conscious that he’d been watching her while she was on the phone.
‘What do you want? Why did you come back?’ The words were out before she could stop herself, and she could see his face fall.
He looked at the floor and they sat for a moment, both taking in the cruelty of her words.
‘I mean, why come back after all this time? Do you have plans to stay here?’ She put out her hands almost apologetically. ‘I … I don’t know what to say to you. What do you want to do?’
For what seemed like a long time he said nothing, but just looked at her face, as though he was drinking in every feature. The light seemed to come back in his eyes for a moment as he spoke.
‘You’re so like her, Rosie. Every move. Except the eyes. They’re mine. But you have her spirit.’
‘Her spirit was broken, long before she died.’ Rosie couldn’t help herself.
He nodded, then looked at her with the same sadness as when they’d met just an hour ago.
‘I’m dying, Rosie.’
She put her head back and looked at the ceiling, then closed her eyes, shaking her head. She looked at him, but couldn’t speak.
‘I came home because I want to be buried beside her.’
She didn’t need to ask him about the simple wooden cross that had become old and worn with age at the pauper’s grave where her mother was buried. But if he’d been there, why hadn’t he tried to find her?
He nodded as though reading her mind. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie. I put the cross there. It was all I could do.’
They sat in silence as the waitress came up and cleared the table and Rosie handed her a fiver, waving her away.
Then Rosie gave him his jacket and stood up. He wasn’t much, but he was all she had.
‘Come on. Let’s go home.’
CHAPTER 28
As usual, Leka was late. Besmir was glad to be in the shade, unlike the foreign tourists who sat with their chairs positioned so the sun beat down on them.
Besmir had been waiting at the cafe on Plaza Naranja in the heart of Marbella’s old town for thirty minutes. He decided he would give Leka another ten minutes then he would call him. He fidgeted with his lighter, irritated, because he knew that Leka’s habitual lateness was all about power. He wouldn’t be late if he was meeting Daletsky. He lit a cigarette as he saw Leka coming up the cobbled street towards him, his bodyguard a few steps behind him. He steeled himself.
He and Hassan had made a pact that night at the driver’s family home that they would work together to get Amy back and to help the other kidnapped children. They’d talked long into the night making a plan, knowing one wrong move, one sniff of their betrayal and they’d both be history.
It had to begin with Besmir getting out of the organisation. Leka had promised him that the kidnapping job would be his last, that he’d get his money and be free to do what he wanted. But Besmir knew he would never get out. As an enforcer for Leka, he knew too much – long before he was told to kidnap the little girl.
‘Besmir,’ Leka, said, stretching out both hands as though greeting a favourite son. ‘You did the job well.’
He sat down. The waiter came over and he ordered a beer for himself when Besmir said he was fine with his coffee.
‘The Moroccans are very happy with the blue girl. Very happy.’ He watched Besmir and lit his cigarette.
Besmir shrugged. ‘Is not my business, Leka, but I was wondering, why take the girl to Morocco? What will happen to her?’
Leka looked at him, and Besmir cursed himself for asking such a stupid question. It wasn’t a good start.
‘I mean, what difference does it make to her, Morocco or here? If she is valuable, she’s just as valuable here. No?’ He tried to get over his mistake.
Leka said nothing. Then he looked around the cafe and pulled his chair closer to Besmir.
‘Why do you ask about the girl, Besmir?’ His eyes were cold. ‘Did you become attached to the little fëmijë?’ He used the Albanian word for baby.
Besmir blew smoke upwards and looked away, aware that Leka was scrutinising him.
‘No. I don’t care. Is just a job for me. I’m only curious.’
Leka raised a finger and wagged it in mock warning.
‘Curiosity, my friend. Not good. It killed the cat, I think the English say.’
Besmir didn’t reply and tried to look uninterested.
They sat for a moment in silence, then Leka spoke.
‘The girl is no value to us,’ he said. ‘I sold her to prove a point to the Moroccans. We are making a deal with them. We let them have some of the people we bring into the country for their whorehouses, and in return they give us a share of their drugs trade. They have the drug routes all to themselves. We want some of it – a lot of it. We traded the girl to show these Moroccan bastards that we can do anything. We can even steal a British kid. It shows them how powerful we are. And to make them understand that if they don’t do business with us, we will simply take their business away from them.’ He examined his manicured fingernails. ‘They will sell the girl on. It is nothing to me. Or you.’
Besmir nodded. ‘Makes sense.’
Leka went into his pocket and brought out a wad of notes.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Now you get your reward for a job well done.’ He kept the money tightly covered in his hand and put it into Besmir’s hand.
‘Thank you.’ Besmir said, stuffing it into his jeans pocket.
‘Are you not going to count it?’
‘No. I don’t need to.’
‘But if you count it you will see there is an extra five hundred euros for you – for being so patient when I sent you to Tangiers.’
Besmir raised his eyebrows. ‘Thank you. I will need it on my travels.’
Leka looked at him, disappointed.
‘You are really going, Besmir?’
‘Yes. But only for a little while. I wanted to talk to you about it.’
Leka waited, his expression blank.
‘There is a woman,’ Besmir lied. ‘She is pregnant with my baby, but she is not here just now. She is Spanish, from the north – Galicia. She has gone back there for a while to be with her family, but I want to be there for a couple of months until the baby is born. Then I will come back.’ He hoped he was giving a convincing performance.
Leka was quiet for a moment.
‘Why not keep the girl here?’
‘She want to go back with her family. She want the baby to be born in Galicia. I can bring her here after the baby is born.’
‘But you will come back, Besmir? To work? Or have you gone soft now because you are going to be a father? Is that why
you asked about the blue girl?’
‘No, of course not,’ he said quickly. ‘I told you. I was just curious. And yes, I am coming back, in a couple of months.’
‘You must come back, Besmir. Because for you, this is all there is. You can go and live in the north with a nice Spanish wife, but you will be like all the other peasants from Eastern Europe. Your life will be a struggle wherever you go. Dead-end jobs, everyone hating you because you are foreign, and distrusting you because you are Albanian. People like you and me – Albanians, Russians, Romanians, the people from the Eastern bloc. Nobody wants us. We have to make our own business. Look at Daletsky. I will be the same as him one day. And you could be too. But not in some stupid job like the others.’
Besmir nodded. ‘That is what I want, Leka. But for a little while I have to give my woman what she wants – to be with her family in Galicia. Then I will be back.’
‘Alright my friend.’ Leka stood up. ‘You have made your mind up. I wish you well. And I will see you on your return.’ He smiled but his eyes were flat. ‘With your little baby. I hope it is a boy child. Strong. Like the father.’
Besmir stood up. ‘Is okay for me, a boy or girl.’
He watched as Leka turned and walked away. His bodyguard got up from the table next to them and followed behind.
It was getting dark by the time Besmir made his way back to his apartment. He knew Leka didn’t believe a word he’d said and he was ready. He hadn’t gone straight to the apartment after leaving Leka, but wandered around the town, keeping himself in the sidestreets, getting into taxis and hoping he would lose whoever was following him. He hadn’t seen anyone but he was sure Leka would have had him tailed.
