by Mike Bennett
‘Oh look, clumsy man. You spilled dogs’ water. I don’t think they be very happy now.’
‘I’ve told you all I know,’ Mark gasped. ‘Portugal. They’re in Portugal. I can’t tell you any more because I don’t know any more. I haven’t seen them since it happened. Oh please – please let me go.’
Anton called down to them. ‘Ivan, what the fuck are you doing with him? Shut those fucking dogs up, will you?’ He was carrying the dripping sofa cover over to a clothesline that was strung between two trees.
‘I’m trying to give our friend nice drink,’ said Ivan. ‘But he spilled it.’
Anton stopped. He was looking away into the distance to the dirt road that led to the villa, to a white cloud of dust that was rising behind a shimmering black car. ‘Oh shit.’ He turned back to Ivan. ‘Sergei’s here. Quick, get the English away from the dogs before they fucking eat him. And shut them up for Christ’s sake!’
Ivan again took hold of the back of the chair and dragged Mark out of range of the dogs. He shouted at the dogs in Russian and their barking died down.
Anton pegged the sofa cover to the washing line, all the time watching the car as it rippled towards them through the heat haze. He turned and hurried back to the pool. ‘Did he talk?’ He jumped in at the shallow end and walked over to Ivan.
Ivan shook his head. ‘Nothing new.’
‘Fuck!’ Anton grabbed Mark’s hair and pulled his head back. ‘Listen asshole, you’d better stop fucking around and tell us about your murdering English friends right now, because any minute our boss will be here, and if he doesn’t hear what he wants to hear, he’s going to kick our asses. And that means when he’s gone, we’re going to pour a bottle of olive oil over you and leave you here to fry like the fish and chips. You understand?’
Nearby, car doors slammed.
‘Three men,’ said Mark. ‘Mullins, Hodgekiss, Sullivan. They set me up. I had no idea what they were planning.’
Ivan spat onto the dusty tiles. ‘Of course you didn’t. Even you couldn’t be that stupid.’
‘I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know!’
A voice came from the poolside. ‘Your friend looks like he could use some calamine lotion, Anton Marashov.’ Anton and Ivan turned to see the silhouettes of three suited men in sunglasses. The man in the centre continued, ‘I take it he hasn’t told you anything more. ’
Anton shielded his eyes from the sun. ‘He does not know any more, Captain. If he did, he would have told us.’
The man addressed as Captain, whom Anton and Ivan privately referred to by his first name of Sergei, came down the steps into the pool. ‘You’re sure of that?’ He walked over to them, his hand-stitched Italian loafers crunching on the tiny stones and cracked tiles. He was about six feet tall, his short, silver-grey hair thinning at the temples over a face that looked about fifty years old. The other men came down and followed him.
Ivan nodded. ‘He told us all he knows yesterday, Captain. I don’t believe he has anything else. He is weak, a coward. He would give me his mother if I asked him.’
‘And so this,’ Sergei waved a hand to where the dogs panted and lapped at the water around the upturned bucket. ‘What? You’ve just been playing around with him?’
Ivan shrugged, unsure of his position. ‘He was thirsty. I gave him drink.’
Sergei’s face remained inscrutable. He looked at Mark and took off his sunglasses. ‘You are thirsty, Mr Coleman?’
Mark looked up and nodded. ‘Y-yes, sir.’
Sergei held out a hand to one of the men behind him. ‘Water.’ A small bottle of mineral water was handed to him. Sergei unscrewed the cap. ‘Here.’ He slowly poured the water over Mark’s cracked lips and into his mouth. ‘Easy,’ he stopped pouring. ‘Swallow it slowly.’ Mark did so. Sergei poured a little more into his mouth. ‘Mr Coleman, as I’m sure you know all too well, your friends murdered my nephew and two of my men, yes?’ He stopped pouring to allow Mark to respond.
‘I didn’t know they were going to do that, I swear to you,’ said Mark, water spilling over his lips. ‘They said they wanted me to get some pills for them, so they could sell them on in Portugal. They said they couldn’t deal with you themselves because you and Mullins were enemies or something. I trusted them and the bastards set me up.’
‘But that did not stop you taking the pills from my nephew after his death and selling them for your own gain.’
Mark’s face contorted with despair.
‘Did you really think I would not hear about you selling those pills, Mr Coleman? Yes, Ibiza is a long way from Benidorm, but since I am the controlling source of these pills in Spain, it was really only a matter of time before word of their … unauthorised circulation here reached me.’
Tears spilled from Mark’s eyes. ‘I – I would’ve brought them back to you, I swear, but – but I was scared. Oh God, please, please don’t kill me.’
Sergei squatted down in front of Mark. ‘I believe you, English. You are a coward; and a coward like you would never have had the courage to be involved in an act of violence against me.’
Mark nodded. ‘Yes, I am. I’m a coward.’
‘And I also believe – for that same reason – that you don’t know any more than you have already told my men here.’
Mark nodded again. ‘Yes. That’s right; I don’t owe those bastards anything. If I could, I’d kill them myself.’
Sergei smiled. ‘Then I must thank you for telling us what you do know. I apologize for what you have had to suffer: our mistreatment of you here is, how you say, making us even?’
Mark wasn’t sure if he understood correctly. ‘Please, I’ll do anything you say. I won’t say a word to the police.’
Sergei nodded. ‘Yes, I know.’ He stood up.
Mark squinted up at him. ‘Does that mean you’re gonna let me go?’
‘Of course,’ said Sergei. He handed the bottle back to the men behind him.
Anton and Ivan looked anxious. Ivan asked in Russian, ‘You really want us to let him go?’
Sergei smiled. In Russian he replied, ‘Always the comedian, Ivan Trushko. Cut off his head. Feed the rest to the dogs.’
4
WHEN LISA WOKE UP, David’s side of the bed was cold. The luminous digits of the clock told her it was four forty-seven. She listened: she could hear the bathroom extractor fan. She turned on the bedside lamp and called, ‘David?’
He walked in. He was already dressed in black jeans, a grey suit jacket and a faded Motörhead t-shirt. His hair was damp and he had shaved, but he looked rough: his face was puffy and his eyes red and bleary. His toothbrush was sticking out of his mouth. He took it out. ‘Hiya.’ His voice sounded like he had a head cold. He looked down, embarrassed. ‘Sorry about last night.’ He came over and sat down on the bed. ‘I must have been ... pretty ugly.’
‘Yes, and you don’t look so good this morning either.’
He smiled. ‘Did I do anything, sort of ... stupid?’
‘You mean besides drink a bottle of whisky on your own?’
‘Yeah, well, besides that – like chucking a TV out of the window or anything like that? I know the TV’s okay, but I’m worried in case I damaged anything else.’
‘Like us?’ She smiled. ‘No. But you’re going to have to apologise to your neighbours. You upset a lot of them. Apparently you are a big asshole.’
‘Oh. What was it? Music?’
‘Yes. And you told the guys in the flat downstairs that you were going to murder them.’
He put a hand over his face and sighed. ‘Oh shit. Still, at least I didn’t actually murder them.’
‘Yes, thankfully, but don’t worry. I apologised for you.’
‘Thanks. I should really go down and say something myself, but ...’
‘You aren’t going to be here.’
‘No.’ He scratched his head. ‘Not for a while anyway.’
She took his hand. ‘When do you think you will be coming back?’
‘
I don’t know, it’s impossible to say. Listen, can I ask: how much did I tell you about what’s going on?’
‘Last night?’
He nodded.
‘Well, you told me your brother was dying, that your family was evil and that you were bred – like a cow. You said your name was Flinch and that you had a terrible job to do that you couldn’t escape from. I tried to get you to tell me more, but you said that for me to know more would be dangerous.’
‘Hmm, Not exactly a date with David Niven then? Sorry if I freaked you out.’
‘Never mind that; is it true?’
‘What part?’
‘All of it?’
He sighed. ‘Well, my brother is dying, yes, and my name – my father’s name – is Flinch. As for the family being evil and the terrible job; it sounds as if I was being a bit hysterical. There is a job to do, it’s a family thing. But it isn’t anything for you to worry about; you’re not in any danger.’
‘But what about you? Will you be in any danger?’
He rubbed his temples and she thought for a moment that she saw his hand tremble slightly. ‘Damn it. Why did I have to drink? That’s two years of sobriety down the drain.’
‘I know. I still can’t believe it. Why didn’t you call your friend, Steve?’
He smiled weakly. ‘Because I wanted to get fucking blotto. I wanted to just let go of the steering wheel; put my foot down hard and shut out the ... ’
‘The what?’
He thumbed the bristles of his toothbrush. ‘I don’t know. The news about John I guess.’
She stroked his back. ‘It’s okay.’
He met her eyes for a second before looking away to his suitcase. ‘You remember that word you were saying I call out in my sleep sometimes, “Underwood”?’
‘Yes?’
He got up and dropped his toothbrush into the suitcase. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t tell you when you mentioned it yesterday, but I suppose I was just ... embarrassed about it.’
‘About what?’
He turned back to her. ‘It’s a business. My family’s business in Spain.’
‘This is the job you have to do?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The terrible job? The one that you couldn’t speak about last night?’
‘Yeah, but I was just drunk, talking shit, you know? It’s not a big deal. John was running the business, and since he’s going to die, now it falls to me to become the head of the family firm.’
‘Is that so terrible?’
David knew she deserved some kind of a logical explanation for all this. In the shower earlier he had been thinking about how to broach the subject and he’d remembered the old family cover story. It was, of course, perfect. He cleared his throat and said, ‘It’s an undertakers.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Underwood the undertaker?’
He smiled. ‘It’s Underwood and Flinch, actually. At least that’s what we call it.’
‘Oh.’ She lay back, supporting herself on her elbow. ‘I can’t imagine you dealing with dead people.’
‘Neither can I,’ he sat down again. ‘And I don’t intend to either. See, I’ve been thinking. My sister, Lydia – she’s been out in Spain for ages, fluent Spanish speaker, and completely devoted to the family in ways I could never be – well, she’d be perfect for the job.’
‘And so she can do it instead of you?’
‘Yeah. Well, hopefully.’ His expression was doubtful.
‘But there is a problem?’
‘Yeah. The problem is, she’s a woman.’
‘What? Why is that a problem?’
‘Well, Underwood and Flinch is a father-to-son type business, you know? Eldest boy gets to run the company? It’s old-fashioned I know, but that’s the way it’s always been.’
‘But that’s sexist. Surely it won’t be a problem in this day and age?’
He scratched his head. ‘Yeah, well I hope not. What I want to do is go out there; be there – you know, for John – until after he’s gone, and then just sign everything over to Lydia and get myself out of it.’
‘So you want no role in the business at all?’
David was thoughtful for a moment. Then he said, ‘Their business is death, Lisa. I want no part of it.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘Yes, I think you are more suited to teaching than the disposal of bodies.’
‘My feelings exactly. More than you could know.’
‘But tell me, what are you going to do about this flat while you are away? And your job?’
‘Well, I’m sure I can get some kind of compassionate leave from my job. As for the flat, my rent will keep going out by standing order, and, well, if you like, you can stay here – till you go back to Germany, or as long as you like. You have a key, after all.’
‘What? I? Live here?’
‘Sure.’
‘And when you get back?’
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. ‘Stay. If you still want to, that is.’
She smiled. ‘You don’t have to say that.’
‘I know, but mean it. I was an arsehole yesterday – not just when I was pissed, but before as well. That solicitor’s letter made me think about a lot of things: not just John and me and the family, but about mortality, you know? We only have so much time on Earth, and we need to hang on to the things – the people – that matter to us. And you matter to me.’
She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you. You matter to me too. Though I don’t know if I will stay or not. You weren’t a complete arsehole yesterday; you were right in some things: I do have commitments in Germany, but soon, maybe, I can come back.’
He took her in his arms. She was warm and sleepy and he held her close, his senses awakening to the delicate fragrance of her hair and skin. Then he realised how he must smell to her and he moved away, embarrassed. ‘Sorry, Lese. I must reek of alcohol.’
She smiled. ‘That’s okay, just as long as you don’t make a habit of it.’
He raised his hand as if swearing an oath. ‘No way. I’m back on the wagon, and this time I’m staying on it.’
‘Good. I’m happy to hear that. But, there is just one thing with your plan, David: if you are going to be the Flinch half of the company, what about the other man, Mr Underwood?’
David’s smile faded. ‘Underwood? Well, I don’t know. I’m sure he’ll be reasonable enough; a traditionalist probably and set in his ways, but I don’t doubt he’ll see the practical advantages of having Lydia in the driving seat. Mind you, I haven’t seen Lydia in years, but she always struck me as being very committed, both to the family and to Mr Underwood.’
‘But what if Lydia doesn’t want the job?’
‘Oh, she’ll want it,’ he said, his face unsmiling. ‘She’ll be thrilled.’
‘Well then, it sounds hopeful.’
‘Yeah.’
In the hallway, the front door buzzer sounded.
‘That’ll be my taxi.’ He got up, zipped up his bag and turned back to her with a mildly anxious expression on his face.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘everything will be fine.’
He nodded.
‘And I’ll be back in a few months.’
He nodded again.
‘You look worried.’
‘I am.’
She smiled. ‘I know. It’s not going to be an easy time.’
‘I know.’
The door buzzer sounded again.
He bent to kiss her ‘I have to go.’
‘Take care, David.’
‘Yeah. You too.’ He picked up his bag, and without turning back, he left for Spain.
Lydia Flinch screamed. Her back arched up away from the bed, and for a moment she was rigid, breathless, trembling on the edge of some inner abyss. Then she gasped, collapsed back against her pillows, and sighed contentedly.
Beltran Morales’ face rose smiling from her lap. ‘That was good, no?’
Lydia looked down at hi
m. ‘It was alright.’
Beltran frowned. ‘Alright? It sounded better than alright to me – you came like a porn star!’
‘Well of course I did: one does. Would you prefer it if I just lay here like an anaesthetised patient? Actually don’t answer that Doctor Morales, I don’t think I care to know.’
Beltran climbed up her body so he lay face to face with her. He raised his hips and reached between his thighs to grasp his erection. ‘No. I like it when you come like the porn star.’
‘I know, Belly,’ she pushed him off and sat up. ‘And I’d love to help you do the same, but unfortunately I have to go. My brother’s arriving this morning, remember?’
Beltran looked crestfallen. He shook his erection, ‘But you can’t go now. Look at me!’
She looked. ‘Yes, poor thing. But don’t worry, it’ll go down eventually.’
‘Jesus, Lydia! Come on. You know you want me.’
‘Actually, I want a quick dip in the pool and a cup of coffee.’ She got up and went to the bedroom door. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’ said Beltran, reclining in a pose that was intended to be alluring.
‘Do you want coffee?’
He gripped his penis. ‘I want you, you little puta.’
‘Yes, well,’ she glanced at his lap, ‘I’ll just leave you two alone.’ She left the bedroom, smiling at the string of Spanish obscenities that followed her down the hall.
Three minutes later, Beltran strolled out of the bedroom wearing a towelling bathrobe and a hangdog expression. The white marble floor tiles were cool underfoot as he walked down the corridor towards the lounge. The sun streamed in through the open balcony windows, through which he saw Lydia sitting on a sun lounger beside the pool. He went out to join her. Apart from her sunglasses, she was naked. She had no immediate neighbours, her villa being situated as it was in the wooded hills on the outskirts of Malaga, overlooking the Mediterranean. She was brushing the tangles from her wet hair when Beltran walked up to her, his face still sulky. She looked up at him. ‘Hello Belly. How was the wank?’
He ignored the question. ‘Did you make me a coffee?’
