by Mike Bennett
‘Yeah, that’s the fella. Well, I think he might have had something to do with that decapsitation on Ibiza.’
Michelle frowned. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because,’ Keith began nervously. ‘Because, the bloke who got decapsitated, was Mark Coleman.’
‘Eh? Who’s he when he’s at home?’
‘He’s – he was – a bloke I knew and, well, he was involved with Sergei.’
‘What do you mean? He worked with him?’
‘Not exactly, no. Coleman was involved with Sergei, and I was involved with Coleman.’
‘What do you mean, “involved”? You make it sound like you were in some kind of gay love triangle.’
‘I mean we was all involved ... in drugs, Chelle. I used to buy drugs from Coleman back in Benidorm. Back when, you know, me and the lads were making a bit on the side dealing to the locals.’
Michelle pushed a lock of hair over her ear and looked away. ‘Well, you know I never approved of any of that business.’
‘I know, love, I know, but listen, hear me out. We used to get our stuff off of Coleman. I didn’t know where he was getting it from at the time, but I know that later on at least, he was getting drugs off of Sergei.’
‘And so you think Sergei cut his head off?’
‘Well, I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Why’d he do a thing like that?’
‘I dunno. Maybe Coleman tried to cheat him or something. Remember, Sergei’s boys killed Pete.’
‘Yeah, but the police never caught anyone for Pete’s murder.’
‘That don’t mean nothing – I saw the knife in that bloke’s hand.’
‘Yeah, you did, but no one else. The picture you drew of him for the police looked like Mr Potato Head – and their artist didn’t come up with much better.’
‘It’s not my fault if he looked like a spud. I look like a spud, Hodge looks like a spud, spud-headed blokes are everywhere these days.’
‘Well, whatever about that, no one ever saw that particular spud again.’
‘That’s probably coz Sergei sent him back to Russia.’
Michelle was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘So what does this all mean then, why are you telling me this in the middle of the night?’
‘Coz I’m worried, Chelle. I’m worried for us.’
‘Why? We’ve left all that behind us now. Even if Sergei did cut that Coleman bloke’s head off, it’s got nothing to do with us.’ Then her expression darkened as a thought occurred to her, ‘Has it? Don’t you tell me you’ve been messing around with drugs again, Keith, or so help me, I’ll call the bloody police myself. I’m not having you – ’
‘No, love,’ Keith interrupted her. ‘It’s nothing like that. I’m done with all that business, cross me heart and hope to die.’
‘So, what then? What are you worried about?’
‘I’m worried about Sergei, you know .... in general.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he might come after us, here, in Almacena.’
Michelle frowned. ‘Eh? What on Earth for?’
‘I dunno!’ Keith said, distressed now. ‘It’s unfinished business, innit? He knows we know that his boys killed Pete. Stands to reason he might come after us. He wants to silence me and the lads forever, don’t he!’
Michelle’s expression softened and she put her arms around him. ‘Oh Keith, don’t be silly. All that’s finished and in the past now, darlin’.’
Keith allowed her to bring his head to her chest. He cupped her breast – an automatic response. ‘I know, girl. But, I worry, don’t I?’
‘You just had a nightmare, that’s all. If Sergei was going to hurt us, he would’ve done it long ago.’
‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right, Chelle, but I just want us to be careful, y’know? That we don’t say nothing to nobody about how we sold the pub to Sergei, or had anything to do with him whatsoever – ever, like.’
‘Of course, darlin’. Let’s just try and forget about it now, eh?’
Keith raised his head to meet her eyes. ‘Really, Chelle, say nothing to anyone about Sergei, or Coleman, or any of it. You know, play it safe.’
Michelle smiled. ‘Why would I want to tell anyone about how my husband was a part-time dodgy geezer?’
Keith smiled, relieved. ‘I was just worried, babe. I can’t help it. I’m a family man, aren’t I?’
‘I know.’ She kissed him. ‘And that’s why I love you.’
Keith kissed her back. ‘And I love you too, girl.’ He smiled and sank down against her chest again, though this time he eased himself a little lower so his face was against her breasts.
‘Hello,’ said Michelle, recognising his apparent arousal. ‘Someone’s feeling better all of a sudden.’
Keith enfolded her in his arms before rolling onto his back and pulling her on top of him. ‘Yeah,’ he said, smoothing her hair back from her face, ‘and if you play your cards right girl, I won’t be the only one.’
David opened his eyes. The bedroom window framed a square of cloudless blue. From outside drifted the sound of birdsong and the distant staccato of Spanish voices in animated discussion. His Spanish was rusty, but he concentrated and gradually began to distinguish coherent words, then a flow of meaning. It was a radio news programme, and the speakers were discussing football results. He looked at the bedside clock: it was just after midday. He frowned. Why had he slept so late? For a moment, he wondered if he had been drunk the night before; then the memory of the cellar came back to him. He closed his eyes and his mind replayed the events exactly as he had experienced them. As it did so, he felt again the terror, the certainty that he was going to die at Underwood’s hands. Then he remembered Conchita’s voice close to him in the darkness. She had found him – blind, apparently, and raving like a lunatic at nothing. Nothing? No, it had been real, even though all tangible evidence plainly stated otherwise. She’d cleaned him up and put him to bed. She said she’d check on him during the night. David suddenly raised his head and looked around, half-expecting her to be sitting in a chair, watching him. But he was alone. He sighed and dropped his head back onto the pillow.
So what had happened? Was Conchi right? Had he imagined it all? No, that wasn’t possible; it had all been too real. In which case, the only options remaining were either he was going crazy, or Underwood had manipulated his mind. Much as he preferred the idea of his being a candidate for a nice safe padded cell somewhere far away from all this, he knew for sure it was the latter: Underwood had made him see and hear things that weren’t real. But more than that, he’d managed to induce temporary blindness in him. Or was that somehow part of the whole illusion? What if he hadn’t really experienced blindness, only a further manipulation of his senses, an illusion of total darkness? If Underwood had made him see the light bulb move and shatter, making him see nothing at all would be easy in comparison.
David sat up. He set his pillow against the headboard of the bed, then sat back against it. He took his cigarettes from the night table and lit one. Jesus Christ, he thought. What kind of mental power must Underwood possess to be able to do that? It wasn’t even as if he was up and walking around yet, he was still in hibernation. Or was he? Could he be awake already? No, we’ve dismissed that possibility: he’s unconscious and needs to be resurrected, that’s what all this is about. So what if it happened as part of Underwood’s dream – if Underwood’s dreaming had reached out and somehow affected reality? No, that was insane. What he needed were facts. He took a long draw on his cigarette, and then suddenly remembered that John had said something about notes he’d made for him; files he’d left for him on a computer that explained everything. Facts. Everything John had known about Underwood, perhaps everything Arthur had known too. David stubbed out the cigarette and sprang out of bed. He glanced again at the clock: how long did he have before the resurrection ceremony began? And Lydia? When was she getting back? He had to hurry, there was a lot to learn before now and sundown. As he entere
d the bathroom, he stopped at the sight of himself in the mirror.
‘You could still run,’ he said to his reflection. ‘You don’t have to stay here. Lydia can do everything.’ He saw the cut on his forehead and lightly touched the area around the scab; it ached dully. He walked up to the wash basin and looked deep into the mirror. ‘No. One way or another, he’s my responsibility now. You can’t run; you can’t hide; you have to stay and see this through to wherever it takes you. Okay?’ For a few moments he was silent. Then his reflection nodded slowly back at him. ‘Okay.’ He turned and got into the shower.
Twenty minutes later, David walked into the kitchen. The radio was playing flamenco music and a plump woman, who looked like she might be in her early fifties, sat at the kitchen table weeping steadily into a wad of kitchen towels.
David cleared his throat. ‘Buenas Dias, señora. Soy David. David Flinch.’
The woman looked up. She wiped her eyes and got to her feet. ‘Oh, señor Flinch. Pardon me. I am so sorry about your brother. He was a wonderful man.’
‘Thank you. Please, don’t get up, er ...?’
‘Ana, I am Ana, the housekeeper.’
‘Hola, Ana,’ he extended his hand. ‘Very nice to meet you.’
Ana shook his hand and sniffed. A heavy tear rolled down her face and she wiped at it with her tissues. ‘The same, señor.’
‘Oh, please, I’m no señor, just call me David.’
‘Thank you, señor.’
David smiled and looked around. ‘Do you mind if I make myself some coffee and toast?’
Ana started to get up. ‘Please, this is my job. You sit.’
David held out a hand to stay her. ‘No, really. You’re upset. In fact, can I get you anything? Coffee, tea?’
Ana sat down again. ‘No, thank you, señor David. I am not thirsty.’
‘Are you sure?’ said David, opening the cupboards and peering among the contents.
‘Yes, I am sure.’ She pointed to a cupboard in the corner above the coffee percolator. ‘The coffee is in there, and the bread is in the fridge. It keeps better in the fridge.’
‘Thank you.’ David took out the coffee and put a pot on. He got two slices of bread and dropped them into the toaster, then sat down opposite the weeping housekeeper.
‘So, er, have you worked here long, Ana?’
‘I have worked here most of my life. My mother was housekeeper before me.’
‘Carmella?’ David asked, remembering the housekeeper who had been around when he was a child. ‘You’re Carmella’s daughter?’
‘Sí, yes. She was my mother.’
‘Really?’
‘Sí, señor. She died four years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. She was a lovely person.’
‘Thank you.’ Ana smiled. ‘I remember you, you know? When you were a boy? I used to help my mother sometimes in the kitchen with the cooking and the cleaning, and I remember when you used to come and visit. You have grown into a fine young man.’
David’s eyebrows bobbed with interest. Yes, he remembered Carmella’s daughter. She had been a lot older than him, dark-eyed, raven-haired, and when he entered puberty, capable of making him blush from head to toe with even a suggestion of a glance in his direction. Was this her? He looked closely. Yes, the skin around the eyes was fleshier, but they were the same. As if on cue, he felt a blush rising to his cheeks. ‘Oh my. Ana, yes, I remember you now. How are you? I mean, in general, aside from ... the current situation?’
‘I am very well, thank you señor.’
‘Please, call me David.’
She smiled. ‘David.’
‘Is there a Mr Ana?’
‘No. I am married to my work. Taking care of Mister John and this house leaves me no time for anything else.’
David wondered for a moment if John and Ana had ever been lovers. Behind him, the toast popped. He got up and went to butter it.
‘Ah, Poor John. It’s so sad for him to have held on for so long, and then to die on the eve of his life’s expectation.’
David poured his coffee. ‘Yes. He ... he was looking forward to it.’
‘As are we all,’ said Ana, as David came back to the table. ‘Lord Underwood is also my life’s expectation.’
‘I see. So you’re a part of the ... ’ he gestured vaguely, hoping she’d finish the sentence for him.
‘The Sect?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sí, claro, of course!’
‘Right,’ David nodded. ‘I suppose that makes sense – you, Conchita. By the way, have you seen Conchita?’
‘Sí, she went into Almacena to get some things for tonight.’
‘Oh, yes, tonight. The big night, eh? How are you feeling? Excited?’
Ana’s face lit up. ‘Oh, very excited. Both John and Miss Lydia said I can attend the resurrection ceremony.’ Then a doubt clouded her expression. ‘Is okay with you too, no?’
‘Me? Oh God yeah, sure. What do I know? The more the merrier, eh?’
‘And so now you are the guardian, no?’
He took a bite of his toast and nodded.
‘It is a great honour. You too must be very excited.’
He shrugged. ‘Well, “excited” isn’t exactly the word I’d use.’
Ana frowned. ‘No? What then?’
David scratched his chin trying to remember an adjective that Lydia had used to throw at him when they were kids, meaning scared shitless. ‘Er, how do you say? Estoy Acojonado?
Ana laughed. ‘Sí. I suppose it is understandable. You are unprepared?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Do not worry, señor David. You will do well. John had much faith in you.’
David smiled. ‘Well, thanks. I hope it was justified. Tell me, Ana, what do you know about the ceremony tonight?’
‘I know only that which is permitted for me to know.’
‘Which is?’
‘The arrangements for the catering, the food. This is my task.’
‘The catering arrangements?’
‘Sí, for the Sect members who are attending.’
‘You mean it’s going to be like a soirée or a party? For how many people?’
Ana sighed. ‘Things have been difficult these last few months, señor. There have been many arguments between your brother and sister. Miss Lydia has said me one thing, John, he says me another. I suppose now John has passed on, Miss Lydia wins, no?’
‘What, so how many people does she want?’
‘Thirty people.’
‘Thirty? What, in that cellar? It’ll be packed!’
Ana shrugged. ‘Of course, the final decision rests with the guardian. So maybe you will change things?’
‘Why does Lydia want so many guests?’
‘It is not what she wants, it is what they want. The Sect is worldwide and has many powerful people; all of them want to come tonight. Lydia has been making the decisions since John has been sick.’
‘So, John wanted less people?’
‘Sí, he says it is the wish of the Lord Underwood.’
David nodded. ‘I see. That’s quite a pickle.’
‘What is “pickle”?’
‘Never mind.’ He popped the last of the toast into his mouth. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Ana. I think I need to learn more about these wishes of Lord Underwood.’
‘Perdón, señor, but how much do you know about the resurrection ceremony?’
‘Er, well, pretty much nothing, actually.’
‘Nothing?’ Ana sat up straight in surprise. ‘Nada?’
‘Nada.’
‘What do you know about the role of guardian?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘About the rules of the etiquette and domestic service?’
David shrugged. ‘Well, I can boil an egg.’
‘What about the resurrection ritual? Surely you know how that is to be performed, no?’
‘Er … no.’
Ana looked at the wall clock then bac
k to David. ‘You are going to need another coffee, I think.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ David got to his feet. ‘Could you bring one along to me in the study in about ten minutes?’
‘Sí, señor.’
‘Muchas gracias, Anna. I’ll, er, be in the study.’ David downed the dregs of his first cup of coffee and then left the kitchen.
Ana smiled, then shook her head resignedly. ‘Joder.’
12
MICHELLE STEPPED OUT ONTO THE FRONT PATIO of La Reina de Corazones and shielded her eyes from the sun. Over at their usual table in the corner sat two rather dishevelled-looking Bensons. She smiled and sauntered over. ‘Oh, hello. Looks like you two could do with the hair of the dog. Late night, was it?’
Cynthia, who had not long ago showered off the coagulating blood of José Almonte, turned her sunglasses in Michelle’s direction. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. Whatever benefits Cynthia might have derived from ingesting human blood, hangover relief wasn’t one of them.
‘What was the occasion? And why wasn’t I invited?’
‘Oh, no occasion,’ said Cynthia. ‘Just mid-life ... exuberance.’
‘Mid-life?’ said Gerald. ‘Huh! I wish. We’re a bit past that benchmark, Cyn.’
‘You may be, Gerald. I, however, remain forever 40, and damn the calendar’s contradictions.’
It was mid-morning and the bar was still quiet before the swell of lunchtime trade. Michelle pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Good for you, Cynthia. You don’t look a day over 39. I don’t know how you do it.’
‘Flatterer,’ said Cynthia.
‘Seriously though, you do look young for your age – what with all those fags you smoke and the sunshine; what’s your secret?’
‘Early to bed, early to rise, and a daily facial in my own urine.’
Michelle grimaced. ‘Ugh! You’re kidding?’
A smile played at the corners of Cynthia’s mouth. ‘All right, the early-to-bed thing is something of a fib.’
‘No,’ Michele patted Cynthia’s arm. ‘I’m talking about the urine. You’re having me on, aren’t you? You don’t really wash in your own wee?’
‘I wish I could, it’s supposed to work wonders. I read an interview once with an octogenarian actress who had the face of a wood nymph, and she swore by it. So, in a moment of madness – or stupidity – I did once give it a go, but just the once.’
