Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

by A. J. Quinnell

  He had liked Gozo on his previous visit. It was unique, in his experience, for having no class in its society. The poorest fisherman knew he was as good as the richest landowner. A man who thought himself better than others should avoid Gozo. He remembered the people as being noisy and cheerful and, once they knew you, friendly. The noise started now as they turned into the small harbour of Mgarr and the passengers bustled forward to be the first off.

  He walked up the hill to a bar with the unlikely name of “Gleneagles.” It was an old, oblong building and had a narrow balcony facing the water. Guido had told him to phone Julia’s parents from there and they would pick him up. The interior was high-ceilinged and cool — a barn of a place, with paintings of local landscapes on the walls and an assortment of locals propping up the bar.

  Creasy left his suitcase by the door. The sight of pint mugs of beer reminded him that he was thirsty, and he gestured at the draft pump. The bartender, a short, balding, round-faced man, asked, “Pint or half?”

  “Pint, thanks.” Creasy eased himself onto a stool and put a pound in front of him. The beer was cool and amber, and he drank deep. When the bartender brought back his change, Creasy asked, “Would you have the phone number of Paul Schembri?”

  He received a blank look.

  “Paul Schembri,” he repeated. “He has a farm near Nadur, you must know him.”

  The bartender shrugged and said, “Schembri is a common name, and there are lots of farmers on Gozo.” He went down the bar to serve someone else.

  Creasy was not annoyed. In fact, he approved. The man had to know Paul Schembri. It was a very small island. But it was an island that protected its privacy. Even a mild invasion of tourists couldn’t change that. They were friendly to strangers but didn’t tell them anything until they knew who they were and what they wanted. A Gozitan would deny knowing his own brother until he knew who was doing the asking.

  So Creasy drank his beer and bided his time. Then he called for another one, and when it arrived said, “Guido Arrellio sent me. I’m to stay with Paul Schembri.”

  Light dawned.

  “Oh you mean that Paul Schembri? The farmer — near Nadur?”

  Creasy nodded. “That’s the one.”

  The bartender studied him and then smiled. He had one of those rare smiles that light a room. He held out a hand.

  “I’m Tony. I remember you now. You were here when Guido married Julia.” He gestured down the bar to a younger man. “My brother Sam,” and then to a grease covered drinker, “That’s ‘Shreik,’” and to the two others, “Michele and Victor — when they’re not drinking in here, they run the ferry.”

  Creasy remembered them supervising the loading of the cars and trucks and collecting the fares. He was no longer a stranger. Tony picked up the phone and dialled a number and spoke a few words in Maltese. Then the smile came again. “Joey will be down in a few minutes to pick you up.”

  Sam put another pint in front of Creasy and gestured towards the grease covered “Shreik.” Creasy remembered the drinking prowess of the Gozitans, and how, once they started to buy each other rounds, a day and a half could go by. He felt good and relaxed. He could relate to these people. He wouldn’t get a bunch of questions. No one would pry or try to slot him into a category or throw a spurious friendship at him. Everything would be face value. Be what you want to be. Do what you want to do. Just don’t step on toes, and don’t be mean when it’s your round and, above all, don’t be “proud.” Being “proud” was the greatest possible sin in Gozo. It could be equated with being stuck-up. A man could be an arsonist or a sodomist and still be accepted, but if he was “proud” — forget it.

  Creasy finished his beer and caught Tony’s eye. Tony was one of those bartenders, the rare breed, that see everything, no matter how busy they are. He moved down the bar, filling drinks, and took more money from in front of Creasy.

  “Yourself?” Creasy asked.

  Tony shook his head. “Too early for me.”

  Ten minutes went by before the smile came again and he picked up another ten cents and said, “Why not,” and pulled himself a beer.

  Creasy was to learn that this was Tony’s habit. He always turned down a drink and then spent anything from ten minutes to half an hour asking himself why. The cogitation always ended in a smile and the inevitable “Why not!”

  Every Gozitan has a nickname, and it was no surprise to learn that this bartender was called “Why Not.”

  A battered Land Rover pulled up outside and a young man loped in — long-legged and open-faced, with black curly hair. He stuck out a work calloused hand.

  “Hi, I’m Joey. Welcome to Gozo.”

  Creasy could vaguely remember Julia’s young brother, but he would have been only ten at the time. Joey looked at Tony and panted exaggeratedly and was presented with a beer.

  “You’re not in a great rush, are you?” he asked with a smile. Creasy returned the smile and shook his head.

  Joey downed half his beer. “That’s good. I’ve been sacking onions all day and it’s thirsty work.”

  A mild drinking session got under way with a lot of good humour. English is the second language of the Maltese Islands, and only occasionally the drinkers would lapse into Maltese to emphasize a point. The language contains a lot of Arabic and Italian, and has a curious singsong lilt to it. With his knowledge of both those languages, Creasy could pick up many words. Fishermen started to drift in, thirsty after a day in open boats under a hot sun, and then Victor and Michele went off to make the last ferry run.

  Most of the drinkers had switched from beer to hard liquor when Joey looked at his watch.

  “Ghal Madonna! Six o’clock — let’s go, Creasy. Mother will be building up a head of steam.”

  They drove up the steep hill through the tiny village of Qala and then dipped down again before turning off the Nadur road.

  The farmhouse was built around an inner courtyard in the old style — a sprawling stone building. One corner wing looked newer than the rest, and was reached by an outside staircase.

  A tall, plump woman came out from the kitchen. She had a round, pleasant face, rich in character, and she smiled as Creasy climbed down, embraced him, and kissed his cheek.

  “Welcome, Creasy. Long time.” She glared at her son.

  “Creasy was thirsty, Ma.” This was said with a wink at Creasy and an impish smile.

  She scolded him gently, told him to take the suitcase upstairs and led Creasy into the kitchen.

  He remembered the huge, arched room. It was the centre of family activity — the dining room and lounge were used only on formal occasions.

  It made him realize that he was within a family unit, and that could have made him uneasy, but Laura bustled around making a large pot of coffee and asking how Guido was and tending a trio of simmering pots on the big stove. He couldn’t feel uneasy. His presence was quietly accepted, and this feeling was reinforced when Paul Schembri came in from the fields. He was smaller than his wife and at first appeared thin; but his arms were sinewy and corded, and Creasy got the impression of strength and compactness. He nodded at Creasy and asked, “Alright?”

  It was the most commonly used word in Malta, in any language, and covered the spectrum of meaning from a question to a statement to a greeting or even a farewell. It equated the French “Ça va” and more.

  “Alright,” Creasy replied, and Paul sat down and accepted a cup of coffee from Laura.

  His greeting was such that Creasy might have been gone just overnight instead of eight years, and it made the American relax even more.

  Creasy had bought a small cassette player in Naples, and he slipped in one of the cassettes Guido had retrieved from the house at Como. Then he lay back on the bed, and as Dr. Hook sang a lament of love, he considered his situation and the people around him. Guido’s suggestion that he use Gozo as a base had been a good one; he had known that Creasy would get a warm but undemonstrative welcome from the Schembris. He also knew that they had r
ecently rented a series of fallow fields from the church, and that reterracing and preparing this land would be hard work. Creasy would enjoy and benefit from helping. Guido had spoken at length to Paul on the phone and explained Creasy’s condition and recent events. He had not spoken of the future.

  Creasy had been given a small suite of rooms to himself. It was the newer wing he had noticed, with its own entrance by the outside staircase. Over dinner, Paul had explained that it used to be storage rooms and a hay loft. Guido had sent money every year since his marriage to Julia, and this had continued after her death. At first, Paul had been angry — after all they were not poor people — and he had threatened to send it back. But Guido had been disarming, had told him that it was for tax reasons. “You know what he’s like,” Paul had commented to Creasy.

  They had used part of the money to convert the old storerooms, so that Guido would have a comfortable place and some privacy when he came to stay each year. There were two big rooms and a small bathroom, all arched and vaulted in the usual manner. The thick stones had been oiled, rather than painted, and they retained a soft ochre colour. The rooms were furnished simply. A big old bed and chest of drawers in the bedroom, with wooden pegs on the wall on which to hang clothes. In the other room, a grouping of low, comfortable chairs and a coffee table, and a well-stocked liquor cabinet. It would be home for at least two months and already, on his first night, Creasy felt comfortable and settled.

  He thought about the Schembris. They were, to all appearances, simple farmers, but in Gozo the level of education is high, and while the people are conservative and close-knit, they take an interest in the outside world and are often well read. Because of overpopulation, many Gozitans have settled overseas, particularly in North America and Australia, and some of them, coming home to retire, buy houses in their original villages. So there is a rejuvenation of ideas, and a movement of people within the community.

  Paul Schembri was a typical farmer, his values rooted in a life of hard work and the productive cycle. He kept his counsel and didn’t parade his views for all to see. He had money in the bank and could look any man in the eye. He was a bit like the stone walls that surrounded his fields — dry and a bit dusty, but well made, each stone fitting against the other without cement or plaster and able to stand up to the Gregale winds that, in winter, come across the sea from Europe and scour the low hills.

  Laura was more outgoing. A casual observer might have thought she dominated the marriage, but that was a surface impression. She was a big woman and confident of her intellect, and even if Paul had allowed it, she was wise enough not to take advantage of his seeming mildness. But her character had more facets than Paul’s, she sparkled brighter, and her interests and curiosity ranged wider.

  Joey mostly took after his mother, his inquiring guileless mind allied to overt goodwill. He would be attractive to women, Creasy decided. They would be drawn to his dark good looks, which would undoubtedly arouse maternal instincts.

  He wondered about the girl, Nadia. She was working as a receptionist in a hotel on Malta but would be returning at the weekend, and staying to help her family on the farm.

  Guido had told him that she had married an English naval officer and gone to England, but the marriage had failed a year before. Creasy remembered her vaguely at Guido’s wedding. A teenager, with the same quiet good looks as Julia. He hoped she wouldn’t present any complications. So far, the situation was good. In the morning he would start training. He didn’t want complications.

  He turned over the tape, and Dr. Hook sang of an old drunk in Brooklyn and a plea to be carried a little farther. Just a little farther.

  He reached the long ridge overlooking the bay at Marsalforn and stopped for a breather. Sweat had darkened his track suit. The sun was still low — only an hour old, and the bay, sheltered by the surrounding hills, was shaded. He sat on a low stone wall and drew in air deeply. His body ached — all of it, muscles protesting in hurt astonishment at the sudden activity. He reminded himself not to overdo it. A pulled muscle now would set his program back days or weeks.

  He had risen just before dawn and worked through a set of exercises, following the old Legion routine, but he had curtailed them, starting gently.

  Then he had taken a cold shower and gone downstairs. He had been surprised to find Laura already in the kitchen, and said so.

  “I go to early Mass at five o’clock,” she had answered, smiling. “Someone has to pray for all the sinners in this family.”

  Creasy had smiled. “Pray for me too, Laura,” he said lightly. “I’ve done my share of sinning.”

  She had nodded, suddenly serious, and looking at the small gold crucifix hanging from his neck.

  “You are a Catholic?” she had asked, and Creasy had shrugged.

  “I’m nothing very much.”

  She made him a big mug of black coffee and, as he sipped, Paul and Joey had come in, dressed for the fields.

  “I’m going for a run,” Creasy had said, “and then for a swim. Can I help you on the terracing later?”

  The farmer had smiled and nodded and led the way outside, pointing down the hill to the sea.

  “When you want to swim, follow that path. There’s a small cove there and you can swim off the rocks. The water is deep, and it’s private. It can only be reached through my land or by boat.”

  Laura had told him to come in for breakfast after his swim, and the thought of both the cool water and the food brought him back to his feet, and he retraced his steps at a slow trot.

  The small cove was secluded and the water deep and clear. The limestone of the shore had been eroded from beneath, and a flat ledge jutted out over the sea. Creasy stripped off and plunged in. He swam about a hundred metres out into the north Comino channel. The small island looked beckoningly close, but he knew that it was almost a mile to its nearest point. Later, when he became fitter, he would swim over there; and later still, and fitter still, he would swim there and back.

  At the farmhouse Laura cooked him a huge breakfast of ham and eggs, and fresh warm bread spread with the island’s clear honey. She sat and drank coffee and watched with satisfaction as he silently cleared his plate.

  She remembered him eight years before, when he had come with Guido — just as silent then. He looked older now and infinitely weary. Guido had told them on the phone how close he had been to death.

  She had grown to love her son-in-law as a natural son, and when Julia had been killed, she had grieved for her daughter, and for Guido.

  She remembered the night before the wedding. Guido had come alone to talk to her and Paul. He told them a little of his past and how the future would be different. How he loved their daughter and of their plans for the pensione in Naples. Finally he had told them that if anything happened to him, and if Julia needed any help, Creasy would provide it.

  The next day she had watched the big, silent American as he tried to enter into the spirit and gaiety of a typical Gozitan wedding. She could sense his pleasure at his friend’s happiness and had known instinctively that what Guido had told them the night before was true. Guido had given her Creasy’s forwarding address in Brussels, and it had been Laura who sent the cable there when Julia had been killed, the cable that had brought Creasy from Africa to Naples to be with his friend. Now she was quietly determined to help this man build up his strength again. Exercise and hard work would play a big part, and she would fill him with plenty of fresh, good food.

  After breakfast Creasy went out into the fields and located Paul and took off his shirt and worked alongside him. There is a skill to building a dry loose wall. The rocks have to be carefully selected and placed just right, one against the other. The old man was surprised at how quickly Creasy picked up the knack, but Creasy had a natural eye for that kind of construction.

  Even so, after an hour, his back ached from the constant bending and his hands, long softened, were scratched and blistered from the stones. At noon Paul called a halt, and Creasy went down
to the cove to bathe his hands in the seawater.

  Lunch was a simple meal of cold meats and salad, and afterward everyone took a siesta during the hottest part of the day. The thick, stone walls and the high, arched ceilings kept the rooms very cool, and Creasy slept well even though his body ached. He rose at three o’clock, stiff and with his bruised hands painful. It would have been good to laze about and he was half tempted, but he switched his mind back to his purpose and went down to the terraces again with Paul. As his skill improved, the two men made good progress working silently side by side. After a couple of hours Laura came down with cold beers in a bucket of ice.

  She scolded Creasy about his sunburned back and she looked with frank curiosity at the scars — old and new.

  “You really got chopped up, Creasy,” she commented. “You should take up farming full time.”

  Then she saw the state of his hands and turned to Paul, genuinely angry.

  “How can you let him work with hands like that? Look at them!”

  Paul shrugged. “You try telling him.”

  She took Creasy’s hands in hers and examined them.

  “It’s alright,” he told her. “I’ll go for a swim later — the salt water is good treatment. In a few days, they’ll harden.” She turned the hands over and looked at the mottled scars and shook her head.

  “Farming,” she said firmly. “It’s much safer.”

  The next three days were the hardest. Each night Creasy would fall into bed totally exhausted.

  But he had established a routine and a pattern: an early morning run, followed by a swim, longer each day, then working in the fields, shirtless in the hot sun. Another swim in the evening, and early to bed after dinner. He exercised when he first got up and just before bed at night. Those first days were an agony, especially in the mornings, when he loosened stiff and unresponsive muscles. It would take about two weeks, he guessed, before he could get into full stride. But the pain acted as a stimulus. It reminded him constantly of his purpose, and it reminded him of the girl and what they had done to her, and his hatred more than matched the pain.