Fatal Sunset

by Jason Webster

  He spurred the bike on, twisting the accelerator to push past the cars, finding gaps down the middle, speeding through traffic lights just as they turned red. Once he got past the old fishermen’s quarter – the Cabanyal – he turned and rode up through the university campus before connecting with the motorway and pushing out of the city.

  The sea to his left was a gently ruffled carpet of deep indigo, with barely a wave breaking its surface. A row of elderly men lined the sea wall, sitting shirtless in fold-up chairs and sipping cans of beer pulled from iceboxes as the floats on their fishing lines bobbed up and down in the quietly rolling surf.

  He peered up at an almost cloudless sky. The heat was rising and the wind pulsing through his clothes brought welcome relief to his skin, yet the air was still relatively clear: the humid haze of high summer had yet to come and the mountains ahead in the distance were clearly visible, green and lush after the late-spring rains. He looked forward to breathing the lighter, drier air up there. He could be up at Sunset in less than half an hour.

  He turned off at El Puig and entered the sea of orange groves to the north of the city. Their blooms had all but gone by now, replaced by small shiny green balls of fruit. He caught sight of a lone farmer tending to some of his trees, a straw hat on his head and espadrilles on his feet – attire that hadn’t changed for centuries.

  Cámara sped on, working his way along winding country roads, a slope rising as he began to reach the foothills of the sierra. The orange groves gave way to fields of carob and olive trees. After passing the town of Náquera, with its fin-de-siècle summer villas and neatly tended gardens, he broke out into the mountains, greeted by pockets of tight cold air sitting in shaded folds of the rocks, and the prickly, embracing scent of pine as the trees around him warmed and glowed light green in the late-morning sun.

  The nightclub was close, a few kilometres further on and up a turning to the right. Most people knew how to find Sunset, even if they’d never actually been. You could see the building from afar, some claimed, from the city itself on the clearest days. It was one of those swaggering country estates that some newly enriched Valencian grandee had built for himself in the early 1900s. Cámara suspected that the man would be turning in his grave if he knew what went on today at his former home.

  Cámara had been to other nightclubs often enough. For years, in the eighties and nineties, Valencia had been famous for its Ruta de Bakalao, the string of discos around the city where gut-thumping electronic music played through the night and well into the morning. It had been rivalled only by the Ibiza scene, a badge of pride among the city’s youth, who decorated their Seats and Vespas with brightly coloured stickers from their favourite venues. Now the Ruta itself was no longer what it had been, and many had declared it dead. Yet a handful of the old places were still going, names like Barraca and Bananas that were legendary among a certain generation. Cámara himself had taken mescaline for the first time inside the Barraca toilets, as had almost half the city in the eighties. The drugs had been cheap and of good quality back then; people were experimenting and having fun. The ugliness came later.

  A culture of some kind had attached itself to most of the venues. The Face was the trendiest and most expensive, with a snob value that cut against the grain of what having a night out was all about, as far as Cámara was concerned. Barraca had its top-class DJs; Bananas its strip acts and live sex shows. Yet Sunset had always been different. Set apart from the others, high in the sierra and looking down on the fertile city plain, it had an otherness about it. Some said that it had become a favourite among the gay community. Certainly everyone knew – or at least assumed – that its owner, José Luis, was gay. Yet Cámara knew of women going there – he had overheard a group of Alicia’s friends saying they had been at least once, perhaps several times. Others who mentioned the place would also contradict the rumour that it was strictly a gay disco. Anyone went there, and people of all ages – a greater range than at many of the other haunts. Yet what went on at Sunset was the subject of dark rumour.

  Cámara remembered a case from perhaps a year before. A young man in his early twenties had been found dead there. The autopsy revealed a powerful cocktail of drugs in his system, some combination of cocaine, methamphetamine and GHB injected into his bloodstream. Sunset was the kind of place where the latest hedonistic trends tended to be tried out first, almost a testing ground for what became the fashion down on the coast months later.

  Needless to say, there were many voices clamouring for it to be closed, condemning it as a den of vice, a centre even – in the eyes of some – of Satanic ritual. No priest or bishop was worth his salt, it seemed, unless he made a public denunciation of Sunset at some point in his career. In fact it was a wonder, given the enigmatic, suspicious air about the place, that someone hadn’t found an excuse to shut its doors.

  Yet here it still was, a crowning presence among the pine forests. Cámara wondered what would happen to it now that José Luis was no longer around.

  He found the turning, with a sign showing a red setting sun, and steered the bike up the last kilometre or so. The road narrowed dramatically, twisting sharply as it climbed. In patches the tarmac had ruptured where tree roots had crept underneath and burst through to the surface. Cámara gripped the handlebars tightly, dodging them as best he could. A long drop to a dark gulley fell to his right, with no crash barrier to stop him should he make a mistake.

  Through a gap in the forest he thought he could make out the main nightclub building, flashing white and yellow in the sunlight. He heard the low rumbling of an engine on the road not far away, although with the tight corners it was impossible to tell whether it was behind or in front.

  Around a bend, the tarmac came to a sudden halt, rocky dirt track continuing beyond. Cámara resisted the temptation to slam on the brakes: he could easily lose control of the bike on a surface like that. He felt the bump of the suspension as he rode over a large stone in his way, his backside momentarily losing contact with the seat.

  He dropped the revs and cruised for a second, trying to spot other obstacles in his path.

  The sound of the engine suddenly burnt in his ears. He looked up and saw a black BMW with tinted-glass windows come hurtling round a corner, heading straight at him. Instinctively, Cámara hurled the bike to the side, trying to dodge it. But the car swerved in the dirt, pointing its nose again towards him and accelerating. Breathless, Cámara pulled on the handlebars, angling the bike away from the approaching car, yet his path was blocked by a rockfall on to the track. Spotting his only escape – a tight gap between two boulders on the other side – Cámara sped across and delved into the forest undergrowth just as the car whizzed past, inches away from his back wheel.

  As it did so, Cámara turned to see: the driver’s window was down. A swarthy face, unshaven and puffy, stared back at him through mirror-lens sunglasses. Behind him, in the passenger seat, was another man, shaded from view.

  The car slowed for a moment, as though the driver was thinking about reversing, trying once more to run over the motorcyclist he had found in his way. Yet the second man gestured that they should drive on. The engine screamed and the wheels spun in the dirt, kicking up stones and dust, before speeding away.

  Cámara tried to get back on to the road, take down the licence number, but before he could catch a glimpse, it had disappeared.

  TEN

  The station for the fast train to Madrid was back across the avenue and a few blocks further up. She accompanied him partway, then watched as he broke into a run and dashed across the plaza towards the entrance. The AVE was leaving in five minutes. He would just make it before they closed the platform. It took about an hour and a half to reach the capital these days, down from the three- or four-hour journey of the past.

  As she turned to head back the other way, Alicia realised that they hadn’t really said goodbye. But then there was so much now on her mind after what he had told her that it was perhaps not surprising. There was a pregn
ant, buzzing feeling in her, a need to get it down on paper. She went straight back to the bar, hoping to sit at the same table and recreate the conversation as clearly as possible, but it had already been taken. Another table was free, but the place was busier and noisier now with the first workers – dusty builders from nearby roadworks – appearing for an early lunch; instead she walked up the street and found a bench near a small children’s playground, empty but for a battered pigeon pecking for invisible crumbs among the cracks in the rubber-matted ground.

  She pulled out a notebook and pen, sat down and started writing as quickly as she could, trying to recapture every word of Nacho’s story while it was still fresh. His train would have pulled out by now.

  ‘Don’t call me,’ he had said as he broke off into a run. ‘Whatever you do, don’t call my mobile.’

  She started by writing down what she knew about him, his position and his work.

  Ignacio (Nacho) Alberola, 49 (?), Valencian. Graduate from Valencia Politécnica University. Current residence: Madrid? Employer: Complutense University, Madrid. Occupation: marine biologist.

  Story:

  Carrying out research into colonies of bryozoa in the waters around the island of Cabrera – small, uninhabited rock just off south coast of Mallorca. [Q: How far? Check.] Over 100 different species there – very rich and diverse – excellent venue for studying their behaviour. Clear, largely unpolluted water due to lack of human habitation of the island. This summer was his third season there, working as part of a Complutense team that included two others (didn’t give names).

  Cabrera is a National Park and has been since the 1990s (?). Formerly a military base. Scientific research there has been ongoing for many years. At the end of this season, however, Nacho and the others were informed by the authorities that permission to continue would not be forthcoming. No reasons were given, any inquiries had to be directed to the Captaincy General in Palma. The announcement was sudden and unexpected.

  Nacho’s two colleagues were already en route to the mainland when the news came through. Nacho, however, still had to complete some final analyses and had left a piece of equipment back on the island. Not thinking he was doing anything particularly offensive, he borrowed a friend’s motorboat and set off to Cabrera at first light, hoping to sneak in, collect his materials and leave without disturbing anyone. Almost as soon as he came in sight of Cabrera, however, he was intercepted by a naval vessel; officials hauled him out of the boat, handcuffed him and told him he was under military arrest.

  According to his account, he was blindfolded and taken to the island. There, he was led off the naval vessel and walked up a slope to an old castle (all this became clear to him later), where he was placed in a cell – some kind of dungeon, perhaps. The blindfold was removed and he was informed that he had violated military law by trespassing on Ministry of Defence property. He tried to tell them who he was, that he was a scientist who had been working on the island only the day before, but no one appeared to listen. The door was locked and he was left on his own – for how long he’s not certain, but several hours at least.

  Then, some time in the early afternoon, the door opened again and a man in civilian clothes appeared – until then Nacho had only seen men in uniform. The man, who was dressed in a grey suit and tie but gave no name, spoke to Nacho in softer tones, appeared more conciliatory. He apologised for what had happened, explained that Nacho had been foolish not to have taken the order to leave the island seriously, that he quite easily could have been killed. Military manoeuvres of some kind were taking place – war games of some description – hence his rather harsh treatment. However, he – the civilian – had managed to sort things out and Nacho would now be escorted back to Mallorca. He would even be allowed to collect his materials and equipment before leaving. The only condition was that he would have to sign a non-disclosure agreement promising not to tell anyone about what had happened or what he had seen.

  Nacho tried to argue that he had been blindfolded and hadn’t seen anything, but the man insisted. Nacho asked him who he was, who he worked for. The man refused to give a name, said something about working for the government and stressed that Nacho’s signature had to go on the papers before he would be released.

  Nacho finally agreed and signed, using his own pen to do so. The man then took the papers along with the pen. A guard was summoned and told to escort Nacho back down to the bay, where the borrowed motorboat had been tied up and his materials and equipment placed inside. As he left the castle, Nacho looked around, but the island looked as it always had. The naval vessel had gone and everything appeared more or less as usual. The only visible change was in the castle itself, which seemed to have been turned into a makeshift military command centre of some kind, with antennae and even a couple of satellite dishes installed on the battlements. These had not been there before.

  It was at this moment that Nacho realised he had left his pen behind. He dashed back – the guard must have had no time to react – and re-entered the castle, looking for the man in the grey suit. He found him talking on the phone with his back turned. He appeared to be giving reassurances to the person on the other end that everything was fine, no damage had been done. Then he mentioned a word: ‘Clavijo’. It meant nothing to Nacho, but seemed to be of some importance.

  When the man in the suit realised Nacho had returned, he rang off and admonished him, using much harsher language than before. Nacho explained that he only wanted his pen back. The guard appeared and tried to explain that Nacho had slipped away. He too received harsh words, was reminded that allowing prisoners to escape was a court-martial offence. Nacho insisted that he wanted his pen back, but the guard simply hauled him away, gripping his arm tightly and marching him back outside and down to his boat. There, an officer of some description read Nacho the riot act yet again and ordered him at gunpoint to get into his boat and sail away. A second vessel escorted him out of the bay and some distance off the coast back towards Mallorca before turning round and leaving him on his own. He was told that should he try to return he would face a lengthy prison term.

  This happened two days ago. Nacho spent that night in Mallorca before flying yesterday into Valencia. Today he has travelled on to Madrid by train.

  He is clearly shaken by what happened. Nacho is not the most robust of people – there is a history of mental instability, even illness perhaps, probably brought on – or at least not helped – by drugs taken in his youth. He is frightened. Or paranoid? It’s not easy to tell. And he insists there’s a story here, that something big is happening on Cabrera and that the authorities are trying to hush it up.

  But what, exactly? Admittedly there are reasons to be suspicious, but the explanation that the island is being used for military manoeuvres sounds reasonable and would explain what happened; civilians wandering into a firing range might be expected to be treated harshly, if only for their own safety and to prevent any repeat appearances. Nacho insists there is more to it, however, stressing this word ‘Clavijo’ that he overheard, as though it were of some significance.

  The blindfold, imprisonment, being escorted away at gunpoint … Yes, it does seem heavy-handed, but is there a story here? On the face of it, no. And although I believe him, and although he is an old friend, it has to be said that he is not the most reliable of witnesses. Did the officer really draw a gun on him? How much of the story has been embellished by Nacho’s delicately balanced imagination? He claims that he has been followed since leaving Mallorca – he saw the same car three times in the street where his parents live, made comments about seeing faces in crowds, men in sunglasses who studiously failed to look straight at him …

  It’s all a bit flaky, not unlike Nacho himself.

  She finished writing and glanced up at the swing in front of her: a small girl was being hoisted on to the seat by her grandfather, giggling as her legs got caught in the chains. A moment later, she was being pushed gently back and forth.

  ‘Higher! Higher!’ she ca
lled. ‘Make it go higher.’

  Her grandfather smiled.

  ‘Not too much,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to get hurt.’

  ‘Higher!’ called the girl.

  Alicia put her notebook and pen in her bag and got up from the bench. She could get back to the apartment in twenty minutes or so. Then, perhaps, she would make a couple of calls.

  ELEVEN

  The track curled around three more corners before widening out for the final approach to the club. Cámara kept the revs down, riding slowly, taking the place in: there was no sign of people, yet a Mercedes was parked at the far side of the building in the shade of a broad-leafed mulberry tree. The land in front of the building was a gently sloping open space of rocky earth, presumably used as a car park judging by the criss-crossed lines of tyre tracks. Cámara pulled in at the edge, flicked out the side stand with his foot and slipped off his helmet, hooking the chin strap on the handlebars.

  He was shaken by the incident with the BMW, but reluctant to place any importance on it. Who were they? Joyriders heading home? Drugged-out youths, perhaps, too pumped with chemicals to know what they were really doing? Right now his concentration was focused on the disco, this curious oasis of vice and hedonism in the verdant heart of the mountains.

  The main structure was a large, two-storey building painted mostly white with dark yellow detailing on the mouldings around the doors and windows. It was a style more common to Seville and western Andalusia than Valencia. Above the main entrance was a small balcony jutting out from a first-floor window with a flagpole attached. No flag was flying this morning. Most of the windows were closed, with iron bars and wooden shutters bolted on the inside. Cámara approached and looked closer: the hinges on the walls were rusted solid: these windows hadn’t been opened for many years: inside, darkness clearly reigned.