'What did he say?' asked Celia, fanning herself with a postcard.
'They're overbooked. Some sort of conference. He's already installed new guests in our room.'
'You should never have tipped him so much,' she sniffed. 'It gives them airs.'
'Don't you see, if our own hotel can't put us up for the night, that ghastly woman will try and put us in one of her disgusting tavernas.' Suddenly aware that their conversation was being overheard, they turned to find the little taxidriver watching them happily.
'And what on earth is he grinning about?' asked Celia loudly.
'Pliz, I have a cousin.'
'How very nice for you.' Celia snapped her sarcastic smile off and turned back to her husband. 'Well? We can't just stand around here with all these appalling people.'
'Pliz, I have a cousin who has hotel, very nice, very clean. Everything else booked.'
'We're not interested in your – '
'Wait,' said Trevor, gingerly touching his sweat-slick arm. 'Why is everything else booked?'
'Start of high season,' came the reply. 'School holidays.'
'Why isn't your cousin fully booked, then?'
'Hotel not finished yet. He can't get his licence until government inspection.'
'Then he's not supposed to take in guests until then.'
'He needs the money. Don't worry, no-one knows you stay there.'
'Where is this place?'
'Trevor, you're not seriously thinking of – '
'Do you have any better ideas?'
Behind them, Stephanie was organising a queue for sandwich vouchers. Celia shuddered as she watched the sunburned line shuffle forward.
'My name is Gregor.' The taxidriver wiped his hand on his shirt and proffered it. 'You like my cousin's hotel, I promise. If not I drive you back here, free of charge, okay?'
'Okay,' commanded Trevor, as droplets of sweat bulged on the tip of his nose. 'Lead on.'
Unlike the earlier driver, Gregor was happy to load their luggage into his ancient Mercedes without assistance. As the thumping from the speakers of the airport's unconcerned revellers dwindled into the distance, they turned from the main road on to a pot-holed single-lane track and spent the next twenty minutes bouncing around in the back of the car until they felt sick. The sun had passed its white-hot zenith, and a kind golden light now swathed the banks of dessicated eucalyptus trees. The rasp of cicadas sounded like a hundred lawn sprinklers. Celia tried to wind her window lower, but it was stuck. God, how barren the land was before irrigation! Ahead lay a gentle downward slope to the sea, but no sign yet of a hotel, unfinished or otherwise.
Gregor did not speak as he drove. He had no need to. He knew all he needed to know about the discomfited couple jiggling in the back of his car. Without a doubt the man was Trevor Colson, the crooked financier and British member of parliament who had been featured on the front page of his Daily Mirror nearly every day for the past two weeks. The pinch-faced woman next to him was too plain to be anyone but his wife.
Gregor had many, many cousins. He also had quite a few brothers, two of whom operated a chain of highly successful takeaway shops in England. Every month they sent money home so that Gregor and his cousin could complete the building of their hotel in time for the start of high season. But this month no money had arrived, because the brothers had lost every penny they had ever earned when their bank – their sensible English bank – had collapsed and vanished overnight.
Thanks to the tabloid press, Gregor knew all about the fiend in human form who had triggered that collapse, and now the gods had miraculously delivered him into his hands. He knew that revenge was a dish best served cold, but in this land nothing was cold for very long. He prayed he would at least be able to keep his temper until justice had been meted out.
Justice was the problem; Gregor was a civilised man, not given to violence. His creed was a simple one. He believed men made their own destinies. It was not in his nature to be cruel, or to encourage cruelty in others. How, then, to take revenge fairly?
'It's beautiful,' whispered Celia, nodding to the white-washed villa that had appeared to the right of the car. Bouquets of scarlet bougainvillea were stippled across a curving white entrance, before which stood the empty marble basin of a fountain. Trevor returned a pout and a raised eyebrow, meaning perhaps we're not being ripped off after all.
The hotel's open-fronted foyer was deep in shadow, its tiles cooler to the touch. An emerald lizard skittered across the floor like a clockwork toy and vanished behind the check-in desk.
'I'm sorry no lights,' puffed Gregor, setting down their luggage. 'But hot water and electric fans all work. You sign in please.' He pointed to the guest-book on the desk, mentally improvising possibilities; Colson's signature might prove useful to him at a later point. Trevor dug a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket and scrawled his name across the top of the page.
'We're your first visitors, I see. Quite an honour.' Beware my husband loud and jovial, thought Celia. He sounded so false when he was being nice to the natives. She never bothered; it required too much of an effort. 'Is your telephone working?' she asked. She wanted to call Sebastian at his boarding school and warn him of their late return.
'No, not yet, next week maybe. This way pliz.' Gregor hoisted their bags and led them off along a gloomy marble corridor, thinking frantically.
'How many stars will the hotel merit when it's finished?' asked Trevor, addressing their host's back.
'Pliz?'
'Stars – how many will this hotel rate?'
'I don't know yet. But now I already have one star here, yes?' Gregor chuckled softly to himself – a good joke that Colson clearly did not get, which was probably just as well.
The room was spacious, cool and very white, with red Moroccan rugs and long white cotton curtains that billowed across an elegant Louis Philippe bed. 'Are all the rooms like this?' asked Trevor, taken aback.
'Not yet. This is – how you say – show-room. Please make yourself comfortable. I see to dinner.'
'Are you going to cook, Mr -?' Celia had decided to reward their host by asking his name, even though she had been told before.
'Gregor. I make traditional dish for you tonight, my special guests. You would like to eat at – ' he consulted his watch, ' – eight o'clock?'
'That would be convenient, yes,' agreed Trevor with a flicker of a smile as he gently closed the door in Gregor's face.
'You see, it won't be such a hardship after all,' said Celia. Her mouth was a coral O as she reapplied her lipstick in the mirror, 'although I would have liked to call Sebastian to tell him where we were. Absolutely nobody knows we're here, and we don't know this man – he might be anyone.'
'That may well be a blessing.' Trevor stepped on to the balcony, buttoning his cuffs. A warm zephyr ruffled the leaves of the eucalyptus bushes that grew beneath their windows. It was the kind of air that soothed the sinuses and freshened the eyes. The night sky was diamond-dust tossed on to velvet. The reflections of the stars spackled the sea like mica drifting through oil. He felt safe here, far from the baying hounds of the press and the querulous complaints of his constituents. If only this tranquil, luxurious privacy could last for ever…
'I feel overdressed for tonight,' said Celia, realigning her decolletage. 'I mean, he's a taxidriver, for heaven's sake.'
'He's a property owner,' Trevor replied, feeling his moment slip by.
'Part-property owner. He barely speaks English.' She, of course, spoke no other language. 'Well, I hope they manage to make a go of it, he and his brother, cousin or whatever. This could become a very smart place providing it attracts the right sort of clientele. I hope he's not cooking anything too exotic. Earrings?' She held the glittering clusters either side of her head.
'A little too much. We'd better go down.'
The dining room had calibrated glass panels that opened on to a series of small mosaic pools. Wrought iron candelabras set at either end of the room threw wavering aqueous refle
ctions on to the ceiling.
'What a clever idea,' said Celia, waiting for Trevor to pull out her chair. 'I must remember this for the new conservatory.'
Gregor entered bearing a large metal baking dish, which he set down on a cream marble side table. He had changed into a clean white shirt. 'This very special local dish I make for you.'
Celia smoothed a napkin into her lap. 'I hope we didn't put you to too much trouble.'
'Is no trouble. My cousin and I, we catch fish here every morning. I make for you the fish baked in special herbs, with garlic.' He removed the lid of the tureen and a rich aroma flooded the room. Gregor's gold front tooth shone in the candlelight as he grinned at them. 'I hope you are very hungry.'
Celia watched as her plate was filled, then waved her host away. 'Goodness, that's ample.' It looked and smelled very foreign indeed.
The fish was delicious, light and flaky to the touch of Trevor's fork, leaking pungent juices. Gregor brought over a huge glass bowl filled with a crunchy absinthe-green salad that smelled like fresh-cut grass. He poured them generous measures of an agreeably chilled Chablis.
Celia eyed the white meat on the end of her fork suspiciously. Her stomach was delicate at the best of times. Her husband was shovelling his food down, so she supposed it had to be safe. She took a bite, savoured the sauce and found herself pleased.
'A very decent wine,' murmured Trevor appreciatively as he examined the bottle's label. 'Rather out of fashion these days. I fear it's been elbowed aside by all these overpoweringly fruity colonial Chardonnays.'
'My cousin – he chooses the wine. I show you list.' He passed Trevor a handwritten sheet. The MP beamed with delight as he read it. 'Well, well! Small but perfectly formed, as they say.' He handed it back.
'Pliz?'
' – A good list.'
'Ah. Thank you. My cousin – his hobby.'
'Ah.'
The limits of language had made themselves felt, and silence prevailed. Celia picked up the conversation effortlessly, just as she did on a thousand other dining nights in London. 'You have a lovely view here. Was the land expensive?'
'He does not own the land.' No, the land was owned by a British company, thought Gregor, a company that would have no compassion about foreclosure as soon as it realised the payments had ceased.
'Are you married, Mr – um?' asked Celia.
'Yes, but she died.'
'Ah.'
They ate peacefully, listening to the distant sea as the conversation lulled. Gregor cleared away the plates and brought them strong dark coffee, which he served on the verandah with a selection of almond biscuits. Trevor had drunk a fair amount, and seemed intent on explaining the benefits of a capitalist society to Gregor, who merely smiled and nodded.
'People have to build their own lives,' he insisted. 'Then, if they make a hash of it, they only have themselves to blame.'
'But what if – something – go wrong beyond their control?' asked Gregor.
'It's up to them to find a way of putting it right, of course. Like you and this place.' Gregor's heart skipped a beat. For a moment he thought that his guest had seen through him. 'You and your cousin could have decided to buy a little one star Bed & Breakfast hotel, but no, you went for the best, borrowed – a considerable amount of money, I imagine – and good luck to you.' He drained his coffee cup and looked around, smacking his lips. 'Time for a digestif? A drop of brandy, perhaps.'
'Pliz, on the side table, help yourself.'
Celia watched as her husband rose unsteadily to his feet and headed for the array of amber bottles gathered at the rear of the room's marble serving board.
'Darling, a snifter for you? Help you sleep?'
'Just a small one.' Trevor was one of those men who preferred his alcoholic company to keep pace with him. 'Gregor, will you join us?'
The little taxidriver stood beside the man who had ruined him, and poured himself a grappa. 'This is very good. You should try.' He held up the bottle for his guest to see.
'Rather too rough for the European palate, I fear,' said Trevor dismissively, ignoring the fact that his host was also European. 'Good heavens! This cognac! Do you know what you have here?'
Gregor shrugged. 'I know nothing of brandy. Is good?'
'Good? This is – ' He stared down at the bottle in amazement. He had been about to say, this is the best, a quite unique '34 that stands head and shoulders above any other costly cognac in the world. But then he saw the amount that was left and knew that he could – would – easily finish it, and changed his remark to 'this is a very pleasant drink. May I?' And of course Gregor agreed with a hospitable smile, sipping his grappa as Trevor brought the bottle to the table and carefully poured a measure for his wife, then filled his own glass to the brim.
Celia and her husband finished a bottle of the most expensive cognac either of them had tasted in a very long time. Trevor rested his head on the back of his chair and listened to the hushing sea. It seemed to be speaking to him – calling – soothing – beckoning. Gravity was crushing down on him. His lips felt numb. Something was dripping on them. He raised his hand to his face and his fingers came away stained with spots of blood. As he slid from the chair and fell heavily to the floor, cracking his head on the flagstones, Celia gave a little scream and was shocked to find that she, too, was suffering from a nosebleed.
'What's wrong?' she gasped, staring incredulously at Gregor. A hot brick of pain thudded into her chest. She could feel blood pouring down the back of her throat. Trevor was convulsing on the floor beside her.
'All I could find was poison for the rats,' Gregor explained apologetically. 'Very strong taste. But hidden in brandy, I think. Especially after spicy food. Mrs Colson. I let your husband choose.' Gregor raised his hands in a gesture of personal absolution. 'He chose the best.' He turned the label of the cognac bottle to show Celia the row of golden stars, but her eyes stared past him, reflecting only pain, terrible endless pain. 'Five Star, see. Very good. To be fair, this bottle was the only one I put poison in, out of so many. Always a man like that has to have the very best, no?'
Gregor waited for the bodies of his two guests to stop twitching, then stripped and dragged them to the open basement door, kicking them down into darkness. His cousin was due to have the area pumped full of cement in a week, to stop the foundation piles from shifting. It would be an easy matter to bring the delivery date forward. He wondered how long it would take him to forge Mr Colson's signature from the visitors' book. A man like that always came abroad with plenty of travellers' cheques. After locking the door, he walked down to the jetty and plunked the empty brandy bottle into the sea. A terrible waste of a fine cognac, he knew.
Tonight, though, a glass of homemade wine would taste just as well.
SCRATCH
It was too wet and too cold to go all the way into town for such a trivial purpose, but as Ann pointed out, he might regret it if he didn't. Somebody had to win, after all, and there was a double rollover this week.
He had tried to point out the folly of buying the tickets at all, had explained that the odds were so astronomical she was more likely to be struck by lightning ten times in a row than win the national lottery, but she would not be told. Somebody has to win, she would say, I've seen them on the telly, grinning brickies, office workers in syndicates, housewives, don't tell me that they've all been struck by lightning ten times.
She was missing his point. To say that they were short of money was an understatement. They were living in a limbo somewhere beyond bankruptcy, about to have their electricity cut off, about to lose their house and all its contents, and hoping against hope that everything would be neatly sorted out by winning an unimaginable amount of money seemed, well, unrealistic to say the least.
But he went, because she wanted him to and he loved her. That was what you did, wasn't it, if you loved someone? Things you didn't want to do yourself. The engine of the little Fiat sounded as if it was suffering from tuberculosis. He crested the hill and lo
oked down on the wet rooftops of the town, the ashen carparks, the hideous plasticky shopping centre and the inhospitable moorland that butted against the new estate beyond. How he hated what he saw, how he longed to get out, even though he knew he was imprisoned here as surely as if he was locked inside a cell. Money could do that, just lift him up and set him down somewhere better. A simple row of numbers marked down in biro, the work of a moment. But the odds! The astronomical odds! He'd read that each week 30,000 people picked the numbers 1 to 6 in consecutive order! Ann had read an article on the subject which advocated ringing the number 1 – infrequently chosen for its proximity to the top of the sheet – and multiples of ten, which did not look random enough for the public to select. But how could anyone really know? Second-guessing the laws of chance would require understanding how life itself was shaped.
As he entered the tobacconist's shop, a spark of elation jumped within him at the prospect of winning, even though he knew the impossible, absurd odds and loathed the irrationality of hope. They could not afford to waste money, and yet here he was gambling it away. He ran a hand through the back of his shaggy blonde hair and waited for a pair of ancient women to shift from the counter. Queuing for the lottery had taken the place of queuing in the post office for sheer annoyance-value. He snatched up a pair of forms, grimly aware of the syndicates up and down the country that were each filling in dozens of such forms, thought for a moment and began marking off numbers. The age of his dog, Boots (12), the size of his shoes (9), the age of Ann's mother (56), and so on, until he was done.
He posted the slips in the white plastic box and started to leave the shop when he felt a loose pound coin in his jacket pocket. At the same moment his eye caught a separate scratchcard dispenser beside the main lottery ticket display. Dropping the pound coin in the slot released one of the scratchcards, which he slipped into his jeans intending to scratch off when he reached the car. But the rain had begun falling in slate-grey sheets, the traffic was bad, the DJ on the radio annoyed him and he forgot all about it.
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