Hollow Mountain

by Thomas Mogford

  ‘Hablamos por teléfono,’ Spike replied, wincing at how rusty his Spanish accent was becoming.

  ‘You are Simon’s friend from Gibraltar,’ the voice said, switching to a serviceable English. ‘Where is he? Why has he sent you?’

  ‘Es muerto.’ Muerto . . . There was so much more life to the Spanish word than its velvet-covered English equivalent, Spike thought as he heard a breath catch at the end of the line. ‘You have the money?’

  ‘Six hundred euros.’

  The door gave a click. Jessica glanced at Spike and raised an eyebrow. He grinned and pushed into the apartment hallway.

  The lift opened to a grey-haired couple carrying a picnic hamper and a yellow parasol. They nodded at Spike and Jessica, sharing a wistful smile as they shuffled out together onto the street. Spike guided Jessica into the lift, then hit floor three.

  A boy was waiting outside the lift doors. Crossed arms, black-rimmed glasses, heavy-metal T-shirt. On closer examination, not a boy, but an unfortunately short twenty-something. He glanced from Spike to Jessica, then blushed so fiercely that the shaving rash on his neck was visible. ‘This way,’ he said, tossing his tousled black hair to one side. Why not, thought Spike – the flash of scalp suggested that he would not be tossing it for long.

  The apartment was surprisingly stylish, walls decorated with architectural vedute and oils of Moorish streets. A paella dish sat on the stove, Miele dishwasher sloshing beneath. Parents’ place, Spike decided uncharitably, remembering the youth’s unabashed admiration of Jessica.

  The study off the kitchen overlooked a yellow-grassed communal garden. A sleek olivewood desk was covered with architectural plans and elevations, while the far end of the room had been given over to some sort of workshop, a plastic table cluttered with solvents and paints, a laptop on the floor surrounded by computer-game sleeves.

  Jessica glanced at a framed diploma propped against the wall. ‘Archaeological Honours,’ she read aloud. ‘Juan Andrés Gonzalez. That’s you, right?’

  ‘Who else would it be?’ Juan lifted a small metal cashbox onto the table. ‘Money, please,’ he said to Spike.

  ‘I’d like to see what we’re buying first.’

  Juan pulled a wooden crate from beneath the desk. Drawing out some balled newspaper, he carefully removed what looked like a Roman helmet and placed it on the table. The object was small, no more than fifty centimetres high and made of a blue-black metal, its surface covered in greenish growths, as though lugworms had burrowed inside. Spike leant down to take a closer look. ‘What is it?’

  Juan stared at him, as though suddenly realising he was talking to someone of subnormal intelligence. ‘It’s a ship’s bell, señor,’ he said. ‘Simon brought it to me to be restored.’ He switched his gaze from one blank face to the other. ‘I’m a conservator?’ he said, intonation suggesting he feared they might not understand the word.

  ‘So you work at the museum,’ Jessica replied.

  Juan pushed his hair back defensively. ‘Their funding got cut. But I still do some private work. Now please, the money.’

  Spike held out the envelope, then withdrew it. ‘Doesn’t look like you’ve done much by way of restoration.’

  ‘The bell has bronze disease. There was nothing that could be done.’

  Spike examined a bottle of white vinegar on the table. ‘Clearly a high-end job.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised you were an expert in metallurgy.’

  ‘Did you do much work for Simon?’

  ‘You a cop or something?’

  Jessica stepped between them. She stood almost at Juan’s height. ‘We’re friends of Simon’s wife,’ she smiled reassuringly. ‘We’re just helping her to sort out his estate, OK?’ She extracted the envelope from Spike’s grip and handed it to Juan. He opened it, fingering the sides of the notes. ‘Simon brought me a number of pieces,’ he said more equably. ‘He wanted them cleaned so he could sell them on.’

  ‘Just cleaned?’ Spike said, turning over a pile of papers on the table and finding sheets of museum headed paper.

  ‘And identified.’

  ‘Items the museum wouldn’t touch.’

  Juan gave a non-committal shrug.

  ‘Why didn’t Simon get the work done in Gibraltar?’

  ‘Most of the objects came from the sea, and in Gibraltar, you need to surrender whatever you find. But bring something into Spain, and if it’s from Gibraltar, who cares?’ He glanced at Spike’s expression. ‘The first time, Simon brought me a flagon of gin. Then a manila bracelet – handcuffs used for transporting slaves.’ Jessica frowned, so he moved on rapidly. ‘Then an eighteenth-century ship’s bell.’

  ‘It’s that old?’ Spike said.

  ‘You can tell from the size. It might have been quite valuable. If it didn’t have bronze disease.’

  ‘What is bronze disease?’

  Juan looked down and brushed a thumb over the blue growths protruding from the surface of the bell. ‘An irreversible corrosion of the metal. Archaeologists used to think the deterioration was caused by bacteria. Now they know it’s the result of a chemical reaction, like rust on iron-based metals. Simon should have put it in a bucket of salty water the moment he brought it out of the sea.’

  ‘So it’s worthless.’

  ‘Depends on how much you’re into eighteenth-century ships’ bells. I’ve cleaned off most of the tarnish with a scalpel. You can still make out a few letters of the inscription. There are some so-so carvings on the rim.’ He put the envelope into the cashbox and locked it. ‘Simon told me he was going to give it to his wife.’ He dropped the key into the pocket of his baggy jeans, then peered up, a concerned look suddenly crossing his chubby face. ‘How did Simon die?’ he asked.

  ‘He killed himself.’

  ‘Oh.’ As if losing interest, Juan checked his watch. ‘I have to go. You guys should probably . . .’ His voice tailed off as he picked up the bell and slipped it back into the crate.

  ‘Anything else belonging to Simon in here?’ Spike said.

  Juan shook his head. ‘He sold whatever I restored. I think he had a buyer in Marbella.’

  Jessica touched Spike’s shoulder. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Sign this,’ Spike said, taking out the invoice.

  ‘I never had to sign anything before.’

  ‘Well you do now.’

  Grabbing a Mont Blanc pen from a holder on Juan’s father’s desk, Spike pressed it into his son’s hand. Then he took back the receipt, picked up the crate and followed Jessica out of the flat.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  They stepped back onto the street. The sun had risen above Cádiz and Spike’s eyes ached in the glare. He envied Jessica her oversized Gucci sunglasses.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘You’re so aggressive.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I thought you were going to smack him.’

  ‘He was a scumbag.’

  ‘He was a kid.’

  Spike held up the crate: ‘Six hundred euros for this?’ On one side was written Fino Quinta Osborne. ‘The box is worth more. His parents have taste, at least.’

  Jessica set off down the street towards the bus station. ‘You never used to be like this,’ she called back to him.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Using your size to intimidate people. What’s your problem?’

  Spike mulled the question as they came into the Plaza de España, stopping in front of a white monument built to celebrate some long-abandoned Spanish constitution. ‘I suppose I don’t like people abusing their position,’ he said.

  ‘He was broke.’

  ‘Taking money from a widow and child?’

  Jessica swung round to face him. ‘Please don’t tell me you have a thing for this Grainger woman.’

  ‘She’s a client.’

  ‘An extremely pretty client. That’s why the Chronicle wasted so much copy on her.’ Jessica walked on at pace, then called over one shoulder, ‘Jesus, Spike. She’s about fifteen!’
<
br />   Spike had to run to catch her up. It took him ten minutes to calm her down. Then another five to persuade her to have a drink with him.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Four finos later, it was Spike who slept on the bus home. As he woke they were coming into Algeciras, Gibraltar’s opposing port on the Spanish side of the bay. A line of striped, barber’s-pole chimneystacks flanked one side of the road. Franco had built a petrochemical plant near the town in the hope that it would belch fumes into Gibraltar’s face. Unfortunately, the planners had failed to calculate the contrary winds of the Straits, and the pollution had blown inwards, blighting the area with one of the highest rates of bowel cancer in Spain.

  Spike looked round and saw Jessica staring at him, sipping from a can of San Pellegrino orangeade. ‘You look like a little boy when you sleep.’ Unsure how to respond to this, he took the can from her grasp and drank deeply, tasting the salt from her mouth on the rim.

  ‘I meant to ask,’ she said. ‘How’s Peter?’

  Spike sat up. Outside, the sun was setting. ‘He’s having a CAT scan on Tuesday, then I’m meeting his sister. There’s going to be a formal discussion with the doctors.’

  ‘Cacarucca,’ Jessica murmured. ‘Is there anyone else? In his life, I mean.’

  ‘I’m not sure. We never really talked about that stuff.’

  ‘He goes to Corfu, doesn’t he? In the summer?’

  ‘I know he inherited a house there. He’s been meaning to do it up for years.’

  The bus stopped to let off the Algeciras passengers. Now it was just Gibraltarians and Linenses, residents of La Línea. The usual quiet analysis of who was who rippled through the bus.

  ‘How did you first meet Peter?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘He was at Ruggles & Mistry when I joined the firm. Fifteen years ago, maybe.’

  ‘What was he like then?’

  ‘The same. Just fatter.’ Spike smiled. ‘You know what Ruggles lawyers are like. Machines. Well, Peter was different. He liked wine, flamenco, Laurel and Hardy. Random things. You could smoke in the office in those days. We used to share a room – wave at each other through the fug.’

  Jessica laughed. ‘I forgot you used to smoke.’

  ‘The partners would come in and weep.’

  ‘Was that why he got made redundant?’

  ‘For smoking?’ Spike heard the mockery in his tone and hated himself for it. ‘Technically Peter wasn’t made redundant. They just failed to promote him, year after year. One day he told me he was leaving. Took me out for a boozy lunch and asked me to come in with him. So I forfeited my bonus. And off we went.’

  ‘Bit of a risk.’

  ‘Not with Peter. He always had his own clients. A collection of oddballs Ruggles couldn’t be bothered with, but who were strangely lucrative if you weren’t too fussy and would put in the time.’

  ‘And the rest is history.’

  The finality of the phrase troubled Spike. ‘Aren’t you going to hand that in?’ Jessica asked, gesturing at the crate as they got off the bus at the Gibraltar frontier.

  ‘Or what, Detective Sergeant Navarro?’

  She grinned.

  ‘Let me put it this way,’ Spike said as they approached the first set of customs, ‘if somebody confiscates it, I’ll live.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  ‘Thank the Lord,’ Spike muttered as they neared the house. The kitchen lights were out. ‘Dad’s taken to staying up late to finish the crossword.’

  ‘What happened to the watercolours?’

  ‘Gone. He’s onto the next thing.’

  Jessica swayed a little in the alleyway. They’d stopped by the Royal Calpe on the way home. The neighbours’ budgie stared down with accusatory black eyes as Spike unlocked the door, chattering sociably as Jessica raised a finger to the bars of the cage. ‘Aren’t you ever tempted to set it free?’

  ‘During the day there are queues of other birds trying to get in. Isn’t that what they say about marriage?’ He held open the front door, realising that he’d been half-expecting Zahra to be standing behind him. They’d had many such evenings.

  ‘My parents have been happily married for almost forty years,’ Jessica retorted.

  They walked into the kitchen, and suddenly Spike saw it through Jessica’s eyes. Blister packs of his father’s pills on the windowsill. Net of sprouting onions on top of the fridge. Redundant dog basket full of newspapers.

  ‘Has your father been collecting ships’ bells as well?’ Jessica said, gesturing at the tea chests by the fridge.

  Spike slipped the charred foil carton of an M&S steak-and-ale pie into the bin, then set down his own crate on the table. ‘Nothing would surprise me. Drink?’

  ‘Thought that was a no-no chez Sanguinetti.’

  ‘You just have to know where to look.’

  Spike reached to the top of the kitchen units and took down a bottle of J&B. He’d got a taste for the stuff in Tangiers. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, seeing Jessica’s frown. ‘I just keep it in reserve for guests.’ He poured out two large amber slugs, knowing what she must be thinking. Boozy mum, boozy son. ‘To our moratorium.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Our agreement not to talk about Zahra and Hamish.’

  Zahra would have known what ‘moratorium’ meant, Spike thought as Jessica raised her glass. ‘Heri hof,’ she toasted cheerily.

  He watched from beside the table as she walked across the kitchen. Her dark hair was loose now, damp from the humidity and alcohol. The top button of her blouse had come undone, her skin browner than usual from the Cádiz sun, revealing the swell of her breasts, famous since their schooldays. She stooped to General Ironside’s basket and fingered the worn tartan material. ‘Why don’t you get him another dog?’

  ‘If you see any Jack Russells for sale in Gib, be sure to let me know.’ Spike looked away, removed the ship’s bell from the box, then sat down.

  ‘How is your Dad these days?’ Jessica said.

  ‘Not too bad, actually. He’s slowed down a bit since last year. Though he’s getting obsessed with the past, which is slightly . . .’ Spike trailed off. The design around the rim of the bell was really rather beautiful. A band of fleurs-de-lys, punctuated by a crown motif. Words were engraved around the top: most of the letters were cankered beyond recognition, but two or three remained legible. He reached for the kitchen pad.

  ‘What are you doing, Spike?’

  ‘You can still make out a few of the letters. I’m trying to work out the rest.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘The bell might be worth more if Amy decides to sell it.’

  ‘Amy?’

  ‘Mrs Grainger.’

  ‘Enough whisky for you there?’

  Spike realised he’d poured himself another glass. He drained it and said nothing as Jessica hovered at his shoulder. ‘I just think you should watch yourself,’ she said quietly. ‘With the booze.’

  He set down his pen and rubbed his eyes with both hands. ‘Do you really?’ He suddenly felt tired: bone-weary and ready for a fight. ‘And when do I ever tell you what to do?’

  ‘Maybe you would if you cared more.’

  ‘Oh, spare me this tonight, Jess.’

  She looked as though she was going to say something, but instead turned and pushed through the bead curtain. He heard the front door close quietly behind her – even now she was thinking of Rufus’s sleep. He knew she wanted him to go after her, but somehow he didn’t have the energy. Tomorrow they would talk it over. Laugh it off, as they always did.

  It was properly dark outside now. As he closed the curtains, he thought he glimpsed a figure move by the window, then saw it was just the shadows cast by the washing line, waving in the levanter. He suddenly felt trapped, suffocated by the close air. He checked the time. 9 p.m., still early. So he downed his whisky, then boxed up the ship’s bell and went out onto the street.

  The management has provided no dressing gown, ergo it is my privilege to pace the
upper corridors of this hotel clad only in a towel. A plastic mop-bucket sits by the bathroom door, forgotten by the cleaner or simply abandoned. I lock myself in the privy, gagging at the chip fat and fag smoke seeping up through the ventilation system, mingling with the shit-stench of the last occupant. Laughter drifts up as well: the downstairs television is onto the evening comedy slate now, the roster of British talk shows and soap operas over. Idiot me: as if there were going to be complimentary toiletries in here. Just a soap dispenser marked Kimberly Clark, whoever she may be. Empty, of course. I poke a finger into the spout and emerge with a single spot of soap. That’s it – that’s all I have to work with. I wait for the shower to dampen my freshly cut hair, then root my fingertip around the crevices of my body.

  ‘Evenin’,’ smiles a fellow guest as I walk back to my room, an elderly skinhead with faded blue tattoos on his arms. I unlock my door and climb into bed to dry off, as my scrap of towel refuses to absorb moisture. To block out the monkey-shrieks from downstairs, I plug my travel speakers into my laptop and click on some classical guitar, feeling the soft cow-gut strings of Rodrigo, my namesake, start to balm my mind.

  As I stretch out, I think back to the smug face of the Yid van driver, his unfettered shock as I reared up at his open window as he was having his lunch, the precision of my single blow to the forehead, the indentation perfectly aligned with the top rung of the steering wheel. A dip to the handbrake, a step back as the van mounted the pavement. Twenty-two seconds, all in. Are you sure you’re still up to it . . . ?

  The guitar sings on, and I glance at the bedside table. Beneath the toadstool-shaped plastic lamp, my mobile phone is winking. ‘New plan,’ the message says. ‘Additional item to collect’. Well, I think as I switch off the music and pull another white polo shirt over my head, at least we’re getting somewhere.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Spike took the steps of Upper Castle Gully three at a time. Still this odd sensation of being followed. When he reached the corner of Calpe Road, he stopped sharply and glanced over one shoulder. The moonlight reflected off the front of an abandoned video-rental shop. A thorn bush had seeded itself inside the doorway. Beyond, the lights of the Straits flickered with the usual night-time shipping.