Crappily Ever After (32 page)

The new season kicks off in the usual hectic style and we fall back into the flow straight away. Me back in the kitchen, whilst also attempting to be a temporary waitress in Maria’s absence. All is going fine until mid-April. Strangely enough, I had a weird feeling about today when I woke. Right there, in the solar plexus. I looked out the window at eight this morning. All seemed calm, a few birds twittering, a couple of early beach bums taking a wander, even the sea seemed unusually calm. Flat, like a pond. I shrugged off my strange feeling and headed downstairs to the kitchen. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up a couple of times throughout the morning. Like when you know someone is watching you, but you can’t see them. The busy 11am period comes around and I forget my early morning creeps. It’s around this time that Pablo bursts into the restaurant shouting angrily about needing the day off. I hear the kerfuffle from the kitchen and listen to Mike’s attempts to find out what’s happened. I place a hot tray of lasagne on the worktop and walk quickly through the swing doors to the restaurant area. Pablo is shouting and swearing in Spanish, unable to translate through sheer fury. Eventually he calms down enough to ask for the day off.

‘OK, Pablo, that’s fine, of course you can have the day off. Just tell me what’s wrong, can we do anything?’ I pull him round to the side bar while Mike opens him a beer.

‘Fucking idiot builders!’ he shouts. ‘My children, in the bath, when the roof fall in. My children, my Rosa, could have been killed.’

‘Oh my God, Pablo, I…’

‘They did not put in… what you say?’

‘A lintel?’ Mike supplies. Pablo nods.

‘My little Marco, in hospital, he be OK they say, but bruised and in for few days. My Rosa so
angry.
’

‘Oh Pablo, but yes, you must take the day off, go and spend it with Rosa and Marco,’ I begin.

‘No, I go sort fucking builders!’ he shouts angrily, and slams down his half drunk beer. Pablo stands up and makes for the door. Mike moves quickly around the bar and runs outside after him. We watch, helplessly from the door as he speeds off in his rusty old car. We head back to the bar, what else can we do? We have no idea who he is going after or where. I raise my eyes up to the ceiling to offer up a quick prayer to his Mama to watch out for him.                    

Pablo, and luckily Marco, are both fine. Pablo comes into work the next day simmering with anger under the surface, but otherwise unscathed. Mike tries to find out what he’s done. All Pablo tells him is that he didn’t kill anyone, much as he was tempted, but they won’t be doing it again to anyone else. I don’t like the sound of this. Pablo is not a nasty person, but when his family are threatened, I know he’d at least give the person responsible a good warning off – if not a good hiding. But after a few days on tenterhooks, things settle down. I stop worrying. ‘Pablo power’ seems to carry a lot of weight on the island. It’s not so big that people won’t know who he is. The weekend after, we have the biggest downpour anyone local can ever remember. We have only five hardcore, drenched customers the whole day. Everyone else seems to have done a quick dash to the local shops and then stayed at home for the rest of the day. I stand at the door of the restaurant with Mike and gaze in wonder. I have never seen rain like it. Rivers of water rush by the door. By ten in the evening we decide to call it a night. Pablo heads off home after one drink and a quick game of cards. Mike and I sit and chat at the bar.

‘Well, at least the garden tables will be getting a good clean up. I was going to pick up some industrial cleaner on the next supplies trip,’ Mike muses, glancing out at the still falling rain. ‘Oh, that reminds me, have you got the shopping list for tomorrow? Pablo has a new supplier he wants us to try. Fresh catches of fish that day, none of the two day-old stuff we get now.’ I wander into the kitchen and hand Mike the list.

‘Cheers. Are you turning in?’ he asks. I nod wearily, glad for the opportunity of an early night. Yet when I go to bed, I can’t sleep. My eyelids droop and I jolt awake straight after. I must cut down on the coffee during the day.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but evidently I did. I awaken to hear the roar of a car engine outside and wander over to the window to have a look. Pablo’s car revs and splutters like a forty-a-day old man. Mike wanders down the steps with my list in his hand. They’re off to the suppliers. I throw on some clothes and head downstairs to start on a Spag Bol. I have a few dishes to make, so no point in having a shower now. I will be covered in grease and stinking of garlic within half an hour. I switch on the radio in the kitchen. I’m quite getting into Spanish music, though I don’t understand the lyrics. I make the Bolognese and a paella rice and stock combo, ready to throw in the fresh seafood at the last minute. I prepare the
entrees
of soup and seafood cocktail (or
fruits de la mer
as Mike likes to call it. Posh git) and make a Banoffee Pie. I head back upstairs for a quick shower and a coffee – yes, my ban didn’t last long, I know. Mike will be back by opening time to set up the bar.

I head back downstairs an hour later, still no sign of Mike. I call his mobile, but it rings out to voicemail. Great! Now the sun has come back out hungry mobs will be pounding at the door any minute. I set up the bar and pull the curtain to one side to view the car park. Where are they? The waiters arrive with the new waitress closely behind. I don’t know what to do. None of them have ever worked the till, but they have never done the cooking either. I silently curse myself for not making sure we have multi-tasking staff. Could do with Seamus here I think, with a giggle. I try Mike’s mobile again. Still it rings out. I try Pablo’s, but it’s switched off. I grab Gina, the new waitress, from the kitchen and give her a crash course in working the till. Like a duck to water; I happily leave her there as I go back to the kitchen to prepare the first orders.

‘Table fifteen away,’ I yell, and glance again at the car park. I don’t know if I should be angry or concerned. I leave Mike a message asking where the hell he is, and start another order that’s appeared. By three in the afternoon, things slow down. Still no Mike! What if they’ve crashed? Pablo’s crazy driving combined with that shit-tip excuse for a car, anything could have happened. I walk quickly back to the bar. Gina’s English is perfect, so I will get her to call the police.

 ‘Gina, I am worried about Mike and Pablo, please will you call the… erm, Guardia? Police? Yes? See if there have been any accidents.’ Gina nods with concern and dials the number of the nearest police station. I listen intently as if I can understand every word. ‘Si, si, gracias,’ Gina hangs up and turns to me. ‘They will come in to take description from you soon. Yes? Is OK?’

‘Yes, thank you Gina,’ I say wearily. ‘Now you go get some rest before the evening shift.’

 And then I am alone. Sitting on a barstool, absent-mindedly pouring brown sugar sachets into my coffee. At ten minutes past four the police arrive, breaking my reverie and shocking the life out of me.

‘Sorry!’ I jump, ‘can I get you anything, coffee?’

‘No thank you, we are fine. Now, you reported a missing person?’

‘Well, two actually, but they’ve only been missing a few hours, but Mike definitely would have been back by now if everything was fine. He wouldn’t leave me on my own.’

The policeman raises his hand to stop my babbling and says something in Spanish to the other officer. I curse myself for not learning Spanish. It’s like grown-ups speaking in big words when you’re small. You wish you could understand.

‘Have you a photograph or description of your friends?’ asks the first officer.

‘Er, yes, I think so.’ I rummage at the side of the till. What did Mike do with all the New Year snaps? I have no idea. I turn back to the men: ‘Look, we do have some somewhere. Both men are tall, well-built, dark brown hair and eyes. Sorry, I know they sound identical but really, they could be brothers. And they left so early I didn’t notice what they were wearing. Jeans, I think. Mike always wears them, it’s a safe bet. They were in a red clapped-out old rust bucket car.’ The officers exchange glances.

‘You know registration?’

‘I don’t, but hang on.’ I head into the kitchen to see if any of the waiters know. Men tend to remember these things better. Gino scrawls down Pablo’s registration on the back of an old order, and I take it back through to the officers.

‘This is the registration of the car your friends were in?’ the eldest of the two officers, a greying man in his mid-forties, asks me. I nod dumbly, already fearing the worst. The officer talks into his walkie talkie for a few minutes, before turning back to me. My entire body tenses in anticipation.

‘In that case Senorita, I will ask you to accompany us to the mortuary.’

I vomit into the nearest bin.               

In my almost hysterical state, I am briefed about what to expect. The sympathetic female officer holds my shaking hand and tells me, as gently as she can, what happened. An eyewitness, there was just the one – around twenty-five others scarpered, not wanting any involvement in gunfire.

Gunfire!

‘But I thought it was a car accident…’

The officer shakes her head slowly. In what appeared to be an unprovoked attack, Pablo’s car had been showered in a hail of bullets before two men jumped into a van and took off. The witness was an elderly woman and couldn’t give an accurate description of the men, other than they were definitely Spanish. Nor the van, other than it was blue. Her eyes weren’t what they used to be. She had stayed at the scene because someone had to stand up for right and wrong around here. It was becoming ridiculous, people taking the law into their own hands. One of the men was seriously ill, having lost a lot of blood. The other was dead on arrival. From my description, they didn’t know which was which, neither had any identification on them other than Pablo’s license, which was in the glove compartment. Pablo would normally drive but, on occasion, if they stopped off for a pint, Mike would take over. He couldn’t really deal with drinking in the day and working until the early hours. He preferred to stick to cokes. It really could be either one on the mortuary slab     

I’m clutching a paper bag in my trembling hands, either for the purpose of another panic attack or to vomit in, as the police woman escorts me to the door where I will find out which of my wonderful friends has gone. She opens the door and I see the sheet-covered perfectly still lumps and bumps of someone I love dearly. Neither is preferable. I know that sounds terribly sick, to even consider having a preference, I don’t mean it the way it sounds. Mike, my smiley, happy Mike, wouldn’t harm a fly. My best friend, I love him so much. Pablo, our funny, entertaining hulk of cuddles, our wannabe Scot, with his gorgeous family and adoring wife… I think of the day at the beach, Rosa slapping away Pablo’s hands as he tries to hug her from behind. Her eyes and smile told the real truth, though. Grinning girlishly, her eyes seeking mine to show her pride, as if to say:

‘Look, three kids and another on the way and still, he adores me.’ I’d shaken my head and laughed, telling Pablo to get a room! I can’t bear this. I cling to the doorframe as the policewoman gently holds onto my waist.

‘Can’t I please see the one in hospital? Rather than the one who died?’  I plead with my eyes.

‘Lucy, I know this is so hard for you, but you must identify your friend. Would you like Pablo’s wife to have to do it? It would break her heart. Or do you want Michael’s mama to have to fly from Scotland just to view her dead son? Please, be strong, for your friend.’

She’s right. I swallow the bile rising in my throat and take a deep breath. I stumble towards the table. The officer holds me steady, mumbling comforting words in Spanish as we go. She places me gently at the edge of the table and I take a deep breath. She glances behind and nods. Strong arms reach around me and hold onto mine.

‘Ready?’ The woman officer smiles sympathetically. I give a tiny nod, and the cover is pulled back.

                                                    Chapter Twenty-eight
                 

I slouch on my bed in my new room in Scotland. Mum has moved into Bert’s house. I have Drew’s old room, as he’s moved in with Mary. Bert’s promised to decorate it for me in a suitably girly style. He is currently trying to crack a smile onto my miserable face,

‘Now Lucy, I was thinking of Victoria Plum or My Little Pony wallpaper, but I figure you’re a bit old for that. So, I thought, how about Strawberry Shortcake?’ I smile wanly.

‘Bert that would be lovely, I did always like her.’

 I watch Poopsy stretch out her back legs like a ballet dancer, warming up, and look back to see Bert, paint pot in hand, looking at me worriedly. His old brow furrowed in concern. Blink and you’d miss it though, and then he’s back to his smiling self.