Hollow Mountain (13 page)

‘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.

He was about to press on when he heard a twig snap. Carefully, he put down his crate, feeling a drop of sweat slide down his forehead, blurring his vision. Wiping his eye, he kicked at the branches in front. A rustle of foliage as a small, grey-furred arm extended. A couple of footholds, and a sleepy young ape appeared, climbing onto the windowsill above, glaring down with what looked like tremendous irritation.

Spike felt his tension drain away as the ape scrutinised him, its jutting brow and intelligent green eyes disturbingly human. Marked on its underside was a faded tattoo – each of the apes was numbered by the wardens of the Upper Rock, mirroring the skin-art of many of the tourists who visited them. Zahra had told him that there were still tribes in Morocco and Algeria for whom Barbary macaques were ‘commensals’, living as equals, sharing the same table. The penalty for killing them was death. These days, in Gib, you’d probably be awarded the keys to the city. Churchill had famously said that Britain would lose the Rock if the apes ever left. With an endless supply of tourist snacks to tempt them, sovereignty seemed assured.

As Spike watched the monkey stalk grumpily away into the shadows, he remembered an occasion when he’d seen one steal a sandwich from a bemused backpacker – the ape had parted the bread, thrown out the ham, then tucked in. ‘They are Muslims,’ the tour guide had said with a smile. ‘Remember where they came from.’

Back on Castle Road, Spike suppressed a shiver as he thought of the articles he’d browsed online about Simon Grainger’s death. It seemed that though the apes had refrained from eating the body, they’d enjoyed toying with it, even tearing off an arm smashed by the fall.

The first tower of the Moorish Castle Estate appeared, its windows dark but for the occasional blue glow of a TV behind net curtains. Spike glanced down at the crate in his arms and considered turning back. Then he imagined how dispiriting it would be to return to his father’s empty kitchen and its unsettling heap of tea chests. Two dirty glasses and nothing but a bottle of J&B to obliterate the rest of the night.

The door on the seventh floor opened cautiously. ‘Who is it?’

‘Spike Sanguinetti.’

The crack widened and he saw Amy Grainger looking up at him. With her wet black hair scraped back, and her face naked of make-up, she looked incredibly young.

Spike suddenly felt drunk and stupid. ‘I brought you something.’

‘I’ve only just got Charlie down.’

‘From where?’

‘To sleep.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ He’d forgotten about the boy. She looked down at the crate. ‘You’d better come in then.’

He followed her inside. As if trying to reclaim her own space, she’d cleared away most of the childish things and dimmed the lights. A pot on the stove smelled of tomato
ragù
; Spike wondered if she’d been expecting someone, then saw the single plate and glass on the table.

‘It’s been hard to get him to sleep lately,’ she said, turning off the hob.

‘I know the feeling,’ Spike said, but she didn’t smile back, perhaps taking in his crumpled T-shirt, the whisky on his breath. He realised with a sting of shame that she might be scared of him. ‘Listen, I won’t stay. I just wanted to give you this.’ He passed her the box. ‘I went to Cádiz today to settle the final bill.’

‘This is what the six hundred euro invoice was for?’

Spike nodded as she drew out the contents. ‘Simon was having it restored for you. It’s a ship’s bell,’ he added sheepishly, guessing it might well be the worst present she had ever received.

‘What was Simon
thinking
. . .’ she said, running a finger over the blistered metal. She wrinkled her nose. ‘God, it smells.’

‘That’s vinegar. Juan tried to clean it.’

‘Juan?’

‘The conservator in Cádiz. Apparently Simon had a line selling artefacts to tourist shops in Marbella. Juan helped get them into saleable condition.’

Amy stared at him. She looked good without make-up. Softer somehow.

‘Did you know about it?’

She smiled. ‘Come with me.’

He followed her through the kitchenette, peering over her shoulder as she opened a utility cupboard. On the shelves lay a medley of items: a shiny pink conch, a clay pipe, two ancient bulb-shaped bottles. ‘Simon’s trophy cabinet,’ she said. ‘He used to dive the Europa Reef with his friends from the restaurant. They would bring things back that got caught on the coral.’

‘Expensive hobby.’

‘What?’

‘Diving.’

‘He took his PADI course in Thailand. The staff from the restaurant were allowed to borrow stuff for free from the dive shop next door.’

Squatting on the central shelf was a coil of ship’s rope. On top of it lay a rusty disc. ‘Is that a coin?’ Spike said, peering in further.

‘A piece of eight, apparently.’

She picked up the coin and handed it to Spike. Medallion-sized, but light as a seashell, the metal flaking with the same blue-green contusions as he had seen on the bell. Bronze disease, no doubt, Spike thought as he handed it back. Amy bent down and placed the bell carefully on the bottom shelf, then closed the cupboard. ‘You shouldn’t have paid all that money,’ she said as she stood back up, finding herself closer to Spike than she’d perhaps intended.

‘You can pay me back. Anyway, I’ve sent the documentation to the bank. Your account should be working by Wednesday.’

‘You’ve been so kind.’

He turned for the door.

‘Let me at least give you supper,’ Amy called after.

He hesitated. ‘Are you sure you have enough?’

‘It’s pasta, for God’s sake.’

Releasing the door handle, he stepped back into the room.

Chapter Twenty-eight

‘So you were at the Sacred Heart Middle School?’

Amy started to sing: ‘
We are so proud/ To be part of this crowd/ In this sacred school of ours. This heart on a mount/ Where we all spell and count/ And we spend such happy hours
. . .’

‘OK,’ Spike said, raising a hand in supplication. ‘I believe you.’

She smiled. ‘My family used to live on Flat Bastion Road.’

‘What’s your maiden name?’

‘Divinagracia . . . Amy Elizabeth Divinagracia.’

‘As in Aiden Divinagracia?’

‘You’ve met my brother, then.’