The Galician Parallax (11 page)

He looked at his watch.

‘OK. Call the embassy switchboard and ask for the duty officer. Pass on the information. I’ll…’

Yolanda instantly sensed Stan’s bewilderment. She whispered, ‘Forgot to tell you…’

At that moment, Juan Jose held up his hand at them as he continued to speak over his phone, ‘I’ll sort out the emergency passport when I get back.’

‘OK. Shall I advise the police that you’ll contact Ms Stanford later?’

‘Yes, need hotel or any other info, also tell them to get Ms Stanford to have two passport-size photographs taken. I’ll call later.’

‘OK.’

Juan Jose hung up and placed the phone back in his pocket.

Yolanda finished her sentence.

‘Dad’s also the honorary British consul.’

Sergio was nervously shampooing his hair after nearly an hour under a hot shower in the one-star hotel. He’d shaved his beard, managed to untangle the hairy mess on his head and wash it before even attempting a visit to the hairdressers. A clean shirt, a new pair of jeans and year-old sneakers completed his transformation back into another one of the crowd totally indistinguishable from any other local in the town. It was mid-summer and the temperature hadn’t dropped below twenty degrees in two weeks. Next stop was the nearest bar for a decent meal coupled with a good bottle of wine. He needed to unwind, slowly. His mind was a bird’s nest overflowing with loose spikes and twigs each prickling with anecdotes, experiences, stories of woe and a strange bonding with an even stranger camaraderie. He was also on edge. After weeks of patient “acting” as a lost soul with the others, indulging in their weird daily activities and, as he thought, about to crack the main whereabouts of “Teixugo” Castro, a sudden incident blew the scheme he had been working on out of the water.

When he first joined the underworld of the scruffy, undesirable beings that inhabited the after-dark corners of the fish market, he had only one goal in mind; sniff out the drug contacts. It had been engraved on his brain. Sergio had planned to be extremely cautious, not to arouse any suspicion during his first attempt at trespassing into the “bagman” world, including any hinting at his own strong, antagonistic feelings. He was not immune to human frailty, yet he had a subconscious desire to vindicate his father’s death that enhanced his instinctive dislike, or even hatred, towards both drug addicts and alcoholics. All factors were ever present in his mind as he eventually crossed the path that separated his world from the one across the road.

‘Who are you?’ the bagman had asked Sergio once he had slowly settled down on the concrete floor below the arches of the fish market together with the other nighthawk inhabitants.

‘Where do you come from?’

Sergio was surprised at the slow yet clear tone of voice coming from this inhuman human. There was no hint of delirium tremens, just a cold tone of anguish. Sergio had prepared his introductory contact beforehand, expecting to interconnect with a slurry incoherent, semi-conscious being. There was none of that.
This man is all there
, he thought. Sergio had to backtrack. Common sense took over.

‘I’m from Muros. I’m called…’ he hesitated for a second, ‘… Sergio.’ He said no more; just stared into space for what seemed like an eternity.

The bagman, pointing at each of the others, broke the silence.

‘That’s Paddy, he’s “Chicho”, that one is “Moncho” and I’m “Don” Paco, the senior member.’ At first Sergio didn’t understand what he meant until Paco added, “They came after I did.”

Paddy was a Northern Ireland seaman who had jumped ship after it had docked in Bilbao a couple of years back. He had beaten up and seriously injured one of the officers and was reluctant to return to Belfast in case of prosecution. For over a year he wandered around the interior of the northwest of Spain until he ended up in the coastal area of Galicia.

‘Nowhere to go, I used up the only money I had and ended up begging in the streets.’

“Chicho” in his mid-thirties was a typical immigrant hardship case of losing a job on the Andalucía olive plantations. Bolivian by birth, he had no family to go to and although he tried for months to seek work without success, wandering from farm to farm he started to hit the bottle.

‘Why I’m here in Galicia? I had a friend from La Paz… lives down the road,’ giggling and taking a swig at his carton. ‘He soon kicked me out.’

“Moncho” was broken financially by his devious partner in a small firm of insurance brokers in Lugo, ending up in court followed by a lengthy and costly divorce case.

‘I lost my business, my wife, my kids, my home… even my savings and ended up joining the street people.’ Tears in his eyes, he waved his arm at the others, ‘… The only family I have.’

Sergio was stunned. He was not dealing with brainless human garbage. These were real, sad cases of tragic despair. It was Paco’s turn.

‘I’m… or was a lawyer. High flyer, Audi, golf… the works.’

Sergio didn’t flinch.

‘Started on the “grass” and ended with the white stuff; a long time ago.’ He suddenly started laughing. ‘You know what? I’m now Paddy’s councillor… the only one that can speak English.’ He looked at Paddy and gave him a “thumbs up”. Eventually Paco put his arm around Sergio. ‘And what about you then? What’s your story?’

Sergio had to reverse track on his own rehearsed background. He tried the “silent” treatment, feigning a cloudy loss of memory. Except for his name and his early childhood, he told them he couldn’t remember why he was on the streets. It worked.

He was accepted and invited to join the “gang” in their daily ritual for survival.

After weeks of coexistence Sergio joined in the routine. During the day each “bagman” mingled with the bustling city folk and acted as “parkers” for those drivers looking for a space in the various arteries of the town. On other occasions each would wander around searching for a portal or a supermarket; somewhere to squat and beg. Every now and then they would meet up at the local charity run by the Catholic nuns next to the church of St John the Apostle, for a hot cup of soup, maybe a plate of spaghetti and a slice of bread. By the end of the day, each one had collected enough money to buy their wine and some extra food for the evening. Sergio found himself directing “traffic” with the odd abuse and insult from a reluctant driver to cough up the fee. Every now and then, the odd policeman would come and ask them to move on. They always returned the next day. Otherwise they would be left alone. They were part of the local scenery. He also noticed that during the afternoon Paco would disappear for a couple of hours. One day he decided to follow him. Sergio’s adrenalin was fired up.

Was Paco after a “fix”?
he thought.

Yolanda was chattering incessantly for most of the journey from the airport back to Vigo. She was full of enthusiasm at seeing that Juan Jose, who was in the front seat next to his driver, was calm and listening to every word she said. She felt that he had accepted the situation. Stan kept nodding and smiling as most of her anecdotes were about their relationship and how wonderful it had all been in Cornwall. Yolanda paused for a moment.

‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it Dad?’

Juan Jose perked up. Before he could answer she went on, ‘But we’ll make up for it, won’t we Stan?’

As they were approaching the city, a couple of miles from the Rande suspension bridge, Juan Jose turned round and looked at them.

‘Ramon will take you to the house.’

He handed Yolanda a set of keys.

‘I’ve got to sort out this lady’s lost passport.’

He looked at his watch. It was nearly 7.30 p.m. He then addressed Ramon.

‘Drop me off at my office. Don’t bother to come back for me, I’ll catch a cab. See you both later.’

Twenty minutes later he was at his desk.

‘Here you are Ms Stanford.’

Juan Jose had given her an emergency passport after the duty officer in Madrid had got back with the details of her original passport. Procedure was routine practice in case of loss. Place and date of birth was fed into the Foreign Office database that contained the details of every British passport issued over the past years. The exact details of the last passport issued to Ms Stanford confirmed her identity. The final check was up to the consul to verify that the person was actually who he or she claimed to be. A simple conversation and a visual check was enough to confirm the lost passport claim.

‘This’ll get you back to the UK. You’ll need to have a new passport done. Sometimes the old one turns up but it is very rare.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ She shook hands and left the shipping agency.

Juan Jose left his office and a satisfied Brit in distress was all set to return home. Although Ms Stanford also had about 300 Euros and some change stolen, she had wisely left credit cards and the airline ticket in her hotel. Not all British tourists are cautious when they travel abroad. Many have to revert to their families back in the United Kingdom for urgent money remittances to cover the emergency passport, the return journey and all other pending expenses.

He arrived home around nine. No sooner had he opened the front door than he found Yolanda waiting for him in the hall.

‘About time Dad, Consuelo showed us our room.’ She hugged him. ‘Oh. What would I do without you?’

Stan was standing behind her. Juan Jose let her go and walked over to his new son-in-law, smiled and said, ‘I suppose we need to sit down and have a long talk,’ he looked again at his daughter, ‘if this wife of yours will only let us.’

Deep down inside his soul, Juan Jose seemed relieved, almost ecstatic. Yolanda was certainly a changed person. The year and a half in Falmouth had uncovered a mellow and apparently wiser character.
She’s finally matured
, he thought.

What to do with Stan was another matter.

The
Pollyanna
was making the third and last run from Falmouth down to Lisbon and back. Donald Simmons and Glen Richards had worked out an attractive yachting route that proved successful from the start. Leaving the Cornish yacht club en route to La Rochelle they would spend a day in France and thence on to Spain berthing first at Santander followed by Corunna and ending up eventually in Lisbon, Portugal. Their advert complied with the itinerary of fourteen days at sea and ten in port visiting all the tourist sites at each area. Carrying three “crewing” passengers for a three-week, all inclusive voyage at ten thousand pounds per person was a bargain holiday in any seafaring adventurous package. Donald had travelled on the first and third run with Glen, whilst Jerry Fulton and Glen sailed on the second. They took turns in managing the office back in Falmouth whilst the partners were at sea. The return trip had only one stop; Vigo. On this last voyage, whilst Glen was taking care of the passengers on a visit to the city of Santiago de Compostela including the famous St James Cathedral, Donald was following instructions and making his first contact for their future business.

Mr Billson had given Donald a telephone number to call from Lisbon.

‘Ask for Sr Perez. When he’s on the phone give him your date of arrival in Vigo. When you dock, go to the receptionist at the Hotel Bahia and ask for room 321. They’ll be waiting for you.’

Colonel Pedro Lobeira was at his desk holding a single sheet of paper.

‘Fine rumpus down in Villagarcia. You’ve been there for three months and all you can come up with is a handwritten note on vandalism? Whatever happened to project “Parkers”?’

He flung the paper back on the desk.

‘What the hell do I tell Madrid?’

Sergio relived his nightmare. That day he had followed Paco to one of the nightclub districts in the town. As it was early afternoon, all the pubs were shut and, apart from parked cars, there was no one about. Halfway between a small Opel Corsa and a Ford Fiesta was an unlabelled van with two people in the front seat. Paco approached the back, opened the door and entered the vehicle. Twenty minutes later he emerged, looked around him and seeing that there was no risk, closed the door and wandered down the street. Sergio, hidden behind a car on the opposite side of the road, began to follow his nightly companion, not before taking note of the van’s licence plate. It wasn’t until the van started up and left the parking space that he noticed the person in the passenger seat. It was a man in a uniform.

Later that evening, when Sergio was settling down to the usual chit-chat at the fish market, he couldn’t help staring at Paco. It was as if nothing had happened. His companion was his usual self, sipping his carton of wine and uttering the odd comment about the obnoxious drivers in the town.
Was Paco in on the trade or was he just looking for a fix
? The same thought kept running through his mind. He hadn’t been able to distinguish the uniform of the man in the van as it had driven away in haste, nor had he time to check out the number plate. That would have to be done at a later date at his hotel. Sergio was excited. For the first time he felt he had a lead.
Dwell on it for a while, Sergio
, he muttered to himself as he pulled over his blanket to cover up for the night; plenty of time.

A few hours later, rumbling noises woke him up, followed by a sudden large flash. He looked towards one of the bagmen. He was on fire. About a dozen youths, some very drunk, had somehow set Paddy alight and were now prodding and kicking Chicho who was a few feet away. Sergio sprang up and rushed over to Paddy who was screaming and yelling at the top of his voice. He threw his blanket over him to put out the flames. Paco was nowhere to be seen, whilst Moncho was huddled against a wall completely in a trance. Two of the gang turned on Sergio; one had an aluminium baseball bat in his hand. Instinctively, Sergio went for the armed youth. With a solid blow to his stomach, the kid bent over. He then clipped him with his fist at the back of his neck. The kid released the weapon and slid to the floor. In a split second Sergio picked it up and turned on the other hooligan smashing him over his head as hard as he could. The rest were still having a go at Chicho oblivious that the other two were being beaten up by one of the bagmen. It didn’t take long for them to realise that their prank was turning against them. Within seconds, they dropped their vicious attacking and ran as fast as they could away from the scene. Sergio wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and then ran over to Paddy. He slowly uncovered his face and saw that he was badly burnt. Without hesitating, he reached under his trouser leg for the leather holder housing his mobile.