‘When your sister comes, I will call her my prima . I’ll take her for walks and when she is old enough, I will teach her Spanish and how to make papas a lo pobre .’
‘We won’t be here that long,’ says Harry, certain he can’t stand to be in Spain for much longer. But it would break his heart to not see Gracia ever again. He squeezes her hand.
‘I love you, Arri.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
*
Staffe watches Harry walk off down the Ruta Barrington. The route descends into the valley bottom, passing through almonds and olives, down to where the oranges are happy to thrive. It was here long before Barrington.
He is on his roof, sitting on the very edge in an old deckchair, reading Monsignor Quixote with a stick of chorizo and a stump of the dry village bread. He washes it down with a swig of sin alcohol beer and looks across the rooftops to where Gracia’s mother, Consuela, is laying out peppers on wire racks, to dry in the sun. She had been watching the two children, too, and she catches Staffe’s eye.
Staffe waves, smiles and calls, ‘ Hola !’
She raises a hand, but is tight-lipped.
Consuela brings up Gracia alone. Nobody talks about where Gracia came from or where the father went, but the other women of the village pay her only the most cursory pleasantries. When the fish man comes up in his van from Motril, she stands alone at the back until the queue has gone, and buys a euro’s worth of boquerones. He puts in a couple of sardines, gratis , and she accepts them, ashamed at the charity. It doesn’t help that she works for Salva in Bar Fuente. That’s a man’s world and Consuela has fine features and a flat stomach. They say Salva is so supremely endowed, that his wife could take no more. It is why she disappeared in the night and he is alone and had to take on Consuela for his kitchen. None of which aids Consuela’s cause. Some say she is the one who should disappear.
Consuela turns away‚ towards a row of cars. Staffe registers the noise, too, and looks towards the cemetery, where he sees flashing blue lights: one, two and a third. Then a fourth. The Guardia’s 4x4s race up the track. There can’t be more than four police Land Rovers in the whole valley, and they are all whooshing up towards the lower barrio .
All across the rooftops, people hang off their balconies beholding the commotion. Consuela has a hand to her mouth, leaning right off her roof as Harry and Gracia come running up the track after the police cars.
*
The villagers pack along one side of the bridge, a rickety affair made from blue metal railings sunk into concrete ballasts. The lights from the Guardia 4X4s are still flashing and there is also a squad car from the Cuerpo. On the other side of the barranco, which the bridge spans, Manolo sits on his haunches, looking sad beside his red Bultaco.
Staffe clambers up the hillside and edges towards the ravine, looking down into the barranco . In the bottom, its nose plunged head first and its stylish rear end facing the sky, is a red Alfa Spyder. Staffe catches his breath, murmurs, ‘Raúl.’ He feels weak in the knees, sick in the pit of his stomach.
Round and round, stuck in a groove, the sound of ‘I am the Resurrection’ wheels away in the mountain air, but the Cuerpo officer reaches into the car and cuts the music dead. Then he cuts Raúl’s seat-belt webbing, begins to pull him free.
On the Mecina side of the bridge, an ambulance parks up. Its back doors swing open. On the bridge, the fire brigade have set up a winch and they are lowering a metal-framed, canvas stretcher into the dry river bed. Staffe watches their every move as they lift out Raúl, the tattered lemon shreds of his shirt drenched with blood all down his back.
He knows that if he hadn’t visited the murder scene in Almería, Raúl wouldn’t be in the bottom of this barranco being manhandled by two guardia.
The guardia heave him onto the stretcher and attach the hook of the hoist to the
‘We won’t be here that long,’ says Harry, certain he can’t stand to be in Spain for much longer. But it would break his heart to not see Gracia ever again. He squeezes her hand.
‘I love you, Arri.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
*
Staffe watches Harry walk off down the Ruta Barrington. The route descends into the valley bottom, passing through almonds and olives, down to where the oranges are happy to thrive. It was here long before Barrington.
He is on his roof, sitting on the very edge in an old deckchair, reading Monsignor Quixote with a stick of chorizo and a stump of the dry village bread. He washes it down with a swig of sin alcohol beer and looks across the rooftops to where Gracia’s mother, Consuela, is laying out peppers on wire racks, to dry in the sun. She had been watching the two children, too, and she catches Staffe’s eye.
Staffe waves, smiles and calls, ‘ Hola !’
She raises a hand, but is tight-lipped.
Consuela brings up Gracia alone. Nobody talks about where Gracia came from or where the father went, but the other women of the village pay her only the most cursory pleasantries. When the fish man comes up in his van from Motril, she stands alone at the back until the queue has gone, and buys a euro’s worth of boquerones. He puts in a couple of sardines, gratis , and she accepts them, ashamed at the charity. It doesn’t help that she works for Salva in Bar Fuente. That’s a man’s world and Consuela has fine features and a flat stomach. They say Salva is so supremely endowed, that his wife could take no more. It is why she disappeared in the night and he is alone and had to take on Consuela for his kitchen. None of which aids Consuela’s cause. Some say she is the one who should disappear.
Consuela turns away‚ towards a row of cars. Staffe registers the noise, too, and looks towards the cemetery, where he sees flashing blue lights: one, two and a third. Then a fourth. The Guardia’s 4x4s race up the track. There can’t be more than four police Land Rovers in the whole valley, and they are all whooshing up towards the lower barrio .
All across the rooftops, people hang off their balconies beholding the commotion. Consuela has a hand to her mouth, leaning right off her roof as Harry and Gracia come running up the track after the police cars.
*
The villagers pack along one side of the bridge, a rickety affair made from blue metal railings sunk into concrete ballasts. The lights from the Guardia 4X4s are still flashing and there is also a squad car from the Cuerpo. On the other side of the barranco, which the bridge spans, Manolo sits on his haunches, looking sad beside his red Bultaco.
Staffe clambers up the hillside and edges towards the ravine, looking down into the barranco . In the bottom, its nose plunged head first and its stylish rear end facing the sky, is a red Alfa Spyder. Staffe catches his breath, murmurs, ‘Raúl.’ He feels weak in the knees, sick in the pit of his stomach.
Round and round, stuck in a groove, the sound of ‘I am the Resurrection’ wheels away in the mountain air, but the Cuerpo officer reaches into the car and cuts the music dead. Then he cuts Raúl’s seat-belt webbing, begins to pull him free.
On the Mecina side of the bridge, an ambulance parks up. Its back doors swing open. On the bridge, the fire brigade have set up a winch and they are lowering a metal-framed, canvas stretcher into the dry river bed. Staffe watches their every move as they lift out Raúl, the tattered lemon shreds of his shirt drenched with blood all down his back.
He knows that if he hadn’t visited the murder scene in Almería, Raúl wouldn’t be in the bottom of this barranco being manhandled by two guardia.
The guardia heave him onto the stretcher and attach the hook of the hoist to the
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