Hollow Mountain (14 page)

Spike shrugged, embarrassed to have brought up the connection. ‘It’s not an easy surname to forget.’

‘In the Juvenile Court, right?’

Spike thought back to the short, anaemic shoplifter he had prosecuted twice. On the second occasion, he’d been waiting for Spike behind the Law Courts, threatening him with a flick-knife before realising that Spike had survived the same playgrounds, knew the same tricks. There were no private schools in Gibraltar, so future politicians, lawyers and criminals all studied together in the same classrooms.

‘He’s in Fuengirola now. We don’t talk about him much these days.’

Spike busied himself with his tagliatelle. The tomato sauce was sweet and delicious. ‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a Divinagracia,’ he said, failing to come up with any other topic of conversation.

‘Because of my accent? I had to tone it down or Simon couldn’t understand me.
Keki
or
gingibier
?’ she asked, switching to a thick Gibraltarian.

Spike smiled. ‘I’m OK with the wine, thanks.’

She picked up the box and topped up his glass. ‘We were all terrified of your father at school.’

‘His bark is worse than his bite.’

‘You should have seen some of the female teachers. They used to swoon over Mr Sanguinetti.’

‘Please,’ Spike said, feeling slightly nauseous.

‘I think it was his height. And the blue eyes . . .’ She tilted her head, watching him sideways through her dark eyelashes.

‘Northern Italian blood, allegedly,’ Spike said. ‘Foothills of the Alps.’

There was a silence. ‘Have you ever been married?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Close?’

‘I’ve had a bad run of it.’

‘Tell me about it,
compa
.’ Amy peered down at her still-shiny wedding ring. Her small hands had long fingers, nails bitten as short as a schoolgirl’s. The monitor gave a sudden whimper, green lights flashing.

‘Is he waking up?’ Spike said.

‘Just a bad dream.’ She got to her feet. ‘He’ll be OK as long as Bugs is with him.’

‘Bugs?’

‘His rabbit.’ Amy moved to the sideboard where an old vinyl record player sat beneath an anglepoise lamp.

‘Did Simon dig that out of the bay as well?’

She laughed, then held up the sleeve of an old ’45. Gene Kelly, Leslie Caron,
An American in Paris
.

‘Our Love is Here to Stay?’ Spike said.

‘You know it?’

‘I’ve listened to Radio Gibraltar on more than one occasion, yes.’

She laid the record on the turntable.

‘You’re not going to sing again, are you?’ The soft crackle immediately transported Spike back to his childhood, his mother humming along to Puccini as she cooked. Then Gene Kelly’s rich voice started to croon the first of Gershwin’s lyric, promising a love that would endure – outlast even the Rock of Gibraltar.

When Spike looked back, Amy was holding a photo frame that she’d picked up from the sideboard. Her wedding day, he realised as he approached – veil back, luminous face tilted upwards to kiss her husband. Grainger was a brute of a man, Spike saw now, broad-shouldered with a shaven scalp, folds of fat corrugating the back of his neck. The beast appeared to have been tamed, however: he looked almost vulnerable as he cradled his wife’s head, wedding band squeezed around his thick ring finger.

Amy’s large eyes were wet with tears. Spike smelled the clean sweet scent of her hair as he reached out and took her hand. ‘May I?’

It wasn’t clear who made the first move, but suddenly her mouth was pressed to his. He felt her drawing him close, her hips slotting into his as he bent his knees. Gene Kelly had moved on to a less familiar song by the time she led him to the sofa, drawing him down onto the heavy worn cushions.

Later, the only sound was the knocking of the record stylus and her gentle breathing. Spike banished thoughts of Zahra from his mind, then closed his eyes.

Chapter Twenty-nine

The ceiling above was a flaking magnolia pink. The smell was of rosewater. Spike twisted his head to the right. Beside him on the bed lay his client, Mrs Amy Grainger.

Spike rolled his eyes back to the ceiling, images flipping through his mind like a deck of cards – sitting on a beach in Cádiz with Jessica, the sound of his front door closing, dancing with Amy as she wept, her small hand in his as she’d led him from the sofa to the bedroom . . . He shifted position, head protesting at the movement. Amy was hugging a pillow to her chest like a child with a soft toy, her thin shoulders pale and naked beneath the duvet. Christ. He had to get out of here.

Her face in repose was even more beautiful, he noticed as he edged out of bed: full lips, black hair shading her white brow. He rolled to his feet. She didn’t stir.

He reached for his T-shirt, smelling her scent in the cotton as he pulled it over his head. An aggressive buzzing came from the floor. He searched desperately for his trousers, grabbed his phone from his pocket and switched it off with a rigid thumb just as a new text message icon winked on the screen. He turned back to the bed. Still sleeping.

The light between the bedroom curtains was weak, dawn barely broken. Spike crept towards the door, one red espadrille in each hand, passing a collage of photos on the wall. All showed the happy couple, on a beach, at a restaurant, arm-in-arm with a volcanic green mountain behind – Thailand, maybe. In one corner lay a pair of slippers – monkeys forming the shoe, a snout at the toe and a tail at the heel. About Amy’s size, Spike thought, wondering if Simon Grainger had given them to her as a present.

Spike’s hand extended for the doorknob. There was a tremor to his fingers: must have had more than just wine last night. He groaned inwardly as he remembered the whisky he’d drunk with Jessica, the extra glass downed for Dutch courage before he’d left.

Amy’s smooth back was still turned to him as he risked a final glance before easing into the sitting room. As he tiptoed round in relief, he found the little boy standing just a metre away, barefoot, his dark brown hair mussed with sleep, washed-out blue and red pyjamas too short for his legs. He lifted his hands, a picture-board book clamped between them. ‘Book?’ he said. Spike hadn’t even known a child his age could speak.

‘Book?’ he repeated, quietly insistent.

Spike put a finger to his lips.

‘Book?’

‘OK, OK,’ Spike hissed, moving to the nearest sofa. Beneath the coffee table lay a condom wrapper greedily ripped in two; Spike kicked it beneath the valance as the boy tossed the book onto the sofa, raising his arms like a tiny, tyrannical gymnast. ‘Up?’

Spike’s eye was caught by a bottle of medicine on the sideboard: ‘Calpol’, the label said. He unscrewed the top and took a gulp. When he opened his eyes again, the boy still stood at his feet. ‘
Up
?’

Gingerly, Spike picked the child up, feeling his brittle ribs beneath the warm cotton of his pyjamas. His little feet dangled between Spike’s legs as he placed him on his lap, ankles twitching in anticipation.

‘Row, Row, Row,’ Spike read aloud as he turned the page. On one side of the double spread were the words of the nursery rhyme, on the other a picture of a teddy bear in a wooden skiff. ‘Row, row, row your boat,’ Spike continued, but the little boy twisted his head towards him, narrowing his dark eyes in fury. Spike took a breath, then reluctantly launched into quiet song. ‘Gently down the stream . . .’ he chimed, and the little face turned back to the book, a faint set of victory about the jaw.

‘Merrily, merrily, merrily,
merrily
. . .’

The boy turned the next page himself. ‘. . . life is but a dream.’ The top of the boy’s head brushed against the underside of Spike’s chin, his hair as silken and sweet as his mother’s. Spike had a clear flashback: sitting on his father’s knee, the sandpaper of his stubble as he bent down to kiss him, a little painful yet strangely comforting.

He assumed this was the end of the book, but no, more pages had further variations on the rowing theme. ‘Gently to the shore . . . if you see a lion, don’t forget to roar.’

The boy gave a small growl.

‘Row, row, row your boat, out into the bay . . .’ Now Teddy sat in a skiff with a skull and crossbones on the mast. He wore a cutlass at his side and a dashing eyepatch. ‘If you see a pirate ship . . .’

‘Row the other way?’

Spike’s head thudded as he span round. Standing in the doorway was Amy Grainger. ‘Mama!’ Charlie shouted and rolled off Spike.

‘A singer
and
a dancer,’ Amy said. ‘Who knew?’ She wore a man’s long white T-shirt. Spike forced a smile.

‘Papi?’ Charlie said, clinging to his mother’s legs. Spike felt his stomach churn as his eyes flitted to the front door.

‘Where Papi, Mama?’

Spike moved his gaze from mother to son. Both were as pale as paper. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mouthed. ‘I have to go.’

Chapter Thirty

Spike kept to the lee of the Rock, glad of its shadow, shame curdling in his gut. A grocery store was opening for business, the Moroccan owner slopping down the pavement outside. Spike had intended to buy milk but the fridge was out of order. He took out a warm bottle of mineral water instead. ‘Twenty-five pence,’ the Moroccan said with a smile. The knowledge that the same drink would have cost a pound on Main Street did little to lift his mood.

Work, Spike thought as he drained the bottle and threw it in the bin – that was where salvation lay. In twenty-four hours he’d be on his way to court. He rubbed the back of his head, trying to ascertain if the water had eased his hangover. Not enough to suggest he’d feel much better tomorrow.

The neighbour’s budgie was taunting a house sparrow as Spike unlocked the front door to find his father sitting at the kitchen table.

‘Been somewhere nice?’ Rufus said, spoon submerged in a bowl of cornflakes.

Spike raised the carton of milk from the table. Long-life, he realised as he gulped it down. If Spike didn’t buy fresh food, it didn’t get bought. ‘I’m going upstairs.’

‘I shan’t disturb you then,’ Rufus said. ‘By the way,’ he added as Spike passed. ‘I solved your clue.’

‘What clue?’

‘The crossword clue you left on the table.’

Spike turned painfully from the bead curtain.

‘F_ _S S_ _CT_ _ M_N_ _S,’ Rufus read out. ‘FLOS SANCTUS MONTIS. Nothing else fits.’

Spike peered down and saw the sheet of paper on which he’d written the letters from the ship’s bell.

‘It’s Latin for “Holy Flower of the Mountain”.’

‘I know what it means, Dad,’ Spike said, hearing the tetchy adolescent in his voice.

‘It’s the name of a ship,’ Rufus went on, pushing back his mane of silver hair, a schoolmaster’s vanity swelling his tone. He wore the same mauve silk dressing gown given to him twenty years ago by Spike’s mother. What had once seemed embarrassingly patrician now just looked shabby. ‘She was an old Spanish galleon, if I recall correctly. Named at a time when the Spanish still held Gibraltar. The Brits claim she sank in the Straits. Disputed by Spain, naturally.’

‘When was this?’

‘1720s, 30s maybe. It’s all in the Garrison Library.’ He tightened his dressing gown, then returned to his cornflakes.

Spike moved behind him and kissed the crown of his head.

‘What’s that?’ Rufus said, looking up. ‘Oh, my pleasure. It’s all I’m good for these days.’

Chapter Thirty-one

As soon as Spike closed his bedroom door, he emailed his cousin, Sandra Zammit, at the Garrison Library to ask what she knew about the
Flos Sanctus Montis
. If the bell had really come from a famous ship, perhaps it could be worth something after all. It was a Sunday, he realised as he hit send, but at least she would get the message on Monday morning.

Composing himself, he took out his skeleton argument for the Neptune case. The print danced in tune with the throbbing of his head. So much for Calpol. He found three aspirin in his bathroom, gulped them down and took a shower.

Downstairs, Rufus was singing along to an aria from
Turandot
. Spike sat back down at his desk, almost refreshed. He stared at the drawer, then pulled it open and found the sheaf of his mother’s letters inside. He knew it wouldn’t improve his mood, but somehow he couldn’t help it.

‘My dearest J – Yesterday we caught the ferry to the Île de Ré. I could see R watching me, pointing out the beaches, the strange paddy fields where they harvest the sea salt. He is so desperate to see me smile, to remind me of the fun we had here on our honeymoon. But I just can’t do it. Because my mind is lost to you, my love. You are always in my thoughts . . .’

‘Focus, for fuck’s sake,’ Spike cursed, putting the letter away. Slowly, his mind began to flesh out the bullet points into sentences and paragraphs. It was important for a barrister not to write everything down, Peter always said, or he could sound stilted. Know what you’re going to say, not how you’re going to say it. Half an hour passed, and Spike felt himself turning back into a lawyer who’d been out the night before, rather than a drunkard masquerading as a lawyer. Outside, he heard the Church of the Sacred Heart chime eleven. He eyed the desk drawer again, then reached for his mobile and lay back on his bed.