The Galician Parallax (15 page)

Despite a clean bill of health, Sergio continued on a strictly personal basis to keep in touch with Dr Parada. The age difference between doctor and patient was crucial in returning him back to some sort of normality. Subconsciously, this fatherly figure had been breaking down a bottled up anxiety ever since Sergio’s own father had been killed in a car accident. Discovering his mother’s philandering, had nearly pushed him over the edge.

‘May sound a cliché Lieutenant, but why don’t you find a nice girl to go out with. You’re young and good looking; you know the saying, “all work and no play”…’

Sergio, however, never told Dr Parada about his ordeal with the bag people. He managed to maintain strict silence as per civil guard protocol. The doctor fully understood. The whole affair that could have uncovered any civil guard connivance in Villagarcia had cleverly been brushed under the carpet. The two youngsters that had tried to set fire to the British bagman had been taken to court on attempted manslaughter charges. The defence lawyers continued in vain to produce any counter evidence from the key witnesses amongst the other youngsters although they did manage to obtain a release on bail for their defendants. The two missing bagmen were written off despite police searches and the strange appearance of a mobile phone had been thrown out of court as “fantasy” although a call had been made to the ambulance service. It was from an unlisted number.

The defence attorney argued that it could’ve been made by a bystander. Paddy was still receiving treatment for his wounds at the prison infirmary awaiting his own trial for similar charges two years earlier. The Foreign Office was able to contact his brother Nigel back in Belfast and Danny had obtained a local English-speaking lawyer to handle the case.

Sergio’s secondment to the judicial section of the civil guards in the Corunna HQ just before Christmas was another matter. It was one way of keeping him under control yet giving him an opportunity to continue “special criminal investigations”, this time under strict orders from the law courts. At first, Sergio didn’t quite see it that way. He felt his hands were tied. In his first task, he was part of a larger team of civil guards ordered to monitor a suspected splinter group of the ETA terrorists. They were supposedly operating out of Ordes, one of the interior villages of the Corunna province and could be preparing for an imminent attack in Galicia. The civil guards were still uncertain of their links in the region, whether they were operating with direct orders from the Basque country or elsewhere and whether any local embryonic terrorist group was involved. After three months, the initial conclusions needed approval from the judge before proceeding any further. A full report had been prepared by HQ. Sergio hated the bureaucratic procedures. He was also told to adhere strictly to orders from his superiors.

‘You all look like a feminist society,’ he said jokingly the first time he walked into a room full of female staff at the administrative office of section nº 3 of the main court building.

It didn’t go down well, especially with the duty magistrate’s head secretary, Ms Gloria Menendez, who had been standing alongside one of her staff’s desk. Once in the closed confines of her office the reprimand didn’t take long to come.

‘Lieutenant, I could have you suspended for those remarks.’

Sergio backtracked.

‘Sorry ma’am; meant no offence.’

He handed her the preliminary report. Ignoring his remark she took the envelope, opened it and began skimming through the pages.

‘OK, we’ll let you know when the judge gets back…’

‘What? These guys are ready for…’

Gloria stood up. Sergio raised both hands and standing at attention with a regimental salute, pleaded for peace.

‘Sorry again, ma’am.’

For a split second they stared at each other. Gloria couldn’t resist a smile.

Nice teeth
, he thought. Dr Parada’s advice came to mind.

Charter flights poured into the Alvedro airport from all corners of Spain and the UK. There were buses, trains and the odd car transporting the rest. Hundreds, possibly a couple of thousand British football fans descended upon the small city at the tip of the most north-western part of the Iberian peninsula to shout, scream, sigh and even faint for ninety minutes as the Liverpool team clashed with Deportivo on a bleak windy and wet spring Saturday evening. Prior to the match, not a shop, bar, restaurant or public lavatory was left untouched. The beer flowed as the hours went by. By mid-afternoon, the streets were swamped with dozens of English supporters, swaying, singing and generally creating mayhem amongst the local population.

‘I’m mainly a rugby man,’ Stan had said, ‘but a first-class football match is always good to watch.’

Juan Jose had asked him if he wanted to be part of what the Foreign Office considered a “crisis support team” to handle a specific abnormal situation involving Brits. Danny had flown in direct from Madrid on the midday flight whilst the Vigo crew drove up in the morning. By one-thirty all three had met up in Danny’s hotel bar to discuss the plan of the day including a review of the coordination programme agreed with all other parties involved.

‘Thought Stan would like to participate; any problem?’ asked Juan Jose.

‘Sure, may help with a bit of interpreting if needed.’

No real problems had occurred during the day involving any misbehaviour. A couple of drunken youngsters were nearly run over trying to cross the road. They were looking in the opposite direction. As the evening wore on, a great deal of the fans were still at many of the bars and were glad to stay there as all the establishments had television sets readily tuned in to the match that was due to start at 9 p.m. The main crowds began to gather near the stadium about an hour early. Once the three consular representatives had entered the stadium they made their way up to the security booth to meet up with the Scotland Yard superintendant and the security manager of the local football club.

Whilst the match was in progress, television surveillance cameras constantly focused on the crowds below monitoring every move they made in case of any disruption or accident. Some fans were known to have fallen down the stairs or even on to the pitch needing immediate medical assistance.

‘Quite a set-up,’ said Stan. He was standing next to Danny but his eyes were glued on the match.

‘The best part is yet to come.’

Shouts and roars from all ends of the stadium erupted sporadically as players danced from one end of the pitch to the other. Ten minutes before the end, the score was still nil-nil. Suddenly Deportivo’s midfielder, Donato, in what was later described as a miraculously accidental trip-up, confused Liverpool’s goalkeeper, and in a split second of recovery skidded the ball into the left-hand corner of the net. It was the goal that set the final score at one-nil, positioning Deportivo for the next phase.

Two and half hours later saw the last of the fans, a mixture of boisterous Spaniards and gloomy Brits, straggle out of the stadium. Danny, Stan and Juan Jose had made their way to a nearby coffee shop for refreshments. It was now eleven-thirty. Danny began the standard calling session on his mobile. The first phone stop was the local police station, followed by the hospitals and finally the airport. No casualties had been reported or any lost Brits wandering aimlessly around the city.

‘I suppose no news is good news,’ said Juan Jose.

‘We’ll have to wait another hour just in case,’ said Danny. ‘They’ll call back if anything changes.’

Well into the early hours of the morning, Stan crept into bed, snuggling up to his wife who was fast asleep. He was too excited to close his own eyes.

‘This
ría
is out of this world,’ said Stan, ‘so different to our Cornish cliffs and coves.’

The Bullocks were taking a stroll with baby Gabriel in the park area surrounding the small mount at the narrowing end of the bay, just opposite the Rande Bridge. The sun was beginning to settle between the Cíes Isles, eagerly pushing aside the few odd clusters of spring cloud trying to protect its final descent into the ocean. The green hills on either side were turning dark grey as the evening slowly edged its way in, announcing the end of yet another day.

Pointing straight out across the water, Yolanda said, ‘That’s where they had the famous battle back in 1702 when your people destroyed the Spanish and French fleets.’ She began pushing Gabriel’s pram closer to the edge for a better look. ‘I’m sure the town council will be getting hold of my father to celebrate the 300th anniversary next year.’

Stan didn’t register. He continued to look westwards.

‘Such beauty spoiled by concrete horror. What they’ve done to your city is criminal. All those blocks of flats, one on top of each other… which reminds me, what about us? Hate to spoil the party but isn’t it about time we moved… summer and all, coming along?’ He started to chuckle. ‘I’ve still to test the waters down at the beaches.’

The Bullocks had made up their minds to look for a decent apartment somewhere within the boundaries of the city. They had already broached the subject with Juan Jose who had no alternative but to agree. There was a slight difference of opinion. Yolanda was keen on residing right in the heart of the shopping area, whilst Stan, accustomed to a small town environment, preferred one in the surrounding suburbs. Then there was the question of price. Common sense prevailed. Juan Jose persuaded Stan to move into the best area in town known as the
Alameda
. It was within walking distance of the port area and the Mauro Shipping Agency with access to a small park for Gabriel’s daily outing.

‘I’ve got a friend who’s willing to sell a great flat overlooking the park and at a reasonable price,’ he had said one evening, ‘and… we’ll buy it in the company’s name.’

Stan immediately reacted, Cornish pride taking over, but before he could contest the suggestion and seeing his reaction, Juan Jose added, ‘Stan, I’d like to make you a partner in the firm.’ Stan was speechless.

‘I’ll propose it to my other two sons but am sure that they’ll have no objections.’ He looked at Yolanda.

She raised her hands. ‘Still a male chauvinist world, but what the hell.’ For a price, she got her way.

Six months had gone by since his arrival and Stan continued to consolidate his growing experience of Galicia’s shipping world. The heavy cruise-ship season had started with the arrival of thousands of British tourists. The Bullocks worked as a team. Yolanda organised and coordinated all the sightseeing trips that included Bayona and Santiago. She made sure that the ships were well equipped with tourist information and hammered the local authorities in recognising the importance of this lucrative trade.

Stan was on the bridge of the
Carina
with Captain Sterling, berthed alongside the main and only passenger pier that overlooked the other large sector of port activity; the fishing industry. Pointing towards the area he said, ‘It’s strange, Captain. I come from the West Country and all my life fought against all those bastards down there. Yet, here I am, as a friend said once… “married to the enemy”.’ Before the captain could answer he continued, ‘Yes I know, the waters have calmed down and we’re all good friends now but I still can’t help remembering my own family’s struggle against that lot.’

The captain offered Stan more coffee. ‘Aberdeen’s my home town and we’re pretty happy with them.’

Spain, a heavy consumer of fish and seafood with a constant growth curve inevitably caused the collapse and over-exploitation of the local produce. Scotland and Ireland seized the opportunity and came to the rescue exporting their own crabs, cockles and other delicacies shipped to the very seafood market that Stan was pointing at. As they were near the end of their meeting Captain Sterling mildly cautioned Stan of an upcoming problem in the not too distant future.

‘Stan, this port is running out of space. It won’t be long before the new liners are on stream with new product runs. They’re also much larger. I know the Mauros and the other agents are on the ball, but what about the local authorities?’

‘I know. I’m still finding my feet around here. Hopefully they’ll get their act together soon.’

Stan knew that it would take years before any local politician took the plunge to increase the pier size and water depth to accommodate the onslaught of a new era of cruise-ship tourism.

A medium-size pickup truck drove up to the goods section of the Falmouth quay. The driver and his assistant unloaded two crates. Donald Simmons and Jerry Fulton were standing by the steps leading down to the water as they received the merchandise.
Pollyanna
was anchored out in the bay. It was nine-thirty in the morning. Within an hour, eight fenders had been secured in the standard fashion along either side of the hull. By noon, Glen Richards had arrived and boarded the yacht with a John and Mildred Robertson. Once passengers and crew had settled, the
Pollyanna
’s engine was set in motion ready for its first Atlantic run of the season. Jerry Fulton waved them a safe journey as he and the drivers loaded two empty crates back into the truck.

The sun was shining brightly and the temperature was just right for young mothers and grandmothers to air their toddlers. Two inconspicuous men were walking alongside the large lake in the centre of the park, oblivious to the running and hollering of the latest human contribution to the new century. It was early-morning coffee time and the terraces were bulging with relaxing workers from the surrounding offices.

‘Two years’ planning,’ said Habib, ‘now the decision.’

Badi was busy feeding the ducks.

‘What’s up?’

He emptied a pack of crisps into the water. A young couple in a paddleboat was slowly approaching the small landing jetty a few feet away. Turning his back on them, he walked over to a nearby dustbin, lifted the lid and threw the empty packet inside.