Inhuman Remains

Thirty-three

Honestly, I’m not the hysterical type: I can recall every occasion when I’ve shed tears as an adult. I can recall all of my good times and all of my sad times. The best? Giving birth to Tom. The saddest? Being alone when Tom was born, without family in the delivery room, friends or the man who’d made him.

Not the killings of Frank and Ade? No, I’ve never thought of them in terms of sadness, but of shock, the kind for which nothing can prepare a person.

As I had begun to say, I don’t cry a lot, but when I let myself go, it usually does me good, and so it was when I was awakened next morning by the rising sun, as I sat slumped in my terrace chair, my hair and clothes damp with the dew, my mouth like the slops tray of a beer tap. I sat for a while longer as the awful memories returned, one by one, dimming the bright glory of the new day. I contemplated going inside, closing the shutters and chasing more sleep, but I knew that would be a pointless exercise. Instead, I put on trainers and a swimsuit, let myself out through the garage, clipped on my bum-bag, with my keys and a bottle of water stuffed inside, and started to run.

I headed along the walkway that leads to L’Escala, past the ruins, past the hotel and the beach bar outside, until I reached the road. I stopped at the Olympic statue. I had run harder than usual, and my breathing was heavy, so I waited until it had eased, then turned and jogged back the way I had come.

When I reached the beach bar once again, the guy who runs it was opening up for early breakfast customers. I know him, so I asked him to look after my bag and shoes, then plunged into the sea. I swam for about ten minutes, walked along the water’s edge for a bit, until I began to dry off, then went back to the bar, retrieved my bag, and had a chorizo and cheese mini, with a double-espresso chaser.

I walked the rest of the way home barefoot, since I didn’t want to get sand in my trainers. As I let myself in through the front door, remembering the new code without difficulty, I felt renewed, back in control. I thought about what Father Gerard had said about finding courage where you least expect it, smiling as I wondered whether that included a chorizo and cheese sandwich.

I showered and dressed for the morning, in not very much since it was going to be another hot one. Remarkably I still felt hungry, so I took some sliced bread from my freezer stock and toasted it, eating it hot with butter and jam, the way you shouldn’t, but the way I’ve always liked it.

I thought of calling Alex, but it was still early, and I feared I might disturb Gloria and Marte. Instead I went on-line, and found the electronic edition of the Costa Brava newspaper. I searched the latest stories, and found the one I was after. It reported that the Mossos d’Esquadra were looking for two unnamed English visitors, mother and son, who were missing, last seen at Santa Caterina, near Bellcaire, on the edge of a heavily wooded area. Short, succinct, no hint of murder, no hint of violence, no hint of anything beyond a couple of careless punters lost in the woods, where wild boar are rumoured to roam. ‘No, we mustn’t upset the tourists,’ I whispered.

I decided I had to see Shirley; a phone call wouldn’t do. I didn’t head for the house, though. It had just gone nine, and on most mornings at that time she’s to be found having breakfast at a pavement table outside Café del Mar.

‘Hi,’ she called out, as I approached from the car park. I took a seat beside her, and asked the waiter for coffee, with milk. ‘I guess your water’s fixed,’ she said, ‘since you didn’t come back last night. Where’s Frank, then? Have you exhausted the poor little bugger?’

There was an abandoned newspaper at a nearby table, the print edition of the one I’d looked at on the computer. I fetched it, found the story, on page three, and showed it to her, watching her eyes widen as she read. ‘Prim,’ she gasped, ‘what the fuck is all this about?’

I gave her a very potted version, speaking English to lessen the chances of being overheard, although often we use Spanish, even when it’s just the two of us. ‘Frank got involved with some bad people in Sevilla. They snatched his mum to get to him.’

‘How bad are they?’ she asked quietly.

‘Lethal, I fear.’

‘Seriously?’ I nodded. ‘You’re not involved, are you?’

‘No. They got who they were after.’

‘And your aunt?’

‘Innocent victim. Caught in the crossfire. Collateral damage. Choose your favourite cliché.’ I took her gate opener from my bag and handed it to her. ‘I owe you an apology, Shirl. It was wrong of me to impose on you without telling you the whole story. I could have put you in danger as well.’

She gave me back the device. ‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘For the next time you’re in bother. You’re my pal, remember.’ She paused as the waiter brought my coffee. ‘You’ll miss him, won’t you? Just when you and he were getting close.’

‘That was just something that happened on the road.’

‘No, it wasn’t. For all I might kid you about it, I know you don’t do casual sex.’

‘Well, from now on,’ I told her, ‘that’s going to be the only kind for me. Seems that if I get too close to a bloke, he dies.’

‘In that case, I’ll bet Father Gerard’s relieved he’s a priest.’

I blinked. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘You know bloody well what I mean, but let’s leave it at that. Is there any chance that they’ll be found safe?’

‘You never can tell, but I don’t see it. There was blood; a lot of it.’

‘Oh dear.’ Shirley’s eyes misted over. She had liked Frank too. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Go and get Tom,’ I replied. ‘I sent him to Monaco for safety when all this started to happen. After that, I’m not sure. At some point I’ll need to tell my dad what’s happened, and my sister; we’re all the family Adrienne and Frank had. But I’m not up to that yet.’

‘When are you off?’

‘Now. I’ll call you when I get back.’ I slid a five-euro note for the waiter under my empty cup, stood up and headed back towards the car park.