Resurrection. The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles: Volume One.

Chapter Eight

8

José Almonte left his Malaga office and decided he would treat himself to a celebratory drink. That afternoon, he’d gone to the clinic to learn the results of a HIV test that he’d taken following a drunken indiscretion with a prostitute a month earlier. He’d gone to the clinic in a state of darkest anxiety, as he’d managed to convince himself that he had contracted AIDS and was surely going to die. So the news that he was all clear came as an almost overwhelming relief. He’d gone through the afternoon like a man reborn, with joy bubbling in his heart like champagne, and now he decided that if you had champagne in your heart, the best thing to do was to have another glass in your hand to keep it company – or even better, a gin and tonic.

As he rode the elevator down, he thought back to the night of madness that had started it all. He’d gone out for a drink with some of the other guys from the office to celebrate his fifty-third birthday. By ten o’ clock, most of the older men had started to drift away, pointing to their watches and explaining that their wives would be expecting them. But José had felt no such obligation because he and Luisa had had a furious row that morning, and he was in no mood for a re-match. His conscience had been nagging him to get her some flowers and make it up, but after the second drink, another part of him – the part that wanted a third drink and possibly a fourth or even a fifth – won; and when the younger lads had decided that they were going to go on to a strip club, José had gone along too.

It was after midnight when he’d left the club, and no sooner had he done so than she had approached him. He hadn’t understood her at first; she was an immigrant and her Spanish wasn’t very good; but her intention was clear, and that was all he needed to understand. He had accompanied her back to a nearby apartment. When the sex was over, he’d wanted to stay and sleep off the booze, but a man with a much less amiable disposition than the prostitute had entered the apartment to tell him that an overnight stay wasn’t an option.

He’d managed to find a taxi and had woken up the next morning in the guest room of his own house. Luisa had already left for work. He called in sick before rushing off to the bathroom to vomit. Afterwards, as he lay hanging onto the toilet like it was a life belt in a stormy sea, he thought about his encounter with the prostitute. What had possessed him? He’d never done anything like that before in his life. Had he used a condom? He must have done – she would have made him, surely.

Wouldn’t she?

He’d tried to remember putting one on – stopping sex to sheath his penis was usually quite a memorable event, if only because it was an awkward halt to the proceedings – but no fiddly condom fumblings bobbed among his memories of the night before. Cold sweat had broken out all over his body, and a fresh vomit reflex sent his face back into the toilet.

Now, José clicked his tongue at the shameful memory. Thank God it was all going to be okay now. The nightmare of not knowing was ended. He could finally stop cringing away from Luisa’s touch in the bedroom, lying to her about feeling tired or having a headache. She had been patient and understanding, and on more than one occasion he had wept with shame. But tonight, he would return home, guilt free and hard as a fine chorizo sausage.

He left the elevator and walked across the lobby to the exit. Yes, he thought, just a couple of drinks and then home – and no strip clubs. He chuckled as he went through the front doors of the building and out into a beautiful late spring evening.

A man touched him lightly on the arm. ‘señor Almonte?’

José frowned, startled. ‘Yes?’

‘You don’t recognise me perhaps. I am Doctor Morales, from the clinic?’

José hadn’t recognised the doctor without his white coat. ‘Oh yes, doctor. Er, how are you?’

‘Fine, thank you, señor Almonte, but I’m afraid I need to talk to you. It’s about ... well, perhaps we should speak in my car?’