6
‘Oh good, our favourite table’s free,’ said Gerald Benson with a smile as he and his wife, Cynthia, approached La Reina de Corazones. ‘What’ll it be for you this morning, Cyn?’
‘Oh, I think I’ll have one of those little coffees to get me started.’
‘Ah yes, the same for me I think. Just the ticket. Is it a cortado or cortada? I can never remember.’
‘Cortado, Gerald,’ said Cynthia. ‘Coffee is masculine.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll try and think of it in masculine terms. I know – I’ll mentally draw on a penis in the milky head of the coffee.’
‘Oh, really, Gerald, I do wish you’d keep your technique for remembering masculine and feminine nouns to yourself. Now, I too shall be seeing willies in my coffee.’
Gerald chuckled. ‘Sorry.’
The Bensons had come out to Spain six months before to enjoy early retirement. Gerald was fifty-five years old. A yellow cotton shirt flowed over his ample belly and a white Panama hat protected his bald patch from the sun. Cynthia was fifty-two; plump, but not overweight. She wore a white cotton dress and a pair of expensive sunglasses. They stepped onto the front terrace of the pub just as the barman, Luis, was wiping down their usual table in the corner.
‘Morning, Luis,’ said Gerald, dropping his edition of yesterday’s Daily Mail onto the table.
‘Buenas días, Luis,’ said Cynthia. ‘Que tal?’
‘Muy bien, gracias,’ said Luis cheerfully. ‘Your Spanish is very good, Cynthia.’
‘Oh, Luis, you’re too kind,’ said Cynthia, pulling out a plastic chair. ‘I can barely say my own name in Spanish.’
Gerald sat down. ‘It’s still Cynthia, surely?’
Cynthia ignored him and focused her smile on Luis, who was as handsome as he was charming.
Luis laughed. ‘Gerald is right, there is no Spanish equivalent of Cynthia.’
‘Oh. How unfortunate,’ said Cynthia.
‘What’s “Gerald”, Luis?’ asked Gerald.
‘Geraldo,’ said Luis. ‘We pronounce the G as a H.’
‘Geraldo!’ said Gerald.
‘I could have told you that, darling,’ said Cynthia.
Luis took out his notebook and pencil. ‘What would you like this morning?’
‘Dos cortados, por favor,’ said Gerald.
Luis’s smile was dazzling. ‘Very good, Gerald.’
Gerald laughed. ‘Who’s Gerald, eh? Call me Geraldo, Luis.’
‘Okay, Geraldo,’ Luis gave a nod and went into the shadowy interior of the pub.
‘Well done, Geraldo,’ said Cynthia.
Michelle, who had seen the Bensons arrive, walked out from inside the pub shading her eyes with her hand. ‘Who’s Geraldo?’
‘I am,’ said Gerald, delighted with himself.
Michelle pulled out a chair and joined them. ‘That’s nice, isn’t it? Of course you know who I am, don’t you?’
‘You’re Michelle; Keith’s girl,’ said Gerald. ‘You live here.’
‘No, I mean in Spanish,’ said Michelle, giving his arm a little pat.
‘Tell me.’
‘I’m Miguela.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely isn’t it, Cyn?’
‘Yes, charming. But I have no Spanish equivalent, apparently,’ said Cynthia. ‘Cynthia is uniquely English.’
‘Aw,’ said Michelle with a sympathetic look. ‘Never mind, eh?’
‘Ahhh,’ said Luis, returning with the coffees. ‘But in Portuguese of course, there is Cintia.’
‘There you are,’ said Michelle. ‘We can call you Cintia.’
Cynthia smiled. ‘Thank you, Michelle, but I prefer Cynthia. Where’s Keith?’
‘He’s still upstairs trying to read a Spanish newspaper online,’ Michelle’s rings clicked against each other as she pushed her straightened blonde hair back over her ears. ‘Apparently some bloke got his head chopped off in Ibiza.’
Cynthia grimaced. ‘Oh dear, how careless of him. Anyone important?’
‘No, just some druggie bloke. His head turned up on a bench, apparently.’
‘I say,’ said Gerald, ‘I had no idea Ibiza was such a perilous island.’
‘It’s probably them East European Mafias, innit?’ said Michelle. ‘They’re everywhere these days.’
‘Hmm,’ Cynthia murmured. ‘It was on a bench you say?’
‘Yeah, by the seaside.’
‘Do you suppose somebody forgot it?’
‘Eh?’
‘Well, perhaps they were going somewhere and they stopped at the bench for a rest – ’
Gerald frowned. ‘And what? Left their head behind? I doubt it, Cynthia, chap couldn’t have got too far without his head.’
Cynthia sighed. ‘No, Geraldo, perhaps the murderer forgot it.’ She turned to Michelle. ‘Was it in a bag or something?’
‘I dunno, I’ll ask Keith later. He knows the Spanish word for “bag”, so if that’s in the article at least he’ll be able to read that.’
‘Perhaps there’s something about it in the Daily Mail.’ Gerald picked up his newspaper and began to scan the front page.
‘I don’t think you’ll find anything in there, Gerald. It’s yesterday’s edition, remember? You’re not in Hayward’s Heath anymore.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Gerald abandoned his search. ‘Perhaps tomorrow then.’
Cynthia spoke to Michelle. ‘Didn’t you used to live on the coast, in Benidorm?’
Michelle nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘I hear there’s a lot of gangland activity down along the Costas. Is that true?’
Michelle smiled ‘Oh, I wouldn’t know, Cyn. I suppose there’s probably a bit here and there.’
‘It’s just that you said it was probably a mafia thing. Are the East European mafias known for cutting off heads?’
Michelle shrugged. ‘I dunno to be honest. But it wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘Very popular with the terrorists in Iraq for a while, wasn’t it,’ said Gerald. ‘And other places too, I believe.’
Michelle grimaced. ‘It’s bloody disgusting, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but frightening though,’ said Gerald. ‘Puts the willies up the enemy. That’s what it’s all about, Michelle – fear. Mark my words, whoever did this is trying to put the willies up some enemy.’
‘Oh really, Gerald,’ said Cynthia. ‘Do you think we might change the subject? All this talk of heads and willies is making me feel quite ill.’
‘Sorry, Cyn,’ said Gerald. He turned to Michelle. ‘Anyway, how’s young Melanie?’
‘Oh, fine,’ said Michelle. ‘Her friend’s allergic to milk at the moment so she thinks she is. She wants to drink soy milk now.’
Cynthia’s lip curled slightly. ‘Oh no, Michelle, that’s like flour and water paste, it’s disgusting. You’ll have to talk her out of it.’
‘Ah,’ said Gerald raising a finger. ‘I know what to do here. The best thing is to sit her down and make her drink a couple of pints of the stuff. That’ll turn her off it. When I was a teenager, my father sat me down and made me drink whiskey ’til I puked all over myself.’
Cynthia smiled. ‘Yes, but your father was mad, Gerald.’
‘Didn’t do me any harm,’ said Gerald. ‘Taught me a lesson, I can tell you.’
‘And what lesson was that, dear?’
Gerald’s brows knitted as he tried to remember. ‘Well, er, don’t drink alcohol, I suppose.’
Michelle slapped his arm affectionately. ‘What are you going on about, Gerald. You drink like a bloody fish, you do. You’re one of my best customers.’
Gerald chuckled. ‘Oh, I don’t know – Cyn’s probably right. Father was a little odd. Obviously it’s a somewhat flawed strategy. Still, you could try it.’
Michelle shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Gerald. Thanks all the same.’
Cynthia sipped her coffee. She had no interest in the eating fads of Melanie Mullins and so she changed the subject. ‘I hear Lydia Flinch’s brother is arriving from England today.’
‘Is it today?’ said Michelle, surprised.
‘Yes, flew in this morning. She’s gone to pick him up from the airport and then they’re going back to her brother John’s place.’
‘Oh my God, that poor man,’ said Michelle. ‘Still, nice for him to have his family all around him. I think if I was gonna die like that, I’d want my family around me; awful to die alone.’
‘Yes,’ said Gerald. ‘Apparently this younger brother chap hasn’t seen John or Lydia for about twenty years.’
‘Yeah, Lydia was saying the other day,’ said Michelle. ‘He’s the baby of the family, by all accounts.’
‘How old is he?’ asked Gerald.
‘Oh, I can’t remember. About two years younger than Lydia. So that’d make him ...’
‘Thirty-six,’ said Cynthia.
‘Yeah, that sounds about right. Be nice for them to be all together again though, won’t it? Even if one of them is going to die?’
‘Yes,’ said Cynthia.
‘You two are really good mates with Lydia, aren’t you?’ said Michelle.
‘Yes, she helped us move out here.’
‘Yeah, I remember. Everyone says she’s a really good estate agent, but we bought through a company in Benidorm.’
‘Oh, yes, she’s marvellous. But Lydia’s been so much more to us than just an estate agent, Michelle. Hasn’t she Gerald?’
Gerald smiled. ‘Oh yes, much more.’
‘Without her, life here for us would have been quite impossible. She’s taught us so much and introduced us to so many wonderful people.’
‘Yes indeed,’ said Gerald. ‘It’s fair to say that she’s shown us a whole new way of life.’ He chuckled. Cynthia shot him a look, and he fell silent.
Michelle smiled. ‘Oh, that’s nice. So have you met the brother, John, then?’
‘Yes,’ said Cynthia. ‘Lydia’s taken us out to the family home once or twice. ’
‘It’s quite a big place isn’t it? A farm?’
‘Yes, a cortijo.’
‘What’s that, the Spanish word for farm?’
‘Farm house, yes.’
‘Is it a nice place?’
‘Oh yes, it’s lovely,’ said Cynthia. ‘Been in the family for yonks.’
‘When did they buy it?’
‘They acquired it in the 50’s, I believe.’
‘Wow,’ said Michelle. ‘I bet they paid fuck all for it, back then.’
Cynthia smiled. ‘Yes. As you say, fuck all.’
‘I wonder what it’s worth now, eh? Must be millions.’
‘Yes, very probably. But they’d never dream of selling it, it’s so much more to them than just a home.’
‘Ahh, that’s lovely,’ said Michelle. ‘So what time’s the brother’s flight getting in?’
Cynthia looked at her watch. ‘Oh it should have landed a while ago. In fact, I’d say they must be arriving home about now.’
For the remainder of the car journey, David had tried to steer the conversation away from the topic of Underwood. Despite her subsequent joking about the whole guardian business, something in Lydia’s eyes when she had said that she would kill anyone to protect her “messiah” had profoundly unsettled him. Since then, he’d managed to keep the conversation focused on neutral things they might have in common, like TV and movies, and they were mulling over the old chestnut of which band was better – Oasis or Blur – when Lydia suddenly pointed.
‘There it is!’ She was pointing to a spot ahead of them in the gently undulating landscape of hills and valleys. For a moment David had to squint. Then he saw it; amid the endless ranks of olive trees, a spot of white on top of a low hill. It was still far away, but even from this distance it was possible for him to see that the house had been extended.
‘It looks bigger.’
‘Oh yes, it is. John’s done wonders with the place. You’ll hardly recognise it.’
David nodded thoughtfully and watched as the house grew nearer; the white walls and terracotta-tiled roofs becoming slowly more distinct as the distance closed.
Lydia turned off the main road and through the open gates of the property. They drove along a long gravel track through the olive tree groves up to the house. ‘Blimey,’ said David as they approached the house. ‘John’s certainly been busy, hasn’t he?’ The main building was as he remembered it – a large, traditional Andalucian farmhouse, but next to it was now a high, white wall with an archway set half-way along it that opened into a paved courtyard.
‘Yes,’ said Lydia. She turned off the engine. ‘John’s quite the handyman.’
David opened the door and got out. After the air-conditioned comfort of the car, the heat was intense. He adjusted his sunglasses and looked out across the sun-baked landscape. ‘Phew, it’s been a while since I’ve seen weather like this.’
Lydia smiled. ‘You’ve been under grey skies too long, David. This is only Spring, wait until the summer kicks in.’
David followed her as she walked towards the archway into the courtyard. From the other side of the wall he could hear the sound of splashing water. They entered the courtyard and he laughed with unexpected delight to see the source of the sound: a large fountain was set in the middle of the yard. Water danced and sparkled in the air above it and momentary rainbows flashed in the fine spray. ‘Oh my God! How cool is that?’ He walked over to the fountain and trailed his fingers through the churning water in the pool.
‘Very cool actually,’ said Lydia. ‘It helps to keep the air fresh.’ She was waiting for him by the kitchen door. He flicked the excess water from his fingers and walked over to join her.
Lydia looked at him over the rims of her sunglasses. ‘Now David, about John – you should be prepared.’
He nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘He’s in his bedroom. He has nurses who attend him around the clock. Conchi is with him during the daytime.’
‘Conchi, right.’
‘Now, he’s pretty far gone. I mean, he looks different, you know?’
David nodded.
‘He’s heavily sedated against the pain and he’s – ’ Lydia broke off. She looked as if she were about to cry.
‘Hey, come on.’ David put his arm around her shoulders and held her. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m all right.’ She moved away from him and he withdrew his arm. ‘Here I am worrying about you, and I’m the one getting all upset.’
‘Well, that’s okay.’
She smiled. ‘Yeah,’ she turned and led the way into the kitchen. It was just as he remembered it: a large farmhouse kitchen with a big wooden table at its centre. A thought occurred to him and he looked over to a work surface along one wall. He smiled. Just as there had always been, a leg of cured ham was set upon a slicing rack and covered with a tea towel. He went over and lifted the cloth, picked up a tiny sliver of meat, and popped it into his mouth. Lydia had moved on into the hallway and he followed her.
In the hall he could hear quiet Spanish guitar music coming from somewhere ahead. He stopped as he was passing the lounge and looked in. The old phonograph record player still sat in the corner; an antique now, like so many other things in the house. Behind it, he saw a modern hi-fi system set into the wall, all black glass and tiny glowing lights.
‘Ana likes to have the radio on while she’s working,’ said Lydia.
David nodded and walked into the room. It hadn’t changed in size, only in decor. Large sofas were arranged around an open fireplace and a big plasma screen TV. Above the fireplace, an antique cutlass was mounted against the white wall. David frowned. Didn’t there use to be another one crossing it? He stepped closer and saw the empty mounting fixtures for the other sword. He turned back to Lydia. ‘Wasn’t there was another sword here?’
‘Yes, but don’t worry about that now.’ Lydia gestured for him to follow.
She led the way further down to where the hall opened out into the reception area and staircase. Opposite the front door was a large, full length portrait of Lord Underwood. He had a voluminous moustache and heavy sideburns and was wearing gentleman’s Victorian evening dress, replete with a top hat and black evening cape. One of his white gloved hands rested easily on a cane, and a serene smile played upon his lips as he looked out into the room. David felt a cold sensation in his bowels.
‘It was painted over a hundred years ago,’ said Lydia from the stairs. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, I suppose. I always tried not to look at it when I was a kid. I was afraid of the eyes following me around the room.’
Lydia smiled. ‘Yes. They do have that effect, don’t they?’
David looked up into the eyes. They seemed to look straight back at him: cheerful, cool, confident to the point of arrogance. David looked away. ‘Let’s go.’ He followed her up the staircase to the upper floor.
She stopped outside the room that had been his during summer holidays when he was a boy. ‘Your room.’ She opened the door. ‘John added an en-suite bathroom to this and all the other bedrooms, but otherwise I think you’ll find it’s just as you left it.’
It was. The room was exactly as he remembered it, right down to the picture of the 1978 Arsenal squad pinned to the wall above the single bed. He walked over to the window and looked out at the hills to the east. Then, he noticed the swimming pool outside. ‘There’s a new pool?’
‘Yes. Nice, isn’t it?’
‘When did he put that in?’
‘Oh, ages ago. About ten years now.’
David was impressed. ‘Well, he’s certainly made the most of it out here, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he has. Shall we continue?’
He nodded and they returned to the hall. ‘Why did he leave my room the same as it was?’
‘Because it’s your room.’
‘Yeah but ...’ he found he couldn’t finish the sentence.
Lydia smiled. ‘This house has been waiting for you, David. Just as it’s been waiting for our Master. Come.’ She led the way down the hall and David followed, becoming aware of a chemical smell that grew heavier the closer they got to John’s room. When she got to the door, Lydia stopped.
‘Okay. Are you ready?’
David nodded. ‘Yeah.’
She opened the door for him and he stepped inside. David’s breath caught in his chest as he saw his brother for the first time in twenty years. When last he had seen John, he had been a young man – younger than David was now; he had been fit, strong, and almost annoyingly energetic. The man sleeping in the bed before him now was barely recognisable as the same person. Under the white cotton sheets, his body was wasted and brittle-looking; all of the thick blonde hair had gone from his head, and his face was gaunt, his eyes were dark and sunken, and his cheeks concave.
Lydia took David’s hand and he was grateful for it. He looked at the photo frames around the room: Martin and John with their father, Arthur; himself at about age eight with Lydia and Arthur; Lydia in a graduation gown; John in his army uniform; a woman he knew to be John’s mother, and another picture of a young man he had never seen before. He was relieved to see that there wasn’t a picture of Underwood. The balcony windows were open and a light breeze stirred the smell of disinfectant.
Next to the bed a nurse put aside the book she was reading. ‘Señorita Flinch.’ She stood up.
‘Conchita, this is my brother, David.’
Conchita smiled and shook David’s hand. ‘John has been asking for you for so long, señor Flinch. He will be so happy to see when he wakes up.’
‘Please, call me David.’
‘How is he today, Conchi?’ asked Lydia.
‘He is comfortable, señorita Flinch. He has been asleep for a few hours now.’
David moved John’s bedside. ‘Oh John, dear God.’
John’s eyes flickered open. For a moment he stared at David as if he were dreaming him, then he smiled. ‘David?’
‘Hello mate.’
John reached out and David took his hand gently. ‘Oh, David, I’m so glad, so very glad to see you. I, I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it.’
David frowned. ‘Make it?’
‘Yes, for the resurrection.’ John chuckled weakly. ‘What else has there been on the Flinch calendar these last fifty years?’
‘But, that’s not for a while yet, surely?’ He turned to Lydia for confirmation but her expression told him nothing.
John looked concerned. ‘Lydia? You haven’t told him?’
‘Not yet, no. I thought you’d want to give him the good news yourself.’
‘I see.’ John turned to David. ‘Well, it’s tomorrow night, David. At long last: after fifty years of deathly slumber, Lord Underwood, our family’s sole reason and purpose, shall rise again. And you, David, you will be there to welcome him; his loyal guardian and trusted servant.’
David grew pale and sat down on the bed. ‘Tomorrow?’ He turned to Lydia as if to say, you knew this?
Lydia shrugged.
John squeezed David’s hand. ‘Your return to us on this eve of resurrection is a blessing from Hell, David. For while I may soon be dead, in you, the Flinch line shall survive.’ He laughed and his voice was dry and raspy. ‘Rejoice! Underwood and Flinch are born again!’