kicked off and let everything happen. The air flooded his nose and mouth and eyes. His T-shirt whipped up a storm. His ears sang. A stone beneath the front tyre set him free and he wheeled through the high scent of pine and the low sound in his chest and landed on his knees in the ditch.
The bike was all right. One spoke a bit bent but that was nothing. His knees were cut. That was nothing as well. He took his T-shirt off and wiped his knees and put it back on. He wondered if he should go home. What day was it? Saturday. Dad would still be in bed whatever day it was. When he got up he would light a spliff, a joint, a jay. In England he used to say, ‘That’s how come he’s called it. Jay, like, know what I mean?’ He might say for Jay to take the goats out. Jay didn’t feel like taking the goats out. What did Mum do on a Saturday? Go to the shops, sit on the porch, drag a broom over the floor, sit on the porch, throw grain at the chickens. Same as every day really. If he went back she’d say, ‘For God’s sake, Jay,’ or something like that.
The pickup was there on the gravel so Jay knew Stanton was in. On the slate-top table on the terrace was a glass half full of beer. Jay sat on the step and whistled. He shielded his eyes and saw out to the hills where they were black from the fires. They looked prickly. They made him want to scratch. He heard a hundred people died, but you can’t believe everything you hear. There were only about six houses over that way. A flaming branch fell off a massive eucalyptus on to a bombeiros, skewered him to the ground. That’s what they said. And a baby was found alive inside a ring of fire, just lying there on a white sheet that didn’t have so much as a smudge. That was a great story. Jay didn’t care if it was true or not. He thought the baby should have its own shrine and people should walk to Mamarrosa from all over Portugal, on their knees.
Stanton wasn’t coming out. Jay whistled louder, giving him another chance. He went up to the terrace and touched the glass. It was cold. He held it for a moment and it seemed to make the sweat pour out of his forehead. He put the glass to his lips and drank.
Quinta Nova da Alegria stood on the road to São Martinho, set back along a gravel drive and an avenue of palms, just like the stucco villas in the Algarve. The man who owned it lived in Lagos and came with a different woman for every visit. There was a big wrought-iron gate and high walls to stop the happiness escaping. There was supposed to be a swimming pool round the back. Jay leaned his bike up against the wall and looked through the gate. No cars in the drive today.
There was a dog though and it began to bark in a lazy sort of a way, as if Jay was hardly worth bothering about. Over to the left – Jay had not noticed it before – was a one-room casa with a tiny window and a splintery front door. Of course there would have to be somebody to take care of the place while the owner did whatever rich people do. Jay shook the gate to see about the dog. It snarled and took a few paces forward. It was big and sleek and black, not the usual Portuguese mutt. Now it was really barking. If it was Jay’s house and Jay’s dog he wouldn’t tie it up like that. ‘Never going to catch anyone, are you?’ he said and began to climb.
The gate wobbled, his foot slipped and he hurt his thigh against the twisted metal. It wasn’t bad but it made his heart beat faster. He sat on top of the gate and felt dizzy from the heat and the climb and the beer and that moment when he lost his balance. The dog was further forward now, waiting to spring. Most of the guard dogs round here barked and wagged their tails at the same time. They were pretty pleased to see you really. This one wasn’t like that. It was flat-faced and hammer-headed and it didn’t want to play.
Jay jumped. As he let go he knew he had made a mistake. The dog’s rope was still coiled. He opened his mouth to scream but it was
The bike was all right. One spoke a bit bent but that was nothing. His knees were cut. That was nothing as well. He took his T-shirt off and wiped his knees and put it back on. He wondered if he should go home. What day was it? Saturday. Dad would still be in bed whatever day it was. When he got up he would light a spliff, a joint, a jay. In England he used to say, ‘That’s how come he’s called it. Jay, like, know what I mean?’ He might say for Jay to take the goats out. Jay didn’t feel like taking the goats out. What did Mum do on a Saturday? Go to the shops, sit on the porch, drag a broom over the floor, sit on the porch, throw grain at the chickens. Same as every day really. If he went back she’d say, ‘For God’s sake, Jay,’ or something like that.
The pickup was there on the gravel so Jay knew Stanton was in. On the slate-top table on the terrace was a glass half full of beer. Jay sat on the step and whistled. He shielded his eyes and saw out to the hills where they were black from the fires. They looked prickly. They made him want to scratch. He heard a hundred people died, but you can’t believe everything you hear. There were only about six houses over that way. A flaming branch fell off a massive eucalyptus on to a bombeiros, skewered him to the ground. That’s what they said. And a baby was found alive inside a ring of fire, just lying there on a white sheet that didn’t have so much as a smudge. That was a great story. Jay didn’t care if it was true or not. He thought the baby should have its own shrine and people should walk to Mamarrosa from all over Portugal, on their knees.
Stanton wasn’t coming out. Jay whistled louder, giving him another chance. He went up to the terrace and touched the glass. It was cold. He held it for a moment and it seemed to make the sweat pour out of his forehead. He put the glass to his lips and drank.
Quinta Nova da Alegria stood on the road to São Martinho, set back along a gravel drive and an avenue of palms, just like the stucco villas in the Algarve. The man who owned it lived in Lagos and came with a different woman for every visit. There was a big wrought-iron gate and high walls to stop the happiness escaping. There was supposed to be a swimming pool round the back. Jay leaned his bike up against the wall and looked through the gate. No cars in the drive today.
There was a dog though and it began to bark in a lazy sort of a way, as if Jay was hardly worth bothering about. Over to the left – Jay had not noticed it before – was a one-room casa with a tiny window and a splintery front door. Of course there would have to be somebody to take care of the place while the owner did whatever rich people do. Jay shook the gate to see about the dog. It snarled and took a few paces forward. It was big and sleek and black, not the usual Portuguese mutt. Now it was really barking. If it was Jay’s house and Jay’s dog he wouldn’t tie it up like that. ‘Never going to catch anyone, are you?’ he said and began to climb.
The gate wobbled, his foot slipped and he hurt his thigh against the twisted metal. It wasn’t bad but it made his heart beat faster. He sat on top of the gate and felt dizzy from the heat and the climb and the beer and that moment when he lost his balance. The dog was further forward now, waiting to spring. Most of the guard dogs round here barked and wagged their tails at the same time. They were pretty pleased to see you really. This one wasn’t like that. It was flat-faced and hammer-headed and it didn’t want to play.
Jay jumped. As he let go he knew he had made a mistake. The dog’s rope was still coiled. He opened his mouth to scream but it was
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