glass like a weapon. ‘I invited him for dinner. In fact, he invited himself for dinner. He got wasted on my whisky and then drove down the mountain, into a ditch, and killed himself. An inglorious end, but it’s not my fault. It’s nobody’s fault.’
‘He was in the village a few weeks ago. Something must have drawn him,’ says Staffe.
‘He’s a fucking journalist. They sniff like dogs but there isn’t always heat.’
‘And what about Manolo? He’s missing.’
‘He’s a fucking shepherd. It’s his job to go missing. Have you checked out the goats?’
‘He’s not with them. His dog is in the village.’
‘Me and Bobby McGee’ comes on and Jackson smiles. His eyes are warm and he sips his cubata of whisky and coke, puts his feet up on the seat of the stool next to Staffe.
‘A bit of a cliché, Jackson.’
‘Maybe, but not for me. I hate the fucking song.’ He blows a kiss to the girl behind the bar. She is young and slim and fresh and has a smile too dirty for her years. ‘But she thinks I like it. That’s why I love this place, man. It’s out of time.’
‘That night, up at your cortijo , Raúl said he was going to tell me something. Something he didn’t want anyone else to know.’
‘Maybe it was Barrington. I think he had a thing about Barrington. It was the fucking Academy, I bet.’
‘What do you think about the Academy? It will bring tourists in; money and jobs.’
‘It won’t suit everybody. Me? I came here for the quiet life.’
‘I think Raúl had something to tell me about that body down in the plastic.’
‘Or maybe Santi Etxebatteria.’
‘What!’ says Staffe. ‘What do you know about him?’
‘Raúl and Manolo were talking about you.’
‘Whatever it was he was going to tell me, I’ll find out.’
Jackson laughs, as if he hasn’t a care in all the world. ‘Talking to the dead, now? Maybe you could ask Janis where she left all the drugs.’
Looking at him leaning back and dragging on his joint, Staffe thinks that maybe Jackson really does have nothing to worry about.
Jackson says, ‘Look, man, I’ve nothing against you. I invited you into my home and we partied. I like your sister and Paolo’s not so bad but I’ve been here forty years and I haven’t a clue how this country operates, so take my advice and get yourself better. Get over what’s happened.’
‘I’m not like that. Someone died in that plastic.’
‘You’ve seen what’s going on down there.’
‘The Golf wars?’
‘Too right! You ask me, it’s something to do with money. And if I’m right, it’ll never get sorted out. Not in this country.’
‘Money,’ says Staffe. ‘It’s never far away.’
*
Staffe has walked past the indigo-coloured door twice. It has an iron grille, the size of his paperback. He stoops and looks through into a sloping garden of cypress trees, bougainvillea and roses which border a pedicured, well-watered lawn of deep green. It all leads up to a grand carmen with filigree iron balconies and finely worked wooden shutters.
He walked past the door twice because he was looking for the kind of place they would put a sectioned shepherd from the mountains: some functional, modern building built in the concrete and nasty fashion of the Generalissimo. This place, the Hospedería of Our Lady of Mercy, is the opposite.
Staffe presses the bell and when a nun, dressed in white and with an equally pale face comes to the gate, he says, though the grille, as if genuflecting and in his most proper Castellano Spanish, ‘I am Guillermo Wagstaffe and I am a friend of Manolo Cano. His father is a resident and they call him Rubio.’
She nods and slides a wooden shutter across the grille.
He waits.
Ten minutes later the wooden shutter slides back to reveal the troubled face of Manolo. The nun stands behind him. Manolo seems anxious and says, ‘I am visiting my father. Why do you intrude?’
‘I know you and Raúl met weeks ago, up the mountain.’
‘I am here
‘He was in the village a few weeks ago. Something must have drawn him,’ says Staffe.
‘He’s a fucking journalist. They sniff like dogs but there isn’t always heat.’
‘And what about Manolo? He’s missing.’
‘He’s a fucking shepherd. It’s his job to go missing. Have you checked out the goats?’
‘He’s not with them. His dog is in the village.’
‘Me and Bobby McGee’ comes on and Jackson smiles. His eyes are warm and he sips his cubata of whisky and coke, puts his feet up on the seat of the stool next to Staffe.
‘A bit of a cliché, Jackson.’
‘Maybe, but not for me. I hate the fucking song.’ He blows a kiss to the girl behind the bar. She is young and slim and fresh and has a smile too dirty for her years. ‘But she thinks I like it. That’s why I love this place, man. It’s out of time.’
‘That night, up at your cortijo , Raúl said he was going to tell me something. Something he didn’t want anyone else to know.’
‘Maybe it was Barrington. I think he had a thing about Barrington. It was the fucking Academy, I bet.’
‘What do you think about the Academy? It will bring tourists in; money and jobs.’
‘It won’t suit everybody. Me? I came here for the quiet life.’
‘I think Raúl had something to tell me about that body down in the plastic.’
‘Or maybe Santi Etxebatteria.’
‘What!’ says Staffe. ‘What do you know about him?’
‘Raúl and Manolo were talking about you.’
‘Whatever it was he was going to tell me, I’ll find out.’
Jackson laughs, as if he hasn’t a care in all the world. ‘Talking to the dead, now? Maybe you could ask Janis where she left all the drugs.’
Looking at him leaning back and dragging on his joint, Staffe thinks that maybe Jackson really does have nothing to worry about.
Jackson says, ‘Look, man, I’ve nothing against you. I invited you into my home and we partied. I like your sister and Paolo’s not so bad but I’ve been here forty years and I haven’t a clue how this country operates, so take my advice and get yourself better. Get over what’s happened.’
‘I’m not like that. Someone died in that plastic.’
‘You’ve seen what’s going on down there.’
‘The Golf wars?’
‘Too right! You ask me, it’s something to do with money. And if I’m right, it’ll never get sorted out. Not in this country.’
‘Money,’ says Staffe. ‘It’s never far away.’
*
Staffe has walked past the indigo-coloured door twice. It has an iron grille, the size of his paperback. He stoops and looks through into a sloping garden of cypress trees, bougainvillea and roses which border a pedicured, well-watered lawn of deep green. It all leads up to a grand carmen with filigree iron balconies and finely worked wooden shutters.
He walked past the door twice because he was looking for the kind of place they would put a sectioned shepherd from the mountains: some functional, modern building built in the concrete and nasty fashion of the Generalissimo. This place, the Hospedería of Our Lady of Mercy, is the opposite.
Staffe presses the bell and when a nun, dressed in white and with an equally pale face comes to the gate, he says, though the grille, as if genuflecting and in his most proper Castellano Spanish, ‘I am Guillermo Wagstaffe and I am a friend of Manolo Cano. His father is a resident and they call him Rubio.’
She nods and slides a wooden shutter across the grille.
He waits.
Ten minutes later the wooden shutter slides back to reveal the troubled face of Manolo. The nun stands behind him. Manolo seems anxious and says, ‘I am visiting my father. Why do you intrude?’
‘I know you and Raúl met weeks ago, up the mountain.’
‘I am here
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