the honorary British consul.’
Room 14, Sirena Hostal, Villagarcia
Sergio was nervously shampooing his hair after nearly an hour under a hot shower in the one-star hotel. He’d shaved his beard, managed to untangle the hairy mess on his head and wash it before even attempting a visit to the hairdressers. A clean shirt, a new pair of jeans and year-old sneakers completed his transformation back into another one of the crowd totally indistinguishable from any other local in the town. It was mid-summer and the temperature hadn’t dropped below twenty degrees in two weeks. Next stop was the nearest bar for a decent meal coupled with a good bottle of wine. He needed to unwind, slowly. His mind was a bird’s nest overflowing with loose spikes and twigs each prickling with anecdotes, experiences, stories of woe and a strange bonding with an even stranger camaraderie. He was also on edge. After weeks of patient “acting” as a lost soul with the others, indulging in their weird daily activities and, as he thought, about to crack the main whereabouts of “Teixugo” Castro, a sudden incident blew the scheme he had been working on out of the water.
When he first joined the underworld of the scruffy, undesirable beings that inhabited the after-dark corners of the fish market, he had only one goal in mind; sniff out the drug contacts. It had been engraved on his brain. Sergio had planned to be extremely cautious, not to arouse any suspicion during his first attempt at trespassing into the “bagman” world, including any hinting at his own strong, antagonistic feelings. He was not immune to human frailty, yet he had a subconscious desire to vindicate his father’s death that enhanced his instinctive dislike, or even hatred, towards both drug addicts and alcoholics. All factors were ever present in his mind as he eventually crossed the path that separated his world from the one across the road.
‘Who are you?’ the bagman had asked Sergio once he had slowly settled down on the concrete floor below the arches of the fish market together with the other nighthawk inhabitants.
‘Where do you come from?’
Sergio was surprised at the slow yet clear tone of voice coming from this inhuman human. There was no hint of delirium tremens, just a cold tone of anguish. Sergio had prepared his introductory contact beforehand, expecting to interconnect with a slurry incoherent, semi-conscious being. There was none of that.
This man is all there
, he thought. Sergio had to backtrack. Common sense took over.
‘I’m from Muros. I’m called…’ he hesitated for a second, ‘… Sergio.’ He said no more; just stared into space for what seemed like an eternity.
The bagman, pointing at each of the others, broke the silence.
‘That’s Paddy, he’s “Chicho”, that one is “Moncho” and I’m “Don” Paco, the senior member.’ At first Sergio didn’t understand what he meant until Paco added, “They came after I did.”
Paddy was a Northern Ireland seaman who had jumped ship after it had docked in Bilbao a couple of years back. He had beaten up and seriously injured one of the officers and was reluctant to return to Belfast in case of prosecution. For over a year he wandered around the interior of the northwest of Spain until he ended up in the coastal area of Galicia.
‘Nowhere to go, I used up the only money I had and ended up begging in the streets.’
“Chicho” in his mid-thirties was a typical immigrant hardship case of losing a job on the Andalucía olive plantations. Bolivian by birth, he had no family to go to and although he tried for months to seek work without success, wandering from farm to farm he started to hit the bottle.
‘Why I’m here in Galicia? I had a friend from La Paz… lives down the road,’ giggling and taking a swig at his carton. ‘He soon kicked me out.’
“Moncho” was broken financially by his devious partner in a small firm of insurance brokers in Lugo, ending up in court
Room 14, Sirena Hostal, Villagarcia
Sergio was nervously shampooing his hair after nearly an hour under a hot shower in the one-star hotel. He’d shaved his beard, managed to untangle the hairy mess on his head and wash it before even attempting a visit to the hairdressers. A clean shirt, a new pair of jeans and year-old sneakers completed his transformation back into another one of the crowd totally indistinguishable from any other local in the town. It was mid-summer and the temperature hadn’t dropped below twenty degrees in two weeks. Next stop was the nearest bar for a decent meal coupled with a good bottle of wine. He needed to unwind, slowly. His mind was a bird’s nest overflowing with loose spikes and twigs each prickling with anecdotes, experiences, stories of woe and a strange bonding with an even stranger camaraderie. He was also on edge. After weeks of patient “acting” as a lost soul with the others, indulging in their weird daily activities and, as he thought, about to crack the main whereabouts of “Teixugo” Castro, a sudden incident blew the scheme he had been working on out of the water.
When he first joined the underworld of the scruffy, undesirable beings that inhabited the after-dark corners of the fish market, he had only one goal in mind; sniff out the drug contacts. It had been engraved on his brain. Sergio had planned to be extremely cautious, not to arouse any suspicion during his first attempt at trespassing into the “bagman” world, including any hinting at his own strong, antagonistic feelings. He was not immune to human frailty, yet he had a subconscious desire to vindicate his father’s death that enhanced his instinctive dislike, or even hatred, towards both drug addicts and alcoholics. All factors were ever present in his mind as he eventually crossed the path that separated his world from the one across the road.
‘Who are you?’ the bagman had asked Sergio once he had slowly settled down on the concrete floor below the arches of the fish market together with the other nighthawk inhabitants.
‘Where do you come from?’
Sergio was surprised at the slow yet clear tone of voice coming from this inhuman human. There was no hint of delirium tremens, just a cold tone of anguish. Sergio had prepared his introductory contact beforehand, expecting to interconnect with a slurry incoherent, semi-conscious being. There was none of that.
This man is all there
, he thought. Sergio had to backtrack. Common sense took over.
‘I’m from Muros. I’m called…’ he hesitated for a second, ‘… Sergio.’ He said no more; just stared into space for what seemed like an eternity.
The bagman, pointing at each of the others, broke the silence.
‘That’s Paddy, he’s “Chicho”, that one is “Moncho” and I’m “Don” Paco, the senior member.’ At first Sergio didn’t understand what he meant until Paco added, “They came after I did.”
Paddy was a Northern Ireland seaman who had jumped ship after it had docked in Bilbao a couple of years back. He had beaten up and seriously injured one of the officers and was reluctant to return to Belfast in case of prosecution. For over a year he wandered around the interior of the northwest of Spain until he ended up in the coastal area of Galicia.
‘Nowhere to go, I used up the only money I had and ended up begging in the streets.’
“Chicho” in his mid-thirties was a typical immigrant hardship case of losing a job on the Andalucía olive plantations. Bolivian by birth, he had no family to go to and although he tried for months to seek work without success, wandering from farm to farm he started to hit the bottle.
‘Why I’m here in Galicia? I had a friend from La Paz… lives down the road,’ giggling and taking a swig at his carton. ‘He soon kicked me out.’
“Moncho” was broken financially by his devious partner in a small firm of insurance brokers in Lugo, ending up in court
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