Just evening up the odds a little, Ben said. You were doing okay until then.
The Spaniard wiped at his lips with the back of his hand and gazed at the blood. I dont know what came over me, he said, shaking his head. I just went crazy.
Believe me, Ben said. Ive been there.
The Spaniard looked mournful. He shouldnt have said that about her.
I think he knows that now. Ben glanced at the unconscious mound on the floor. That single punch had knocked the big porker out cold. Two hundred pounds of prime gammon, taken down in a single blow by a man fifty pounds lighter. The Spaniard obviously had some hidden talents, when he wasnt drinking himself stupid.
The barman had finished on the phone and was venturing beyond the hatch to inspect the state of his premises and glower at the two men still standing in the ruins. Someones going to pay for this! he was yelling in Spanish.
We should leave before the police arrive, the Spaniard said. I live just a couple of minutes from here. He paled. Jesus, I feel terrible.
Nothing a couple of pints of strong black coffee cant fix, Ben said. Lets get you home and sobered up.
Chapter Two
Neither of them spoke much as the Spaniard led the way from the bar and through the narrow, uniformly whitewashed streets of Frigilianas old Moorish quarter. Ben followed a few steps behind, watching as the Spaniard tried to hold a straight line and had to keep steadying himself against walls and railings. Ben thought about all the times hed walked out of bars and pubs with a skinful of whisky and some other guys blood on his knuckles, and wondered if hed been such a sorry sight as this. Never again, he vowed. But it was a vow hed broken enough times to know hed probably break it again, some place, some time.
Bens left arm felt a little tight and sore after his exertions. A few months earlier, he had been shot from behind at close range with a twelve-gauge shotgun. The surgeon who had pieced his shoulder blade back together had done good work, but he still had pain sometimes. In time, he knew, the twinges would fade, even if they never faded away to nothing. It wasnt the first time hed been shot.
This is it, the Spaniard muttered, stopping at an arched doorway on a sloping backstreet. Every inch of the houses exterior was painted pure brilliant white, like every other building theyd passed, bouncing back the light and warmth of the afternoon sun. The Spaniard fumbled in his pocket and found a ring with a heavy old iron key. After a couple of stabs, he managed to get it in the lock and shoved the door open.
Ben followed him inside. He had no intention of staying any longer than it took to make the guy a remedial cup of coffee and see him settled safely out of harms way. Ben himself had been rescued more than once from the perils of a drunken stupor. The last time it had happened had been in the French Alps; his saviour on that occasion had been a massive Nigerian guy named Omar, whod brought him home rather than let him get picked up by the local gendarmes. Looking out for the Spaniard was a way for Ben to put something back, make himself feel like hed done something good.
The Spaniards home was simply, economically furnished. The walls were white inside as well as out, hung here and there with tasteful art prints. The living room had a single sofa with a low coffee table between it and a TV stand. A large bookcase stood against one wall, heavy with titles on history and philosophy and classical music CDs. It wasnt the typical home of a bar brawler. The Spaniard was evidently a cultivated guy, within a certain budget. Bookish, scholarly even. But from the mess in the place, it was just as evident that for whatever reason Ben had found him drowning his sorrows in the bar, his comfortable little life had lately fallen apart. Clothes lay strewn about the floor. The sofa was rumpled as though it had been slept on a lot recently. Empty beer cans lined up on the coffee table gave off a sour smell of stale booze.
Ben glanced around him. A corner of the room was set aside as a little study area. Above the desk hung a crucifix, to the left of it a framed degree certificate from the University of Madrid, awarded to one Raul Fuentes for achieving first-class honours in English. To the right of the cross, a poster was tacked to the wall depicting a forlorn-looking polar bear cub alone on a melting ice floe that was drifting on unbroken blue water under a bright and sunny sky, with the legend STOP GLOBAL WARMING NOW.
Next to that hung a smaller framed photo of the Spaniard, grinning and laughing on a white-sanded beach somewhere hot, with his arm around the shoulders of a strikingly beautiful dark-haired woman. She was laughing with him, showing perfect white teeth. It was a happy picture, obviously from a happier time not so very long ago.
Raul Fuentes, Ben said. That would be you?
The Spaniard nodded. He slumped on the rumpled sofa. Leaned across to pick up one of the beer cans to give it a shake, in case there might be some left inside.
No beer for you, Ben said, stepping over to snatch it from his fingers. Which ways the kitchen? I presume you have coffee in the place. Raul Fuentes flopped back against the cushions and sighed, wagged a hand in the direction of a door.
The kitchen was a mess, though Ben could tell it hadnt always been. Copper saucepans hung neatly on little hooks above the worktop, next to a shelf with a collection of cookbooks. An ornamental wine rack was loaded with a selection of decent bottles that Raul hadnt yet got around to emptying down his throat. The ones he had filled the bin and stood around the surfaces, along with more empty beer cans and piles of unwashed dishes. Ben shoved them to one side and set about making coffee.
Raul had a real percolator and real fresh-ground beans. Ben approved. The instant stuff was essentially dehydrated military rations, popularised during successive world wars. You shouldnt have to drink it unless there was no other choice.
As he waited for the coffee to bubble up on the stove, Ben thought about the picture on the wall above the desk and wondered whether the woman in it was the reason behind Raul Fuentes troubles. Shes not worth it, mate. The yobs words had evidently touched a nerve.
When the coffee came up, he poured the contents into two cups. Straight, black, as it came. Milk and sugar were trivial nonessentials at a time like this. He carried the cups back into the other room and set one down in front of Raul.
Drink it while its hot. Itll do you good.
When the coffee came up, he poured the contents into two cups. Straight, black, as it came. Milk and sugar were trivial nonessentials at a time like this. He carried the cups back into the other room and set one down in front of Raul.
Drink it while its hot. Itll do you good.
Raul slurped some, and pulled a face.
It needs to be strong, Ben said.
Raul braved another sip. I dont even know your name, he said, looking up.
Ben, Ben said.
Youre not from around here.
Is it that obvious?
Youre English.
The half of me that isnt Irish.
What are you doing here in Frigiliana? Raul asked. Are you on vacation or something?
Ben wasnt about to reveal to a stranger how hed been wandering aimlessly through Europe for the last couple of months, never lingering long in one place, staying in cheap hotels to preserve his savings, travelling by public transport wherever whim or random choice took him.
I wanted to see the castle, he said.
Which, as far as it went, was true, although Ben hadnt been aware of the existence of the ancient Moorish fortress whose ruins topped the hill overlooking Frigiliana until hed happened to pick up a discarded magazine on the bus from Sevilla, just for something to read. Then, just for something to do, when hed got off the bus hed made the long, hot, dusty hike up the hill to visit the lonely ruins that marked the site of the battle of El Peñon de Frigiliana, where in 1569 some six thousand Christian soldiers had stormed the last stronghold of the Moorish empire and spelled the final end of Muslim rule in Spain.
Once hed got to the top, Ben had wondered why hed bothered. Hed seen all the battlefields he ever wanted to see in his life, both ancient and modern. The remains of the fortress didnt look much different from crusader ruins hed observed in the Middle East or the smoking rubble of killing zones in Afghanistan, from back in the day. It was a sad old place, haunted by the same ancient ghosts as all such places inevitably were.
Ben had perched on a crumbled wall and smoked a few cigarettes while looking out over the valley below, then got thirsty and come wandering back down the hill into Frigiliana to find a cool drink. The rest of the story, Raul didnt need telling.
Well, Im glad you showed up when you did, Raul said after another grateful slurp of coffee. It seemed to be reviving him a little already. I cant believe the way you went through those idiots. You must be some kind of seventh-dan Aikido master or something.
Its just a few simple tricks, Ben said.
Tricks. Raul considered that for a moment. Well, whatever, you saved my ass from a serious beating back there. Probably saved my job, too. Respectable schoolteachers arent supposed to get into drunken fights and turn up at school all bruised up.
You teach English? Ben said, glancing in the direction of the degree certificate.
Raul nodded. In a secondary school, just a few kilometres from here.
Its the middle of the week. Is there a holiday?
Raul said quietly, No, I Im taking time off.
Ben didnt ask why. Respectable schoolteachers dont generally have such a useful right jab, in my experience.
Raul gave a sour laugh. I was an amateur boxing champion in my teens. Its been years since I so much as threw a punch. Stupid. He sat hunched over with his elbows on his knees, toying with his cup and frowning. I shouldnt have gone in there in the first place. As if I hadnt already got enough booze in this place to drink myself into a hole in the ground. Maybe I was looking for a fight. Maybe I wanted it to happen.