The further I go the more vulnerable I feel; my eyes are everywhere on the lookout for the dog. At least this time, I can protect myself. There's nothing I can do about the henchman. If he finds me, I'm dead.
I put one foot in front of the other and summon my courage. I'm a grown man. I should be able to take care of myself.
I'm on edge, a lone man trudging through stark, rugged wilderness. Each step brings me closer to civilisation. Each step takes me further from my sanctuary.
When I reach the first T-intersection and I know I'm halfway, I start to relax. I turn left and head to Tinajo, following the road that courses by the base of the volcano.
Soon, the lava gives way to fields of black. Passing a lonely winery, I'm convinced the dog will leap out at me any moment, but I turn right to Mancha Blanca and make it past without mishap.
The neat flat fields edged with dry stone walls, the volcanoes scattered on the horizon to the south and the west, the white cubes of the houses up ahead, it's my land and my people and right now it feels like a no-man's land, my personal battlefield and I wish I was anywhere else.
On and on I tramp, looking back every few paces, paranoia rising, pumping through my veins. I'm convinced I'm being stalked.
Worse, the path is now a steady incline all the way and I feel myself weakening with every step. I keep looking ahead, willing myself on, steeling myself not to waste my energy looking behind me.
It's only when I reach the outskirts of the village that a desperate gratitude sweeps through me and I draw comfort from the knowledge that I've almost made it.
I turn down a side street and now I can see Erik's house up ahead. I quicken my pace, eager to enter the safety of his front yard.
I'm about to pass through his front gate when I hear the snarl.
The bite that follows takes me off guard. Sharp pain shoots through me.
The dog has its jaws in the same leg, the same place, re-opening the wound through the tea-towel bandage.
I emit a loud roar and turn, gripping the plank of wood.
The dog clenches its jaw and growls, its teeth a vice bearing down on my flesh. Saliva, pink with my blood drips from the canine's mouth.
I deliver a hard blow, the nails piercing through the skin of its haunches.
I wince in response, the humane side of me not wanting to do the beast harm, but the mongrel doesn't release its grip. Instead it tugs all the harder, turning its head from side to side.
The pain is blinding. I struggle not to lose my balance. I'm convinced those vicious teeth will bite a whole chunk out of my calf.
I hit the animal again and then again and then I hear, 'Hey, Tyson. Come here!'
The dog lets go but doesn't leave my side. It crouches down, bares its teeth and growls.
I look around. I don't see the owner of that high-pitched male voice.
'You okay?' the voice says in English.
Then I see him, or at least his face, craning over the neighbouring wall.
'Is this your dog?' I growl.
'Tyson? Sure is,' he says, all upbeat. 'Best guard dog ever. You need one out here. You never know who might be lurking out there.' His gaze wanders past me at the lava fields and the volcanos.
I'm saved from wielding my knife at this idiot by Erik, who pulls up in his driveway, looking over and honking his horn.
'Would you mind removing your dog?'
'Tyson, come here.'
The dog slinks away and I head over to Erik, unloading groceries from the boot of his car.
A confession
I wake to the trill of my parent's telephone. I'm not sure I slept and it certainly wasn't for long, yet the beginnings of dawn are filtering through the shutters. Gloria is lying on her side of the bed, cuddling her toy rabbit. Keen to answer the phone before it wakes her, I hurry out of bed. When I enter the living room, Bill is already halfway across the room, tying off his dressing gown. He reaches the phone first and picks up the receiver.
'Hello?'
There's a long pause. I hover anxiously. Who would call so early? The police? Knowing they'll catch me at home? But it isn't the police. I know that when a broad smile spreads across my father's face.
'It's for you.'
I take the phone from his outstretched hand and press it to my ear.
'What are you doing at your parents' place?' He sounds hurt and indignant and confused.
My world shimmies. Relief surges through me like the ocean. Bill draws up a chair for me to sit and leaves the kitchen.
'Celestino,' I whisper.
'There's no food in the house,' he says reproachfully.
'Celestino, where have you been?' My voice has grown husky.
'What do you mean? I left you a note.' Again, there's that indignant tone.
'A note?'
'On the table, right here.'
'But.'
'I've read yours,' he says bitterly.
From his tone I can tell he thinks I'm angry with him. He's jumped to a false conclusion in the face of my absence and an empty fridge. But they are hardly indications that I've walked out on my life with him. Then again, thinking of it now, the note is ambiguous: I hope you read this because it means you're back. We're staying at my parent's. Please call. No miss you or love you. Sounds like I think he's walked out on me. I didn't even sign it with a kiss. Even so, his misunderstanding seems trivial, his reaction out of proportion. I begin to feel impatient.
'Celestino,' I say, repeating his name. 'I haven't left you. I've been worried sick. You disappeared, that's all I knew. I didn't see any note. I thought you were…' I let my voice trail off.
He doesn't comment. To fill the silence I say, 'What happened?'
'After you left the studio I got a call from Erik. He was insistent I deliver his painting. I explained it all in my note.'
'There was no note.'
'There was.'
'You have to believe me.'
'And you have to believe me,' he says, the irritation rising in his voice.
'Celestino,' I say, relishing in the new significance his name has taken on, an alive and well husband who could have nothing whatsoever to do with Pedro's murder or the painting fiasco. Yet I'm simultaneously grappling with the danger he is in. The police are looking for him and the man in the black sedan is out there on the prowl.
'I'm going to take a shower,' he says. 'Are you coming home?'
'Celestino, listen to me. Something's wrong,' I say, imbuing my voice with urgency. 'Don't stay at the house.'
'I'm having a shower.'
'Have it here.'
'Paula, I'm exhausted. I've had a rough week. It'll be a lot easier if you come here. When do you think you'll be home?'
I might have known he'd be stubborn. Which leaves me no choice. I glance over at Bill to make sure he's out of earshot. He is. Lowering my voice, I say, 'Pedro's dead.'
'Say that again.'
'Pedro. He's been murdered. Just get here and I'll explain. Promise me you'll come now. It's too dangerous to stay there.'
Even as I speak I know that anyone watching my movements would know where I am, where my family is. But to kill a whole family, a British family at that, would cause a scandal of international proportions. Bumping off a local market trader would only make the local headlines and only for a day. Besides, there's safety in numbers and I've seen no black sedan in Máguez.
When at last he says, 'I'm on my way,' I feel a sudden release of tension. I hold the receiver to my ear until I hear the click. Will he leave immediately? I can only hope he does.
I'm suddenly cold in just my nightshirt. I place back the handset in its console and goes to check on Gloria. She's turned onto her back, but she doesn't stir when I tiptoe into the room. I dig around in my travelling bag for some clean clothes and head to the bathroom. In five minutes, I'm dry and dressed and ready. My anticipation grows. I have to force myself not to wait outside. Bill and Angela are moving about in the kitchen. I join them, getting as far as the door
way.
Angela is cracking eggs into a bowl and issuing instructions to Bill as he sets the table. 'Use the other plates. The ones in the dresser.' He dutifully re-stacks those he laid and returns them to the cupboard. He opens the dresser, wisely choosing to seek her approval for which plates, cutlery, even napkins she deems suited to the occasion. Occasion? Angela is behaving as though Celestino's imminent arrival is a cause to celebrate, which of course it is, but not in the fashion of a breakfast party. I suppose it's the only way she knows to show how she feels. Yet from Celestino's point of view the elaborate spread might appear an unwarranted, even unwelcome surprise. But there's no altering the course of the event. They have no idea Pedro is dead and I'm not about to tell them, at least before they've eaten. Besides, the breakfast will reinforce for Celestino the Crays' concern for his absence, the strain we've endured, and thus, I hope, reinforce in his mind the veracity of my claim that I saw no note.
Gloria bounds past me into the room. Bill looks to me before bending down to greet his granddaughter. I give him a discrete shake of the head, not wanting to arouse Gloria's hopes prematurely. I remain in the doorway with an ear cocked to the road outside.
The sizzle of frying sausages, the kettle's hiss, the chatter and the clangs and I retreat to stand near the front door. The wind is strong, moaning through the gaps in the shutters. Several cars drive by. The rumble of a bus. Then I hear a car's engine fade as it approaches and the crunch of tyres on the gravel of the drive. I'm outside in an instant.
I pull the door to behind me, stopping a few paces on, confused. Celestino is easing himself out of Miguel's car, rucksack in one arm, the other arm in a sling. Where's his own car? I watch Miguel through the windscreen. He looks troubled, his face sombre. Then Celestino closes the passenger side door. The wind ruffles his hair. There's at least six days' growth on his face. He stands still, framed by the volcano behind him. As he walks forward, he limps. Miguel starts the engine, gives us both a cursory wave and reverses out of the drive.
'He's in a hurry,' Celestino says.
I wait, unsure how I feel. He drops his rucksack and holds open his one good arm. I move forward, unhurried, strangely uncertain. He seems changed and I can tell the shock of my news has affected him deeply, no doubt compounding whatever has happened to him.
I linger in his embrace. He smells strongly of stale sweat and the ocean.
'I thought I'd lost you,' he says, his breath warm in my ear.
I press against his side, feeling the curves of his flesh, absorbing his strength. I let myself meld. It's the closest we've been in months. Tears prickle as I inwardly vow not to let our togetherness slip away so easily. I love him, as strongly as I did in those first few days of our union.
Our embrace is broken by squeals and the patter of little feet, and Gloria races outside.
'Daddy! Daddy's here!'
Celestino bends down awkwardly and kisses her on both cheeks and hugs her tightly. He closes his eyes and smiles.
'Come on,' he says, standing and grabbing his rucksack. 'Daddy needs a shower.' Then, addressing me, he adds, 'There wasn't any water where I've been staying.'
I walk behind, noting he still has his rucksack, the one he takes with him everywhere.
'Will you manage?' I say, eyeing his arm.
'I'll cope.'
I take a reluctant Gloria back to the kitchen and sit her down at the table next to Bill. Leaving the head of the table free, Angela sits opposite her husband. I sit beside her. Aromatic smells of fresh herbs and spicy sausages and brewed coffee fill the room. I glance at Bill's elbow resting on yesterday's newspaper, the front-page news partially exposed. I inhale to speak but think better of it. Seeing my reaction, Bill turns the paper over. It's become one item on an unspoken agenda, and I know he's eager for an explanation. We wait for Celestino, listening to the pump, the distant sound of running water.
When Celestino appears, wet hair slicked back from a clean-shaven face, all fresh in a clean shirt and pants, he's to me transformed. His left arm hangs limply by his side and I can see it's causing him pain.
He exchanges greetings with Bill and then Angela, and draws up the chair at the head of the table.
'Can you help me with this?' he says, handing me the sling. I'm about to try when Angela snatches the fabric and takes over.
Resigned, I pass round the sausages and omelette and Bill pours the coffee.
For a while we're each occupied with our food. Gloria busies herself dunking sausages into the dollop of tomato sauce Bill has centred on her plate, smearing red streaks around the rim. Celestino is about to stop her when I put my hand on his arm.
'Let her be.'
He eyes me doubtfully. I'm the one usually caught up on table manners. I offer an unapologetic shrug.
He appears nonplussed, and bites into the sausage he's stabbed with his fork. 'This is delicious,' he says to Angela, gesturing at the spread and proceeding to eat with the use of one hand.
Angela thanks him, satisfied.
I drink my coffee. In between forkfuls of food, Bill makes Gloria bite sized sandwiches out of segments of omelette and thinly sliced sausage, which she promptly pops in her mouth.
Celestino reaches across the table for more bread. An onlooker might be forgiven for thinking the family are engaged in a convivial if subdued get together, but all of the adults in the room are on edge. To me it's palpable.
Bill breaks the tension when he sets down his knife and fork on his empty plate and says, 'How bad is the arm?'
'Broken.'
'You need to get to a hospital. It'll need re-setting.'
'All in good time.'
'Where have you been?' Angela asks. 'We were worried sick.'
'Holed up in a shack in Tenesar, hiding from an evil dog and the man who ran me off the road.'
'Then it was your car in Mancha Blanca? The one that burned out.' Hurt pings as I realise he chose to deliver that painting in a storm knowing full well he would be late for Gloria's party. How could he even think to do that? 'What happened?' I murmur, unable to look at him.
'The storm had just started and a vehicle, a car I think, slammed into me at an intersection. I only just got out alive. Now, tell me what's been going on here.'
It was half an answer, but I suppose it will have to do, for now. I hesitate, wondering where to start.
Seeing me waver, Bill hands Celestino his copy of the local paper. 'You might as well read this first.'
Celestino opens out the front page. He takes in the photo of his painting of the money-spewing volcano then reads the article.
'Mierda,' he says, pushing the paper away.
I'm glad Angela has yet to learn enough Spanish to understand that particular word although I'm sure she can guess.
'Who would do such a thing?' Angela says.
'More's the point, why?' says Bill.
I don't speak. Bill gives me a puzzled look and I lower my gaze, resisting the impulse to divulge all I know.
'And they're looking for me,' Celestino says. 'The police.' His face has a gloomy set to it. 'And Pedro?'
Gloria slides from her chair and tugs at Celestino's shirt. She starts to whine.
'Not now, Gloria,' he says, pulling away.
Bill inhales and makes to stand but Angela moves her chair back and extends her arm. 'Come on, Gloria. Let's go outside and look at the flowers.'
'Thanks, Mum,' I say, watching Angela and Gloria leave the room.
'Celestino, Bill doesn't know.'
Bill leans forward in his seat. 'Doesn't know what?'
There's no easy way to put it.
'Pedro's been murdered.'
'How?' says Celestino.
'Stabbed.'
'Mierda.'
'When did this happen?' Bill says.
'Yesterday. I didn't have a chance to tell you.' I feel the pressure of both men's gazes on my face. As I inhale to speak, images flash into my mind like movie stills. My bottom lip quivers as I give them voice. 'Kat
hy and the girls found him on the floor of his workshop. It was awful.'
'Friday afternoon?' Celestino says slowly.
'Yes.'
'Then that was why I managed to get to Erik's house.'
'I don't follow.'
'While I was trudging back from Tenesar, Pedro was being attacked.'
Bill frowns. 'I never would have thought.'
'Thought what?'
'That anyone would commit murder over an art prank. Can't people take a joke on this island.'
I'm sure he didn't mean to sound offhand but that's the way his remark comes across. Celestino ignores him and addresses me. 'How did you find out?'
'I'm not sure why I went round there.' I recall how I stopped at the Guatiza roundabout. 'I'm frightened, Celestino. Why is this happening?'
I can't catch his gaze.
'This has to do with your anti-corruption campaigns, doesn't it?' Bill says.
Celestino nods slowly.
'And all those papers that were missing from one of your files?' I add.
He frowns. 'You've been searching through my papers.'
'I had no idea what had happened to you.' I do my best not to sound shrill. 'Besides, I only looked at the folders on the floor under your desk.'
He seems content to let it go. He's silent for a short while. Then he says, 'They are not missing. I had them with me. Here,' and he leaves the room and returns with a thick sheaf of official looking documents.
'Where did you get all that?' I say, astonished.
He's reluctant to answer. He takes a gulp of his coffee and gazes out the window, stalling.
'Now is not the time for holding back,' Bill says with surprising firmness.
Without shifting his gaze, Celestino says, 'Olora. She's a legal secretary. Works for a lawyer in Arrecife.' He pauses. 'A corrupt lawyer.'
I cave in to a new sense of betrayal. 'I don't understand,' I say as lightly as I can. 'Who is this woman?'
'Relax,' Celestino says, cottoning on to my mood. 'Olora's an old school friend. She's crazy. But she's useful. She sees it as her duty to the island to work for the enemy.'
'And pass on documents.'
'We're building a case.'
Bill raises his hand. 'Don't tell me. Against Redoto Redoto.'
A Matter of Latitude Page 25