A Prison in the Sun

by Isobel Blackthorn

  A gasp echoed around the room. I stopped pedalling. No one spoke. No one moved. All eyes fell on one man.

  A weight clinked.

  'Muerto?' someone said.

  Dead? Had to be. Obviously someone they all knew. Luis came out from behind the counter and made a short statement. That broke the tension, and suddenly there were tears and cries and a lot of hugging. The music came back on shortly after, and I resumed my pedalling until I had reached the designated five clicks.

  Dismounting the bike, I had the presence of mind to attempt some stretches, mimicking those I had seen the other guys do and holding them for a decent length of time. I had no idea what I was doing and gave up after a few minutes, vowing to look online for some tips. Why, come to think of it, had I never been asked to ghostwrite ten top tips for stretches? I'd been required to write about a vast array of topics I knew nothing about but never stretches. Curious.

  When I had at last finished my session, I went to join Luis over by the drinks fridge.

  'That guy, Juan, what happened?' I asked casually.

  He put his hands on his hips and exhaled. 'Juan was the man washed up on the beach the other day.'

  The words hit me like punches.

  'You knew him?'

  'We all did. He was a regular here. Juan Pablo Medina. Son of Miguel Medina. His uncle, Mario, is over there.' He gestured behind him with a tilt of his head.

  My knees felt weak. 'How awful.'

  'It is a very bad day.'

  The raw emotion in the room shaded into outrage and anger. There was suddenly a lot of shouting as an argument seemed to have broken out.

  'What's going on?'

  Luis hesitated. He looked worried, evasive. 'Better you don't know.'

  There was a break in the music, and I caught some words. I knew enough Spanish to make out “accidente” and “asesinato” and I had seen enough Hispanic films to recognise the word “murder” in that language. Murder? The men were convinced that the young man's death was no accident, and judging by their manner, they were spoiling for retribution.

  On the drive home, Luis's last remark lodged in my head. Better you don't know. That remark made me inexplicably nervous. Whatever could he mean?

  Should I Stay or Should I Go?

  The whole drive back to Tefía, I was consumed by speculations and ominous implications. Why had Juan Pablo Medina, the swimmer washed up on that remote beach, stashed the cash in that cave? For he must have done, surely? The logistics added up.

  I had assumed the dead man was a tourist, someone unfamiliar with the treacherous current, a man with very poor knowledge of tides and most definitely not a local. Juan's nationality put a different complexion on the affair. Had he been planning on coming back for the rucksack, or did he put it in the cave for someone else to collect? Whose money was it, and where did it come from? None of it would matter quite as much were it not for the fact that his relatives trained at my gym. Did any of them know about the money? What if they did? What if the intended recipient or loser of that cash was Juan's uncle or one of those other beefcakes? I shuddered. If that was the case and it got back to them that I had found the rucksack, then I would be in deep trouble. Maybe I should switch gyms, but that would look suspicious since I had already bought a three-month membership. Besides, Luis knew I was staying in Tefía. In fact, he had my exact address. It was a sickening thought.

  What the hell had I gotten myself into?

  Calm, I had to stay calm. But I was anything but calm. Sweat was beading on my brow despite the air conditioning blowing cold air on my face. My hands slipped on the steering wheel. My heart was sprinting, and I kept needing to inhale sharp bursts of air.

  By the time I pulled up in the farmhouse drive, I was a tight ball of nervous energy. I approached the front door convinced I shouldn't stay another night in the place. It wasn't safe. I should take up Paco and Claire's offer, and go to Tiscamanita. I would be better off there, in hiding.

  The moment I stepped inside, I ran to the kitchen, found the business card Claire had given me and dialled the number. She answered on the third ring.

  After a cursory greeting, I asked her if her offer was still open.

  'Yes, you can stay. But can you give us a few days?'

  She sounded flustered.

  'You don't seem certain. If it's any trouble…'

  'No trouble. Only, there's been a tragedy.'

  'I'm sorry.' Not more bad news. What was it with this island?

  'I suppose stuck up there in Tefía you won't know,' she said. 'A body has washed up on a beach.'

  My insides lurched.

  'I did hear about that,' I said, injecting into my voice a measure of calm indifference.

  'It's Paco's cousin,' she said. 'The family are distraught.'

  I could scarcely believe my ears. Was everyone related to everyone else on this island? Were they that inter-bred? No, that was unfair. Just a coincidence, bad luck or fate and besides, Catholics had large families, as did farmers.

  I offered my condolences and told Claire I would be in touch. The familial connection threw my staying at Paco and Claire's into doubt. What if they really were involved in the rucksack affair, and the invitation to stay at their place was just a ruse, a trap, a handy way to lure me and steal back the cash? What then would they do to me? Yet if they were involved, then why didn't they just take the rucksack from me back in Puertito de Los Molinos? Maybe they didn't realise it was the rucksack. No, that was just plain silly. What were the chances of two rucksacks being stashed in that cave? – close to none.

  On second thoughts, they hadn't needed to claim the rucksack there and then. Not after I had told them where I was staying. Besides, someone may have been watching. That was why they waited and then turned up at the farmhouse as though by chance when they were sure the coast was clear. Their confidence was astounding, their assurance that I wouldn't in the interim have bolted with the cash. Then again, I didn't look like a guy who would do that, and they were awfully keen to put me off going to the police. They had probably been lying in wait the whole time, and when they saw me about to get in my car that day, they made their move.

  The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that they were involved, which began to make me feel very reluctant to stay at theirs and a whole lot better about returning to the gym.

  It was lunchtime. Not feeling that hungry but thinking I should probably eat, I made myself a green salad, and then I went through my options. I had three. I could stay put, risk going to Paco and Claire's or leave the island, with or without the cash. If I took the money I was effectively stealing. There was every chance I would be stopped at customs this end, or that I should stay and slowly start spending the cash and even deposit quantities in my English bank account, small enough not to arouse suspicion. But I resisted that idea. The money was not mine to spend.

  I had reached an internal stalemate. Jackie always said if in doubt do nothing. I had never until that moment considered her wise, but given the perplexing situation I was in, her life mantra applied in full.

  But, I wasn't enamoured with the idea. For one thing, there was little to nothing for me to do to occupy myself up on this godforsaken plain where the wind blew and blew. Little wonder Tefía remained a backwater where few lived and little new building occurred. The village did not invite tourists. There wasn't even much of a café. The little supermarket must survive on a wing and a prayer. Claire mentioned a garden centre, but I had no idea where it was or even if it existed and even if I did, what would I want with it.

  I reminded myself that it was Angela who had encouraged me to book this holiday. Left to my own devices I would never have chosen this place. The isolation appealed but not the history. Although Angela wasn't to know Tefía was situated on a plain where men had died gruesome deaths. Men ordered to jump from a plane in a violent wind and plummet to a certain death. Men who were penned like animals by night and forced to work like slaves by day on this inhospitabl
e plain.

  My thoughts faltered at the base of a mountain of self-doubt. Here I was, with my own self-inflicted agonies of sunburn and muscle strain, complaining inwardly I lacked inspiration when really, all I was after was personal glory, a chance to shine. Did any of those men ever have a chance to shine? Should I, could I offer them that chance through my words and immortalise them between the covers of a novel? Was that my purpose? I had never before considered I might have a purpose other than to benefit other writers and businesses through my words. Nothing more humbling than being a ghostwriter, perpetually in the shadows. My entire quest for inspiration had been about me and my own light and a desire to prove to myself and the world that I, too, could have a novel published and maybe even win a literary prize. It was all ego, wasn't it? What if I wrote a novel as a service to others, to help preserve their memory? It was the sort of thing historical fiction writers were into. I didn't feel I belonged to that cohort. But there was contemporary fiction too, and I definitely belonged in that group. And all those writers took on some social or political or moral issue or event. They were often journalists, people of that ilk. They took an interest in what was going on around them. As did I.

  Angela was right. I should write a novel about that prison. If I was clever, I could bring in the story of parachutists as well. Although I would not want to overload the narrative with too many themes. Better stick to the prison.

  But the moment my mind landed back there and I began to affirm the prison as my literary focus, resistance welled up in me. On the one hand, I would be walking through the mud of cultural appropriation, and on the other, I would have to research the topic in Spanish and then force myself imaginatively into those huts and out breaking rocks on the plain. I was capable of doing all that, even though the tasks were onerous, but I felt blocked. Something in me screamed out in opposition, and I couldn't get past whatever that was. I didn't even want to.

  As I shelved the very idea of tackling the prison theme, I wondered if it served as a signpost, a symbol of some kind that might generate fresh ideas, ones that had nothing to do with the island. Perhaps if I could attach some personal meaning, some significance to my being here.

  I could only think of one. Tefía was haunted by events and circumstances that had been caused by the authorities, specifically the military. The prison had been run by a military priest – and the guards, to all intents and purposes, were soldiers – and it had been a military commander who had ordered those poor parachutists to jump. The military theme extended to my own circumstances in the form of my father, who had been a sergeant in the army.

  My thinking halted. I had come full circle. Perhaps this was why I felt so keen to block out the truth of my surroundings. My father. I had tried to tell myself those dark memories belonged to the people of Fuerteventura and to the Canary Islands. And not to the likes of me. But they did. They belonged to me completely through the lens of my father who had damaged me, damaged my whole family through his wayward lust and caused me to seek solace in Vince.

  I held that thought for some time. It was something of a revelation and came with tremendous explanatory power. Little wonder I didn't like it here. When all was said and done, Paco was right, the energy of the place was too disturbing for the muse. I had zero inspiration, and I never would. Whenever I looked out the window at the rocky plain, I saw misery and death. I still had misgivings regarding Paco and Claire, but their place might well be the better option.

  A sudden cramp in my calf catapulted me out of my reverie. I got up from my chair and walked around to loosen the muscle before it got any worse. Once the muscle had calmed down, I found a how-to website on stretches and followed the instructions. Thirty seconds was the ideal time length, so I set the stopwatch on my phone. My muscles resisted and then gave a little one by one and I could feel the benefits. There was such a thing as good pain, I decided, and a small amount of discomfort during stretches was that sort of pain. Although my shoulder proved uncooperative and responded to my tentative stretches with a muscle spasm. I spent the rest of the day completing short ghost-writing assignments and downing painkillers.

  A Worrying Twist

  The following day I was to focus on my arms at the gym and Luis had me booked in for a PT session to monitor my form. I thought to cancel, given the tenderness of my shoulder, but I had paid a hefty price for the steroids and the gym fee, and I would not be defeated. Arms are not shoulders, I told myself. The session was scheduled in the afternoon at four, the only slot he had free, and with the whole day to fill, I knew I had to get out of Tefía.

  The day was forecast to be a touch cooler than it had been. I studied the map. El Cotillo on the island's northwest tip caught my eye. I thought I would head there for lunch then track back and explore some of the inland villages, veering east and driving down to Puerto del Rosario in time for the gym.

  Finding myself without an appetite, I skipped breakfast and, after whizzing about the warren of poky rooms with broom and duster, I set off at ten.

  It was my first time north and, as the road carved a course between the low mountains, I tried to picture the landscape green. I couldn't. Was it ever green? Surely, after rain, there would be green. As it was, the rugged terrain assaulted my senses and, driving into the endless brown emptiness, I began to crave my new home in Norfolk, with its tall trees and lush green fields and quaint old cottages. Here was stark, brutal, uncompromising. Some might love it, but the desert environment wasn't for me.

  I had never cared for brown in any shade or tone, not since my school days and the uniform of brown blazer and matching trousers I had to wear. Not to mention those brown jumpers Aunty Iris insisted on knitting me, year on year. Tight-fitting woollen jumpers with crew necks that threatened to guillotine my ears whenever I yanked them over my head. She created brown vests too, vee-neck with complex patterns on the front. Iris was vintage 1940s, caught in a time warp. Her shrewish face, all bunched and mean, would bend over her needles that clicked and clacked all day and night. My sister, Marnie, complained her jumpers were too small, and she would pull at the cuffs. My mother would tell her it was because her aunty's tension was too taut. Taut tension described Aunty Iris to a tee.

  An hour later, the ocean came into view like a blessing, and I was soon driving down through the warren of narrow streets of El Cotillo looking for a place to park.

  The village was much larger than Puertito de los Molinos, the old fishing huts surrounding the harbour fringed with a conglomeration of apartments and small businesses. El Cotillo was a more pleasant, vibrant village than Puertito, too, although it had the same cuboid houses and crooked streets.

  I pulled up in front of a small truck on the northern outskirts and wandered over to the beach. The sea breeze was pleasantly cool, and the tide was up, or so it seemed. The beach was an arc of golden sand. Swathes of basalt rock extended out into the ocean to form a reef that sheltered the bay in its entirety, creating what amounted to a series of lagoons. There were few people on the sand, the holidaymakers already in the water. I contemplated going for a swim – the calm waters inside the reef looked most inviting – but I didn't want salty skin at my gym session later, and there was no guarantee I would find anywhere to rinse off the salt. Instead, after strolling up and down the strand, soaking in the atmosphere, I wandered back through the village streets looking for the best place to eat.

  The eateries all looked and smelled inviting. The narrow, cobbled streets around the small harbour had been given over to pedestrians, and the entire setting spoke of yesteryear. Absorbing the chilled atmosphere, I began to feel a lot better about being on the island.

  After much perusing, I chose a small restaurant overlooking the water, sat at one of the tables on the wide terrace and ordered grilled fish with potatoes and salad – the traditional island fare that seemed to be cooked very well and came with piquant sauces.

  While waiting for my food, I observed the little fishing boats sheltering from the ocean, the coastl
ine stretching south into the distance, the mountains and the sea cliff and the vast expanse of blue, the chatter of tourists young and old, the occasional bursts of laughter, it all had a soothing effect on my mood. And when the waiter came with a laden plate, I thought at last my holiday-retreat had truly begun.

  I observed the waiter as he walked away and greeted some new diners. He was young and handsome with moody eyes and a cheeky smile. He looked fit, too. When he turned away, my gaze lingered on his butt, well-defined beneath snug trousers. I averted my gaze as he walked away, glancing at the others seated around me, hoping I hadn't drawn attention to myself by staring too long.

  Suddenly awkward, I attended to the food on my plate, which proved to be as delicious as it smelled. I wasn't exactly hungry, but it was too good to waste. I lingered a short while, but with nothing to do and no one to talk to, when the waiter returned I asked for the bill.

  As I headed back through the village to my car, dodging tourists determined to walk straight into me and noting the businesses that were hungry for their cash, I experienced a sudden reversal in my opinion of El Cotillo and decided I preferred Puertito for its innocence from tourism.

  I was out of El Cotillo and heading on my way, pondering what other pleasures were in store, when a string of four-wheel drives belted towards me, all of them straying a fraction onto my side of the road. I slowed and hugged the verge, the wheels crunching on grit, and I hooted my horn and waved my fist as the last of them passed me by.

  Tossers!

  I slowed on the approach to Lajares, which had clearly sold itself to the beast, with boutique stores and cafes strung along the main drag and restored farmhouses and stylish new builds dotting the hinterland. There appeared no sites of interest, so I kept driving, heading east, crossing a flat plain littered with volcanoes that protruded stoutly out of the ground in all directions. The land was farmed, but as far as I could tell, nothing grew in summer.