SPANISH ROCK

by Lex Lander

  ‘I expected a more precise brief and the timescale’s a bit short for undermining a political party, especially one with such popular appeal.’

  ‘Tobias will brief you in greater detail, be assured.’

  ‘Then I guess I’ll manage.’

  ‘Then I can take it …’ A frowning glance at the now silent Kirkland, still basking in the glow of sunset, ‘and the Prime Minister can take it that thirty-six days from now, or sooner, GIBESTÁ will have ceased to exist.’

  I sat up straight. ‘Ceased to exist? That’s putting it a bit strong. That wasn’t the brief I was given by Toby.’

  ‘Really? Well, I think you’ll find the pay will compensate you for the enormity of the challenge.’ Crabbe dealt pale blue folders to each of us in the manner of a casino croupier; red MOST SECRET stickers blazed out from them. ‘Thirty-six days, Mr Warner. Agreed?’

  ‘And you’d better deliver,’ Kirkland said, in measured tones.

  ‘Or else?’ I snapped back, resentful.

  ‘Ex-actly.’

  If ever somebody put out a contract on Kirkland, I hoped they’d give me first refusal.

  * * * * *

  Toby reined in his horse, a big black stallion with a mind of its own. His halt was unexpected, and I cantered on a good thirty metres before realising I was alone.

  ‘Whoa, girl,’ I said to my borrowed mount, a five-year old sorrel mare. A light tug at the bit and she decelerated to a walk.

  Toby was, or appeared to be, admiring the view. ‘If only I were an artist,’ he said as I reined in alongside him.

  The hill whose crest we were riding overlooked the Thames Valley, a gentle incline down which mist rolled to the silver snake of the river. Beyond, woodland clung to the far slope, dead-looking, awaiting the first kiss of spring.

  I patted my mare’s damp neck. She waggled her head in acknowledgement. Though I hadn’t ridden in months, a rapport had quickly been established between us.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Toby?’ Not in a million years had he really stopped for an eyeful of scenery.

  ‘You saw Cassandra,’ he said, which wasn’t really any kind of answer. Nor was it an enquiry.

  ‘You know everything. Everything connected with the family, at any rate.’

  ‘We’ve always been close, she and I. As you know.’ He gave me a doleful look, as if being close to Cassandra was a penance.

  ‘If you’re so bloody close then you must know what’s the matter with her. You don’t have to be a medical wizard to see she’s not good.’

  Toby twiddled his riding crop. His horse, sixteen hands or more, grazed contentedly on a stubble of coarse grass.

  ‘I wish I could tell you, dear boy. I’m … well, to be candid, I’m worried about her.’

  ‘Good. So we’re both worried about her. Presumably that makes it all right.’

  ‘Changing the subject,’ Toby said, so abruptly it was almost an interruption. ‘Does the name Irazola mean anything to you?’

  ‘It might. But then there might be thousands of Irazolas in Spain.’

  ‘Who said he was Spanish?’

  Clever Toby. Canny, shrewd, astute Toby.

  ‘All right, yes – if you mean the Spanish Army General Julio Irazola, it so happens I have met him. Socially.’

  It took a lot to shake Toby from of his bland insouciance. But my casual announcement did the trick.

  ‘You’ve met Irazola?’

  ‘I spent a night at his house in Andalucía,’ I explained. ‘He impressed me. Intelligent, forceful, and ruthless in my judgement. Travelling in a straight line towards some goal or other and prepared to flatten anyone who stands in his way.’

  ‘First Vella, then Irazola,’ he murmured, in a far-off voice. ‘My choice was better than I knew.’

  Having exhausted all vegetation within full neck-stretching range his horse sauntered towards a virgin patch. My mare drifted in his wake, maintaining station.

  ‘I’ll treat that as a compliment,’ I said.

  ‘It was meant as one, dear boy.’ Toby tapped his lips with his riding crop. ‘Your assessment is interesting too. Our sources have it that General Irazola was instrumental in agitating for talks to be reopened on Gibraltar. Not directly, you understand, but through the media of two Government Ministers, Foreign and Defence. Now why would a Spanish general want talks on Gib?’

  ‘Don’t be fatuous. They want it back.’

  Toby eased his backside in the saddle, shook his head. ‘Now who’s being fatuous. The military want Gib restored to Spain, yes, but not through negotiation. They would prefer to provoke a showdown. Generals thrive on conflict. Talks are for diplomats.’

  ‘So maybe Irazola is pitching for diplomacy. Maybe he wants to stand at the next election.’

  ‘Does he?’ Toby asked. ‘Is that the goal you were speaking of?’

  ‘Keep me out of it, Toby. Don’t use me as aspirin to cure your headaches. And whatever I’ve said on the subject of Irazola is strictly not for quoting. I’ve been hired to do a job and it doesn’t extend to playing the part of adviser on Anglo-Spanish relations.’

  ‘Nevertheless, old boy, your terms of reference have just been extended. I want you to cultivate Irazola. Keep an eye on him and report back, the sooner the better.’

  If only I had kept my mouth shut. Tangling with the likes of Julio Irazola was not part of the programme. Any man with an army corps at his disposal has to merit serious respect. The memory of my first confrontation with him, before we became buddies, had not dimmed with the passing months.

  ‘Have you given any thought to your stratagem?’ Toby said.

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Hmm. Don’t waste too much brain power on it, dear boy. I’ll be deciding on your cover. All right?’

  It wasn’t all right at all, but he swept aside my objections.

  ‘I said I’ll decide, André, and that’s that. It’s not open for debate.’

  I let him have his victory. If his scheme of things didn’t suit, I could always pull out.

  ‘You’ll have to stick with my real name,’ I said.

  His head did a slow rotate towards me, like a traversing gun turret.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I was in Gib last week and fell into conversation with a pro-independence crowd. They asked for my name, I gave it.’

  His annoyance was palpable. He fingered the inside of his collar while he worked on the implications. Down the hillside a small bird gave off a cheep of alarm and was seen flirting low through the scrub.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter,’ he decided. ‘Your passport will be false in all but name. If there are any comebacks afterwards, or retributions, it’ll be your neck.’

  ‘You mean you’re going to provide a fake passport in my real name?’

  ‘Precisely. And that’s the one you’ll use for the duration of this job.’

  At least that would leave my genuine passport uninfected. I shrugged.

  The body heat generated by our gallop was waning. I turned up the collar of my leather windbreaker.

  ‘Shall we go on?’ I said.

  ‘Not yet.’ He was back to landscape-gazing. ‘We haven’t agreed on a price for your services.’ His casualness didn’t deceive me. The mind that framed the question was ever honed to scalpel sharpness.

  ‘My price for destroying GIBESTÁ and saving Gibraltar from the big bad Spanish?’ If he detected mockery in my words he didn’t rise to it. ‘It’s one hell of a job. On top of that you expect me to go head-to-head against a goddam General.’

  ‘How much, André?’ His voice crackled like static.

  ‘If I fail, my expenses and nothing more. If I succeed …’

  ‘Yes … yes?’ Impatiently.

  ‘A million has the ring of a nice round sum, wouldn’t you say?’

  He lost interest in the Thames Valley to goggle at me.

  ‘You’re not serious. You can’t really expect … a million!’ A thought hit him. ‘Do you mean dollars, or euros?�
��

  ‘Pounds sterling. Don’t be a cheapie. Isn’t Gibraltar worth a million?’

  Chapter Ten

  Colin Baynes’ unannounced visit was only welcome inasmuch as he was another Brit to converse with. Keeping conversations going in Spanish was still a strain.

  Handshakes and platitudes done, he announced that he’d found a buyer for The Golden Palm, ‘if you’re interested.’

  It was so unexpected I poured us both a double Scotch, a reflex action I regretted at once. Hell, he should be buying the drinks; he was the one who stood to make a commission second time around.

  ‘I wasn’t aware I’d put the place on the market, let alone hired you to sell it.’

  ‘Word gets around.’ He eased his backside onto a stool. It was raining out and his bald head glistened, the shoulders of his beige windbreaker pocked with spots of damp.

  Thanks to the weather, the bar was bustling. My Fernando seemed to have managed well during my second absence, had even showed a modest profit.

  ‘How much is it going to cost me?’ I asked, resigned to making a loss on the deal.

  ‘My buyer will pay what you paid, subject to due diligence. Are you interested?’

  I was and I wasn’t. Part of me got a kick out of my bar. On the other hand I would soon be off to Gib on indeterminate furlough and uncertain outcome.

  ‘That’s a lousy bargain and well you know it,’ I stalled. ‘I’ve spent thousands doing this place up. I want at least … oh, twenty grand on top to even consider it.’

  Baynes shook his head. ‘Not a chance. I might be able to get you ten.’

  I puffed out air. Reflected some more. The business had served a purpose, set me on a new path away from the killing fields. Surely though, it wasn’t destined to be my life’s work.

  ‘Are the books okay?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re good, don’t worry. Most of what comes in is recorded. Not much goes into my pocket.’

  We sealed the provisional bargain in the manner of English gentlemen (which neither of us, for different reasons, could claim to be) with a handshake and another double Scotch for him, and mineral water for me. My drinking was still moderate these days.

  ‘How long will it take to wrap it up?’ I asked him.

  ‘A month or so. That’s assuming he agrees to the extra ten.’

  ‘I have to go away to … er, Alicante for a few months, but I can easily get back for any signing formalities.’ I stepped aside to make room for Gustavo to squeeze past. ‘I’ll leave my manager …’ I nodded towards Fernando, hovering solicitously over a crowd of boisterous teenagers as if they were visiting Royalty, ‘… to run the place. He seems to be making a go of it.’

  Baynes gave his glass a further tilt in my direction. ‘I’ll recommend him to the new owner then.’

  And that was how I ended my short-lived tenure as a glorified bartender.

  * * * * *

  The metronome thud-thud of rock music came from beneath the street, like some great underground beating heart. The flashing neon script above the stairs proclaimed LA CAVERNA. I had visions of a seedy, smoky basement with rock star clones churning out amateurish imitations of current hits, and hordes of kids dancing like mindless automatons. Exactly the way I used to myself, a quarter of a century ago.

  ‘This way,’ Colin Baynes said and started down the stairs, clearly expecting me to follow. When he realised I wasn’t, he stopped and twisted his upper body towards me.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Club music gives me a headache. I leave it to the younger generation.’

  ‘You make yourself sound like an old man,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Anyway, where we’re going isn’t part of the club and there’s no music worth mentioning. Come on …’ He made a motion with his head, urging me to stick with him, and again descended the stairs.

  He had proposed a champagne dinner on him, to celebrate the impending sale of the bar, and this being my last night before heading south to the Rock I hadn’t objected. If I got nothing else out of this shark I would at least have a free meal. The visit to LA CAVERNA was supposed to ‘round off the evening’.

  At the foot of the narrow stone stairs was a door, sturdily constructed, perhaps as a concession to the sordid environment. Three raps was our password. The door opened inwards with no visible assistance, and we passed through into semi-darkness. Beyond was a narrow ante-room where Baynes exchanged undertones and banknotes with a large, archetypal bouncer. The rock music had faded to a murmur.

  ‘This is on me,’ he whispered, as the bouncer laboriously counted the notes, which he then folded and stuffed in a side pocket of his jacket. This was our signal to proceed.

  The hubbub and the music had died altogether. On our right, as we crossed a curtained threshold, was a small, semi-circular stage bathed in a red glow. It was empty, unlike the triple bank of seats placed in a crescent format before it, which were three-quarters occupied. The atmosphere was stifling, rank with tobacco smoke.

  It was, of course, a strip club. I hadn’t been in one since my teens, when London’s Soho was at its zenith as the be-all and end-all in the art of genital display. I had heard the Internet had made live shows redundant. I began to snigger, like we used to do as kids over a dirty book. Baynes affected not to notice as he zeroed in on a couple of empty seats on the back row, but several of the audience glared at me in disapproval. Then the obligatory background music started and my sniggers were drowned by it.

  The seats creaked under our weights. A body of young men passed by behind us, noisy, snorting with nervous embarrassment, and installed themselves at the front. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I perceived that the clientele was not exclusively male, nor predominantly middle-aged, fat, ugly, nor yet wearing dirty raincoats.

  ‘When Spain was, er … liberated striptease became all the rage,’ Baynes murmured in my ear. ‘It’s a long way past its peak now but still isn’t considered non-U to be seen here. Quite the reverse among the younger set.’

  ‘Well, it’ll make a change. Next best thing to lying next to a naked woman is looking at one.’

  For sure, lying next to an undressed woman had become a rare event for me since Cassandra had given our affair the last rites. Aside from having Elena flaunt herself on my terrace, I hadn’t been giving women per se a lot of thought lately. Maybe I needed a shot of Viagra.

  The stage was still devoid of performers. A Spanish catcall or two sounded on the front row.

  ‘What should I expect,’ I said to Baynes, ‘apart from the usual boobs and fannies?’

  ‘An unusual naked body. If my timing is right the Star of the Show is due on next. Get ready for something really special, shocking even.’

  ‘I’m bracing myself.’

  Some joker at the front chanted the Spanish equivalent of ‘Why are we waiting?’ As if in answer the music switched to a slow, sexier refrain, and the stage lights brightened, from hazy red to a harsh, fierce white. No subtle shadows for Spanish strippers to hide behind. This was going to be total exposure, crude and clinical.

  Then, as if at the wave of a wand, she was there, centre stage. Only just out of reach of the front row. Dark brown hair, middling length, glossy and clean-looking; even darker eyes; her features were blurred by lashings of make-up but she was a good looker. Sensuous mobile lips that smiled widely, naturally, parting to make room for a serpentine flicking of the tongue.

  ‘Something really special, shocking even.’ Well, Baynes had forewarned me. What he hadn’t prepared me for was two simultaneous shocks, of which the more immediate and mind-blowing was the girl’s condition – at least five months pregnant was my estimate. But the visual shock of seeing a pregnant woman under the spotlights, wearing only a black G-string, a nominal black bra, and white stockings, less than a metre away from an amphitheatre of oglers, was surpassed by the shock of recognition. For the stripper was that wayward diplomat’s daughter, Linda Pridham.

  * * * * *

  She knew the ropes
as well as any pro. Undulating her body, unashamedly thrusting her bulging belly with its inverted navel like an extra nipple, holding it two-handedly, massaging it, using it as a stage prop. The white lights were merciless: every blemish on her pale skin was highlighted, even the greenish veins that scribbled across her gross belly, like the strands of a cobweb. The lights gave her whole body a luminescence, a transparency, somehow heightening her vulnerability. It could have been titillating. It didn’t quite come off, not for me. Baynes, however, like the rest of the crowd, was loving it. Leaning forward, transfixed, no longer aware of my presence.

  A rattle of applause had greeted Linda’s appearance. Now the only sound was the throbbing background music. She moved into her act with seeming gusto, her bumps and grinds going well beyond the call of duty. Nor was she slow to discard her skimpy garments. As a finale she cast aside her G-string and assumed a prone position, to splay her thighs and display what we had paid to see: faithful to the current fashion she was bald down there, and the dusky pink of her vaginal lips were livid against her white skin. At that point I was suddenly embarrassed and averted my eyes towards the aisle. The movement caught Baynes’ attention.

  ‘Yeh, I know, I know,’ he said, his voice hushed. ‘You’ve seen it all before.’

  That’s where he was wrong. Any pregnant stripper would be bad enough but to sit there gawking at Linda Pridham, a girl I knew and had, to be truthful, been attracted towards, was too much. I jumped up, the seat springing back into place with a bang that earned me more than one annoyed glare. Without a word to Baynes I stalked out. If he called after me I missed it.

  The street, for all the litter and garbage sacks awaiting collection, for all the late night traffic contributing its stink to the air, was fresh as wind-scoured moorland after the exhibition down below. A gentle rain was falling and there were few people about, just the odd drunk and a vagrant preparing to sleep rough in a shop doorway, arranging sheets of newsprint, finicky as any house-proud momma.

  ‘André!’ Baynes, tiresomely, had followed me out. As I turned he was emerging from the stairway. He trotted over to where I waited beneath the neon-lit canopy of some night-club entrance. He looked disgruntled at being dragged from the show.