The Fault

by Kitty Sewell

  ‘Imogen is in perfectly safe hands,’ Carlo said calmly, then to Mimi, ‘But look, your brother is not comfortable with this excursion. Perhaps we should postpone it.’

  Mimi’s face clouded over and she stomped her foot on the pavement. ‘Stop organising me, the pair of you!’

  Her outburst caused an awkward silence. She looked progressively deflated as if she weren’t sure with whom to go. She turned to Sebastian. ‘Trust me, bro. Just go home. Anyway, you don’t look well.’

  Multicoloured darts pierced his vision as the migraine gathered strength. It was impossible to deal with this situation when he knew he could be sick without warning. Involuntarily he pressed his hands over his mouth for a second, then mumbled. ‘Don’t be long, Mimi. I’d rather not have to phone the MOD to go looking for you.’

  He turned to walk away. Still, right through the pain, he could not bear to let her go and glanced behind him. The pair of them strolled languidly down the road, chatting as if they’d never had that disturbing confrontation. Mimi turned around and their eyes met. Sebastian read a thousand things in the look she gave him, but perhaps all her glance said, I’m not the one with a problem.

  Pain stabbed at his left temple and splintered. He stopped and stood still, breathing deeply to compose himself. He’d once projectile vomited in the street and he didn’t ever want it to happen again. Once more he looked back and saw his little sister slip down an alley.

  Mimi

  Carlo led her up a pedestrian-only alley called Tuckey’s Lane. Between a betting shop and a dry-cleaners was a door into a long narrow corridor. It took a while for their eyes to adapt to the dark and at the end of the hall they came upon a set of stairs. On the first floor there was another long corridor lit by two striplights. A series of doors had numbers on them. The building seemed to be totally empty of people, but the lingering odours of urinals, sweat and exotic spices made her guess it was a men’s rooming house, probably for transient workers.

  ‘Is this where your friend lives?’

  ‘Yes. His name is Mohammed.’

  ‘I see. A Moorish devil?’ she said in an attempt to tease him.

  ‘He’s my assistant,’ said Carlo, not taking the bait.

  He knocked on a door marked 6. There were no sounds from inside the room, and suddenly she felt uneasy. She didn’t mind being alone with Carlo, but this hostel had an uncomfortably familiar feel. Perhaps because it reminded her of when she ran away at fourteen and spent two weeks living rough in London. She’d lost her virginity in a hostel much like this one. Desperate for a place to sleep she had ended up on a filthy mattress with a boy she hardly knew.

  ‘He’s not there,’ she said resolutely. ‘Shall we go?’

  Carlo tried the door handle and the door opened. Hesitating, she let herself be ushered into the room when a sudden panic set in. ‘I don’t feel comfortable barging in to his place. Doesn’t he have a mobile? Can’t you just call him?’

  ‘He doesn’t have a phone, but he told me he’d be back about now.’ Carlo seemed to sense the deeper meaning of her discomfort and put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘I meant it when I told your brother that you are perfectly safe with me.’

  She relaxed a little and looked around the room. The place was squalid and stuffy, but it seemed as if the occupant had lived there for some time. The walls had several pictures of terracotta pots and market scenes. Colourful throws covered the single bed, and under it, a piss pot and a very short row of shoes: leather sandals and one pair of yellow Nike trainers. A rickety picnic table was covered with food stuff in plastic bags and cartons.

  ‘Is it okay for us to be here?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have us waiting in the corridor,’ Carlo said, looking at his watch. ‘Let’s give him a few minutes.’

  She stood awkwardly, looking about the room. It was tidy enough, and the Moroccan decor showed that the occupant had a bit of flair, but the smells and squalor of the building itself pulled at her, as though in a place like this you were hidden within a void, or space warp, removed from yourself even, and anything was possible. Sometimes she had enjoyed the things she’d done in rooms like these. It was afterwards, facing daylight, that the distaste and shame began to seep back into her and the truth of her degradation stared her in the face.

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ Carlo said, sitting down on the bed. He patted the bed cover, motioning her to sit. Reading her expression he said, ‘Look, I’ve promised Mohammed that every time I take someone on a private tour of the tunnels, I’ll let him come along. He’s a good lad, a natural linguist. I’m training him up to be a tour guide, especially with his French. It’s the one language we don’t cover. You don’t mind him coming, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She sat down, still feeling like a trespasser.

  After a moment of awkward silence, she cast about for something to talk about.

  ‘Hey…we never got to Mrs. Cohen. Remember, in the cathedral you said you’d tell me about her demise.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yeah, you did,’ she lied.

  ‘What would you like to know?

  She screwed her face up in thought. ‘Well, you found her body, right?’

  He stood up and walked over to the table with the food stuff. He picked up an apple and scrutinised its surface. After a long pause, he spoke to the wall. ‘Apart from the police I’ve not talked about this to anybody, and I probably shouldn’t now.’ His face grew older as he seemed overcome by painful recollections. ‘I can safely say it was the worst moment of my life.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ she groaned, seeing his pain but glad to find a potential talking point. ‘Please, tell me about it. See it as therapy.’

  He faced her with a wry smile. ‘What a ghoulish young woman you are.’

  ‘How long had she been lying there?’

  ‘She’d been dead a couple of weeks.’

  ‘God! The body must have been in some state.’ She was riveted.

  ‘Let’s just put it this way…it was at the height of summer, late July.’

  She gasped and put her hand over her mouth. Maggots writhed in her mind, but she’d asked for it. ‘It must’ve been terrible, the smell and all. What room was she in?’

  He shook his head. ‘In her bedroom.’

  ‘I thought so. Bloody hell!’

  Her fascination made him laugh. He came back and sat beside her. ‘I shouldn’t really tell you, but I know what would impress you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘But it must stay between you and me? You have to swear to keep it to yourself.’

  ‘Of course. I swear.’

  He patted her hand, as if to warn her of what was coming. ‘Her death wasn’t an accident.’

  She gasped. ‘You mean she was murdered?’

  ‘No.’ His brow knitted and again he looked pained. ‘The choking story was the official version. In Gibraltar we have a code, a respect for the dignity of our people that you outsidersprobably don’t understand… Mrs. Cohen did not choke to death. She sat down to her last meal and then hung herself from the central beam in her bedroom.’

  She stared at him in horror. ‘Hung herself?’ She shook her head. ‘No way! How could she possibly have managed that?’

  ‘There is a large hook there which, as it happened, I’d put there myself. She wanted to suspend a really heavy canopy over her bed, some antique thing that had belonged to her mother.’ He paused. ‘She pushed the bed aside, got a stepladder and unhooked the canopy somehow.’

  Distressed by the memory, he put his face in his hands for a moment. ‘I should have suspected something was wrong when I saw the canopy slung over a trestle on the terrace, day after day, getting bleached by the sun. She was so fussy about her antiques. Afterwards I wondered if she’d put it out there for me to realise…’

  ‘Oh Christ!’ Mimi blurted, instinctively putting her arm around his hunched shoulders. ‘That’s how you found her?’

  ‘Actually, it was worse. She’d fallen do
wn by the time I got to her. She was a big woman and,’ he closed his eyes as though the image were still in front of him,‘it was the sound of her falling that finally alerted me to the fact that something was amiss. I was in my own bedroom at the time and I literally felt the bulk of her hitting the floor above me.’

  ‘How awful!’ Mimi knew her eyes were like saucers, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘How did her body come away from—’

  ‘Please,’ he interrupted sharply. ‘Don’t make me explain it.’

  They were quiet for a moment.

  ‘Yes, she was a very unhappy person.’ Carlo said finally. He bowed his head and murmured, as if to himself, ‘She couldn’t believe what she’d done.’

  ‘What do you mean? What had she done?’

  He shook his head. ‘Look, I’ve told you far too much already.’

  She knew she shouldn’t press him further, but ignored it. ‘You can trust me.’

  Carlo sighed deeply and crossed himself. ‘Okay, but remember your promise…’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently.

  ‘Three months before she died, Mrs. Cohen won 230,000 euros in the Spanish National Lottery.’

  ‘No! She did?’

  ‘I was the only person she told about it.’

  ‘Really?’ She studied his face for signs of deception or trickery. It was almost too fantastic a story. But why should she doubt him? People won lotteries every day. She’d watched a documentary on them and how ninety per cent of winners end up unhappier than before, some even committing suicide. ‘Why was it only you that she told?’

  ‘We were friends, of sorts. The two of us were the only tenants in the building for nearly eighteen years; fourteen since her husband died. All her relatives had either died or left Gib and she didn’t trust people on the whole. She was a devout Jew, though she rarely mixed with her own kind. She hated the way the Jewish community here was becoming divided and radicalised by ultra-orthodox elements imported from the UK. In her Jewishness she was a staunch Gibraltarian…a true Yanito. Like me.’

  ‘Go on,’ she urged when he seemed to get lost in thought.

  ‘She wanted to tell someone about her good fortune, so she told the only trustworthy kindred spirit she had.’

  ‘So why should the win make her want to do away with herself? I don’t understand.’

  ‘It all went, that’s why. Every last penny.’

  ‘On what?’ She waited for him to continue, but he was studying his watch, clearly wanting to end the topic of Mrs. Cohen. ‘Ok, so let me tell you,’ she insisted. ‘You know the guy who owns our apartment, her nephew in America? She gave it to him.’

  Carlo shook his head. ‘Oh, no. He knew nothing about the lottery win. I kept telling her she should save it for the day she might need care, but she said she was going to spend it, specifically so it didn’t end up in his pocket. She was quite bitter about him. He never kept in touch and she always said he was too rich for his own good.’

  ‘So how did she spend it?’

  Carlo just shrugged. She was sure he knew all about it but was feeling uncomfortable with having told so much already. She’d have to use her feminine guile to get it out of him.

  ‘All right then…let me guess… What about some charity?’

  Carlo shook his head in a meaningful way. Mrs. Cohen was tight, obviously.

  ‘Clothes, shoes, designer handbags?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘Was she an alcoholic?’

  ‘Absolutely not. She hardly touched a drop. Stop now, Imogen.’

  ‘I bet she blew the lot in the casino. Gambling can lay waste to a fortune in an evening.’

  Carlo kept shaking his head, but without conviction.

  ‘I’m right. Aren’t I?’ she said excitedly.

  He rolled his eyes and laughed softly. ‘You sharp little woman.’

  ‘Go on!’ she urged, pulling at his sleeve. ‘Tell me all.’

  He stroked his silver crucifix between thumb and forefinger. ‘Mrs. Cohen was devout and proper in almost every sense, but she had a secret vice – or more appropriately – an addiction. That’s why her apartment was so shabby. Her pension was poured straight onto the blackjack and roulette tables. And she always bought lottery tickets by the bundle. The winnings…it took no more than a couple of months to get rid of them.’

  ‘Did she actually tell you about losing the money?’

  ‘Not at first, but this is a small place and I have my sources. She was a very private person, but eventually she had to confess to me that she’d lost the whole lot.’

  ‘How totally sad,’ Mimi said with feeling.

  ‘She was obliged to tell me she was broke. She didn’t even have enough for a pint of milk.’

  ‘Oh, Christ. Was that the reason she…?’

  ‘Without doubt,’ he said quietly. ‘Besides, she’d been diagnosed with early signs of dementia. She was fully aware of what that meant. I kept on at her that the lottery money would pay for a luxury care home, but she was adamant she would never enter any kind of institution.’

  ‘I don’t blame her,’ Mimi concurred. Sadness overcame her when she remembered how dementia had destroyed Dad. That proud fierce man reduced to terror of being dumped into a care home. Thank God he died first.

  ‘Why did no-one go in and clean up after her Last Supper? Couldn’t you have done it if you were her only friend?’

  ‘I most certainly would have, but no-one was allowed in. The apartment was sealed up pending the presence or permission of her next of kin. With no suspicion of foul play, there was no real need to investigate, and as I was not family I had no authority to enter.’

  They fell silent again. Mimi reflected on Mrs. Cohen’s story. It had some kind of sad glamour about it, the idea of a last fling in the casino, the last supper, and the final courageous act. It was brave, violent but also an act of ultimate self-preservation.

  She looked over at Carlo who had his mobile out, reading some message. He had held her attention for sure. Winning the lottery was everybody’s fantasy. Something a silly teenager with writing ambitions would find riveting.

  ‘I hope this wasn’t fiction, Carlo,’ she said, peering at him. ‘That would be really out of order.’

  He frowned at her. ‘Honestly Imogen. You must know me better than that.’

  He’d said he kept the story confidential out of respect, and perhaps this was true, but she was starting to suspect he had no-one else to confide in. For all his greeting acquaintances in the street, he seemed a total loner. She was an outsider, a guiri, and perhaps that made it easier. The other reason that occurred to her – a more sinister reason – was that he wanted to freak her out, or test her in some way. Living with a suicide could give a kid nightmares. Perhaps he hoped she would go home and blurt the story, and all three of them would pack their bags. No, she did not think this of him. If she was any judge of character, he was just desperate for a confidante, no matter how ill-matched.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. A short, dark man stood in the doorway, clad in a Moroccan cape. He pushed back the pointy hood that covered his head. He was young, almost as young as she was, and had a downcast expression. He started in surprise at seeing Carlo and Mimi sitting on his bed, then looked mortified as if he’d walked straight into a seduction scene.

  ‘Mohammed,’ Carlo said, getting up. ‘I want you to meet a friend of mine.’

  She stood up and went to shake his hand. ‘Hi, I’m Mimi. Sorry we barged in like this.’ He mumbled something in return.

  ‘The tunnels, Mohammed,’ said Carlo. ‘Today is a good day for me. I want to show the pair of you something really interesting.’

  Mohammed seemed to shrink further. ‘I can’t, Mr. Montegriffo. I must work.’

  Carlo looked skywards in obvious irritation. ‘You’re in training with me, remember?’

  ‘I’m cleaning the mosque. It’s a proper job, Mr. Montegriffo. Please.’

  ‘You don
’t want to end up cleaning the mosque when you could be a certified tourist guide. Think of your future.’

  ‘I need an income, Mr. Montegriffo. My rent…’

  Mimi shrunk in commiseration with the lad. Besides it didn’t seem right to be party to this exchange.

  ‘Well, I can’t go,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s too late now. I’ve got to go home.’

  ‘Imogen, don’t you pull out as well,’ Carlo said with a sigh.

  ‘Can we do it another day?’ she suggested. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, or when Mohammed has time off his job.’ The boy raised his eyes to look back at her in surprise and a little gratitude. He was actually very handsome, with smooth dark skin and fine features.

  ‘Yes, please, Mr. Montegriffo,’ he said. ‘Any morning, or at the weekend.’

  Carlo shook his head resignedly. ‘I’m trying to up the stakes for you. You wouldn’t stand a chance without my support. Don’t blow it, Mohammed.’

  ‘Absolutely not, sir.’ Mohammed sounded cringe-makingly servile, but there was a flare in his eye that said something different.