A Thousand Cuts

by Thomas Mogford

  ‘The election will be called early next year,’ Sir Anthony said. ‘It’s the start of a long, hard road.’

  Spike tilted the wooden salad bowl towards his host, but the old man’s hand darted out like a lizard’s claw to decline. Sir Anthony’s appetite, like everything else in his life, was kept in careful check. He dabbed at his lips with a napkin. He looked relieved somehow, as though he’d just tested the concept on a focus group.

  ‘Spike was up against Drew in court the other day,’ Jessica said. ‘Seems our future Chief Minister gave him a run for his money.’

  Spike appreciated the gesture, but Jessica’s choice of topic could hardly have been worse, as he saw Sir Anthony’s wrinkled mouth tighten. ‘Poor, dear Eloise.’

  Spike glanced across the table. If Drew didn’t think they should discuss the Massetti case, then Spike was more than happy to comply. But in the end it was Jessica who forced the issue, turning to Sir Anthony with her most charming smile. ‘So what did happen that night at the hospital?’

  Vanity expertly stoked, Sir Anthony folded his napkin on his lap and readied himself to hold court again.

  18

  ‘Of course I’ve known John Capurro all my life,’ Sir Anthony declared as he shaved off a slice of lemon tart with his fork and let it dissolve on his tongue. He pushed his plate away with a sigh. ‘Eloise had called me to say John might not last the night. But when I got to the hospital, the ward was deserted. It reminded me of that seventies film.’ He snapped his fingers at his son. ‘You know . . .’

  ‘The Godfather,’ Drew said, and Sir Anthony nodded in surprise, as though it were a little-known art-house flick his son had done well to remember.

  ‘When I got to John’s room, I thought he must have had a seizure, or a heart attack, as there was someone leaning over him. A doctor, I naturally presumed.’ Sir Anthony frowned at the memory. ‘But something about the man wasn’t right. The hands, I think; fingernails bitten down. And his clothes. Like a vagrant.’

  Spike crossed his arms, suddenly protective of a former client who wasn’t there to defend himself.

  ‘He was rambling. Shouting.’ Sir Anthony inclined his head to Jessica in consideration of her feminine sensibilities. ‘Well, the language wasn’t pretty, my dear.’

  ‘What was it that Massetti wanted to know?’ Jessica asked with customary directness.

  ‘The very question I put to Eloise. She had no idea. But the way he was asking – so desperate. Thankfully, a male nurse heard the commotion. Together we got Massetti out of the room, but John never really recovered after that.’

  Spike turned to Drew. ‘So why did Dr Capurro drop the case?’

  Before Drew could answer, his father had raised his voice, ‘Well it’s obvious, isn’t it? Massetti intimidated her. Forced her to drop the charges.’ Sir Anthony knitted his grey-tufted eyebrows. ‘I’d put money on it.’

  ‘But Massetti was still in custody the night Eloise made her decision,’ Jessica said in that soft voice she used when managing Charlie out of one of his more challenging tantrums.

  ‘Then perhaps she’d just had enough of it all,’ Sir Anthony retorted, turning back to Spike and fixing him with his shiny black eyes. ‘I spoke to Eloise’s nephew after the trial. He told me you’d been extremely rough with her in the witness box.’ Sir Anthony reached for a ceramic bowl on the sideboard. ‘Maybe she couldn’t stomach any more of it.’

  Spike looked away. He felt like a teenager again, the prodigal son who’d fallen short of Sir Anthony’s exacting standards. Then, beneath the table, he felt Jessica’s hand take hold of his. ‘Spike was just doing his job.’

  ‘If that’s what you call it,’ Sir Anthony said, delving into the bowl.

  Spike felt a sudden stir of anger. ‘Marcela Peralta was at the hearing. You know her, of course,’ he said, watching Sir Anthony position a pair of walnuts in his right hand and squeeze.

  ‘A little,’ Sir Anthony replied. They all heard the dry, dusty crack, and the old man opened his fist. ‘It’s easier than you might imagine,’ he said to Jessica, pleased to have won her attention. ‘I’m sure even you could manage it.’

  Best behaviour or not, Jessica couldn’t let pass such a blatant display of chauvinism, so she pursed her lips and reached into the bowl. A moment later, she’d cracked a nut in the same way, and everyone laughed. The awkward moment had passed.

  ‘What were you saying?’ Sir Anthony asked.

  ‘Marcela Peralta. I didn’t know she and Eloise were friends.’

  Sir Anthony gathered up the small, brain-like fragments of nut with his fingertips. ‘They’re not. John might have known Marcela a little from the old days. But Eloise keeps a different circle.’

  Silence fell around the table, and Spike saw Jessica arch her back in her chair. ‘We should call a cab.’ Spike stood up and held out a hand to Sir Anthony. ‘Thank you for a wonderful evening.’

  19

  The next day, an impromptu air-traffic-control strike in France left the management team of Bonanza Gaming stranded in Paris, and Spike grateful to find himself with an empty diary. Ever the opportunist, Jessica persuaded him to take the morning off, and he was just considering crawling back into bed when she handed him a coffee and told him to prepare himself for a morning of back-to-back viewings with their estate agent, Juan Felipe. The idea filled Spike with dread, and the fact that he was nursing a low-level hangover had done little to improve his mood by the time Juan Felipe threw open the door to Flat 40B, Atlantic Heights, and ushered them inside.

  ‘So this is what £550,000 gets you,’ Spike muttered in disbelief as he took in the modest dimensions of the apartment. It shouldn’t really have come as a surprise. The property boom in Gibraltar was relentless – owning a piece of real estate on the Rock, however shoddy, was the best way to qualify for the tax breaks. Most of the locals had been priced out decades ago.

  The estate agent adjusted the fat Windsor knot of his tie and pressed on, undeterred. ‘I think you’ve got a real opportunity here, Mr Sanguinetti. All these clean lines. The sort of starter home a young couple could put their stamp on. Make their own.’

  Spike choked back a laugh, then felt Jessica’s hand of warning on his wrist. So he cast another sceptical look around the flat, taking in the poorly fitted window locks, inhaling the depressing scent of factory-fresh MDF.

  Juan Felipe must have been blessed with an optimistic disposition, as he mistook Spike’s silence for approbation and steered them into the box room that he’d designated as the ‘master bedroom’. ‘Fabulous storage,’ he said, yanking open the only cupboard to reveal shelves crammed with tabloid newspapers and used tea-bags. He pushed it closed with no hint of self-consciousness, and even Spike found himself impressed by the young man’s chutzpah. ‘And as for the vista . . .’ he continued with an extravagant sweep of the arm towards the sliding doors.

  Spike stepped out onto the balcony and stared at the view across the Europort. ‘Vista?’ he echoed as he took in row upon row of stark apartment blocks, obscuring the Straits like iron bars. He slipped a hand between the plastic panels that protected the balcony from the six-storey drop to the car-park below, wondering how long it would take Charlie to work out how to open the sliding doors.

  ‘I’m sure those can be adjusted,’ Juan Felipe improvised.

  ‘Very reassuring,’ Spike said, feeling a pang of remorse as he saw the young man’s open face fall.

  ‘Might I have a word in private with my fiancé?’ Jessica asked, giving Juan Felipe one of the tight smiles that Spike knew meant she’d reached the limits of her patience. The estate agent must have picked up on it too, as he flashed Spike a look of solidarity and headed back inside.

  ‘Vale,’ Jessica murmured, and Spike readied himself. ‘You don’t want to live in the Old Town. And this place isn’t good enough for you – you’ve made that crystal clear.’ She sucked her teeth. ‘But this is what we can afford, Spike. You’d know that if you’d bothered to turn up to any of
the other viewings.’

  Spike felt Juan Felipe’s keen eyes watching them through the glass. ‘It’s not been deliberate, Jess,’ he said. ‘We’re trying to build the business back up, and Peter still can’t work at full capacity.’

  ‘Is that because of the accident or the Rioja?’

  They glared at each other, until Jessica backed down with a sigh, probably, Spike thought, because she knew that he agreed with her, but didn’t know how to make any of it better. ‘Well, you’re here now,’ she resumed. ‘So let’s talk about what you do want. You want a house, right?’

  Spike hadn’t really thought about it, but now that he did . . . ‘I suppose so. Yes.’

  ‘By the sea?’

  He nodded. ‘With a terrace overlooking the beach.’

  Jessica raised her eyes skywards. ‘Then we need to have a serious discussion with the bank.’ From the set of her face Spike knew she was having one of her silent debates. She must have reached some conclusion, as she spoke again. ‘There is another option. Your father could sell Chicardo’s Passage and move in with us.’

  ‘Permanently?’ They both heard the edge in Spike’s voice, and Jessica had just opened her mouth to reply when his mobile rang. He turned away gratefully to answer it.

  ‘Mr Sanguinetti?’ came a voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Dr Martinez. From St Bernard’s Hospital.’

  Spike felt his breathing accelerate.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’

  20

  Spike paced around the hospital waiting room, phone clamped to one ear. This was it, he realised, the day he’d been dreading all these years since his father had first been diagnosed with Marfan syndrome. Macabre scenarios played through his head as he listened to the landline ring out. Flashing blue lights as the paramedics stretchered Rufus out of the house; defibrillators firing as they attempted to resuscitate him in the back of the ambulance . . .

  Jessica had looked aghast when Spike had told her he had to leave the viewing – Juan Felipe had just been getting back into his stride. Reasoning that it was better not to worry a heavily pregnant woman until he knew how serious it was, it had seemed better to lie to Jessica, tell her it was work again. A decision he would be paying for later, he suspected.

  He leant over the reception desk again until the nurse was obliged to raise his head. Taking in the breadth of his neck, Spike wondered if it had been he who’d intervened on Eloise Capurro’s behalf. ‘Like I said,’ the nurse muttered, Gibraltarian accent thickening in irritation. ‘The doctor is with a patient. She’ll be with you as soon as she can.’

  ‘Mr Sanguinetti?’

  Spike spun round to see a tall woman in green scrubs standing behind him. She extended a slender hand. ‘I’m Dr Martinez. Would you come this way?’

  ‘It’s my father, isn’t it?’

  ‘The patient wasn’t carrying a wallet.’ Dr Martinez glanced at her watch. ‘We had no way of identifying him.’

  But the hospital had still known to call me, Spike thought grimly. He was only too aware of his father’s tendency to head out into the Old Town armed only with a set of house keys and a few loose coins.

  Dr Martinez walked so quickly Spike had to increase his stride to keep up with her. They reached the ward and she led him towards a bed shrouded in pale green curtains. The air was thick with disinfectant and other more organic aromas, a smell that took Spike back to the year before last, to all the nights he’d sat in vigil over Peter, never expecting him to wake up after the hit-and-run that had left him in a coma.

  ‘You should prepare yourself, Mr Sanguinetti,’ Dr Martinez said. ‘The patient fell against a plinth in the Alameda Gardens. He’s sustained some nasty facial abrasions. Fortunately, most of the injuries are superficial, but what really worries us are his . . .’

  Spike already knew what she was going to say, ‘Underlying health issues.’

  Dr Martinez didn’t disagree, just drew back the curtains.

  Spike stared down at the old man in the bed. His eyelids were purple, the sockets shiny and swollen with fluid. The skin of his face was yellow, his dry upper lip stuck rodent-like to his gums. ‘It’s Massetti,’ Spike exhaled in relief. ‘Christopher Massetti.’

  Dr Martinez was staring at him strangely. ‘How do you spell that?’ she asked, picking up the chart at the end of the bed.

  Spike spelled out the name.

  ‘Are you a family member?’

  ‘His lawyer.’

  ‘That makes sense – your business card was in his pocket.’ Dr Martinez reached up and adjusted Massetti’s drip. ‘I’m afraid that Mr Massetti is in the early stages of liver failure. We found a dangerously high quantity of alcohol in his blood.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘If he doesn’t stop drinking, he’ll most likely be dead within the year.’ Dr Martinez glanced round, and Spike saw the crow’s feet fan out around her tired eyes. ‘Mr Massetti will have ongoing health and social care needs. I’d be uncomfortable discharging him without someone to keep an eye on him. Get him settled at home at the very least.’ She held Spike’s gaze. ‘Does he have family? Close friends?’

  Recognising the subtext, Spike fought an urge to run for the door. ‘None that I know of,’ he replied carefully. ‘When will he be well enough to leave?’

  Dr Martinez’s bleeper went off and she checked the screen. ‘We need the bed. Tomorrow, all being well.’ Mind already on her next case, she offered Spike a distracted handshake, and then she was gone.

  Spike turned back to Massetti, seeing his swollen face loll to one side. Then he stood up and walked away, determined that for once he wouldn’t let himself get involved.

  21

  But then, of course, the email follow-up from Dr Martinez had landed in Spike’s in-box, a carefully worded message which already seemed to assume an obligation on his behalf. Over the course of a broken night, Spike had drafted a polite response in his head, suggesting that the doctor explore alternative arrangements for Massetti’s care. But after breakfast, just as he’d been about to hit send, she’d called him on his mobile – number withheld. The conversation had been brief and entirely one-sided. Dr Martinez was between shifts, she’d briskly informed him, and only had a moment to talk. Mr Massetti would be ready for discharge into Spike’s care at 10 a.m. that morning. She’d hung up before Spike had had a chance to voice any of his objections, and he was left reflecting that he’d just been swindled by a practised and very capable grifter.

  So two hours later, he found himself back outside the hospital, awaiting his appointed assignation. He’d arrived early, so he sat down on the steps to take another look through the Gibraltar Chronicle.

  ‘Liberals Choose Their Man,’ the front page screamed, ‘Drew Stanford-Trench QC To Run’. The centre pages featured an enormous colour photograph of Drew at his chambers, surrounded by law books and seated, for some reason, on the corner of his desk, as though a mere chair could not contain a man of such purpose and dynamism. ‘ “It’s a firetrap,” Stanford-Trench says of Gibraltar’s Old Town. “We need a comprehensive programme of redevelopment to protect our people and safeguard our heritage. The locals have been overlooked for too long. I want a Gibraltar for Gibraltarians . . .”’ A litter bin stamped with the Rock’s coat-of-arms was within bowling distance; Spike screwed up the newspaper and pitched it inside with satisfying accuracy. He checked the time. Still fifteen minutes to the hour. Little Rock was just around the corner. Might as well stretch his legs.

  As Spike approached the nursery, it sounded as though a massacre was going on. He placed both arms flat along the fence and looked over. One tribe of children was pushing plastic wheelbarrows around the coloured safety surface. Another was based in the sandpit, toddlers furiously digging with sticks and spades, as a solid little girl in blue-rimmed spectacles issued commands.

  Spike looked for Charlie and found him sitting alone in the corner, brown legs crossed like a miniature Buddha as he gat
hered together a pile of palm seeds that had fallen from an overhanging tree. A little girl with a wheelbarrow thundered past him and knocked over his pile, but Charlie didn’t even look up, just shrunk his head down into his shoulders and started to rebuild. Seeing the boy whispering to himself, Spike felt a sudden clutch at his heart. To lose a father at two, then be orphaned at three: it was barbaric. He needed to do more for the boy, find some way to help him regain his confidence.

  At last one of the teachers glanced round, but it was only to glare at Spike – this tall suited stranger staring into a playground. So he turned away and headed back to the hospital.

  Just as Dr Martinez had promised, Massetti was waiting in reception. Spike dropped to his hunkers, nose protesting at the smell of stale sweat and booze emanating from Massetti’s shirt. ‘Do you think you can stand up, Christopher?’

  As Massetti glanced round, Spike was shocked again by the lurid bruising around his eyes. He swung an arm around his neck and heaved him up, still not sure if the old man even knew who he was.

  As they made their way towards the front of the taxi rank, Spike saw the driver glance in his rear-view mirror, take in Massetti’s condition and recalculate his fare.

  Spike was sweating heavily by the time he’d manoeuvred Massetti into the back of the cab. ‘What’s the address, Christopher? Christopher?’

  Again there was no response, and Spike felt his temper rise – he didn’t have the patience for another round of Massetti’s deaf-and-dumb routine, particularly not pro bono. But then he saw Massetti’s lips quiver. ‘Governor’s Meadow Estate,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You heard the man,’ Spike called through, and the driver put the cab in gear and pulled away in the direction of the Commercial Dockyard.

  22

  The taxi came to a halt on Rosia Road, and Spike looked up through the passenger window at the cracked-concrete face of the tower block that Christopher Massetti called home. Governor’s Meadow had been one of the first housing estates to be built in Gibraltar after the Second World War. Most of the civilian population had been evacuated in 1940, and when they’d returned, they’d found a very different Rock from the one they’d left behind. Buildings had been destroyed by bombing raids from Vichy France and from Italian forces, but the main devastation had come from the conversion of residential homes into military facilities. Money in the fifties had been tight, and the quality of accommodation built to house the returning locals was notoriously poor.