Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti)

by Mogford, Thomas

  He shunted back round until he was facing the opposite way. Still crouching, he placed one espadrille in front of the other and fought to make progress forward. A plastic bag flew by, inflated like a toy parachute. The noise was all around, increasing in strength like a jumbo preparing for take-off.

  Heart thumping, Spike wrinkled his nose to breathe. His head felt light, but like a tightrope walker he managed to construct a forward line with his espadrilles, one step at a time. His clothes were clinging to his chest and thighs; the skin on his head felt like it was being rubbed with sandpaper.

  In front stretched a perpendicular line. He half straightened up and was nearly blown over; hunching again, he shuffled forward until he felt the soft spring of tarmac beneath his feet.

  Grit gouged at the corners of his eyes. Slowly he manoeuvred himself round into the direction he hoped was the village. The prickling on his face was unbearable. He turned back – better to head for the site, find shelter in the concrete hangar. If that was locked, he could use the walls as a break.

  The wind was on his back now, propelling him on. After a few steps, he heard a noise. Distant and hollow, like a foghorn in the Straits. He forced his head round and saw the muffled glow of headlights. The vehicle was moving almost as slowly as he was. It drew up beside him. A white pickup.

  ‘Hey!’ Spike called, and more dust flew into his mouth.

  The passenger door opened a fraction, then slammed closed. Straining against the wind, it started to reopen. Spike edged towards it, hands over ears. He looked up to see Othman hunching on the road, headscarf flailing behind him like a ship’s pennant.

  Othman’s jaw was clenched. His arm began to rotate as though he were bowling a cricket ball. Something hard hit the top of Spike’s head. The wailing of the wind grew still.

  Chapter 57

  Spike tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. He gave a cough and felt a salty bolus of sand scrape down the back of his throat. Breathing through his nose, he opened his eyes. His chin lolled forward; he started to raise it but felt a pain in his head, as though someone were grinding a finger down on the skull.

  Blinking crust from his eyes, he stared lazily ahead. He was slumped in a chair at the edge of a room paved in concrete. He heard a voice and saw a man in a blue turban sitting cross-legged in front of him, heating something on a Campingaz stove. Othman. The hangar. The pickup truck . . . Spike snorted and felt a plug of sand pop from one nostril. What an idiot he’d been venturing out like that.

  He pressed down with his feet. Nothing happened. He tried to move his arms: still nothing. A first squirt of adrenalin washed through him. ‘Othman?’ he managed to say, voice coming out as a croak.

  He heard a sudden clatter of cooking utensils as Othman shot to his feet. Salem appeared beside him, overbite clamped shut as though he had grave news to impart.

  Spike felt his head pulse as he flicked his eyes to the doorway. A woman was standing beside it: Fatiya.

  ‘Dónde Zahra?’ Spike mumbled.

  Fatiya gave a giggle, covering her mouth with one hand. Othman called out and she came and stood in front of Spike.

  ‘Bisha’a,’ she said with a coy grin.

  He tried to stand again but something was restricting his ankles. Looking down, he saw his feet strapped to the front two chair legs. He tried to move his hands: they were bound to the top of the back legs.

  He raised his eyes to Fatiya’s face. Her small white tooth rose like a tusk. Salem passed her a square of paper. Spike recognised his business card.

  ‘Abogado?’ Fatiya said with a smile. Lawyer.

  Spike snorted again; they must have been through the wallet he’d left in his chamber.

  ‘Abogado, no profesor,’ Fatiya continued, as Salem passed her a larger piece of card, face as serious as a court official. ‘“Dunetech”,’ Fatiya read aloud. She held up the invitation to the Investor Roadshow. ‘Abogado para Dunetech,’ she concluded.

  Spike half shook his head. ‘Abogado, sí,’ he groaned. ‘Para Dunetech, no.’

  Fatiya translated this to Salem; he moved towards Othman, who was cross-legged again in front of the stove. In one hand Othman held a large serrated knife with a blue plastic handle. He turned the flat of the blade in the roaring flame.

  Spike looked more urgently at Fatiya. He tried to move his legs but succeeded only in shuffling the chair. He strained outwards with his hands; the rope seemed less tight on his left wrist. He started to rotate the joint.

  Othman called something to Fatiya, which she mangled into harsh, accented Spanish. ‘Tú es abogado para Dunetech. Sí o no?’

  ‘No,’ Spike said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, no, no.’

  Salem hove back into view, a small wooden box in his hands. Keeping his distance, he circled Spike like a matador. A moment later Spike felt hands clasp his forehead from behind. The skin stung; he struggled but Salem’s grip was too firm. The wooden box dipped before his eyes, open-sided like an insect inspection chamber without the glass.

  Spike struggled again as he felt the box pressed into his mouth. Shutting his lips and teeth, he heaved in air through his nose. Salem had managed to hook Spike’s forehead in the crook of his elbow, lowering his free hand to his mouth, fingers working open the lips. Spicy-tasting nails slid beneath Spike’s teeth; he opened his jaw, then snapped it closed.

  ‘Neik!’ he heard as the box and the hand disappeared. Spike’s breath rasped again as another blow hit the top of his head.

  Chapter 58

  Spike’s neck was tilted backwards. His jaw ached. He flopped down his chin, feeling drool spill from cracked lips. Fatiya was standing in front of him, still holding his business card in one hand and the Dunetech invitation in the other. Her expression now was more intrigued than amused.

  When Spike tried to close his mouth, he found an object wedged between his teeth. He probed with his tongue and felt the rough grain of wood. A splinter came off and he drew his tongue back in, breathing through his nose.

  The raised voice of Othman echoed from ahead. Fatiya glanced round and nodded, smile returning. ‘Bisha’a,’ she said. ‘Verdadero o falso. Si ambollaz, falso. Si no ambollaz, verdadero.’

  Spike couldn’t speak with the box in his mouth. Ambollaz . . . what the hell did that mean? Steps now on the concrete floor; Othman above him, brandishing the knife.

  Now Spike struggled properly, twisting his wrists back and forth, feeling the rope scrape against the cut he’d got in Chinatown. Kicking with both legs, he slid the chair backwards as Salem appeared at Othman’s side, left hand bandaged in tissue paper, right holding a pair of cooking tongs.

  Spike gave a grunt, flailing forward with his legs. For a moment he was free, but then his shoulder slammed down onto the concrete floor as the chair toppled over.

  Salem yanked him back up, muttering disapproval. Spike felt queasy as the room twisted then straightened. Othman returned to the Campingaz, blade in the blue flame. Spike continued to swivel his wrists but his strength was failing.

  Salem had vanished. Spike felt him make another grab at his forehead, then lose his grip on the slippery skin. He came back round to the front, kneeling as he cradled Spike’s jaw from below. Now Spike could only shift his head from side to side like a fish trying to dislodge a hook.

  Head cocked in concentration, Salem inched the tongs towards Spike’s mouth. He tried to spit out the box, but his jaws were clamped around it. He felt the chilly metal slip through the side of the box to explore the cavity of his mouth. It nuzzled at his tongue then pinched down hard on the tip.

  Slowly, Salem began to draw Spike’s tongue out through the open sides of the box. Othman reappeared; Spike’s eyes flitted between the two of them. The blade of the knife glowed red as Othman leaned in close, Spike trying to withdraw his tongue, but the grip of the tongs was too firm. He spat but nothing came. When he coughed, droplets of saliva crackled and slid on the fiery knife blade.

  Spike closed his eyes,
breathing in deeply. The image of the red-hot metal glowed beneath his eyelids like the sun. He tried to detach himself, send himself floating over the Rock, looking down at the levanter cloud, at the moat-like Straits, at his father, shuffling alone through the backstreets . . .

  The scream seemed to issue from elsewhere, a bestial shriek, a stuck pig or a lamb at the point of slaughter. Spike inhaled desperately as the pain spread through his lips, his throat, the deep-set nerves of his teeth. He smelled sweet burnt flesh, then felt a wad of something soft come away as the blade was withdrawn. He sucked in his tongue, tucking it beneath his dry lower lip.

  ‘Bisha’a,’ he heard in Fatiya’s giggly voice. ‘Bisha’a.’

  Chapter 59

  When Spike next opened his eyes, his tongue was throbbing in concert with his heart. He tried to close his mouth but the box was still there. Othman, Salem and Fatiya surrounded him in a circle. Salem held the tongs, stepping forward to Spike’s face. Rather than suffer the sharp indignity of the metal, he lolled his tongue out through the gap in the box. It felt as fat and raw as marinated meat.

  Othman and Salem both tilted their heads, staring down like a pair of fastidious dentists. ‘Shouf,’ Othman said. ‘Shwíya.’ They withdrew to the Campingaz.

  ‘Ambollaz,’ Fatiya grinned, wagging a finger. ‘Falso.’

  Ambollaz . . . ampollas: blisters. Silence until Spike felt a tap on the shoulder.

  ‘Tú,’ Fatiya said. ‘Por qué estás aquí?’

  Spike let his eyes close as the fingers worked out the saliva-soaked box from his mouth. His jawbone gaped, giving a sweet moment of respite before the throbbing restarted.

  ‘Por qué estás aquí?’

  His head dropped. Strings of white saliva hung from his mouth. Why are you here?

  ‘Duna?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Qué?’

  ‘No.’ The word came out as a cough. He felt his jaw gripped again, fingers pinching his nose. The attempt to resist was mental only. He opened his mouth to breathe, and the box slotted back into place. The roar of the Campingaz cranked up.

  The tongs again; Spike felt the heat of the blade as it hovered over his upper lip. He shut his eyes, trying to remove himself once more, when a shout came from up ahead: ‘Ey!’

  The heat reduced; Spike opened his eyes and saw Zahra standing in the doorway.

  ‘Iryaa!’ she shouted, and everyone stopped moving. Spike had time to wonder why her arrival signalled such authority. Then he saw that she was holding in her arms the rusty hunter’s rifle he’d seen hanging above Rami’s crib.

  ‘Iryaa!’ she shouted again, advancing past the threshold.

  Slowly, Othman placed the knife down on the floor. Zahra jabbed forward with the rifle and Othman, Salem and Fatiya all moved backwards.

  As Zahra edged closer to Spike, Othman stepped away from the group. The rifle wavered in Zahra’s hands. Then she shut her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

  The kick caused the barrel to wheel up violently. There was a smack like the flick of a towel, then a deep gonging as the bullet collided with one of the wheelbarrows. Spike heard something fizz not far from his face, then a neat rustle as the bullet ricocheted into the heap of orange sand on the other side of the hangar.

  Othman, Salem and Fatiya crouched down, hands on heads. Zahra yelled again, and they dropped to their knees.

  She continued towards Spike. He widened his eyes in greeting. A warm stream of saliva spilled down one side of his chin.

  ‘Wakafy!’ she cried. A sharp smell of cordite hung in the air. She transferred the rifle to her left arm; now it pointed directly at the concrete floor. With her right hand, she reached for the box in Spike’s mouth. The rough-grained wood tore at the wound on his tongue, making him twist his neck in pain. She glanced over, nostrils flaring, then gently drew the box out.

  The relief was even sweeter than before. His head fell forward and more saliva spilled. Just letting his jaw hang was the most exquisite feeling. He came back to attention as Zahra made a grab for the rifle.

  Othman was up on his feet. Spike saw Zahra squeezing the trigger again. ‘Reload,’ he tried to say, but only a tired exhalation emerged.

  Othman’s jaw was clenched so hard that rivets seemed to extend from its sides. His eyes were black. Two metres ahead of him lay the knife. He stepped towards it.

  ‘Lever,’ Spike grunted. ‘Got to reload.’

  Zahra lowered her gaze, then slid her hand up from the stock to draw back the bolt. A thin metallic chink broke the silence, like a triangle at the end of a symphony. Spike saw the empty shell come to rest by his feet. Othman saw it too and stopped moving.

  Zahra bent down, eyes on Othman as she stuck out an arm for the knife. Rifle barrel scraping over concrete, she backed towards Spike, knife in her left hand. When she reached his chair, she shouted again, and Othman returned to his knees. He lowered his head, but Spike could see he was still watching.

  The barrel of the rifle lay on the floor to Spike’s right. He felt a shaky pressure as Zahra began sawing at the ropes binding his hands.

  Now it was Salem creeping forward, head down. ‘Zahra,’ Spike said, hearing the clatter of the knife as she picked up the rifle and stood.

  Spike swivelled his wrists, straining them apart, feeling the rope start to fray. With another twist, it gave. The same relief he’d felt in his jaw flooded through his shoulders as he moved his arms forward. He reached for the knife and cut free his ankles. His knees sagged as he got to his feet, forcing him to grip the chair back for support.

  Zahra stood by his side. She yelled again and they drew back towards the open doorway. Othman and Salem both raised their heads. As soon as Zahra was at the door, she turned and started to run. Spike lumbered after.

  The pickup was parked outside; Spike went to the passenger side as Zahra climbed in behind the wheel, gun pointing down between her legs.

  She twisted the key; nothing happened. Othman appeared in the doorway, running towards them. This time, the engine caught and the pickup screeched away. Spike saw Othman sprinting after them in the rear-view mirror before he was lost in a cloud of dust.

  Spike put a hand on Zahra’s thigh. She jerked the wheel in shock, making the pickup veer right. She straightened up; Spike saw his overnight bag in the footwell below. He leaned his head back against the rest and closed his eyes.

  What felt like seconds later, he lurched forward as Zahra braked. She opened her door, took out the rifle and threw it side-on into the desert. The wind had dropped. Ahead shimmered millions of acres of emptiness.

  When Zahra got back in, she reached over to Spike’s face.

  ‘Water,’ he said.

  Chapter 60

  The thorns, the sand, the rocks, the dust, the bus, the gorge, the plateau, the train . . .

  Spike came to in the half-light, Zahra sitting beside him on the hard mattress of the couchette, rubbing aftersun into his face, neck, ears. She reached down for a bottle of water and tipped some in his mouth. He closed his eyes, letting her rub cream into the lids. Then she lowered her head and kissed him.

  She held her lips there, as though afraid to go further, before easing her tongue downwards. Spike’s eyes prickled with tears: it felt like he’d just swallowed a sea anenome. He let out a muffled cry, like a scuba diver in distress. Zahra drew back.

  ‘Not on the lips,’ Spike managed to say.

  She gave an involuntary snort of amusement.

  ‘What?’ Spike said. The pain made him laugh as well. Zahra whispered an apology, then kissed his cheek, gently at first, then more passionately, moving her mouth over his, pausing just long enough to see his alarmed expression, before grinning again as she dipped down to his neck.

  Once the stinging in his mouth had subsided, he slid his hands beneath the light cotton of her kaftan, running his fingertips up the smooth skin of her stomach until he found the dome of a breast, feeling her hips buck as he touched a small, stiff nipple.

  She stopped
, sitting up so abruptly that he thought he’d pushed things too far. Swinging one knee over his waist, she straddled him, drawing her kaftan over her outstretched arms and throwing it against the couchette wall.

  Spike stared up. Seeing him try to swallow, she bent down for the water bottle, sluicing it into his mouth then over her firm, dark breasts, dripping it warmly from her body to his. He reached forward, undoing his trousers and letting her sit up as he inched them down to his calves. She kissed his bare chest; he wrapped his arms around her back, fingers tracing the half-pipe of her spine. Her skin was as soft as damask. His nose filled with the scent of sweat and suncream.

  She moved her face above his, smile replaced by an intense, almost angry, look. He watched her pupils dilate. ‘Are you sure you’re well enough?’ she said.

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Do you have any. . . ?’

  ‘In my wallet.’

  She reached behind, fingers seeking the small foil square, which she tore in two to work out the shiny pink mollusc inside. With a small, backward shuffle, she hoisted him up. He felt a sharp electric tingle as she pressed the greased cap hard down.

  He took her hand and then they were both rolling down the long, ridged condom. Cupping her buttocks, he brushed a thumb over the slick fold between. Breathing more quickly, she reached down and drew aside her knickers.

  Spike felt the abrasive cotton edge as she eased herself up and down, head back, one hand on his ribs, the other squeezing her left, then right nipple, almond eyes half closed, long hair coiled over one shoulder. He raised his hands and eased her onto her back. He tried to relax his body, to empty his mind, but now she was grinding back into him, and then there was nothing he could do, the shivers were intensifying, throbbing in time with his tongue, pain mixing with pleasure, everything drawing to a point, like the blood on Abdallah’s ceiling, like jagged violins, her moan rising at the same time as his.