Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti)

by Mogford, Thomas

  The carriage, the seagulls, the hawkers, the petit taxi, the sound of her breathing . . . Sleep.

  Part Four

  Tangiers

  Chapter 61

  Spike was sure he was home in Gibraltar. He heard the creak of floorboards and assumed his mother was bringing him up a mug of tea. Instead, on opening his eyes, he saw a figure crouching beside the bed. She picked up his trousers, slipping a hand into one pocket and taking out his wallet. After placing it on the dressing table, she reached for another pouch. His passport; now she was creeping towards the door.

  ‘Zahra?’ Spike groaned, his voice a full octave lower than normal. He swallowed and felt his throat scrape.

  Zahra turned. ‘I didn’t know you were awake.’

  ‘Mm,’ Spike said.

  ‘The receptionist called. He wants a copy of your passport. At least, I think that’s what he wants.’

  The door closed, leaving just the helicopter whirr of the ceiling fan above. Tentatively, Spike touched his head, feeling a double quail’s egg on the crown. Two separate headaches were battling it out in his brain, jockeying for position. He sucked on his tongue: the upper half was swollen with fluid, twice as fat as the lower. The main discomfort, though, was in his throat.

  The hotel bedroom at the Continental was either the same as before or of identical layout. The sheets beside him were disturbed. On the dressing table, next to his wallet, lay two mobile phones, his and Esperanza’s. He crawled over the bed towards them.

  Having retrieved his phone, he lay back. 8 a.m. on Thursday. Thursday? He’d lost a day somewhere. He could remember the sandstorm, the knife, Zahra, the rifle. But how he’d got back here he had no idea.

  Two voice messages, the first from Inspector Eldrassi, asking him to come by the station, the second from Galliano, asking where the hell he was.

  He could see Eldrassi today. That would free him up for the night-boat home, get him back to civilisation, out of this godforsaken country forever. He rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom, stopping as he passed the mirror. His left eye was black, the lid two-thirds closed as a purple sunset blushed through the socket. His forehead and neck were a fuchsia pink; he opened his mouth and saw pale clusters of ulcers crowding his tongue. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered as he steered a tangerine cord of urine into the lavatory. Water droplets covered the bathtub as though someone had just showered. His stomach rumbled.

  Back in the bedroom, he saw Zahra’s woven handbag on the floor. Something bulky lay beside it. He stooped down; orange sand shifted from black plastic as he picked the package up. Hearing the door handle turn, he replaced it and rolled back into bed, wincing at the sudden movement.

  Chapter 62

  Zahra passed him two veterinary-sized aspirins, which he swallowed painfully with mineral water. The shutters were closed; she sat down at the dressing table beneath them. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Beginning to be very.’

  ‘How’s the tongue?’

  ‘It only hurts when I breathe.’

  She smiled for a moment, then became serious. ‘It’s called Bisha’a.’

  The soft sibilants of the word transported Spike back to the hangar.

  ‘It’s an ancient Bedouin tradition. Supposed to be illegal but it’s still practised in rural areas.’

  ‘I don’t see why they bothered. I’d have told them anything.’

  ‘They call it trial by fire. They use it instead of courtrooms.’

  Spike kept crackling the plastic water bottle in one hand; he put it down on the floor.

  ‘If the defendant’s tongue blisters, it means he’s lying. If it doesn’t, he’s telling the truth. Apparently it’s quite accurate. Your mouth gets dry when you lie, so . . .’

  ‘Sounds about as effective as witch ducking.’

  Zahra frowned, not understanding the term. ‘Do you want me to take you to the hospital?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I can never go back to my village now.’

  ‘It’s no consolation.’

  ‘At least we’re even. You rescued me in Chinatown. I rescued you in Zagora Zween.’

  An uncomfortable silence passed. ‘Thank you,’ Spike said eventually.

  Zahra undid her headscarf and shook back her still-damp hair. Something in the motion made Spike’s groin stir, as though it knew something his mind didn’t. ‘What time did we get in?’ he asked.

  ‘About 10 a.m. You kept repeating “Hotel Continental” so we came here. You’ve been asleep. You had a fever.’ She smiled, as though waiting for something more. He felt as though he were missing a detail. ‘What were you doing,’ he asked, ‘in the desert?’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘I went to find something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A secret.’

  ‘Abdallah’s secret?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘More than just a death rattle?’

  She stood and went over to the plastic-wrapped package. More sand trickled to the floor.

  ‘So what did he say to you?’ Spike asked as she brought it over.

  ‘At first I thought he was asking for his mother.’

  ‘But?’

  She sat down on the bed. ‘He was telling me to see his mother. To ask for what was hidden.’

  ‘So you went to her tent by the waterhole . . . Did you tell her that her son was dead?’

  ‘She was old; I thought it best not to. She hardly had any possessions. Except this.’ Zahra held up the package. ‘Buried in the sand outside her tent.’

  Spike stared at the layers of faded masking tape around the plastic.

  ‘When the storm died out, I walked home,’ Zahra said. ‘Salwa told me Othman was angry. I saw he’d been through your stuff. The pickup was gone and I guessed where he might have taken you.’ She pressed a nail through the plastic and tore it open. Another plastic bag inside; she repeated the process, then drew out what looked like a blue hardback book.

  Digging her fingers beneath the lid, she bit her lower lip, giving Spike another strangely erotic flashback. The hinge wouldn’t come so she passed it over.

  Spike’s sunburn pulsed as he prised the case apart. Inside lay a videotape; he turned it over in his hands. Twice the size of a normal VHS, a sticker of bleached spidery Arabic on the front. ‘What does it say?’ Spike asked.

  ‘Play me.’

  The celluloid band was warped. ‘Easier said than done, I suspect.’

  From next door came a 20th Century Fox fanfare. Spike smiled as he climbed out of bed.

  Chapter 63

  Jean-Baptiste’s dreadlocks dangled over his face. He flicked them up when he saw Spike. ‘Chingongo! I thought you go.’

  ‘Change of plan.’

  Jean-Baptiste peered over Spike’s shoulder, widening his eyes. ‘Bien évidemment, mon frère. What happened to your face?’

  ‘Beach football. Got out of hand.’

  Zahra stepped forward. She still had her hair free. Jean-Baptiste took her hand in greeting, sucking in his small pot belly. ‘Enchanté,’ he said, planting a noisy kiss on the back of her hand.

  ‘Jean-Baptiste? Zahra.’

  ‘Za-rah,’ Jean-Baptiste repeated. ‘She speak French?’

  ‘Mieux en anglais, si possible,’ Zahra replied.

  Jean-Baptiste widened his eyes still further. ‘She burn you up,’ he whispered to Spike as he held open the door.

  The room was glowing with its usual bank of monitors. ‘Sorry for chaos,’ Jean-Baptiste muttered, picking up a pair of Y-fronts, ‘sometimes, you know, pour la créativité . . .’ He turned down the volume, then opened the shutters. ‘Now, what is it I can do for Chingongo and his . . .’

  Zahra sat down on the bed and drew the tape from her kaftan. Jean-Baptiste frowned as he sat beside her. He examined the tape in his large hands.

  ‘Can you get it to play?’ Spike said.

  Jean-Baptiste puffed on the celluloid band. ‘Not easy like with mobile phone.
Model is eight . . . maybe ten year. Where is it from?’

  ‘Home video.’

  Jean-Baptiste looked at Zahra. ‘You have CCTV in your home?’

  ‘Her father’s a judge. Now can you do it?’

  Zahra said something in French to which Jean-Baptiste shrugged a response. She added another comment and he laughed.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said it had been in the sand,’ Zahra explained.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He told me the damage was from the sun not the sand. I said in the desert you can’t tell the difference. He agreed.’

  ‘Is there anything you can do?’ Spike said. ‘There’s money in it.’

  Jean-Baptiste clicked his tongue. ‘I think impossible. Maybe at the Café des Étoiles . . .’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘I go for usual hour. Five o’clock?’

  Zahra reached back for the tape. ‘Non,’ Jean-Baptiste said, lifting it away. ‘You leave with me. You have the box?’

  ‘It broke,’ Spike said. As they made to leave, Jean-Baptiste went to his bedside table and took out the envelope Spike had given him. ‘Maybe I talk to your contact soon,’ he said. ‘La vida española, uh?’

  ‘Catch you later, Jean-Baptiste.’

  Chapter 64

  ‘Are you sure we can trust him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The great expert on Morocco,’ Zahra muttered as she went over to the landing wall with its framed maps of Tangiers. ‘Tourist bullshit,’ she said. ‘What was in that envelope?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘I said I could help him get to Spain.’

  ‘You say a lot of things.’ She turned away from the wall. The frankness of her glare took Spike back to the sleeper. His memories were still blurred: it was hard to know what was real. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, stepping towards her. ‘I think I had sunstroke. On the train . . . that actually happened, didn’t it?’

  ‘I’m glad it was so memorable.’ She walked past him to the hotel-room door. ‘Forget it, Spike.’

  The door was locked.

  ‘Do you want to grab some breakfast?’ Spike said.

  ‘It’s Ramadan.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘The last day.’

  ‘After sundown?’

  ‘I’ll be at my friend’s house.’

  ‘Which friend?’

  ‘The one I’ve been staying with since you came to Chinatown.’

  ‘The man with the red rucksack?’

  ‘Not this again. Can I have the key?’

  ‘Why do you need to see him?’

  ‘For my papers.’

  ‘Why do you need those?’

  ‘You don’t remember that either?’

  He gave her the key and she went inside. As she gathered her bag, he reached out and took her hand. ‘I do remember,’ he whispered in her ear.

  She tried to pull away but he had a hand on her hip. Leaning forward, he kissed the nape of her neck. She turned and faced him. Her lips were swollen, her breath warm. He smelled her sharp scent as she dropped the bag and slid her hands up beneath his T-shirt.

  Chapter 65

  Zahra had two little dimples on the small of her back, one each side of her spine. Light, wavy lines traversed her skin, fading into dark treacle. On her right shoulder rose a neat oval bruise where the rifle had recoiled. ‘What?’ she said as she stepped into a pair of pink knickers.

  ‘Just looking.’

  Tutting as though he were a deviant, she pulled on jeans and a tank top. After crouching to her trainers, she held the black kaftan over her head and let it unfurl downwards.

  ‘I think it’s depressing.’

  She moved to the dressing table beneath the window, using the cracked mirror to tie back her hair. ‘What’s depressing?’

  ‘The whole covering-up thing.’

  ‘My foulard?’

  ‘Your what?’

  She gestured at her sequinned headscarf, which she was positioning over her ponytail.

  ‘All of it,’ Spike said, lying back. ‘The suggestion that if men actually see what you look like, they can’t be answerable for their actions.’

  ‘Coming from a man with second-degree sunburn, that sounds a bit naive.’ Zahra stood and gave a rich, croaky laugh. ‘I find it comforting,’ she added, knotting the headscarf beneath her chin. ‘I would still wear it in Europe.’

  A beat passed. ‘I will help you,’ Spike said. ‘I’ll help with your visa. Act as a referee.’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything for me.’

  ‘I want to.’

  ‘That’s not why I slept with you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She sat down on the side of the bed. ‘Show me.’

  He stuck out his tongue.

  ‘Better.’

  ‘So I’ll meet you at five at the café?’

  ‘Or four? For the application . . .’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Or five?’

  ‘No, four’s fine.’

  Zahra took his hand, caressing the palm. ‘Look at your long fingers. Like a musician.’ She leaned in and kissed him, reaching below the covers, breathing rapidly before drawing away. ‘Better not. I have enough praying to do as it is.’

  She glanced back from the door and smiled. When she was gone, he slid out of bed and searched through his trousers. His passport was still missing. He checked the dressing table, then heard the bedside phone ring. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Nadeer. I’m down in reception. Mind if I pop up?’

  Chapter 66

  There was a rap at the door. ‘Tracked you down at last,’ Nadeer said, coming in unasked as Spike stood bare-chested by the bed. ‘Christ alive, what happened to your face?’

  ‘Too much sun.’

  ‘I thought you were going home.’

  ‘Got held up.’

  Nadeer was back in his suit, a tan leather satchel slung over one shoulder. He looked down at the floor where a ‘Rock Hard’ condom lay replete and exhausted.

  ‘Have a seat,’ Spike said, toeing the condom beneath the bed and sitting up against the headboard.

  Nadeer took off his satchel and sat down at the dressing table. ‘I was starting to get worried,’ he said. ‘I called your office and was told you weren’t there.’

  ‘I’m touched by your concern.’

  ‘I wanted to check how Solomon was.’ As Nadeer reached forward to open the shutters, his reflection caught in the dressing-table mirror. The crack bisected his forehead, warping his face into two distinct parts like a fairground hall of mirrors. ‘So what have you been up to, buddy?’ he said, sitting back in the shadow.

  ‘Taking some downtime.’

  ‘Here in Tangiers?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘That’s odd. Because I came by the hotel on Tuesday. They told me you’d checked out.’

  Nadeer nudged something along the table with a manicured nail: a hairclip. ‘I passed a young lady on the stairs.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A rather pretty young lady. Looked to me like she came from the desert. You know, we have a proverb here in Morocco: “A Bedouin took his revenge after forty years. It was said he was in a hurry.” Heard that one?’

  ‘Have you been talking to the receptionist?’

  Nadeer stared across. ‘Be careful you’re not being played, Spike. That’s all I’m saying.’ He stood. ‘Miss Solness was asking after you. You’re quite the dark pony. Quite the dark pony.’ There was a spot of orange sand on the floor; Nadeer dipped in a finger, checking the colour. Ahead in the corner lay the plastic tape box. ‘What’s that?’ he said, straightening up.

  ‘What’s what?’

  He walked over and picked up the box, gripping both sides then pressing them together.

  ‘It was here when I checked in.’

  From next door came the first notes of a movie soundtrack. Nadeer turned to the wall, then back to Spike.
‘I was talking to Professor Castillo. He told me some thug from Gibraltar had been harassing him just when he was at his most fragile.’

  ‘Riddell gave me his address.’

  ‘I wouldn’t pay too much heed to Tobes – he’s just a donkey I’ve comfortably stabled.’ There was a pause. ‘I asked you to my party, Spike. We cut a deal, I seem to remember. It involved you going home to help delay a trial. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t see much evidence of you fulfilling your side of the bargain.’

  ‘Maybe I prefer the long goodbye.’

  ‘There’s a ferry to Gibraltar this afternoon. I’d really hate to see all the good work you’ve done for Solomon go to waste.’ He threw the tape box onto the bed, then picked up his satchel and left.

  Chapter 67

  ‘The whole world united cannot harm you as much as you yourself can.’

  ‘Have you got my passport?’

  The receptionist opened a drawer and handed it over. ‘Shall I put you down for another night?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘May your God go with you, friend.’

  ‘And also with you.’

  Spike stepped out into the late Tangiers morning, face immediately throbbing in the heat. Sunscreen and refreshment, his two main priorities. He passed the guard hut then came out onto the street. A man was waiting with his back to the whitewashed wall that ran around the hotel. He was squeezing a squash ball in one hand.

  ‘I hear you’re catching the 3 p.m.,’ Riddell said.

  ‘You working on commission now?’

  ‘Comm-iss-ion,’ Riddell repeated, aping Spike’s accent. ‘Is it Spike or Spick, by the way? I never could tell.’ He detached himself from the wall and followed Spike up a narrow lane at the edge of the Medina. ‘Saw your lady friend back at the hotel,’ he called out.