by Mike Bennett
‘Count!’ Underwood’s voice was almost unrecognisable: distorted, inhuman.
‘Two!’ David watched as Underwood’s arms rose and the crimson smoke began to stream straight upwards into the night. David cried out as he realised what was happening: right before his eyes, Underwood was disintegrating, coming apart at a molecular level and pouring himself into the sky. David looked up, but there was nothing above but a cloudless canopy of moon and stars. And when he looked down again, all that had been of Underwood, was gone. He blinked, looking at the gently-smoking spot on the driveway.
Numbly, he whispered the last of his count down, ‘One.’
Suddenly, from overhead, there came a whooshing sound. David’s head snapped up, searching the sky, but there was no sign of the thing that had made the noise. He staggered back, looking this way and that as the sound came again and again, but never from the same place twice. Then, from directly above him, a rush of warm night air buffeted him. David spun and cried out. He felt the weight of the bag in his hand and remembered that he had to throw it up at the end of the countdown.
‘Wh-where are you?’ he shouted up at the stars. Suddenly, from out of the darkness, a black shape flashed overhead in the moonlight, and again David felt the powerful downdraft from its wings. ‘Jesus Christ! You’re a bat! It’s true, you’re a fucking bat!’ He drew his arm back and flung the sports bag upwards, watching it as it sailed up perhaps twenty feet into the night. Then, just as it was about to fall back to Earth, the thing that was now Underwood swooped out of the darkness and snatched it. David gasped as, for a split second, he saw the creature against the moon; it was indeed a bat, but it was huge. David watched as it now moved rapidly away, a patch of living darkness gliding between the earth and the glittering stars above, soaring over the miles and miles of olive groves towards the distant splash of light in the hills that David knew was the town of Almacena.
‘David? Lord Underwood?’ Lydia called from somewhere behind him.
He turned around to see her coming out from the courtyard. ‘O-over here.’
She saw him and walked over. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Lord Underwood? Did he speak to you?’
‘Yeah.’
Lydia looked around. ‘Well, where is he?’
David looked away in the direction of Almacena. ‘He’s gone.’
‘Gone? Where?’
David turned back to her. ‘My God, Lydia. He really is a monster.’
‘Yes, so you keep saying. But where has he gone?’ Her face was all impatient irritation. David pointed a finger at it, amused. He laughed out loud, then fell away into a dead faint.
18
IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER OPENING TIME on Friday morning at La Reina de Corazones. Keith sat reading The Sun in the cool gloom of the pub. At a fluttering sound, he looked up towards the bright glow of sunshine that flooded the front terrace where Damo and Luis were putting out plastic tables and chairs. A sparrow hopped in through the front doors and flew onto a nearby table. It looked around for a few moments, then, having assessed that it was too early for any pickings, it turned and flew outside again. Keith smiled and returned to his perusal of the sports pages.
‘Keith! How’s it going?’
Keith looked up again to see a lanky silhouette ambling through the doorway. Gangly limbs dangled from a loose t-shirt and knee shorts as the silhouette headed to the bar.
‘Alright, Giles,’ said Keith, without enthusiasm. ‘How are you today?’
‘Yeah, I’m cool,’ said Giles, taking off his baseball cap and sweeping back a lock of long hair from his face.
Keith returned his attention to his newspaper, hoping that perhaps Giles might be happy to simply sit at the bar and wait until Damo returned before asking for his first pint of the day. Giles was a musician and had made a lot of money in the 90’s after one of his band’s songs was picked up by an advertising agency. The song went on to reach the number one spot in many countries. The band had split up soon after but, since he was the song writer, Giles had made a lot of money and was now living off a continuing stream of cash from royalties. Three years ago, he had moved out to an old farm house on the edge of Almacena, apparently to find peace and inspiration away from what he called the bullshit of the London music scene. He’d built a studio with a plan to work on the songs that would make up his eventual comeback album. However, he seemed to spend most of his time looking for his inspiration in La Reina.
Giles pulled his cap back on and planted himself down on a bar stool. ‘Pint of the usual, whenever you’re ready, landlord.’
Keith looked to the front of the pub: Damo and Luis were still putting out tables. He sighed, and got up.
‘How’s Michelle?’ asked Giles as Keith came around behind the bar. ‘All right, is she?’
‘Yeah, she’s fine. Same as yesterday.’
‘Cool. What about young Mel?’
‘Yeah, yeah, she’s fine.’ Keith set a pint of Cruzcampo down in front of Giles.
‘What’s she listening to these days?’
‘Eh?’
‘Mel. What’s her favourite band?’
Keith shrugged. ‘I dunno, mate. You know what kids are like, it’s always changing, innit.’
‘Yeah,’ Giles took a sip from his pint. ‘Don’t I know it? By the time I get a fucking song written, it’s already starting to sound out-of-date.’
Keith nodded, not really listening. ‘Yeah. I know she was into some crowd called Second.’
‘Second what?’
‘No, just Second.’
‘Oh, right. I’ll have to check ’em out.’
Damo and Luis walked back into the pub.
‘How’s it going, Giles?’ said Damo. ‘How’s that new album of yours coming along? Still stuck on the opening track?’
‘If you mean am I still having trouble coming up with something commercial enough to pay the bills then yeah, yeah I’m having a right old time. I mean, it’s not like I’ve dried up or nothing, ’cause I mean every night I play some fuckin’ amazing stuff – like you wouldn’t believe it. But, in the morning, like, when I play it back, I think, there’s no way the record company are gonna dig this, you know, it’s just too out-there. That’s my problem, I’m just too “out-there”.’
Damo nodded. ‘Yeah I know exactly what you mean. I write a lot of genius stuff myself when I’m shit-faced.’
‘If you ask me,’ said Keith. ‘Ninety percent of what’s in the charts these days sounds like it was written by people who were shit-faced. Your stuff’d probably sell like hot cakes, Giles.’
‘Ah, not like the old days, eh Keith?’ said Damo, pointing to a poster at the end of the bar with Adam Ant in his Stand and Deliver attire.
‘Yeah, proper music, those days,’ said Keith. ‘You coming to the 80’s disco tomorrow night, Giles?’
Giles shrugged. ‘Yeah, but all that commercial stuff you lot play is like, so non-representative of the decade as a whole. You know, you should be playing some Smiths, or Echo and The Bunnymen, some Bauhaus or some Killing Joke. That’s the sound of real 80s music.’
‘Yeah it’s a disco, Giles, not a fucking mass-suicide,’ said Keith. ‘And anyway, you’re always first up on the floor when Rio comes on.’
‘Yeah, well, Rio’s a classic, innit?’
‘And then you stay on the floor all night.’
‘Yeah, well, they’re all classic songs really, in’t they? But what I’m saying is, 80s discos and the compilations you get in the shops these days, they’re not really representative of the era as a whole, are they? I mean, there was a darker side.’
‘There was a shite-er side, you mean,’ said Damo. ‘People want a laugh, that’s why you don’t get the likes of Joy Division on your 80’s compilations, and that’s why we don’t play them at the disco. They’d clear the dancefloor faster than a turd clears a swimming pool.’
Michelle came down from the upstairs apartment and entered the pub. She saw the group at the bar and was about to join
them when she noticed some customers sitting on the terrace. She stopped and squinted, leaning sideways to get a better view.
‘You alright, Chelle?’ said Keith.
Without taking her eyes from the customers, Michelle moved quickly to the bar. ‘Look out there, on the terrace.’
Everybody looked. ‘What?’ said Keith.
‘Isn’t that the newsreader from the local TV station?’ asked Michelle.
‘Where? Which one?’ said Keith.
‘There,’ said Michelle, pointing at one of the men. ‘The one with the slick-back hair do.’ ‘Oh, sí,’ said Luis. ‘Alfredo Salinas. He is the newsreader on Almacena TV.’
‘Who?’ said Keith.
‘That guy!’ said Michelle, jabbing her finger in Alfredo’s direction. ‘You know, the bloke you say looks like your Uncle Jim used to?’
Keith’s eyes widened. ‘Oh yeah, it is him, innit? Quick, Chelle, go out and serve him.’
‘What do you mean, me? I’m not even supposed to be working this morning.’ She slapped Damo lightly on the arm. ‘You go. Go on.’
‘No,’ said Keith. ‘You should go, you’re a woman, ain’tcha – he’ll respond better to you. And you’re a representative of management, ain’tcha? It looks better, and of course you look better than Damo – no offence, like, mate.’
‘None taken,’ said Damo. ‘I’m glad you feel that way. I’d hate to think things might be the other way round.’
‘Me too,’ said Michelle. ‘Alright, I’ll do just this one, then I’m clearing off back upstairs.’
As she picked a menu, Keith suddenly had an idea. ‘’Ere, hang on.’ He turned and took down the jar of pickled eggs from behind the bar. ‘We’ll give him some eggs.’
‘Do what?’ said Michelle.
‘Eggs,’ said Keith, unscrewing the jar and wincing as the smell hit his nose. ‘It’s a friendly gesture, innit. Complimentary tapas.’
Damo watched in undisguised horror as Keith fished four eggs out of the vinegar with his bare fingers and placed them on a small plate. ‘Eh, you don’t think they’d prefer a dish of nuts, Keith? You know, the same as everybody else?’
‘Ah, but he’s not everybody else, is he?’ said Keith handing Michelle the plate of eggs. ‘He’s a celebrity, isn’t he?’
‘And so for this you’re gonna give him a plate of stinking eggs?’
‘You don’t understand, mate. The Spanish love eggs! They have them on everything, don’t they – huevos this, huevos that. Isn’t that right, Luis? You Spanish love eggs, don’tcha?’
Luis looked doubtful. ‘Er, well not everyone likes the same thing, Keith.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Keith. He gave Michelle a wink. ‘Trust me. I’ve seen pickled eggs in action before. Tell him they’re traditional British tapas, Chelle.’
Michelle took the eggs and the menus and went outside.
‘British tapas?’ said Damo. ‘Jeez. I suppose it could be worse. It could be jellied eels.’
Keith considered the idea of a jar of jellied eels behind the bar for a moment before shaking his head, deciding against them on aesthetic grounds. ‘No, you don’t get it, do you, mate? Them eggs, they’re a U.S.P.’
‘And what’s that?’ asked Damo, ‘A Useless, Smelly Product?’
‘No. A Unique Selling Point. You may scoff, sunshine,’ said Keith pointing at the newsreader and his friends, who were now all engaged in lively conversation with Michelle. ‘But just look at that: that’s the power of pickled eggs in action, that is.’
‘No, I’d say that’s the power of your missus, Keith. The real power of pickled eggs’ll be unleashed in that fella’s trousers in about half an hour’s time.’
Giles drained his pint and set down the empty glass. ‘Another pint, please Keith. And I’ll have one of them eggs as well.’
‘See?’ said Keith to Damo. ‘Giles likes them.’
‘Like that’s a recommendation. Giles has probably got the fuckin’ munchies, don’t ya?’ Damo patted Giles on the back.
Giles smiled as Keith handed him his second pint, ‘Yeah. This is my bloody breakfast, innit.’
Hodge entered, smiling as all eyes shifted from Michelle and the newsreader’s party to him. ‘Alright, lads? What’s going on?’
Damo nodded to the front terrace. ‘Keith just sent Michelle out to poison a local celebrity.’
‘Oh aye. Pickled eggs is it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Keith, handing Giles an egg. ‘You want a napkin with that?’
‘No thanks, man.’
Everyone watched as Giles bit into the egg.
‘How is it?’ asked Damo.
Giles shrugged. ‘Hmm, I’ve had better.’
Hodge cocked his head to the table where Keith’s newspaper lay. ‘Can I have a quick word, Keith? It’s about … security.’
Keith’s eyebrows knitted, but he nodded. ‘Sure.’ He came over and joined Hodge at the table.
‘So,’ said Hodge. ‘Did you have a word with Michelle yet?’
Keith’s smile quivered uncertainly. ‘About what?’
‘About keeping mum, you know, about the Russian thing.’
‘Bloody hell, Hodge,’ said Keith, with a covert glance at Giles. ‘Keep your voice down.’
‘He can’t hear me – look, he’s talking to Luis.’
‘Yeah, but he could still be listening.’
Damo pulled out a chair and joined them. ‘Ah sure, he’s not listening, lads. He’s talking about himself.’
‘Yeah. So, anyway,’ said Hodge in a lower voice. ‘Have you had a word with her?’
‘Yeah ... sort of.’
‘Sort of?’ said Damo.
‘Yeah. Yeah, I had a word with her and she knows the score.’
‘Sort of.’
‘No. She knows, there isn’t any sort of. She knows she needs to keep her mouth shut, all right?’
‘You’re sure?’ said Hodge.
‘Yes, I’m fucking sure.’
‘So why did you say sort of?’ said Damo. ‘I’m sorry to go on about it, but that phrase always sounds like, “I’m not fuckin’ sure”, to me. I mean, if you were buying a used car from a bloke and he turned round and said the brakes were sort of safe, would you buy it?’
‘I’d buy it for you, you cheeky – ’
‘Alright, lads,’ said Hodge. ‘If Keith says Chelle knows the score, then she knows the score, alright?’ He looked pointedly at Damo.
Damo nodded. ‘Yeah, alright.’
‘Oh no, no, I mean, if you’re not satisfied, Damo, I could go out there now and have a word with her while out there chatting to the town newsreader. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds a bit fucking daft, mate.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Hodge, intervening. ‘Would the pair of you stop being so flipping stupid.’
At the sound of laughter from the terrace, everyone turned. Michelle gave Alfredo and his friends a wave as she came back into the pub. She came up to Keith’s table with a huge smile. ‘Well, what a nice man. Guess what?’
‘What?’ said Keith.
‘Alfredo is only going to be sending along a camera crew to do a piece on us. You know, Los Ingleses en Almacena? What do you think about that then?’
Keith’s smile fell. ‘What, a camera crew? Here? On us?’
Michelle nodded. ‘Yeah, how about that?’
Damo and Hodge exchanged a look.
‘That’d be the power of the eggs,’ said Giles. ‘I take it he liked them?’
‘Well he said he did,’ said Michelle. ‘He ate one. So did his mates.’
‘Yeah, I bet it was like that Russian roulette scene in The Deer Hunter, only with pickled eggs instead of the old gun, and you shouting out, “Huevos! Huevos!”’ Giles cackled with laughter.
Michelle’s nose wrinkled as if someone had placed a particularly pungent cheese beneath it. ‘What are you going on about, Giles?’
‘You know,’ said Giles. ‘The Deer Hunter? It’s a classic.’
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br /> ‘The only classic round here is you, mate – a classic wally. Unlike Alfredo, who was charming, as were all of his friends.’
Damo and Hodge looked expectantly at Keith. Keith saw this and tightened his lips. He gave a little nod of understanding then stood up and put an arm around Michelle’s shoulders. ‘Well done, Chelle.’ He kissed her on the cheek.
‘What’s that for?’ asked Michelle.
‘For, er, for being the best wife in the world.’
Michelle pushed him playfully. ‘What are you after, Keith?’
‘Nothing, love. I just wanted to take you upstairs and make you a nice cup of tea to thank you for ... bringing us to the attention of the media, like.’
Michelle indicated the people strolling onto the front terrace. ‘But it’s just getting busy, Keith. You can’t go off upstairs making me cups of tea.’
‘Don’t worry about that, girl, the lads’ve got it covered, ain’tcha lads?’
‘Yeah, no worries here, Chelle,’ said Hodge. ‘You two go and have a nice cuppa.’
‘Yeah, have a nice cuppa, and a nice chat,’ said Damo.
Keith gave him a stern look.
‘And take your time, why don’t you,’ Damo grinned. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got it covered – at our end.’
Michelle chattered on about how nice Alfredo was all the way up to the apartment and into the kitchen. ‘Have you ever noticed,’ she said as Keith went about preparing the tea. ‘What lovely brown eyes he has?’
Keith said nothing. He set two mugs beside the kettle and stared into their white emptiness.
‘Keith?’
‘Mmm?’ Keith turned to face her. ‘Sorry love, I was … thinking.’
‘I said have you ever noticed what lovely brown eyes Alfredo has?’
‘Who?’
‘The newsreader bloke I was just talking to!’
‘Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m sure they’re very nice.’
‘Keith, have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?’
‘Yeah, yeah of course I have. He’s got lovely eyes and he’s going to be doing a TV piece on us.’
‘Well, isn’t that great? Imagine the trade we’ll get as a result; not just ex-pats, but Spanish people as well. They’ll want to come and try something different, won’t they? They’ll all be clamouring for a bottle of Bishop’s Finger and a pickled egg. It’s your dream come true, isn’t it?’