Sophia and Oñé laughed and they sat at the table beside Pep Conejo and Francisca.
I heard the sound of a motorbike on the driveway. It had to be Ishmael and Gabriela.
It was. I ran towards them as they dismounted from the bike. Ishmael stood unmoving for a few moments as Gabriela placed their helmets on the seat of the bike. He looked at me. I breathed in deeply. He was really alive. I had not murdered him. His lips moved into a smile. He raised his hands into the air as if to say, ‘So here we are’ – and then he took three long steps towards me, threw his arms around me and squashed me into his chest.
He whispered into my ear, “I am so glad to see you. It couldn’t be better could it?”
He waved at Sophia and Oñé without letting go of me with his left arm.
I held him even tighter to my chest. I didn’t want him to move. I felt him to be a pulsating stone in my arms. He was the Earth and Heaven combined in one body.
I brought my lips to his ear. “I’m sorry.”
He rubbed my hair in the way that he used to do when we sat by the fire.
“There is nothing to be sorry about. What happened was only a tussle of love – nothing else.”
He took Gabriela by the hand. She blew a kiss at me as they sat facing Sophia and Oñé. Michael Lucareli, the guitarist, played a fast-paced tune called Tears of the Sun which sounded to me as if Ulysses the cat was playfully running across a set of guitar strings.
I moved to the table to take my seat beside Sophia. The waitresses, in their pink lacy dresses which they wore at the inauguration of Ishmael’s garden, poured everyone a glass of Krug. Gabriela held Ishmael’s hand. She was wearing a shimmering blue dress with white silk embroidered stars and a blue silk belt. Her hair again curled and rolled onto her shoulders. Her lips were glossy red. She had sparkling dust, glittering on her cheeks. She looked like a Goddess at the table.
During the first course I talked with Ishmael. I didn’t need to say much. I explained that I thought that I had murdered him and placed his body in the sculpture.
He laughed. “Only you could think like that. I survived Syria. Do you not think I would have stopped you from killing me? It wasn’t necessary. You were drunk and confused. That made it easy to escape from you. My biggest concern was that I would not see you again. I am grateful for this invitation.”
It felt appropriate to be able to ask him a few unanswered questions. I looked to make sure that Oñé was not listening and saw that he was rather engrossed in a conversation with Sophia.
“Did you paint the triptych? The one in the studio which Oñé said he had painted?”
He looked puzzled. He shook his head. “No. I haven’t touched a painting since I ran away from here in October. I can learn you know from my mistakes.” He laughed. “Don’t tell me that Oñé has a magical touch too.”
I took his hand. “What about the box with the installations? Did you burn one of them?”
He placed a hand over his mouth in shock, removed it and laughed again. “Of course not. I would never do that to your work. I don’t think Oñé would do that either – would he?”
I raised my shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe not. It must have really been a fireball from the storm. It doesn’t matter.”
Before the main course was served, I gave everyone, including Chris and Doris, and waitressing staff, a hammer. We moved from the patio to the sculpture outside the front door.
For a brief moment, I hesitated as I thought perhaps that perhaps there could be the body of someone unknown hidden inside the sculpture. I dropped that thought. It had to be insane to think it.
I tapped a glass and said in a loud voice to the guests , “It’s time for the piñata. Open it up. Let’s see what is inside.”
Everyone, including Pep Conejo and Francisca, laughed as they attacked the sculpture. It fell surprisingly quickly to the ground. Oñé jumped on it. I thought that perhaps it was getting a little too frenzied. I raised a hand.
“The deed is done. Stop. Let’s see what is inside.”
I peeled back the damaged ceramic skin from the sculpture. It revealed inside the twisted body of branches from an olive tree. I pulled them free and laid them on the ground beside the fire pit which glowed red. I felt a reverence for that ancient olive wood which had twisted itself into a human shape over centuries. I wanted to cover it in a shroud to give it dignity.
Oñé seemed to know what I was thinking and ran to the Studio to bring me his folded painting gown. I dressed the olive tree in his gown of cotton. Oñé helped me place the enclosed olive wood with the sculpture casing on the fire. There was a cheer from the guests. As the cheer expanded throughout the garden, everyone turned to see the figure of Gregoriano walk up the driveway. Oñé left the fire pit and ran to Sophia.
“Is it him?”
She nodded.
Oñé ran to his father, who scooped him into his arms. They stood motionless. Oñé’s blonde hair falling over Gregoriano’s shoulders. Everyone remained silent watching Gregoriano’s eyes close. His lips moved as if saying a prayer but no words were heard. Then he and Oñé, talked to one another for a few minutes in low voices. No-one could hear what they were saying to one another. There was another embrace before they approached the table where the guests were seated in silence. There was a round of applause as Gregoriano asked, “Would there be space for one more?”
The catering staff busied themselves creating a place for Gregoriano beside Monica. Michael the guitarist played a gentle song as everyone looked at one another – no-one really knew what to say as the silence was broken with laughter and then friendly chatter.
I slowly stood up and raised a glass of champagne. “Thank you all for being here. I will say little … “
There was a whistle from Oñé who jumped to his feet. “It’s Christian. Look Augustin – Christian has returned. He knew that I wanted him to be here.”
He raced from the patio towards Boulder Hill. Christian easily cleared the fence and bounded towards Oñé.
Francisca cried out in terror: “He will kill him. Someone save the boy.”
She ran inside the house. The other guests walked towards Oñé and Christian and we stood in a circle. Oñé knelt on the ground. Christian licked his face and rolled his head against Oñé’s chest. Although at first startled, the guitarist continued playing.
Suddenly there was a distant rumble. It was hidden at first by the sound of the guitar, until it became a steady roar, growing in volume. I looked to my right where an avalanche of rocks, rolled down Boulder Hill, accelerated towards the house. The guests returning to their seats for the first course were oblivious at first to the danger. I sat on the ground watching Oñé stroke Christian. I looked at the table. Sophia talked to mother and Gregoriano. I then recognised the sound of the roaring coming from Boulder Hill. As the rocks gained momentum, I could see that they were heading directly towards Oñé and Christian. There was no time to think.
As they smashed through the fence, I pushed Oñé with Christian to my right. The sound of the avalanche of rocks was now drowned by screams from the table. I felt a piercing pain in my lower legs. Oñé ran towards me and Christian bounded into the labyrinth. I could see blood oozing from my head on the ground. There was the sound of a police siren. Everything went black.
When I opened my eyes, Gregoriano was touching my legs. I heard something creak and move into place. He had already put a bandage around my head. My legs felt excruciatingly painful.
Pep Serrano and José Miguel stood to my left looking at me and then at one another. Pep Serrano started to talk, stopped and José Miguel continued, “I am sorry to say this under these conditions, but we have no option – we are here to arrest you for the attempted murder of Gregoriano Balsano on Wednesday 4th October 2017.”
The silence was broken by Gregoriano. “There is no need. You may go home. I am Gregoriano Balsano. There was no attempted murder. This man is my friend. Why else do you think I received an invitation to
this party? As you can see, we are a family of friends, we know how to party. It includes a few small scrapes and falls which happened as we celebrated together in October. I hadn’t realised that I had fallen and was slightly concussed before walking home. I fell a second time on the road to Soller. The small injury on my back came from a silly game which Ishmael and I were playing with the two Cupid arrows. I staggered into Ishmael who was holding the lead arrow as we debated the differences between the meaning of the arrow tipped with gold and the arrow tipped with lead. It was a most unfortunate accident. I am sorry to have distressed so many people by being out of contact for a few months due to my hospital stay.
“We need to get Ishmael to hospital now as a priority and perhaps someone can find Francisca in the house. She has a little bit of a ‘nervous’ disposition and the avalanche of rocks has more than likely induced in her a state of shock.”
Sophia knelt beside me and wiped my forehead with her napkin. “Please, can someone call an ambulance?” She looked at the police. “Did you not see what he did? He was prepared to give his life to save Oñé. How could a man who is prepared to sacrifice his own life be capable of murdering another?”
There was a cheer from the table, for a few minutes the guitarist fell silent and Francisca emerged from the house holding a glass filled with brandy. Oñé grabbed a suckling pig from the table and rushed into the labyrinth as a cloud of apricot and almond flower petals swirled onto the ground.
Gregoriano took my hand as I heard the ambulance approach. “You did it. You were prepared to give your life for another. You have fulfilled the meaning of your life. Now you can live the rest of it and you will be surprised what magic it will hold for you. I can go now. I will continue my work.”
I squeezed his hand. “Don’t go. Think about Oñé. Stay.”
He shook his head. “I will see Oñé often – but you are his father. A father is a person who acts like a father. Be a good father, a loving husband and a friend to the world – starting with everyone here.”
Pep Serrano glanced at Boulder Hill. “Okay. It looks like we are done here.”
“It was a surprise to have discovered Ishmael Domini living in the house of Augustin Silvero. Why did I not suspect that to be true? Ishmael’s art reaches to the heart of every human being’s soul. He paints our pain and captures our capacity to be free – not in a physical sense but free in the sense of a freedom of spirit.
The triptychs painted by Oñé, Augustin and Ishmael, hang side by side in the Reina Sofia museum in Madrid. As these three triptychs are exhibited, police continue their reopened investigation into the death of Augustin’s father. We must not let this investigation taint the beauty of his art, which is unsurpassed.
I am an art critic and can only comment on the genius which I see in the works of Oñé, Ishmael and Augustin. I do not judge a person – only their art which for me is their being.”
(Art Critic, Collector and Philosopher – Miguel del Salmorejo – Palma de Mallorca – 2018)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Rachel Connor for her support, coaching and guidance.
Matthew Smith, a dream maker from Urbane Publications who gives life to a writer, and Kieran McNicholl, a generous friend.
I was the first person in the UK to survive a heart operation during which the surgeon never touched my heart. It was in Belfast in 1957. My mother was seven months pregnant when she became the second person in the UK to be operated on to repair a faulty mitral valve. Two months later I shot unaided into the world. On reflection I have always had a sense of being born alone, giving me insight into the ultimate aloneness of all human beings. We are mysteriously alone with others.
Living through the war in Northern Ireland gave me an interest in how human beings evolve, driven by the world of emotions. I began to see how we are all pushed and pulled within an emotional world of like or dislike, love or hate.
My writer’s mind was from a mix of being both a reflective introvert and an expressive extrovert. It was a perfect combination for writing. I have loved brushing up against new people I meet in my job as a Leadership Consultant – working in over 35 countries in the world and with over 60 organisations. Meeting these people has deepened my fascination with human beings. I wonder about them all – what makes the people I see sitting around a table on a workshop.
I like pushing the boundaries of being alive to their extremes. I studied for a Masters in Consciousness Studies and Transpersonal Psychology. I have been on silent retreats in Arizona, California and Canada and I have “sweated” several times in ‘sweat lodges’ with Native Americans from the Sioux tradition.
I have always been a “seeker” of the meaning of life. 16 years ago, I persuaded my husband that we should give everything away – sell our house in Oxford, give away all our possessions and move to Mallorca with two suitcases and our cat Ziggy. There was no planned future. That was both exciting and mad at the same time. I knew that I was pushing life to its limits.
Shortly after arriving in Mallorca I began to paint, studying with Argentinian painter Carlos. I began to write. I started with Eden Burning, and then followed, The Secret Wound. Now I have written The Painter. I love the world of writing because it allows me to go to the edges of life – to my own edge in being alone with others.
‘This is an atmospheric and beautifully charged story, which moves between time frames and locations to ratchet up the building tension. The author evokes the Mallorcan landscape beautifully throughout. Digging deep into mysticism, The Secret Wound explores notions of connections, intimacy and power and asks questions about the nature of home. Highly recommended. A great summer read!’ Rachel O’Connor
Deirdre Quiery’s follow up to the critical success of Eden Burning, The Secret Wound draws the reader into a complex web of relationships within the ex-pat community in Mallorca, discovering their dangerous secrets...and a potential murderer in their midst. One of their number carries a dark and deadly secret from their past, and has murderous plans for a fellow ex-pat. Can any of the close- knit community discover the brutal plans before they are all put in mortal danger?
Deirdre Quiery’s gripping thriller is not just an addictive page-turner but provides a compelling exploration of human emotion and desires, and the terrible costs of jealousy and ambition. Perfect for fans of Jane Corry and Amanda Brooke.
‘Catapulting us into 1970s Belfast in the heart of the Troubles, Eden Burning pulses with conflict and introduces us to a cast of characters we profoundly care about, even when they are warring with each other. Above all, though, it is a novel with a true spiritual and emotional heart.’ Rachel Connor, bestselling author of Sisterwives
Northern Ireland, 1972. On the Crumlin Road, Belfast, the violent sectarian Troubles have forced Tom Martin to take drastic measures to protect his family. Across the divide William McManus pursues his own particular bloody code, murdering for a cause. Yet both men have underestimated the power of love and an individual’s belief in right and wrong, a belief that will shake the lives of both families with a greater impact than any bomb blast. This is a compelling, challenging story of conflict between and within families driven by religion, belief, loyalty and love. In a world deeply riven by division, a world of murders, bomb blasts and assassinations, how can any individual transcend the seemingly inevitable violence of their very existence?
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Table of Contents
Half-title Page
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
/> 7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Painter Page 26