Confessional

by Anthony Masters

  ‘I can’t do that.’ There was agony in his voice.

  ‘But you know the consequences.’

  Lorenzo slowly rose to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, señor, I can’t be locked up. Not for a moment.’ His eyes were fixed on Larche’s.

  ‘Don’t be a fool. Don’t you realize the deal I’m offering you?’

  Lorenzo wasn’t listening. ‘I understand what you say. You may even be right. But I can’t be locked up. That’s what they used to do at the orphanage – shut me in a room, sometimes for days on end. I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Be realistic. You could go down for –’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘You’ll be picked up at once. You won’t get off the island– not with all this increased security.’

  ‘They know me. They won’t stop me going fishing. Night fishing.’

  He was horribly right, thought Larche. They’d let Lorenzo buzz around all over the place. It was scandalously inefficient.

  ‘I’ll stop you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get physical, señor.’ Lorenzo was standing only a few metres away from him, his bare arms slightly raised, and Larche could see the muscles in them, glistening as darkly as the Mediterranean waves.

  Stubbornly Larche stood his ground. ‘Do you want to add assault to the list of charges?’

  ‘You won’t find me. I know how to disappear on this coastline.’

  ‘I shall have you stopped – alert Calvino.’

  ‘You’ve come here without a radio and by the time you’ve reached help I shall have gone. Then I’ll make my decision.’

  ‘What decision?’

  ‘Whether to blow the Tomas family wide open – or to encourage the good and foolish Bishop to continue giving me such a generous income. He’d rather pay than press extortion charges. Then there’s Mr Morrison to be considered …’ Lorenzo came nearer to Larche, his thick arms hanging heavily by his sides.

  ‘You’re being a fool.’

  ‘I won’t be locked up.’ Again he moved nearer until he was centimetres away and Larche could smell the garlic and alcohol on his breath.

  ‘Do you see? I can’t be locked up.’

  ‘We have to talk –’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about. Nothing.’

  Suddenly Larche saw the knife in his hand, the open blade held towards him. Where the hell had he got it from? Had it been on the table? In his pocket? What did it matter – he was holding it, the long steel upwards, pointing at Larche’s throat.

  ‘You’ll make me think you can kill,’ he said calmly, knowing that if he showed fear the situation would quickly escalate into violence and he would surely be the loser.

  ‘Get out of my way.’

  ‘I’m having you arrested. Put the knife down.’

  ‘Fuck you.’ He was even nearer now. ‘Fuck you.’ The blade seemed huge, considerably out of proportion to its hilt. Larche could imagine the steel slicing his flesh, feel the hot pain.

  ‘Put it down.’ He hoped his voice was still relatively calm.

  They were almost touching each other now. Larche remembered how impressed Eduardo had been when he had fought those hooligans in their student days, but then he had been angry and now he was afraid. Why couldn’t he be angry now, for God’s sake, Larche wondered – the man was threatening his life. But all he could feel was the fear crawling inside him, destroying his attempts at being calm, being reasonable.

  ‘I want to talk.’

  The knife was almost touching his throat now but Larche somehow stood his ground. It had been many years since he had experienced any kind of physical violence – and the sensation was far more bemusing and terrifying than he had remembered. In fact, Lorenzo’s physicality, his brutishness, his animal concentration convinced Larche that he stood no chance against him. He thought of Monique and then of Alison. Once again he saw the lavender fields in Provence, the radiance of the Mediterranean light. He had played this man along too far; he had failed to estimate his breaking point. Now he was in a situation that he couldn’t control.

  ‘Get out of my way.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake –’

  The knife sliced its way into Larche’s shoulder. The searing pain was far worse than he could ever have imagined and he fell back, trying to stop the blood as it gushed down his sleeve in a bright crimson flood.

  Lorenzo smiled viciously and punched Larche in the solar plexus. He went down, unable to breathe, his mouth ludicrously open.

  Larche had a sensation of drowning, but slowly, very slowly, he caught a miraculous gulp of air and then another. His stomach muscles eased, but it was some minutes before he staggered groaning to his feet, only to feel the dull throb of the knife wound. He looked down and was surprised to see that the blood seemed to have stopped flowing, but it still hurt like hell.

  He tried to get to his feet, slid back, tried again and at last managed to raise himself up and half sit, half lean against the table. I’ve got to stop him, he thought. I must stop him – for Anita’s sake.

  The door opened and Larche whipped round, wondering if he should prepare himself for another attack, but it was Salvador, dressed in T-shirt and jeans.

  ‘He’s hurt you.’ He looked glassily at the blood on the floor.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the church.’

  ‘What?’ Larche gazed at the boy as if he was crazy.

  ‘He keeps money there.’ There was perspiration on Salvador’s forehead and he was shivering, despite the heat of the room.

  ‘I’ve got to stop him.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Go and fetch Calvino. He’ll be in the canvas village.’

  ‘It’ll be too late.’

  ‘Get him!’

  ‘What about your arm?’

  ‘Go!’ Larche screamed at him and Salvador fled out of the door.

  As the pain lessened Larche staggered across the room, down the corridor and into the bar which was completely deserted. Looking at his watch he saw that it was just after two in the morning and he lurched across the stone floor and out into the silent street which still felt heavy with the day’s heat. His steps ringing out on the cobbles, Larche hurried towards the church and pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside there was a smell of stale incense and candle-grease. The interior was primitive, with rough-hewn whitewashed walls, and above the altar he could just make out a twisted, suffering Christ, writhing upon a painted wooden cross. The church was in darkness but beyond the nave there was a faint light coming through an iron grille. There was also a muffled, buzzing sound but when he got there, the space seemed to be empty.

  As Larche edged slowly forward over the uneven stone flags he could see that it was a small chapel, its bleak stone altar illuminated by wan moonlight coming through the stained glass window above. But when he looked more carefully he could see that it wasn’t a stained glass window after all. Instead he could see bars, a frame that was half open, and a figure, cast in iron, standing on the sill.

  Larche stared up at it until his eyes became used to the gloom and as he did so, he was conscious of a murmur. It was definitely the sound of muted human voices. But where? Then he saw the narrow staircase leading down on the far side of the darkened chapel.

  His eyes returned to the cloaked figure in the window. He supposed it depicted a saint, but to Larche the effigy was more like death itself, and a couple of lines from the English poet, Sir Walter Scott, entered his mind. And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but death who comes at last.

  Slowly, with his arm now beginning to throb again, Larche walked to the stairway and descended, the darkness becoming more and more impenetrable. The murmur increased and then he was at the bottom, where at last there were a few candles positioned on the stone shelf that ran around what was obviously the crypt. Gradually, very gradually, Larche saw that the space was divided into wooden alcoves that looked as if they had been used for storage. Boxes and crates were piled high in one of them, but in the other five h
e could see mattresses and on the mattresses the grunting, entwined bodies that were never still. Occasionally there was a groan of desire – a cry of fulfilment as the orgasm came. It was impossible to make out the sexes but Larche knew that this didn’t matter – that nothing mattered here. This was Sebastia’s bordello; here the clients thrashed in their sanctuary of lust. Larche turned away, sick to his very heart. Three little rich boys, trapped in their island territory. And now there were others – those caged in their positions of power who so desperately needed Sebastia and its unholy crypt. Is this what had attracted Eduardo so much? And his son? Is this what Anita blinded herself to? His arm was now on fire and he turned, his thoughts in turmoil, instinctively trying to find the wooden staircase again. But someone was already standing there. It was Maria Tomas.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered, and Larche registered with surprise that she seemed to be stone-cold sober.

  ‘Looking for Lorenzo.’

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Out to sea – in his fishing boat.’

  ‘I’ll have him picked up –’

  ‘You’re too late. He has a rubber dinghy with an outboard. He’ll head for some cove – and lose himself on the mainland.’

  ‘We’ll find him. I sent Salvador to get Calvino.’

  ‘He didn’t go.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘He was too afraid.’

  ‘But why?’ Larche was furious and there were shooting pains in his arm.

  ‘The men are out – looking for Lorenzo …’

  ‘What do they want him for?’

  ‘He’s taken the wages from the safe in the office,’ she said hopelessly. ‘He came here to get the key. This is where he hides it.’ She unsuccessfully muffled a sob. ‘God – I’m so afraid.’

  ‘He may still be around.’

  ‘I saw him go.’

  ‘You let him go.’

  ‘How could I stop him? The men are down at the quayside – they’ll take the boats out themselves. Try to catch him and get their money back. But I know he’ll be too quick for them.’ She sat down on the steps and put her head in her hands. ‘He’s used to running.’

  ‘Are they after you as well?’ asked Larche gently.

  Maria Tomas looked up at him in sudden realization. ‘No. It’s the women – they’ll be on the streets soon. They’ve been patient for too long. They’re not so concerned with Lorenzo – except that they want that money returned.’

  ‘What are they concerned with then?’ he asked her sharply but she didn’t reply, merely looking away with a shrug and a strange expression in her eyes – as if she didn’t have to tell him, as if he ought to know.

  ‘Where’s Jacinto?’

  Still Maria said nothing.

  ‘Where is he?’ insisted Larche. ‘You have to take me to him. He could be in very great danger. These women you talk about – they’ve seen so much exploitation here.’

  She shivered and dragged down her crumpled T-shirt. ‘I can feel the atmosphere tonight in Sebastia. It’s very raw and I’m afraid,’ she admitted reluctantly. Then she noticed the arm that Larche was hugging to himself. ‘You’re hurt …’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said brusquely. ‘Let’s go.’

  The night street was completely silent except for the sound of their footsteps, but there were lights on in the majority of the houses now and through the open shutters Larche could see the women sitting silently, waiting. Compared to the wealthy aestheticism of the Tomas estate only a quarter of an hour’s walk away, the sight had a primitive quality that was very disturbing. Their dark, shadowed faces were gaunt and watchful and there was a steely patience to them. He was reminded of some peasant farmers he had known in Normandy who had never left their small community and who still believed in the same superstitious life their forebears had lived. Then another image slipped into his mind. He and Monique had become lost while driving near Perpignan and they had stopped to ask for directions in a hot, still, Mediterranean village. But no one had spoken to them and when he had asked an old raven-like crone of a woman sitting by a petrol pump she had given them the evil eye.

  ‘Are all the men looking for Lorenzo?’ he asked Maria.

  ‘The fit and the healthy – the older ones are tucked up in bed.’ Maria looked up at him and he caught the look of terror in her eyes. ‘That just leaves the women to deal with the situation as they see fit.’

  ‘What situation?’ asked Larche impatiently, but it was clear that she was going to hold out on him – at least for the moment.

  ‘Let’s move,’ she said urgently. ‘There’s going to be trouble tonight and we don’t want to be around when it starts.’ Maria’s voice wavered, as if she hoped there could still be some doubt about what she was saying.

  Larche took another sideways glance at the women sitting so stoically at their windows. Had they really had enough? Or were they as passive as ever, waiting for their men to come home from the sea? ‘Calvino will be here soon,’ he said tensely. ‘He’ll be alerted by the boats going out.’ Suddenly he was sure there was a great well of hatred there, an immense dark force which had been thwarted for too long. There was a time when reasoning and deduction and understanding and democratic justice had to stop. That time had come and he felt the primitive anger of the women of Sebastia. Suddenly he wanted them to live up to Maria’s fears. Lorenzo and Eduardo had manipulated the community’s rough licentiousness to their own advantage; not only had a brothel been established in their church but the villagers had been forced into financial bondage by their corrupt masters.

  Then something in his mind stirred. ‘What might the women do?’ he asked Maria.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps nothing.’ She laughed bleakly. ‘They’ve always been in the background. Their men should have taken the action but they’ve been bound to Lorenzo for too long. He had so much. Eduardo’s patronage. A high salary. The sacrilege at the church. He’s used them, abused their religion, become a tyrant. Now he’s stolen their wages.’

  ‘They can get that back from the family,’ protested Larche.

  ‘Yes, but it’s the last straw, isn’t it? They want him. I know they do. They want his blood.’ She paused at the door of the bar. ‘But the men won’t get him. He’s too clever for them – and you. We’re the ones who could be in danger – from the women. That’s why he must go with you.’

  ‘That’s absurd. This is a civilized society.’ Larche was flustered, feeling her anxiety reaching out and touching him.

  ‘We’re in Sebastia,’ Maria replied quietly. ‘Things are different here. Eduardo managed to resurrect the past in this place, and all its old values and feelings. Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Larche slowly. ‘I think I do.’

  As soon as he entered the still smoke-hazed room, Larche knew intuitively that he was right and that he had come to the real source of the hatred. What had so sharply crystallized in his mind earlier he was now sure was true. Jacinto was sitting at the bar, drinking a cognac, dressed in a white linen suit with an open-necked shirt and highly polished black shoes. A gold crucifix hung at his bronzed neck and his whole appearance was immaculate – a total contrast to his dishevelled wife’s T-shirt and jeans. His long hair was neatly combed but there was a look of utter desolation in his eyes. As Larche came in, he looked up and gave a half-smile of acceptance. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Jacinto Tomas,’ said Larche quietly, ‘I know that you murdered your brothers Eduardo and Blasco Tomas, as well as Father Miguel Fernandez, and Detective Superintendent Alison Rowe and the man known as Liam Mullen.’ He turned formally to Maria. ‘Maria Tomas – I believe you are an accessory to those murders.’ She stared at him blankly, without speaking, whilst Jacinto drained his cognac. Larche wondered if he could detect a slight atmosphere of relief. It’s been such a long time, he thought – all those long Mediterranean days and nights – for his hatred to ferment under the sun.

  �
��I’ll make a statement,’ said Jacinto flatly. ‘But not here. We should go back to the house, and I’ll need to ring my lawyer. You can’t arrest us, can you, monsieur, or have you been given those powers as well?’ There was a faintly ironic note to his voice.

  ‘No,’ said Larche, ‘but Calvino can.’

  ‘I need a drink.’ Jacinto was adamant, going straight to the bar and pouring himself another Martell before they could stop him. ‘I’ll have this – and then we’ll go.’

  ‘We ought to get back now,’ said Maria urgently. ‘We can’t – mustn’t hang around here.’

  ‘I’ll do what I damn well like,’ yelled Jacinto and Larche decided to go along with the last drink for he was sure he would get more out of Jacinto this way.

  Maria went to the door, hurriedly glanced outside and then turned the lock.

  Jacinto was impatient. ‘You’ve got a thing about the women here. They wouldn’t lift a finger to me – or anyone else. They’re as passive as ever – as they always will be.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ Maria replied.

  ‘How did you find out?’ asked Jacinto. His voice was bright and artificial, but he was very calm and showed no flicker of emotion; even his eyes were grey and dead and without curiosity.

  Is it really such a relief to give up, wondered Larche, or is he going to surprise me like Lorenzo did? But somehow he was sure that he wouldn’t – that Jacinto Tomas was now just a shell, his personality burnt away by the hatred that had finally consumed him.

  ‘By the usual process of elimination,’ replied Larche, his arm beginning to throb even more painfully now. ‘You were the little rich boy who hated most, weren’t you – really hated the hardest. Once I got beyond Lorenzo, there was only you left.’

  ‘There was no other course open to me.’ Jacinto smiled wearily. ‘But it’s over now, thank God.’

  ‘Think what you’re saying …’ began Maria but her voice tailed away as if she had no enthusiasm for prolonging any further deception, and was only going through the motions.

  Jacinto ignored her. ‘I might as well tell you now. Yes, monsieur – I killed them. But not just out of hatred. It was me who ran Sebastia’s … Bacchanalia – although I simply built on the existing reputation. Lorenzo was only a manager who turned a blind eye because he enjoyed the power. Initially Eduardo let me go ahead because I created what he needed – what a lot of people needed. The perfect, private whore-house, protected by its nearness to the family estate and having a very special reputation – that of taking place in the crypt of a church in the proximity of other clients. A truly erotic recipe, don’t you agree?’ Larche was silent, unresponsive, but Jacinto swept on as if he had assented. ‘Of course there were rumours, but they could never be proven. In fact they worked rather like a protective screen. Too many powerful people came here – even tonight I have a cabinet minister and a newspaper editor grappling in the crypt. Maybe I couldn’t leave the island that easily, monsieur, but by God I could have been making some much-needed money out of my lucrative little business – except that I wasn’t.’ He ended on a note of considerable bitterness.