Confessional

by Anthony Masters

  Larche tried to be reasonable. These women were ordinary enough – wives, mothers, grandmothers. They would have understanding, compassion, sensitivity – the way women did. There was nothing for anyone to be afraid of. Surely all this was only in the nature of a protest. There would be harsh words, condemnation no doubt, and then they would disperse.

  A gnarled stick of a grandmother took a couple of steps forward and immediately a chill swept over Larche. She was holding something in her hand. They were all holding something in their hands. What in God’s name, he wondered frantically, are they going to do? The night was cat grey now and he could just hear the ocean licking at the harbour wall. Faint strains of dance music drifted from a radio in one of the houses and a dog, woken by the activity, howled mournfully in a backyard.

  ‘Señora.’ The woman’s voice was dry and hard.

  ‘Yes?’ asked Maria despairingly.

  ‘I would ask you to step aside.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We have business with Jacinto Tomas.’

  ‘Get rid of them,’ whispered Maria. ‘Tell them to go.’

  Larche tried to exert his authority but he knew that his efforts would be useless. ‘Go home. Go home – all of you.’

  ‘Step aside, señor, and you, señora – please, step aside.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ shouted Jacinto, his voice rising, his amusement gone. ‘Go home.’ Now he, too, was afraid – horribly afraid.

  The old woman moved nearer and in her dark, lined face Larche could see the final firm resolve of unrewarded patience. There was a hard glint in her eye, so hard and so determined that Larche could feel the passion in her, the fire that had been smouldering for so long. ‘Señor Tomas. You have used Sebastia, committed our church to sacrilege. Our men won’t punish you – our men do nothing but talk and watch, but that is natural. In the end it is the women who must stop watching – it is the women who must take action.’

  Jacinto took a few steps away from them.

  ‘No,’ Maria shouted. ‘Don’t move, my darling. Don’t move. That’s what they want.’

  ‘Stay with us,’ said Larche authoritatively. ‘Stay with us and we’ll protect you.’

  But Jacinto took a few more steps and they were the signal for the hail of stones to begin.

  Maria ran to hurl herself over Jacinto, to shelter him as the missiles rained down, but several women dragged her away, letting her scream helplessly on the sidelines whilst Larche made ineffectual attempts to stop them. But there were too many, far too many – perhaps sixty or more – and all of them held stones and broken cobbles.

  ‘Stop this immediately,’ shouted Larche. ‘You mustn’t interfere with the course of justice. He’s going to be punished by the courts …’

  Jacinto Tomas was squirming on the ground now, fresh blood flowing down his face. He had curled up into a foetal position, with his torn hands covering his head. Despite Maria’s imploring screams and Larche’s ineffective commands the women continued to stone him, their faces impassive, only their eyes intent and enraged. Frantically Larche struggled with a couple of the women but they pushed him away and he fell backwards on to the cobbles, pain shooting up his wounded arm.

  The stoning continued relentlessly while Jacinto rolled and screamed and begged and implored, but they showed no mercy as they hurled their missiles, united in their self-appointed mission. Soon a helicopter came buzzing and clattering overhead and a jeep could be heard, roaring at high speed towards them. Calvino’s too late, thought Larche, as he looked across at the bloodied, broken heap that was now still – and had once been Jacinto Tomas.

  ‘Murderers,’ screamed Maria. ‘You’re murderers – all of you.’

  ‘And so are you,’ capped one of the retreating women as they all hurried into the anonymity of the shadows and closed the shutters on their homes.

  Soon their men would be home from the sea, thought Larche, but the real job has been done here – by the women. He walked over to Maria who was kneeling by Jacinto, but could find nothing to say to her. He remained beside her as dawn slowly began to break over Molino.

  Epilogue

  Anita Tomas and Marius Larche stood together, looking down at the sea boiling around the old harbour quayside, its massive Hellenic rock darkly brooding over the long, flat beaches. It was early evening and the gulls were feeding on the waves, sweeping, calling, soaring over the gleaming Mediterranean.

  The cicadas rhythmically sounded in the grasses around them, while the shadows stole over the monolithic columns and stone fragments of the forum and the villas of the Graeco-Roman ruins. The site of Eduardo’s proposed grave was a fenced-off mound of earth, but a pile of marble slabs indicated this was to be no modest edifice. Cypress and conifer trees were dotted amongst the crumbling stonework and the lowering sun spread a mellow warmth through the ancient remains of the old city. Empuries was at its most mysterious, the crimson light of the recent sunset making the stone insubstantial, shifting, almost distorted.

  ‘You really didn’t know?’ murmured Larche as he turned away from the translucent sea. He had spent the rest of the night in hospital, having his arm attended to, but although he was completely exhausted the pain had been reduced to a soreness that was bearable. Early that morning he had spoken to Calvino and been agreeably surprised by the conversation. After they had discussed the recent traumatic events, Calvino had said, ‘I knew I shouldn’t have been so accepting, but the pressure was barbaric – and I just wanted time. What was more, I knew you would get much further than I with the interviews, and much more quickly. After all, you were a friend of the family.’

  ‘Yes,’ Larche had replied hesitantly. ‘But you know, I only starter out as an acquaintance. I became a friend – a necessary friend – as it all happened.’

  ‘You became the family confessor,’ Calvino had replied.

  In the end he probably came to resent me, thought Larche, as he stumbled over the rocky, barren ground. Walking with his arm in a sling hadn’t been as easy as he had imagined, but Anita steadied him maternally and he was grateful for her cool, matter-of-fact assistance. Around them, in the gloaming, were a scattering of security guards, watching them with clinical detachment.

  ‘Of course I knew,’ she said. ‘But I blotted it all out – and I shall continue to do so. Eduardo and I had a very special love – one that was private and exclusive to us – and to no one else. I’m very sure of that. That’s why I was able to talk so intimately to Mr Morrison – he was a sounding board to me.’ She held up a hand in protest before Larche could intervene. ‘I know he’s a dangerous man – a very shallow and self-seeking man – but I shall keep him on because he’s a very fine painter and he’ll bring Eduardo alive again for me.’

  ‘Have you changed the background?’

  ‘Sebastia? No – why should I? Eduardo recreated an industry there. It doesn’t matter what else he did; that was not part of what we meant to each other.’

  ‘You can really make this separation?’ Larche was still incredulous.

  ‘You know I can. I was delighted when they discovered that unfortunate Irishman but I should have known that it was only a passing charade. Señor Calvino may have been controllable but you were not, Marius.’ She smiled sadly at him. ‘Why should you be?’

  ‘You were the only one who didn’t see me as a father confessor,’ said Larche drily.

  ‘No – certainly that was not a role I saw you in. As for the others, I don’t think you received very accurate confessions, did you? People told you only what they wanted to express – or like me they just practised to deceive. However, I suppose that’s what you’re used to in your profession.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied carefully. ‘I have to interpret what my penitents say in the confessional.’

  ‘As you can imagine,’ said Anita Tomas with uncharacteristic hesitation, ‘I wanted a quick result to keep Eduardo’s name clean. I didn’t achieve that but I’m sure I can rely on your continued discretion.’ Her tone was n
ot threatening but pleading and Larche winced inside at the fragility of the woman. She had built her life on quicksand – and occasionally, very occasionally, she looked vulnerable.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Larche muttered in an attempt at reassurance. He was tired of the abuse of power. ‘You’d already asked Father Miguel to look into Lorenzo’s background, hadn’t you? And you’d spoken to Blasco.’

  ‘I could see all the connections, Marius. I’d just rather not understand the answers,’ she said with a return to her fortress mentality.

  ‘What happens if Morrison – or Lorenzo – talks? There’s nothing I can do to control them,’ he reminded her.

  She shrugged. ‘I can shut them out. Unlike my brothers-in-law, Molino is not a prison to me. Despite what has happened – it’s still a haven.’

  ‘What about your career?’

  ‘I shall retire.’

  He nodded, knowing how little the world of concert performances meant to her now. Eduardo’s memory was all-consuming and Larche knew that eventually it would submerge her completely. ‘And you’ll really stay on Molino, with Sebastia so near?’ Larche felt he needed to play the devil’s advocate.

  She nodded. ‘It pleases me to think of those other women having done their duty, returning to those shuttered homes to serve their menfolk again. But they are the powerful ones in the end. It was they who meted out justice while the men were out hunting.’ She smiled at Larche again with the same sad look. ‘I could never be like them; someone from my background can only sit and lick their wounds and live in the past with a painting.’

  And a conveniently truncated memory, thought Larche.

  Anita spoke softly, exactly reading his thoughts. ‘As you know, I have this ability to seal myself off – to make myself an island. And I’m successful at it, Marius.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For as long as I wish. I assure you I can be very single-minded and I don’t need the kind of senseless protection Bishop Carlos lavished on me. He has made me very angry.’

  ‘Why do you think he did protect you in that way?’ asked Larche curiously.

  ‘The Church has always protected the Tomas family – through the centuries.’

  ‘So it’s a habit?’

  ‘It’s a method of ensuring that the old bastions of Spain remain intact and untrammelled.’

  ‘But will they remain that way?’ said Larche. ‘With the enemies you must have?’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t care. I have the island. I have my island.’ She sounded very certain. ‘Molino may have ensnared the poor little rich boys you talk about but, as I’ve said, the place is a haven to me – a sanctuary. I shall remain here.’

  ‘Do you … will you be giving evidence against Maria?’

  ‘If I have to. But I don’t know what I could say that would be … helpful.’ Her voice was neutral.

  ‘Do you hate her?’

  ‘I can feel nothing for her.’

  ‘And Jacinto?’

  ‘He tortured Eduardo and for that I can never forgive him, but I think the women of Sebastia did all the avenging.’

  ‘What about Salvador?’

  She paused, her answer unready for the first time. ‘What you told me about him was appalling. I don’t want him to grow up like them – trapped here, following a path that can only make him another prisoner. So I’m sending him away – to my sister in Madrid. He’ll go to school there and I’ll … I’ll take him away in the holidays.’

  ‘Leaving your island?’

  ‘Not for long.’

  ‘You realize he may … pursue the same path in Madrid?’

  ‘There is that risk,’ she replied slowly. ‘But he can’t stay here.’ Anita huyied back to the darkening sea, its mantle broken here and there by the lights of a fishing boat. ‘You can Just see Molino,’ she whispered. ‘Do you know Benjamin Britten’s opera, Peter Grimes?’ she asked him.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Balstrode sings,

  ‘This storm is useful: you can speak your mind

  and never mind the Borough comment’ry.

  There is more grandeur in a gale of wind

  to free confession, set a conscience free.’

  Larche peered into the fading light and saw the indistinct cluster of rock. ‘Yes. I can see Molino.’

  ‘Think of me then, Marius. Think of me in my island fortress, sealed off with my free conscience and the Eduardo I understand. Occasionally I’ll play my cello and maybe hear his voice in a gale of wind.’ Anita began to speak more briskly. ‘Of course I shan’t entirely be a recluse. There’s Sebastia – and its fishing industry. I may even have a hand in running that myself. I feel I would be well supported by the women there – don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Larche with confidence. ‘I think you would.’

  ‘Will you be staying for the funeral, Marius?’

  ‘Yes – but if you don’t mind, not at the guest house. I’ve booked into a hotel on the mainland.’

  ‘Of course.’ She proffered her hand. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll be alone together again. Thank you for your wisdom – and your intuition.’

  Larche nodded. A little night breeze sprang up, rustling the trees. He thought of Alison Rowe, and closed his eyes fiercely against her memory. Marius Larche was not a man who could take refuge.

  * Murder is a long time coming

  To Diane Fisk with very many thanks

  This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader

  Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London

  WC1B 3DP

  Copyright © 1993 Anthony Masters

  The moral right of author has been asserted

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication

  (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital,

  optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written

  permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this

  publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

  ISBN: 9781448207633

  eISBN: 9781448207329

  Visit www.bloomsburyreader.com to find out more about our authors and their books

  You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can sign up for

  newsletters to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers