‘No bother,’ he went on. ‘I can nip up there now. Got the car outside. Up the A50 and then left, isn’t it?’
Anna forced herself to look at him. His eyes were hardly bigger than buttonholes in his flushed face: a wonder he could see out of them.
‘Well, there’s no evidence my tenants were involved, is there?’ she said. ‘I don’t want to harass them.’
‘Thing is, Anna, it’s not really just about you, is it,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t harass them’ – he spoke the word with contempt – ‘just ask them if they knew anything about it. Rule them out. You know.’
Anna had always doubted Graeme’s claims to have been top rank CID – surely, even in Liverpool in the eighties, there were some standards – but now she could see him back in his heyday, the corrupt copper in a straining nylon shirt, ordering some casual violence with a lift of his chin. He was always nipping off down to Marbella and Estepona; he claimed to be birdwatching, but maybe he kept dodgy company there, and could enlist some bored muscle to accompany him up to the finca.
‘You’ve been here, for what, a year?’ he went on. ‘Well I’ve been here a lot longer than that, my dear, and I can tell you that ninety-nine per cent of the trouble we get is from Africans. That’s not racist, that’s a fact.’
Anna didn’t reply.
‘I’ll tell you now,’ he continued, the fleshy triangles of his fingers pressing down on the bar. ‘If anything else happens, anything at all – if a flowerpot goes missing – I’m going up there. OK?’
‘OK, Graeme,’ said Anna, forcing herself to smile at him, as if this was just an innocuous conversation.
He left, letting the door bang shut behind him. Jangled, Anna moved to pour herself a copita before deciding instead on a carajillo: an espresso with a shot of brandy, the breakfast of Spanish working men. As the coffee machine warmed up, she imagined her new tenants sitting around the oak table at the finca, sharing their intel as they marked a map of the area with one of Michael’s sketching pencils. Fat woman, arthritis, easy to overcome. Dog, but it’s old. Golf buggy here. Or maybe Karen was right, and they were establishing a hydroponic skunk farm up there. Windows sealed with gaffer tape, furniture thrown into the garden, light cables slung over the beams.
She drank the coffee and the brandy, one straight after the other, blinking as the alcohol blazed in her stomach like a match dropped on petrol.
She could call Simón. But to say what? During that New Year’s Eve phone call, she’d given her agreement for his ‘friends’ to stay there. And what he’d said: ‘With the others, I’d have mentioned it, but not you . . .’
And maybe the African men were his friends. His trusted ex-colleagues, whom he wanted to treat to a holiday. A three-month holiday. As he said. Just because something was unlikely, it didn’t mean it wasn’t true. To suspect the worst – well, wasn’t that just halfway to becoming Graeme, so blinkered he could barely see?
But, but. She thought of Tommy’s uncharacteristic firmness at the Plaza del Sol: ‘Anna, it’s your asset.’ Sure, the finca wasn’t worth anything at the moment, but the recession wouldn’t last forever. And the time, the effort, the money . . . She thought, again, of the sixty-mile trek to that plumber’s merchant, the one with the horse calendar, to buy the sink valves. Of picking up those endless eBay purchases from the garage. Stamping on those bathroom tiles by the side of the road. What that money could represent – if she could somehow liquidate the place, and pour it back into London. Maybe not a flat in Islington any more. But something. A fresh start.
And Simón had lied to her, hadn’t he, that first meeting on her doorstep? Or, certainly, he hadn’t told the full truth.
She had another carajillo, found Simón’s card, and called the number. He answered after less than a ring.
‘Sí?’
‘It’s Anna,’ she said. Silence. ‘I own the finca?’
‘Sí, Anna. How can I help you?’
‘I was just wondering if . . . everything is OK up there. At the house?’
‘Yes, it’s perfect,’ he said. ‘I spoke to Almamy and they are very happy there.’
He was outside somewhere; she heard a car horn. His impatience vibrated down the line.
‘Oh, good . . .’
‘As we are talking,’ he said, ‘I should say – here in Spain, the law is that the tenant has a right to peaceful enjoyment of their property. A landlord must get their permission before entering. It is the same in the UK, I think?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Anna, although she didn’t know.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ he said, and then, when Anna didn’t answer, ‘OK, adiós.’ He hung up.
A moment later, a loud burst of music from outside made her jump. A car radio? Too loud. The music abruptly cut off for a second, and then flared up again, long enough this time for her to identify the song – Whitney Houston, ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody’. Oh yes – Sweeney was hosting a karaoke night that evening, with one-euro shots. He’d written it on his window in wonky fluorescent pen. His attempt to reestablish his bar as the venue for special occasions; payback for her grabbing the custom for the lottery and New Year’s Eve.
Another five-second blast of music from Sweeney’s. Anna stayed where she was at the bar. She had a jittery, hollowed-out feeling, not helped by the brandy, but it was too late to regret that now. Her phone rang, still in her hand, and she jumped; for a stupid moment she thought it was Simón, calling back to give her the proper explanation she deserved. But of course not. The screen flashed Derek.
She let it ring out. She knew what her father wanted – to sound off about how lonely he was and be reassured that someone, somewhere, still cared about him. Derek didn’t leave a message; he never did. If someone couldn’t fulfil his needs at that very moment, he dropped it and looked elsewhere. He’d be on to Marie-Anne now.
Another abrupt, five-second blast of music from Sweeney’s. Maybe he was torturing someone in there.
The afternoon lay ahead of her, a thick, torpid river to wade through. She sat on her stool, shoulders rounded, hands in her lap. The overhead light highlighted the wounds on the mahogany-coloured counter she had inherited: dents and scratches from God-knows-how-many seasons of contact with beer bottles, hire car keys, lighters, signet rings, false fingernails. The spirits on the optics had a sticky film, their metal casings corroded from the sea air. The fronds of the spider plant, which sat on top of the defunct fruit machine in the corner, were weighed down with dust. God, this place. But it was more than just dirt. Even if Mattie cleaned for six hours, it would still feel grimy, with its oily faux beams and yellowed walls, testament to the fact the bar’s previous owner had opted out of the smoking ban.
She hauled herself up and went to the door, opening it to let the air in and glancing out at the square. Another mild, clear, unexceptional day. The woman in the You Chic gift shop leaned against the frame of her doorway, underneath her canopy of Peppa Pig towels. She glanced in Anna’s direction, and gave what might have been a nod. Apart from her, Anna saw a solitary man with a shopping bag and, on the far side, Caz with the dogs, doing her circuit. The tiny birds sat patiently at the fountain. The square was clean, at least: the outlying streets, where the Spanish lived, were clogged with rubbish and reeked of urine, but the council still made an effort here. The trees had been adorned with fake plastic oranges; Anna hadn’t even realized they weren’t real until she saw someone replacing them the previous month.
Anna ducked back inside. Paperwork – that was her task for today. She printed off the till receipts. Under the bar, beside a box of years-old mayonnaise sachets, was a wodge of unopened mail. She fetched it, her laptop and a copita – no more brandy for now – and sat at a table, letting the envelopes fall in an unlovely pile.
In the early months of the bar, she’d been diligent and efficient, stock-taking and balancing books, enjoying learning the mechanics of her new project. But that seemed a long time ago, now; when this had all
been a bit of an adventure. She pulled up an Excel spreadsheet and started opening the mail, scanning the bank statements and bills. The period just gone, between Christmas and New Year, was supposed to be one of the busiest of the year, when bars raked in enough to cover the lean months ahead. But even with New Year’s Eve and the lottery night, it appeared she had taken in less than 2,000 euros in total over the month. And the fixed expenditure kept on coming. Rent, IVA, social security, fire insurance . . .
Terrace tax? She stared glassily at the letter, a final reminder for 670 euros. A yearly charge she’d forgotten about. That was the money from Simón, the first month’s rent for the finca, gone: a thin cushion whipped out from under her.
She entered the debt on her spreadsheet. Next in the pile of mail was a thick, expensive A5 envelope, addressed to her personally and bearing the logo of a London fertility clinic. It took Anna a moment to recall its origin, and when she did, she put it aside, unopened. IVF information. In a moment of late-night weakness, spurred on by an email from Marie-Anne, who was as practical about Anna’s childlessness as she was about everything else, Anna had filled in an online enquiry form. But even as she did it, she knew it would never go any further. Creating a child alone wasn’t the answer. She wasn’t put off by the burden of single parenthood – she liked a challenge and didn’t mind hard work – but it felt like cheating to dive straight in there. Any fool could be loved by their children.
On the rare occasions she went out to restaurants in Marea, eating alone, Anna would smile at bored toddlers on neighbouring tables, whose parents were ignoring them, and they would look back at her, suspicious and implacable, before continuing trying to get their parents’ attention. To earn that kind of indiscriminate devotion, she felt, you first had to do something infinitely harder: find someone you adored who adored you back, enough to want to be tied to you forever. Someone who would bring you into their family, and then create a new branch of it with you.
From outside came the sound of a truck reversing on the square and a shout, followed by the thud of beer barrels. A last-minute delivery to Sweeney’s. Clubbed by tiredness, Anna pushed the bills aside so she could lay her head down on the table. The varnished surface adhered to her skin, and her nostrils filled with the smell of wood permeated with sour beer. She felt herself sinking into a doze, before jerking awake at the sound of the door opening.
It was Cynthia, one of the Brits from the urbanization. In her seventies with thin, teased orange hair and a conurbation of lines on her chest, Cynthia frequented the bars and cafes in a rota, taking care to share herself out fairly amongst the owners. After tutting at the litter of envelopes on the floor, she planted herself at the counter, and ordered a Coke.
‘Ice with that?’ said Anna, moving behind the bar.
‘Oh. Well. I don’t usually,’ said Cynthia, sounding aggrieved that Anna had to ask. ‘But maybe one cube.’
I don’t care whether or not you usually take ice! Anna shrieked internally, as she served Cynthia her drink. Cynthia proceeded to talk at Anna, aggressively oblivious to Anna’s mood and her pile of paperwork, not caring that Anna might not give a toss that Cynthia had been hoping to get to the Morrison’s on Gibraltar that day.
In the early days, Anna had felt enraged by Cynthia and her ilk; set in transmit mode, operating under the presumption that by buying a drink, they were owed Anna’s time and interest. The long-term effects of the dynamic worried her, too: after all, how many times could you have dull conversations, or passively concur with opinions you didn’t hold, before this became the level on which you permanently operated? But gradually she had become accustomed to it, accepting that the primary function of conversation in Marea was to pass the time. In the lead-up to Christmas, Anna had been asked dozens of times what she was doing for the day itself, and had given the same weak, evasive joke in response – ‘staying here in case Santa needs a pint on his rounds’ – often several times to the same person. They didn’t seem to notice, or care, about the repetition. It almost seemed a comfort, like a child wanting the same story read to them night after night.
Cynthia was now expressing her views on Gordon Brown letting in too many immigrants and giving millions in foreign aid whilst her pension was cut. This was another thing Anna had got used to: expats complaining about immigrants being allowed to abuse and disrespect the system in UK, seemingly unaware that they themselves were doing exactly the same thing in Spain. Not learning the language or integrating; working illegally; dodging taxes. Today, she wasn’t in the mood to let it go.
‘But what are you?’ said Anna, cutting through her. ‘What are we?’
‘Eh?’ said Cynthia.
‘We’re all immigrants, aren’t we? You and me. All of us. Do you think the Spanish shouldn’t have let us in?’
‘We’re not immigrants!’ said Cynthia, furiously. ‘We’re expats!’
Anna didn’t have the energy to continue the argument she had started, and turned back to her laptop screen. Cynthia angrily unzipped her purse and threw a euro onto the counter, before banging out of the door.
The light was fading now, the window grilles casting weak shadows on the floor. Another day gone. The music had started up again at Sweeney’s; a full song this time. ‘Sweet Caroline’. Anna pictured him sitting in an empty room under a glitter ball, lyrics scrolling unsung across a projector screen. Then, finally, she allowed herself to think about the finca, and what might be going on up there in the mountains. But her mind was too leaden; she had passed the point of imagination some time ago. Leaving the litter of envelopes and bills, she took another bottle and headed upstairs, the ‘ba-dum-dum-dum’s of the song’s chorus following her up the stairs.
It was gone 2pm by the time Anna heaved open the shutters the next day. Before the metal had banged against the top of the frame, Sweeney was on her terrace. He must have been waiting for her.
‘Did you see the offer at Carrefour for grout cleaner?’ he said. ‘Three bottles for ten euros. Thought you might be interested.’
He was wearing his customary matted fleece; she had never seen him without it, even in forty-degree heat. The broken veins on his cheeks were livid in the sun.
‘What can I do for you, Sweeney?’ she said.
‘So, your fellas were at mine last night.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Black fellas who are renting your place. They came to the karaoke. All of them.’
‘OK,’ Anna said, at last. ‘Are you sure it was the same people?’
Sweeney smirked. ‘Oh yes.’
‘But you weren’t here at New Year’s. You didn’t see them. How can you be sure?’
Sweeney’s smile widened over his chipped teeth.
‘Mattie said they were,’ he said. ‘And she certainly saw your man, if you know what I mean.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They were looking very friendly,’ said Sweeney. ‘And then they went off together. And I don’t think it was to play Scrabble, if you get me.’
Anna tried to digest this, but something else was in her mind.
‘What do you mean, all of them?’
Sweeney smiled, pleased to have got to her.
‘Whole bunch of them. Six, seven. Said they were staying up at yours. Having a right laugh, it sounds like.’
He looked at her, arms crossed high on his chest, waiting for a response. She would not give it to him. He was winding her up. There weren’t seven of them, surely. A couple, she had thought. And she couldn’t imagine that diffident man who collected the keys at New Year’s Eve confiding laddishly to Sweeney about the party he was having at her house. He barely spoke English, for a start.
‘They’re free to do what they want up there,’ she said, primly. ‘I’m glad they’re having a good time.’
Sweeney smiled at her again before walking off back to his bar, stick legs invisible inside his jeans. She watched him pause to rub off the fluorescent lettering on his window with the sleeve of his fleece, bef
ore ducking back inside.
Anna remained on the terrace, looking out towards the promenade, at the tired palm trees and strip of placid ocean. Then she went back inside and made a call.
Twenty minutes later, she was in the back of a cab, on the coast road, watching the sea emerge and disappear in the spaces between the developments. The driver, a heavy-set Spaniard in his sixties, hadn’t attempted to make conversation, for which she was grateful. The journey was costing Anna eighty euros, taken from Simón’s envelope; so reckless a use of money it felt like stealing. But she couldn’t ask Tommy for a lift, now. Nor could she involve any of the other expats; she didn’t want anyone to know she was going up.
She just wanted to check everything was OK, for her own peace of mind. So she could look at the others straight when they tried to rile her or cast aspersions. She had her excuse ready for the men at the finca: she was just passing by, and needed to collect a document. Nothing odd about that.
Passing the greenhouses, they got stuck behind a lorry emblazoned with tomatoes, trundling below the speed limit. As they finally turned onto the mountain road and began to climb through the pine forest, Anna opened the window and stuck her head out, inhaling the medicinal freshness that cleaning product companies spent millions attempting to mimic, trying to dilute her sense of trepidation.
‘Not this one,’ she said to the driver, as they neared the turning to the finca, ‘Or the next one, but the one after that.’
She directed the driver to pull in at the verge and they sat in silence for a moment, as the car engine cooled. The gate was ajar, the house out of sight. From here, everything was innocent. The only change Anna could see was that her Se Vende sign had fallen – or been placed – face-down onto the ground.
‘I won’t be long,’ she said to the driver. He shrugged; he didn’t care how long she took, as long as the meter was still running. Maybe she should have asked one of the others; someone who would come to her aid.
She got out, closing the car door as quietly as she could. Remembering the creaky gate, she wove through the gap rather than pushing it fully open. Parked just beyond it was the first surprise: a new, expensive-looking pick-up truck, its back empty, tarpaulin lying loose. Another present from the men’s grateful and generous employer? Skirting around the truck, avoiding the noisy gravel, Anna moved towards the house. It was a modest building but today it loomed, the pale stones of its facade like crocodile armour. Behind it, the sky was a delicate watercolour blue, laced with wispy clouds being pushed around by the wind. Some distance away, an eagle circled on the air currents. There was the faint sound of building work; Alfonso was probably making another chicken shed.
Under the Sun Page 9