The King of Spain

by Robert Ford

  Perhaps it was irrational, and without much foundation certainly, but he knew then that he loved her.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Megan, looking up at him. ‘Really. It’s terrible news. And it must have been such a shock to have found him like that.’

  There was not a single word in the world that Sam could think of to say, not one that could reflect the wounded nature of his heart. A tightening sensation gripped his chest, a sudden wave of sadness rising through his core. He closed his eyes, fighting to stem the tears.

  ‘Hey,’ Megan said, placing a hand on Sam’s cheek. Then she leant up towards him and they kissed, a soft, tender meeting, one that graduated quickly, developing with a surprising haste and passion. The physical connection between them was somehow necessary given the situation - being there at that moment just felt right. They moved naturally together, instinctively, lips angular and insistent, discovering each other through earnest, clumsy caresses, hands tugging at uniform, loosening clasps and fabric.

  Sam opened his eyes and looked at her - she was beautiful, angelic, extraterrestrial. It was almost unfair that he had been shown such grace as this. She was perfect; through his eyes, flawless. In that instant nothing else mattered, not the sadness of the day’s events, not the future or the past, not his mother’s illness nor the million swirling uncertainties that plagued his brain. There was a fundamentalism to their union, a simplicity and truth. He embraced the void, the inviolate space in which they were suspended for a time; while they were there, together in that room, they were safe, protected, nothing in the world could touch them.

  A winter chorus, a slim, resigned song accompanied the dawn as it broke, the faintest suggestion of which crept through the curtains and into Sam’s room.

  The day had passed, and the night, and still they lay together in the darkness.

  Megan began to stir, turning in the tiny bed so that she faced Sam. In a way she had feared the morning, wondered if reality would rush to fill the vacuum they had created, and how.

  Sam soon woke too, stretching his long limbs in the process.

  ‘Morning,’ said Megan, huddling closer in to him.

  ‘Morning,’ he croaked.

  ‘I have to go soon. Residents to feed and what not.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Thanks for...’ Sam was embarrassed.

  Megan leant up and kissed him.

  ‘I’m glad I was here, with you.’

  ‘Me too,’ smiled Sam.

  Megan dressed for work, hunting for her clothes, putting on the crumpled white uniform. And then she was gone. Sam was alone again and unsure quite what to do with himself. But like all creatures of habit, he resolved not to wallow but to cling to routine. And so he got up and showered and dressed. He cleaned his teeth and ate a breakfast bar, gave cursory inspection to his matted locks and made the bed - all this he did with the minimum of engagement, drifting.

  Then it was over to the rink where he was greeted with hugs from Rachel and from Spike and Ted. Today they sat altogether on the near side, watching the residents breeze about on the ice; a time for solidarity and community. More than that, though, it was good for Sam to realise that he was by no means the only one touched by Hal’s death, and while the mood was sombre, their collective spirit kept things far from any suggestion of mawkishness.

  Inevitably there were questions. Why had he done it? Was there a note? Those kinds of inquiries, most of which were directed towards Sam, but he simply shrugged them off. After all, what did he know about it?

  Around mid-morning, Morris climbed up through the hatch and stood in front of the group, head bowed, hands clasped together behind his back.

  ‘Well... it’s just very sad, isn’t it? All this business. Very, very sad.’

  They all nodded.

  ‘What arrangements have been made, Morris?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘Hal’s body has been taken to the infirmary. In terms of a funeral...’ Morris paused considering his choice of words. ‘We’re currently trying to contact his next of kin but... let’s just say, Hal was less than specific in terms of these kinds of things. Kirkham’s in an awful funk, as you can imagine. Speaking of which, Sam, he’d like to see you in his office.’

  ‘Me? Did he say what it was about?’

  ‘Nope. Just a formality, I would imagine. Given that you...’ Morris seemed reluctant to expand any further.

  ‘Right. Sure.’ Sam winced, wondering in the back of his mind if in fact Kirkham knew the whereabouts of his daughter the previous evening.

  Kirkham sat behind the large writing desk, tapping away at a small laptop as Sam entered from the cloisters.

  ‘Sam,’ he said, standing up.

  ‘Mr Kirkham,’ said Sam, shaking his hand.

  ‘Please, have a seat.’

  Sam pulled back the chair and sat down. This was the first time he had been in the office since his initial interview with Daniels all those weeks ago. The room now was almost unrecognisable. The shelves had been cleared, the desk too; apart from the laptop and a small framed photo of Megan, there was really nothing else to speak of, no papers or folders or clutter of any kind.

  ‘I’m really very sorry about all this business with Hal. I know we hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye over the past few weeks. He was his own man and I respected that.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s all been quite a shock.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it has. If I can do anything to help let me know, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Sam, appreciating the concern.

  ‘There is a matter...’ Kirkham paused, fumbling with one of the drawers in the desk. ‘. . . with which we - I - could use your help.’

  After a little more rummaging he managed to produce from the drawer a white envelope, as well as Hal’s journal, laying both on the desk in front of Sam.

  ‘These were left together in the room. The letter is addressed to you and I can only assume the journal is yours also.’

  ‘It’s unopened - the letter, I mean.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Kirkham flashed an uncomfortable smile; he was dying to open it.

  ‘Of course, if there should be any information enclosed within the letter that you think we should be made aware of...’

  The walk back to his room seemed to take Sam forever, his pace increasing until he broke into a half run, a trot that carried him through the atrium, up the stairs and along the corridor, barging straight into his room and onto the bed.

  The journal he put to one side, ripping into the letter first. Eyes wide, he unfolded the sheets of unlined paper and so began to read from the handwritten note...

  SAM,

  Yes, I do know your real name.

  Well I hope you bloody well appreciate the fact that I actually took this precious time out of my last day on earth to pen you a letter.

  If you’re upset about all this, please don’t be. And if you’re not, what are you playing at, I’m dead!

  In a way I am sorry not to have gotten the chance to say goodbye properly, but then such a thing is impossible, isn’t it?

  Certainly I owe you an explanation.

  When Daniels left and Kirkham came, something happened, something inside me snapped. Or rather I could suddenly see that there was light at the end of the tunnel, and I’d realised that it was in fact a train coming. My future was there in front of me, the years rolling out - watching the residents at the ice rink, drinking and so on; until such time as my body gave way and I couldn’t pay for it to be fixed, or my mind went - the idea of that I really couldn’t take. Maybe they’d put me on a pair of skates, too? But not here. Not in this place, but somewhere cheap, somewhere dark. In the city perhaps. Patrolled by hateful folk, shunted about, prodded. That just seemed too much, too sad to end up like that. And me being of royal birth and everything.

  So I got to thinking about the guy with the cancer, the article in the newspaper - why not? Take control. Do something positive for once, I thought, even if in so doing it should bring about my dem
ise.

  There are many things wrong with the world, always have been, always will be. But now I see that it was wrong of me to come to Edge Hill all those years ago, to abandon life and to hide out here in this strange old house, away from it all. I guess in a way I’ve become part of what I hated in the first place. Become selfish. Isolated.

  There’s no excuse for it. No excuse at all. For you as well, Dickie, don’t forget. It’s no kind of life.

  Anyways...

  Some advice. Do with it what you will.

  Leave Edge Hill as soon as you can. Don’t come back. Ever.

  Take that fascist girl. She’s pretty. She might be sweet on you. And let’s face it, you’re no oil painting.

  Your mother is ill. It’s not your fault. Get over it.

  In a similar vein... you are an anxious one. Relax. Live.

  Buy a better car, you tight arse.

  I’m sure there is something important I’ve forgotten, please fill in as appropriate.

  This letter should stand as my last will and testament. Don’t worry - won’t take long.

  To Spike I leave my belt. The green one. He already has it - has had it for over two years. So I guess he may as well keep it now.

  To Ted I leave my one suit. He wants the material to make a hat or something.

  To you I bequeath my journal. But before you get too excited about owning that tatty nonsense, I should point out that it is to be yours in trust. This is something I wish I had had the courage to ask you myself, but unfortunately (in my own unscrupulous way) I knew that you are far too moral a person as to refuse the last wish of a dying man, even an old shitgunner like me.

  The journal is to go to my son, Luis. Simple enough, right? The catch is that he lives in Seville, Spain. I think. The address is at the bottom but this information is many years old. I know it’s a lot to ask but I feel it must be delivered by hand. In person.

  Please know that I appreciate this kindness hugely, and can now go to my grave sure in the knowledge that you will do me this last favour.

  No pressure, hey?

  As to immediate concerns, please tell Kirkham that I want to be buried at sea. At night. With a team of huskies and a New Orleans jazz quintet playing Bye Bye Black Bird. Or something like that. Basically whatever’s going to give him the biggest logistical headache imaginable - so feel free to elaborate. On this I am not precious.

  And I think that should about round things up. Send my love and apologies to the gang, particularly Rachel and Moz.

  Your friend,

  Hal Martinez

  PS Just read this back - what a self-involved whinger I’ve become. But then, I am on my death bed.

  Luis Martinez - last known address

  515 Calle LaGuardia

  Seville

  Spain

  Sam read the letter again and again, five, six, seven times. And the more he read, the more divided he became in his opinion of what Hal had done. Was it simply the residual guilt of a sometime Christian childhood that made him recoil from the act? Or did he simply miss his friend? Certainly he had seen enough at home through his mother’s predicament to imagine what bleak ends awaited the financially stricken. Awaited Hal.

  As the minutes passed these jostling thoughts were joined by an overriding concern surrounding the request outlined in the letter; the idea of travelling to Spain on such an errand terrified him beyond measure and almost in an instant the self-confidence that Sam had built up over the months at Edge Hill began to ebb away. Maybe the sense of self he had garnered was just a fleeting impulse, an illusion created by such a close association with Hal? Suddenly he doubted himself as before; he felt paralysed, tight, unable to breath. And looking down, he saw what he had feared most - the Bear was back.

  With short staccato steps he moved forward and put his arms around Sam’s knee, and squeezed. Sam could feel the pressure building in his chest and throat. He felt desperately ill, on the point of a seizure.

  ‘Piss off!’ he screamed down at the Bear as he stood up from the bed.

  A knock at the door.

  Sam froze.

  ‘Hello? Hello, Sam?’

  It was Megan.

  Sam tried to control his breathing; looking down, the Bear was gone.

  Megan peeked in through the door.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Sure, come in,’ he said, trying his best to smile. ‘I was just shouting at an imaginary Bear. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I thought you shot the Bear? I mean, I thought Hal shot the Bear?’

  ‘Nearly. Obviously not.’

  ‘Ah.’

  They sat on the bed and Sam showed Megan the letter.

  ‘Some interesting advice, certainly. Why did he think I’m a fascist again?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He would get these ideas sometimes. Mania, some people call it. Think that’s the polite term.’

  ‘Will you go?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To Spain, you goose.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You have to go, Sam.’

  Megan leant in and kissed him on the cheek, a kiss that somehow felt like punctuation, sealing her sentiment.

  ‘I know. I know I do. It’s just...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Somehow I don’t feel able. It’s so far beyond what I could imagine for myself. Does that make sense? It’s too much.’

  Megan took his hand in hers.

  ‘What are you so afraid of?’

  HOME

  The news of Hal’s death had affected the whole facility; he was a rare character in the fact that even those that had hated him, had also somehow liked him, or at least they missed his snarling presence now that he was gone. More than anything, the place seemed drab without him, desaturated. And yet the everyday practicalities demanded attention; the residents were shunted from room to room, fed, clothed, washed and put to bed. The world kept turning, even though it seemed to have no right to, that the universe should pause and gather.

  For Sam, the time was spent brooding, processing the events that had taken place, rationalising Hal’s decision, trying in his own way to come to terms with the alternating emotional currents that had been set in motion; he knew that he would have to go to Spain but was paralysed at the thought of it. At least Megan had agreed to come, her words still echoing through the corridors of his mind: what exactly was he afraid of?

  It had taken a team of six of them to lift it clear, but at last they had recovered Sam’s car from the ditch, and once out and on the road again she had started first time, a mixed blessing of sorts - now that he had the car back his last, best reason not to go was rendered obsolete.

  It was time, and he knew it.

  And so, one chill winter’s day, Sam woke early and packed, cramming his few belongings into the tired red rucksack. It had been several months since he had worn anything other than the thin white polyester of his handler’s uniform and the coarse woollen greatcoat. Looking at himself in the mirror, his grey suit felt borrowed and unreal; these clothes were not his, not any more.

  A small group of handlers had gathered around the main entrance to the house - Spike and Ted, Morris, Rachel and Mrs Skeets, huddled together against the January winds on the filthy gravel.

  Sam brought the car around from the rear, pulling up in front of them.

  ‘Hey, nice suit,’ said Rachel as he stepped out from the driver’s side.

  ‘Thanks. Beats a uniform, hey?’ Sam stepped forward and gave Rachel a big goodbye hug.

  ‘Good luck, mate,’ said Morris as they shook hands.

  ‘Thanks, Moz. Take care.’

  Sam moved along what had now become something of an assembly line. He kissed Mrs Skeets goodbye and then Ted, who by this time was sobbing.

  ‘Go. Go. I’ll be fine,’ he said, dabbing away at the corner of an eye with a silk handkerchief for effect.

  ‘Safe travels,’ said Spike, the last of t
he group to receive him.

  From across the front lawn came Megan, struggling through the snow with her suitcase, dressed in blue jeans and a dark blue duffle-coat. Morris jogged over to her and took the bag, lifting it with one hand along to the car.

  ‘Right!’ she said. ‘Ready to go?’

  ‘Guess so,’ said Sam, flushing a little.

  ‘Dad said to say goodbye. He’s managed to glue his thumb to a worktop.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ She waved a hand, untroubled by her father’s predicament. ‘Goodbye, everyone.’

  ‘Bye,’ the group chorused back as the couple climbed into the car.

  Sam turned the key in the ignition.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said, looking over at Megan, who smiled and squeezed his hand.

  And with that they were away, past the cheering group and down the drive, Ted prancing after them, waving, like some drunk, plump, Indian ballerina.

  ‘Where to, then?’ asked Megan as they came to a halt just past the main gates.

  Sam turned, stealing a last glimpse of the house and the tiny outlines of his friends.

  ‘Home,’ he said, facing the front. ‘To the Estate.’

  Perhaps it was the fact that he had company this time, or maybe it was because he was heading away from what had been the unfamiliar. Whatever the reason, the drive back, the retracing of the steps made some months ago, seemed to Sam much more palatable, beautiful even, in parts.

  Megan talked, not a lot, but enough to pass the time as they continued into the industrial zones south of the capital. Sam, on the other hand, listened, offering little in the way of conversation. Returning home after so long was something Sam had to do, and in a way he knew exactly how the visit would pan out, and it was because of that knowledge that he had fallen silent, the emotional weight of the preordained. But at least there were no naked farmers this time, or rampaging armed policemen. And for that he was thankful.

  The journey took no more than a couple of hours up until the edge of the Estate, plain sailing to a point. The negotiation of the Enclaves, however, proved to be a rather more trying affair. At each and every checkpoint they were questioned by the security members: Where had Sam been? Why was he coming back? What was Megan’s business on the Estate given that her identity card had her registered as living elsewhere, in the north. And so it was late afternoon by the time they made it through the final checkpoint and into Sam’s Enclave, a soft melting bruise of violet, orange and blue cast across the sky ahead. Like all returns, their journey through streets and past the tired grey bungalows had a surreality to it all of its own, that distinct feeling brought about by the experience of the hugely familiar viewed from a new and different perspective.