‘No. Not over. Just begun.’ Concern appeared to slide into panic and terror. Rocco’s eyes grew wide like a manga hero. His breath became shallow and fast. He put on his sunglasses despite the blatant lack of sunshine this late into the Spanish night and sank into his chair, as if to hide between the protective bodies of those close to him. His head twisted back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match.
‘If you didn’t crash into Charlie’s van on purpose,’ asked Ruby, attempting to extract from Rocco an explanation for his curious actions that might bear some semblance to rationality, ‘why are you only now so freaked out by it?’
‘Guess I was in shock. Couldn’t think straight.’
‘Nothing new there, then,’ she mumbled over a sip of rosé.
Ruby looked the other way, gazing out across the marina. A yacht was making its way through the harbour towards the sea, its port side light undulating gently. From another direction, she could hear the excited screams of teenagers daring each other to skinny dip in the darkness. An English football match was showing on a giant screen inside the pub, watched keenly by a huddle of expats. Normal life abounded in this place, yet she felt cocooned in a bubble of delusion.
‘Thought my foot might have slipped off the brake,’ said Rocco, hiding his mouth behind his hands. ‘But it’s an automatic.’ He announced it soberly, as if he had revealed the meaning of life itself, and waited for an acknowledgement of the profundity of his statement.
Ruby and Charlie said nothing.
‘The blood was fake, but that’s all,’ Rocco eventually continued. ‘A little wind-up gag.’
‘And the fender bender stuff wasn’t part of the plan, huh?’ asked Charlie.
‘No way. Why would I do that?’
‘And the connection between the automatic gearbox and your current imitation of a paranoid lighthouse is what?’ asked Ruby.
‘Someone is out to get me. I can’t believe I didn’t realise before. Shock does terrible things to deductive capacities.’
Ruby gesticulated her request for elaboration with impatient hands.
‘It can’t have been an accident,’ Rocco explained. ‘It’s an automatic. The brake pedal is huge. I couldn’t have missed it. Therefore, someone wants me off this rock.’
Ruby resisted the temptation to point out that, from her perspective, he appeared already to have left the planet.
He stood up, still thrusting his head from side to side in a manner that appeared more likely to result in a blur and a headache than a wide field of vision.
‘They could be here in the marina. In those apartments. On those boats. Under the tables of this pub. I could be in their sights right now. There could be a spray of bullets coming my way. And you know the worst thing about it? I don’t even know why.’
Again, Ruby found herself in a situation requiring a significant degree of willpower. It was not something in which she excelled, and the force exerting from her teeth down to her lower lip gave her cause for concern that she might draw blood. But she held on to her bite, and resisted the burning desire to point out the logical inconsistency in Rocco’s comment that not knowing why someone wanted to kill him was worse than actually being murdered.
‘Maybe it’s those chrononauts, or whatever they’re called,’ suggested Ruby, relieving the pressure from her lip. ‘You said there were conflicting groups of them.’ She recalled the disturbance in the car park at Opoul castle. The troublemaker drove a Spanish registered car. She wondered if he had followed Rocco across the border back to Spain and was about to suggest this possibility when Rocco gave them both a tidy salute and edged away from their table, towards the marina. Once clear of the pub’s terrace of chairs and tables, he sprinted towards the water, dived in and swam off.
Away from the lights of The Britannia his shape was soon subsumed by the night, and the sound of the splashes from his front crawl quickly merged with the background hum of yacht engines, yapping dogs and conversations in assorted European languages.
‘I suppose I’ll have to pay for his beers,’ she groaned. ‘And what are you grinning at, Charlie?’
‘This is kinda romantic, don’t you think? Just you, me, and these big yachts.’
‘I still want you to get going, Charlie, as soon as your van is mended. And I don’t want you hanging around the dig site while I’m working, all right?’
‘What else is there to do around here?’ asked Charlie.
‘Look around you, Charlie. This area is a sporting paradise. There’s sailing, snorkelling, hiking, kite surfing, skydiving.’
‘Sports, huh?’
‘There’s even a wind tunnel where you can practise skydiving without jumping from an aeroplane. I’ve booked a training session in the wind tunnel for me and my students in a day or two. Can’t wait.’
She looked at Charlie’s bulbous shape seated in the chair, and realised she may have been on the wrong tack. He was evidently not sporting material, and as for the sky divers’ wind tunnel, it was entirely possible that the huge electric turbo fans might lack sufficient strength to lift someone of Charlie’s size even an inch from the ground.
‘It’s not all sports,’ she added. ‘What about cultural pursuits? You could start at the Dalí museum in Figueres.’
‘Museum, huh?’
‘This is the heart of Dalí country. He created his greatest works here. He was inspired by this coastline. The man was a genius.’
‘Genius, huh?’ Charlie leaned forward and scratched his backside.
Ruby tensed and braced herself for what she was about to say. It wasn’t going to be easy, but a very small part of her felt sorry for her only fan and for a foolish moment she allowed her sympathy to take over.
‘Charlie, I’m due to take some of my students to the museum tomorrow morning. You can, you know, kind of tag along. If you want.’
She gulped. That had hurt.
‘Like a date?’
‘No, Charlie, not like a date,’ she replied, her sympathy already waning. ‘But if you want to join my group I’d be happy to show you around.’
‘Like a private tour? That could be cool.’
A muffled tune began to play in Charlie’s pocket. He produced his cellphone and answered it.
‘Uhuh,’ he said. ‘Uhuh. Uhuh. Sure. Coolsville. Uhuh. OK.’
He hung up. Ruby crossed her arms in frustration at his unrevealing ineloquence.
‘Message from the mechanic dude,’ said Charlie. ‘He says I can pick up Van Gogh first thing in the morning. Oh, and the brake lines have been tampered with on Rocco’s Renault.’
Friday 3rd May 2013
A figure slipped through the laurel bushes like an apparition in the morning mist. It glided into the nettles and brambles. Moments later, it disappeared beneath the tangle of trees that squatted upon gardens that decades ago ceased to be recognisable as the work of Capability Brown. Through the squinted sights of Ratty’s blunderbuss, the figure flowed like a pheasant, scampering in and out of his firing line before he could pull the flintlock trigger.
The sightings of the shadowy poacher had come intermittently since he had left the Patient’s cottage. At no point did he consider calling the police; they would have tiresome things to say about his desire to use antiquated firearms. Sometimes the intruder melted into the darkness on one side of the manor only to reappear on the other side impossibly quickly, as if somehow aware of the shortcuts between the outbuildings that only Ratty knew. Occasionally it seemed like there was more than one shadow out there, as if he were being circled by wolves. They would seem to lurk beneath his Land Rover then sprint to the coal shed. They would tiptoe to the dustbins and then crawl to the barn. He wasn’t sure of anything he saw in the heavy gloom. Lack of sleep could have been making him see double.
As a frankly confusing and exhilarating night drew to a close, he yearned for the chance to squeeze the trigger and bring this nocturnal hunt to a satisfactory conclusion. Rounding a corner by the stable block, the longed-for oppo
rtunity presented itself. He hugged his Barbour jacket tight and lifted the blunderbuss to eye level. The poacher was standing behind the tractor, facing away from Ratty, only a shoulder and the back of a head exposed to his unsteady aim. The cat-and-mouse game had gone on long enough. It was time for a resolution. He fired a spray of lead pellets. The figure fell forward, hit by the small quantity of shot that didn’t ping harmlessly off the engine cowling. But within seconds the intruder was picked up by two other strangers and carried away. By the time Ratty had recovered from the recoil that had knocked him to the ground and left him breathlessly staring at the morning sky, the miscreants had vanished.
They won’t be back in a hurry, he assured himself, dusting his waxed coat and heading to the vast kitchen at the rear of the manor for a well-earned fry-up. He was not displeased to discover upon his arrival that just such a repast was already waiting for him upon the kitchen table.
‘If you want to eat well in England, eat three breakfasts,’ suggested the Patient.
Ratty tucked immediately into a fried egg.
‘Somerset Maugham, if I am not mistaken,’ Ratty replied, between mouthfuls. ‘Born in Paris. English by a mere technicality. I shall accept no culinary advice from one so poisoned by the base, uncivilised habits of our semi-evolved Gallic neighbours. Oh, and I shot the poacher.’
‘No you did not.’
‘It is an indisputable fact that I pulled the trigger, a barrage of shot was released in the general direction of our uninvited guest, and some of the aforementioned lead entered the rear of this fellow. Probably bagged the poacher in the shoulder.’
‘Again, I assert that no such thing occurred.’
‘Now look here, Patient chappy, I was up all night stalking this poacher and –’
‘No you were not.’
‘And, and I squeezed the trigger on this gun, which no longer contains shot because it was discharged towards the poacher. Proof incontrovertible.’
‘Not.’
‘I confess to finding your existential games a little tiresome at the wrong end of a night in which my bed played no part,’ Ratty grumbled, immediately regretting the utterance of such harsh words to someone who had been warm-hearted enough to cook the kind of meal that he could no longer afford to pay anyone to prepare.
‘I attempt only to point out to you the truth.’
‘And what truth have I failed to spot in my recent heroic shooting of a poacher?’
‘You have missed the fundamental reality. A significant detail in your account is based on an incorrect assumption, and it utterly undermines everything you have said to me this morning.’
The Patient made no sense without a cup of tea. Ratty placed his hand upon the teapot, delighted to feel its warmth. The tea wouldn’t confound him with riddles. Tea was reliable. Comfortable. He poured a cup and held it close to his face. Already he felt stronger: Popeye with his spinach; Samson with his hair.
‘I give in,’ he said with a grin that was his admission that the Patient was bound to be right. ‘Tell me.’
‘You did not spend the night hunting a poacher. You did not shoot any poacher. I make that assertion due to one simple reason: on this estate there is no longer anything to poach. You have no pheasants, no trout, no boar, no deer, no –’
‘That is a valid observation,’ Ratty sighed, defeated.
‘I also observed that some of the intruders were not dressed in the manner traditionally associated with the illegal capture of wild creatures on land that does not belong to them.’
‘So the plurality of the intrusion did not escape your notice? A most bizarre situation.’
‘The more significant point,’ continued the Patient, ‘is that if the visitors were not engaged in the relatively harmless pursuit of stealing wildlife, they must therefore be concerned with an enterprise of a different nature.’
Ratty finished his sausage while he absorbed the Patient’s conclusion.
‘Bad eggs, nevertheless. Bit of buckshot probably did them no end of good,’ Ratty decided.
‘The gun cannot answer questions. It can only eliminate the need for answers.’
‘Quite, quite.’
‘Had you enquired of them as to their desires, instead of stalking them behind your weapon, you might have learned something of value.’
The knife and fork clattered to the plate. Ratty slugged his tea and stood up, wiping his bleary eyes.
‘To the village,’ the aristocrat declared. ‘Mrs Trundle may be about to sell a bandage. We may catch them there. Come.’
The Patient calmly followed his friend to the Land Rover, wiping his fingers across morning dew on the faded green paintwork as he climbed into the threadbare passenger seat. Ratty turned the engine over and waited for it to catch. After three attempts the vehicle came to life, merrily shaking its occupants and growling contentedly. A brief swish of the wipers cleared the moisture from the windscreen, and with a grind of gears they started to move.
‘This is not a wise course of action,’ suggested the Patient as he pulled the seatbelt tightly around him.
‘Not now, old G and T. The time to judge this plan is after we intercept these interlopers.’
‘It might be wise to consider my advice as a priority. As Cicero put it so eloquently, advice in old age is foolish, for what can be more absurd than to increase our provisions for the road the nearer we approach our journey’s end?’
‘So what do you advise?’ asked Ratty, changing down a gear in preparation for a sharp turn in his driveway.
‘I merely suggest that we continue our journey by other means.’
‘But the Landy is a locomotive legend,’ Ratty countered in defence of his dependable conveyance. ‘This trusty mechanical steed has been in the service of my family since the days of that how-do-you-do over the Falklands. I hardly consider it appropriate to question the iron beast’s loyalty after more than thirty –’
He abandoned his verbal protest in favour of a heart-sinking gasp when he felt the brake pedal travel to the floor with no resistance. Back-up options for bringing this old vehicle to a halt were few, and by the time Ratty had recalled that the handbrake never worked and realised there wasn’t enough distance to slow down using engine braking, the crash had already begun. There was no dramatic squeal of tyres, no ear-splitting explosive roar, just the rustling of nettles and the tumbling of bodies as the car skated at a tangent from the road and pitched onto its side in the drainage ditch.
***
‘Melting clocks.’
‘Yes,’ Ruby sighed, already regretting her decision to invite Charlie to the Dalí museum. He was plainly more suited to standing in a wind tunnel than indulging in any kind of cultural pursuits. ‘Obviously. The Persistence of Memory is the painting that your lowest common denominator of a brain is referring to. But that’s not all he’s known for.’
‘A dumb moustache?’
‘Well yes, but I’m talking about his iconographic palette. There are recurrent themes in his works, like trademarks that brand his visual style. And do you have the faintest idea what I’m talking about?’
Charlie looked at the skirting boards and the fire exit signs. He stared at the cornicing, and marvelled at the flooring. He seemed determined to study everything in the gallery apart from the paintings on the walls.
‘There a bar in this place?’
‘This is a world class institution, not a drinking den, Charlie.’
‘I bet all your students found a bar somewhere. They lost you pretty quick after you paid for everyone’s tickets.’
‘They’ll be back. I’m teaching them thermoluminescence dating this afternoon,’ said Ruby.
‘Dating, huh? Always happy to help in that department,’ said Charlie as Ruby shook her head in despair. ‘Anyway, that Dalí dude can’t have done all this sober. Look at this crazy shit. Windows in the sky. A chair with a light shining at the stars. Another dumb melting clock. People with flowers growing out of them. A doorway full of hair with
a zipper down the middle. It’s like he had Photoshop and went crazy with it. Dalí had to be off his head. So why should we be forced to look at it without a beer or three? It’s logical.’
‘You sound like the Patient.’
‘That pale-faced philosopher dude? Coolsville.’
‘Only without any learning to back up your argument.’
Charlie stared blankly, as if knowledge was a disease he had yet to catch.
‘You find a bar,’ she told him. ‘I’ll come and look for you later. A few decades later.’
‘Is that your English humour thing?’
‘I just want to see the Mae West installation. Then we’ll get lunch.’
‘This Mae West chick. What’s the deal?’
‘It’s an apartment designed to look like the face of Mae West. From a particular angle.’
‘And you say the guy was sober?’
They walked across the central courtyard of the museum, an open space dominated by a 1940s car and dozens of Dalí’s gold-painted mannequin sculptures. On arrival at the Mae West installation it resembled neither an apartment nor the actress after whom it was named. In fact, it looked like nothing in particular. There was a red sofa shaped like a pair of lips, some pictures on the wall, a staircase that led nowhere, brown floorboards, and drapes that didn’t serve any recognisable light-control purpose. There was even a bathtub hanging from the ceiling, upside-down. Tourists took turns to reach the top of the stairs and take photos. Ruby joined the queue. Charlie shrugged at the apparent randomness of the objects in the room, climbed over a rope barrier and sat heavily upon the red sofa. It was his first opportunity to sit down all morning, and he closed his eyes in bliss, paying no attention to the shouts of frustration emanating from the top of the steps. They seemed to be aimed in his direction, but the languages involved were far too exotic for him to have any hope of comprehending them.
The shocked face and frantic arm gestures of a security guard in a canary yellow jacket left nothing to the imagination, however. Charlie stood up and strolled around the installation, noting that the camera flashes started up again as soon as he had put some distance between himself and the sofa.
The Dali Diaries (The Ballashiels Mysteries Book 2) Page 4