Hollow Mountain

by Thomas Mogford

  He was about to press on when he heard a twig snap. Carefully, he put down his crate, feeling a drop of sweat slide down his forehead, blurring his vision. Wiping his eye, he kicked at the branches in front. A rustle of foliage as a small, grey-furred arm extended. A couple of footholds, and a sleepy young ape appeared, climbing onto the windowsill above, glaring down with what looked like tremendous irritation.

  Spike felt his tension drain away as the ape scrutinised him, its jutting brow and intelligent green eyes disturbingly human. Marked on its underside was a faded tattoo – each of the apes was numbered by the wardens of the Upper Rock, mirroring the skin-art of many of the tourists who visited them. Zahra had told him that there were still tribes in Morocco and Algeria for whom Barbary macaques were ‘commensals’, living as equals, sharing the same table. The penalty for killing them was death. These days, in Gib, you’d probably be awarded the keys to the city. Churchill had famously said that Britain would lose the Rock if the apes ever left. With an endless supply of tourist snacks to tempt them, sovereignty seemed assured.

  As Spike watched the monkey stalk grumpily away into the shadows, he remembered an occasion when he’d seen one steal a sandwich from a bemused backpacker – the ape had parted the bread, thrown out the ham, then tucked in. ‘They are Muslims,’ the tour guide had said with a smile. ‘Remember where they came from.’

  Back on Castle Road, Spike suppressed a shiver as he thought of the articles he’d browsed online about Simon Grainger’s death. It seemed that though the apes had refrained from eating the body, they’d enjoyed toying with it, even tearing off an arm smashed by the fall.

  The first tower of the Moorish Castle Estate appeared, its windows dark but for the occasional blue glow of a TV behind net curtains. Spike glanced down at the crate in his arms and considered turning back. Then he imagined how dispiriting it would be to return to his father’s empty kitchen and its unsettling heap of tea chests. Two dirty glasses and nothing but a bottle of J&B to obliterate the rest of the night.

  The door on the seventh floor opened cautiously. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Spike Sanguinetti.’

  The crack widened and he saw Amy Grainger looking up at him. With her wet black hair scraped back, and her face naked of make-up, she looked incredibly young.

  Spike suddenly felt drunk and stupid. ‘I brought you something.’

  ‘I’ve only just got Charlie down.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘To sleep.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’ He’d forgotten about the boy. She looked down at the crate. ‘You’d better come in then.’

  He followed her inside. As if trying to reclaim her own space, she’d cleared away most of the childish things and dimmed the lights. A pot on the stove smelled of tomato ragù; Spike wondered if she’d been expecting someone, then saw the single plate and glass on the table.

  ‘It’s been hard to get him to sleep lately,’ she said, turning off the hob.

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Spike said, but she didn’t smile back, perhaps taking in his crumpled T-shirt, the whisky on his breath. He realised with a sting of shame that she might be scared of him. ‘Listen, I won’t stay. I just wanted to give you this.’ He passed her the box. ‘I went to Cádiz today to settle the final bill.’

  ‘This is what the six hundred euro invoice was for?’

  Spike nodded as she drew out the contents. ‘Simon was having it restored for you. It’s a ship’s bell,’ he added sheepishly, guessing it might well be the worst present she had ever received.

  ‘What was Simon thinking . . .’ she said, running a finger over the blistered metal. She wrinkled her nose. ‘God, it smells.’

  ‘That’s vinegar. Juan tried to clean it.’

  ‘Juan?’

  ‘The conservator in Cádiz. Apparently Simon had a line selling artefacts to tourist shops in Marbella. Juan helped get them into saleable condition.’

  Amy stared at him. She looked good without make-up. Softer somehow.

  ‘Did you know about it?’

  She smiled. ‘Come with me.’

  He followed her through the kitchenette, peering over her shoulder as she opened a utility cupboard. On the shelves lay a medley of items: a shiny pink conch, a clay pipe, two ancient bulb-shaped bottles. ‘Simon’s trophy cabinet,’ she said. ‘He used to dive the Europa Reef with his friends from the restaurant. They would bring things back that got caught on the coral.’

  ‘Expensive hobby.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Diving.’

  ‘He took his PADI course in Thailand. The staff from the restaurant were allowed to borrow stuff for free from the dive shop next door.’

  Squatting on the central shelf was a coil of ship’s rope. On top of it lay a rusty disc. ‘Is that a coin?’ Spike said, peering in further.

  ‘A piece of eight, apparently.’

  She picked up the coin and handed it to Spike. Medallion-sized, but light as a seashell, the metal flaking with the same blue-green contusions as he had seen on the bell. Bronze disease, no doubt, Spike thought as he handed it back. Amy bent down and placed the bell carefully on the bottom shelf, then closed the cupboard. ‘You shouldn’t have paid all that money,’ she said as she stood back up, finding herself closer to Spike than she’d perhaps intended.

  ‘You can pay me back. Anyway, I’ve sent the documentation to the bank. Your account should be working by Wednesday.’

  ‘You’ve been so kind.’

  He turned for the door.

  ‘Let me at least give you supper,’ Amy called after.

  He hesitated. ‘Are you sure you have enough?’

  ‘It’s pasta, for God’s sake.’

  Releasing the door handle, he stepped back into the room.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ‘So you were at the Sacred Heart Middle School?’

  Amy started to sing: ‘We are so proud/ To be part of this crowd/ In this sacred school of ours. This heart on a mount/ Where we all spell and count/ And we spend such happy hours . . .’

  ‘OK,’ Spike said, raising a hand in supplication. ‘I believe you.’

  She smiled. ‘My family used to live on Flat Bastion Road.’

  ‘What’s your maiden name?’

  ‘Divinagracia . . . Amy Elizabeth Divinagracia.’

  ‘As in Aiden Divinagracia?’

  ‘You’ve met my brother, then.’

  Spike shrugged, embarrassed to have brought up the connection. ‘It’s not an easy surname to forget.’

  ‘In the Juvenile Court, right?’

  Spike thought back to the short, anaemic shoplifter he had prosecuted twice. On the second occasion, he’d been waiting for Spike behind the Law Courts, threatening him with a flick-knife before realising that Spike had survived the same playgrounds, knew the same tricks. There were no private schools in Gibraltar, so future politicians, lawyers and criminals all studied together in the same classrooms.

  ‘He’s in Fuengirola now. We don’t talk about him much these days.’

  Spike busied himself with his tagliatelle. The tomato sauce was sweet and delicious. ‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a Divinagracia,’ he said, failing to come up with any other topic of conversation.

  ‘Because of my accent? I had to tone it down or Simon couldn’t understand me. Keki or gingibier?’ she asked, switching to a thick Gibraltarian.

  Spike smiled. ‘I’m OK with the wine, thanks.’

  She picked up the box and topped up his glass. ‘We were all terrified of your father at school.’

  ‘His bark is worse than his bite.’

  ‘You should have seen some of the female teachers. They used to swoon over Mr Sanguinetti.’

  ‘Please,’ Spike said, feeling slightly nauseous.

  ‘I think it was his height. And the blue eyes . . .’ She tilted her head, watching him sideways through her dark eyelashes.

  ‘Northern Italian blood, allegedly,’ Spike said. ‘Foothills of the Alps.’

>   There was a silence. ‘Have you ever been married?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Close?’

  ‘I’ve had a bad run of it.’

  ‘Tell me about it, compa.’ Amy peered down at her still-shiny wedding ring. Her small hands had long fingers, nails bitten as short as a schoolgirl’s. The monitor gave a sudden whimper, green lights flashing.

  ‘Is he waking up?’ Spike said.

  ‘Just a bad dream.’ She got to her feet. ‘He’ll be OK as long as Bugs is with him.’

  ‘Bugs?’

  ‘His rabbit.’ Amy moved to the sideboard where an old vinyl record player sat beneath an anglepoise lamp.

  ‘Did Simon dig that out of the bay as well?’

  She laughed, then held up the sleeve of an old ’45. Gene Kelly, Leslie Caron, An American in Paris.

  ‘Our Love is Here to Stay?’ Spike said.

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘I’ve listened to Radio Gibraltar on more than one occasion, yes.’

  She laid the record on the turntable.

  ‘You’re not going to sing again, are you?’ The soft crackle immediately transported Spike back to his childhood, his mother humming along to Puccini as she cooked. Then Gene Kelly’s rich voice started to croon the first of Gershwin’s lyric, promising a love that would endure – outlast even the Rock of Gibraltar.

  When Spike looked back, Amy was holding a photo frame that she’d picked up from the sideboard. Her wedding day, he realised as he approached – veil back, luminous face tilted upwards to kiss her husband. Grainger was a brute of a man, Spike saw now, broad-shouldered with a shaven scalp, folds of fat corrugating the back of his neck. The beast appeared to have been tamed, however: he looked almost vulnerable as he cradled his wife’s head, wedding band squeezed around his thick ring finger.

  Amy’s large eyes were wet with tears. Spike smelled the clean sweet scent of her hair as he reached out and took her hand. ‘May I?’

  It wasn’t clear who made the first move, but suddenly her mouth was pressed to his. He felt her drawing him close, her hips slotting into his as he bent his knees. Gene Kelly had moved on to a less familiar song by the time she led him to the sofa, drawing him down onto the heavy worn cushions.

  Later, the only sound was the knocking of the record stylus and her gentle breathing. Spike banished thoughts of Zahra from his mind, then closed his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The ceiling above was a flaking magnolia pink. The smell was of rosewater. Spike twisted his head to the right. Beside him on the bed lay his client, Mrs Amy Grainger.

  Spike rolled his eyes back to the ceiling, images flipping through his mind like a deck of cards – sitting on a beach in Cádiz with Jessica, the sound of his front door closing, dancing with Amy as she wept, her small hand in his as she’d led him from the sofa to the bedroom . . . He shifted position, head protesting at the movement. Amy was hugging a pillow to her chest like a child with a soft toy, her thin shoulders pale and naked beneath the duvet. Christ. He had to get out of here.

  Her face in repose was even more beautiful, he noticed as he edged out of bed: full lips, black hair shading her white brow. He rolled to his feet. She didn’t stir.

  He reached for his T-shirt, smelling her scent in the cotton as he pulled it over his head. An aggressive buzzing came from the floor. He searched desperately for his trousers, grabbed his phone from his pocket and switched it off with a rigid thumb just as a new text message icon winked on the screen. He turned back to the bed. Still sleeping.

  The light between the bedroom curtains was weak, dawn barely broken. Spike crept towards the door, one red espadrille in each hand, passing a collage of photos on the wall. All showed the happy couple, on a beach, at a restaurant, arm-in-arm with a volcanic green mountain behind – Thailand, maybe. In one corner lay a pair of slippers – monkeys forming the shoe, a snout at the toe and a tail at the heel. About Amy’s size, Spike thought, wondering if Simon Grainger had given them to her as a present.

  Spike’s hand extended for the doorknob. There was a tremor to his fingers: must have had more than just wine last night. He groaned inwardly as he remembered the whisky he’d drunk with Jessica, the extra glass downed for Dutch courage before he’d left.

  Amy’s smooth back was still turned to him as he risked a final glance before easing into the sitting room. As he tiptoed round in relief, he found the little boy standing just a metre away, barefoot, his dark brown hair mussed with sleep, washed-out blue and red pyjamas too short for his legs. He lifted his hands, a picture-board book clamped between them. ‘Book?’ he said. Spike hadn’t even known a child his age could speak.

  ‘Book?’ he repeated, quietly insistent.

  Spike put a finger to his lips.

  ‘Book?’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Spike hissed, moving to the nearest sofa. Beneath the coffee table lay a condom wrapper greedily ripped in two; Spike kicked it beneath the valance as the boy tossed the book onto the sofa, raising his arms like a tiny, tyrannical gymnast. ‘Up?’

  Spike’s eye was caught by a bottle of medicine on the sideboard: ‘Calpol’, the label said. He unscrewed the top and took a gulp. When he opened his eyes again, the boy still stood at his feet. ‘Up?’

  Gingerly, Spike picked the child up, feeling his brittle ribs beneath the warm cotton of his pyjamas. His little feet dangled between Spike’s legs as he placed him on his lap, ankles twitching in anticipation.

  ‘Row, Row, Row,’ Spike read aloud as he turned the page. On one side of the double spread were the words of the nursery rhyme, on the other a picture of a teddy bear in a wooden skiff. ‘Row, row, row your boat,’ Spike continued, but the little boy twisted his head towards him, narrowing his dark eyes in fury. Spike took a breath, then reluctantly launched into quiet song. ‘Gently down the stream . . .’ he chimed, and the little face turned back to the book, a faint set of victory about the jaw.

  ‘Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily . . .’

  The boy turned the next page himself. ‘. . . life is but a dream.’ The top of the boy’s head brushed against the underside of Spike’s chin, his hair as silken and sweet as his mother’s. Spike had a clear flashback: sitting on his father’s knee, the sandpaper of his stubble as he bent down to kiss him, a little painful yet strangely comforting.

  He assumed this was the end of the book, but no, more pages had further variations on the rowing theme. ‘Gently to the shore . . . if you see a lion, don’t forget to roar.’

  The boy gave a small growl.

  ‘Row, row, row your boat, out into the bay . . .’ Now Teddy sat in a skiff with a skull and crossbones on the mast. He wore a cutlass at his side and a dashing eyepatch. ‘If you see a pirate ship . . .’

  ‘Row the other way?’

  Spike’s head thudded as he span round. Standing in the doorway was Amy Grainger. ‘Mama!’ Charlie shouted and rolled off Spike.

  ‘A singer and a dancer,’ Amy said. ‘Who knew?’ She wore a man’s long white T-shirt. Spike forced a smile.

  ‘Papi?’ Charlie said, clinging to his mother’s legs. Spike felt his stomach churn as his eyes flitted to the front door.

  ‘Where Papi, Mama?’

  Spike moved his gaze from mother to son. Both were as pale as paper. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mouthed. ‘I have to go.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Spike kept to the lee of the Rock, glad of its shadow, shame curdling in his gut. A grocery store was opening for business, the Moroccan owner slopping down the pavement outside. Spike had intended to buy milk but the fridge was out of order. He took out a warm bottle of mineral water instead. ‘Twenty-five pence,’ the Moroccan said with a smile. The knowledge that the same drink would have cost a pound on Main Street did little to lift his mood.

  Work, Spike thought as he drained the bottle and threw it in the bin – that was where salvation lay. In twenty-four hours he’d be on his way to court. He rubbed the back of his head, trying to ascertain if the water
had eased his hangover. Not enough to suggest he’d feel much better tomorrow.

  The neighbour’s budgie was taunting a house sparrow as Spike unlocked the front door to find his father sitting at the kitchen table.

  ‘Been somewhere nice?’ Rufus said, spoon submerged in a bowl of cornflakes.

  Spike raised the carton of milk from the table. Long-life, he realised as he gulped it down. If Spike didn’t buy fresh food, it didn’t get bought. ‘I’m going upstairs.’

  ‘I shan’t disturb you then,’ Rufus said. ‘By the way,’ he added as Spike passed. ‘I solved your clue.’

  ‘What clue?’

  ‘The crossword clue you left on the table.’

  Spike turned painfully from the bead curtain.

  ‘F_ _S S_ _CT_ _ M_N_ _S,’ Rufus read out. ‘FLOS SANCTUS MONTIS. Nothing else fits.’

  Spike peered down and saw the sheet of paper on which he’d written the letters from the ship’s bell.

  ‘It’s Latin for “Holy Flower of the Mountain”.’

  ‘I know what it means, Dad,’ Spike said, hearing the tetchy adolescent in his voice.

  ‘It’s the name of a ship,’ Rufus went on, pushing back his mane of silver hair, a schoolmaster’s vanity swelling his tone. He wore the same mauve silk dressing gown given to him twenty years ago by Spike’s mother. What had once seemed embarrassingly patrician now just looked shabby. ‘She was an old Spanish galleon, if I recall correctly. Named at a time when the Spanish still held Gibraltar. The Brits claim she sank in the Straits. Disputed by Spain, naturally.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘1720s, 30s maybe. It’s all in the Garrison Library.’ He tightened his dressing gown, then returned to his cornflakes.

  Spike moved behind him and kissed the crown of his head.

  ‘What’s that?’ Rufus said, looking up. ‘Oh, my pleasure. It’s all I’m good for these days.’