by Les Cowan
“Well, do you think that makes us a good combination then?”
“Very good. I love you Señor David.”
“I love you too, Dr Lockhart. Come here.”
The evening light died over Madrid as David and Gillian kissed long and slow, held each other then went indoors. It would be a busy day tomorrow.
Chapter 20
Warehouse 66
The sight that greeted them next morning at Warehouse 66 could not have been more different from the empty, lifeless building of the previous day. A long queue of cars filed in, church doors flew open, and hundreds of people were wending their way in. Stewards directed traffic and friends kissed and embraced in the Mediterranean way. The Scots got their share too, bumping into those who recognized them from the day before. Old aquaintances gathered round David, greeting him warmly and welcoming Gillian, who stood close beside him. As word of David’s presence spread among the gathering crowd, the air echoed with shouts of joy and thanksgiving. Others were shyly interested but unsure in the way you might spot a celebrity in the street and hesitate.
Eventually Mariano and Maria managed to usher them in. Warehouse 66 may just have been what the name suggested outside but inside everything was different. Along one side of the foyer was an information desk like you’d find in a busy hotel. A team of young people in matching polo shirts with the church logo passed out information sheets and sermon notes. Opposite were a staffed cloakroom and a DVD desk. Finally, they made it through the crush into the auditorium. Nothing had the look of a traditional church. It reminded Gillian more of a concert venue. A huge sound desk dominated the back and behind it a glass windowed engineer’s compartment. On the far side stood a café with seating for fifty or so and a long counter full of snacks and pastries. Round the walls were noticeboards, pigeonholes, and appliqué banners with illustrated Bible verses. The seats were fast filling up with all ages – though mainly at the younger end – exactly the age group most lacking in any church Gillian had ever been to before. She was hoping for somewhere near the back but Mariano ushered them right forward through the crowd.
“This is amazing!” Gillian whispered as they found their seats. “I never thought church could be like this. It’s more like a James Taylor concert!” David squeezed her hand and smiled.
“Whatever we are, we try not to be boring.”
Two huge video screens lit up as the worship band began to play. Gillian recognized some of the tunes and it reinforced a dawning thought. Although this was a different country and culture, the family identity was the same. Southside and Warehouse 66 were undoubtedly related – not surprising really.
“I know this one!” she mouthed as the band got going.
“It’s like folk music,” David whispered back. “Somebody must have written it somewhere but it ends up getting adapted all over the world,” he added, clearly relaxed and at ease. Home at last. As the rhythm picked up, David, Juan, Mariano, and Maria were all on their feet, singing. Even Alison swayed a bit with the music, self-conscious but determined not to be left out. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves.
They were only into the second or third song when Gillian realized that something was wrong. The music was great, the people friendly, the leading relaxed, but somehow she was feeling increasingly ill at ease. The more they sang, prayed, worshipped and shared, the worse it got. What was wrong? She stopped singing then sat down, a knot growing in the pit of her stomach. Then it dawned. She had been so looking forward to being a part of it all. Now she realized she wasn’t. It was fine as a social phenomenon, friendly, welcoming, positive. But there was a fundamental reality at the heart she couldn’t share and she was determined not to pretend. They called themselves “believers” – creyentes – but she knew this was not just a matter of dutifully reciting some prayer or creed. This was relationship. You had it or you didn’t. Everybody said it. Somehow it just hadn’t sunk in. Not personally. The old chestnut all over again – not what you know but who you know. She could almost remember a time in her childhood when she had thought she had a connection but that was so long ago – before the pressure of “what everybody knows”; before studies, career, profession. The dominance of the rational. What you could prove and reference in a footnote. She knew enough to understand that couldn’t be how you came to whatever God there might be. It was on his terms or not at all. She also realized that it couldn’t wait till everything could be proved. Like almost anything of worth in life you had to put it into practice to know if it was true. And she really wasn’t ready to take that risk.
Suddenly all the enthusiasm, sincerity, and engagement of the crowd became intolerable. She felt like a cork in the Cava bottles they’d been shaking up at the party; she had to get out. Without so much as a glance at David she simply grabbed her bag, pushed past Mariano and Maria, and almost ran down the aisle. David stopped singing and looked round. Mariano could only shrug. Maria took off after her. Then, before David had any more chance to react the band stopped and the leader turned in their direction. It would have to wait. Mariano jumped onto the platform, added his own welcome, then explained they had a special visitor that morning – the man they called Señor David. Applause and cheers rang out and David had to stand up and acknowledge it, still preoccupied with the image of Gillian running down the aisle. Mariano called him up.
“Buenas Días, Señor David. Bienvenido!”
“Buenas Días, 66.”
“Pues, como sabéis, Señor David,” Mariano continued, “tenemos unos nuevos miembros desde que fuiste a Escocia. Puedes decirnos un poco sobre los días primeros de Warehouse 66? And for our Scottish visitors, could Señor David tell us a little about the early days?”
What could he do? It felt like being grabbed for a High Street survey when your house is on fire. He swallowed, shuffled a bit, then began. Those who knew the story enjoyed hearing it again and others listened intently. It was a rare opportunity to hear the legend’s story, straight from the legend’s mouth. He told the story simply and factually – the obstacles, the small successes, the recoveries that seemed miraculous. Just being in the right place at the right time. And the opposition – Raúl and Rocío. He ended by explaining why they were back in Spain. At this point Mariano intervened and, much to Alison’s embarrassment, brought her on stage as well where he prayed for safety, success, and a good outcome.
As they came down, David noticed Gillian had slipped back into her seat, her eyes red and cheeks streaked with mascara. She looked peaceful. Maria, next to her, was smiling. She squeezed his arm and mouthed, “It’s ok”, though this didn’t clarify much.
Mariano spoke for nearly an hour. “Vengan a mí todos ustedes que están cansados de sus trabajos y cargas, y yo los haré descansar.” The text was familiar even to Alison once Juan had translated. “Come to me all you that labour and are heavy laden and I will give you rest.” David felt anything but restful. What was that all about and what did “ok” mean? Gillian simply sat looking forward seeming perfectly calm. It was maddening. Finally, Mariano drew things to a close, they sang a final song, and it was all over. But yet again David was waylaid, surrounded by people wanting a few words or to meet the man who started it all. It was impossible to move. As he tried to give sensible answers and concentrate on whoever wanted to speak to him his eyes were constantly flicking over to where Gillian was with Maria. Still a little red-eyed but she seemed to be smiling.
Finally, just as the crowd began to clear and it looked like he could begin edging down the aisle he noticed a distinguished-looking older man with short cropped hair, a neatly clipped moustache, and an upright military bearing hovering on the edge of the group. He waited patiently until the hand-shaking and blessing was over then rather shyly introduced himself.
“Señor Hidalgo, perdoname. We have not met but I believe you know my colleague, Captain Silvosa?”
“Yes, of course. I’ve been trying to contact him about
the girl we’re looking for. I was told he was on leave.”
“He is back now but in another team. I think I may be able to offer you a little help. Esteban Rodriguez.” He extended a hand.
“Mucho gusto. Forgive me Señor. Are you the same Rodriguez that was in charge of anti-drug operations two years ago. Looking for Raúl?”
Rodriguez bowed slightly.
“Sí. I was aware of an enquiry from Edimburgo but I’m afraid I did not connect the name Hidalgo with yourself or the enquiry. If so, I might have been able to contact you sooner. Your forgiveness Señor David – if I may call you that.”
“Of course. No pasa nada. Muchas gracias.”
“Bueno. The problem you referred to this morning, the missing girl – this falls within my area of responsibility. Señor Álvarez we know very well. We knew he had left Spain but we did not know where and also we did not know he had returned. We would very much like to have a conversation with him and some of his associates. How do you say in Inglaterra, ‘to help the police with their enquiries…’ Yes?”
“Yes – I think they do say that. But you didn’t come to church just to look for me?”
“Not at all. My wife and I are regular attenders but we had no idea of your visit. I have worked with the national drugs team for some years now. I became aware of the work of the church through reports to the courts. When someone is convicted of a drugs offence in Spain they may be given a sentence involving some rehabilitation. We kept hearing about Warehouse 66 and the Casas de Seguridad. Very few of the programmes we refer people to seem to be effective but this was different. I made it my business to find out about it and that brought me to church.” He paused, searching for the right words. “You must understand, Señor, I was brought up a good Catholic. We tend to be a little – how can I say – suspicious of other movements. It is hard to change the habits of a lifetime but I cannot ignore the evidence. In my opinion, to change the lifestyle of so many drug users is something out of the ordinary. So I had to find out how it works.”
David nodded in agreement.
“As you might expect, to begin with, there was some reluctance to invite a chief of the police into the houses…” Captain Rodriguez had a twinkle in his eye, and David understood exactly what he was talking about. It brought to mind the unlikely meeting of Eric Stoddart and D.S. Thompson what seemed like ages ago in Juan and Alicia’s flat in South Clerk Street.
“I can imagine,” he said.
“Well, it took some time but I am a patient man. Once I understood what was going on, I was able to encourage the work and make more of a partnership. So then, I decided to come to church and see what is behind it all. And this,” he gestured all round, “was a revelation. I don’t need to tell you, there was much superstition and ritual in my background, as well as much that is good.”
“I know,” said David. “That’s true of a lot of what we call religion.”
“De verdad. To me this felt like reality, not a ritual. Real people and, if I might say so, a real presence of God. From my first week here I was convinced. My wife, Luisa, she took a little longer. Anyway, we must all have our meeting with God in our own way and our own time.”
“Very true. I’m glad to hear the church has been of help to you. And you think you may be able to help us now?”
“I’m sure. Three things. Number one, a crime is being committed in Spain, one that is linked to criminal activities in another country. It gives us a bad reputation. I don’t like that. Number two, this involves our friend Raúl, whom I’ve been trying to meet for some years. And number three, it is an obligation to help a brother, is it not? Particularly a distinguished brother who has been of such help to the drugs service – and the familia Rodriguez.” The captain had a gracious but determined look that made David smile. He took an immediate liking to the man and yet again marvelled at the synchronicity of faith. Some people called it coincidence. Well, they were entitled to their view. As Juan was fond of pointing out, there was no such thing as luck.
“What do you think we should do next, Señor Rodriguez?”
“You must come to see me first thing tomorrow morning. If you can tell me what you know, the resources of our team will work to help you. Álvarez is what you would call quite a ‘big fish’ – a fish I would like to get my net around and remove from the water, if you follow me. So, until tomorrow? Here are my details. I will look forward to it.”
David took the card, shook hands with the captain and thanked him. The problem of what to do next seemed to have been resolved. Just then he noticed Juan and Alison waiting patiently.
“Well, Señor David?” Juan began. “How does it feel to come home? A Spanish welcome – yes?”
“Very good but also exhausting. How are you doing Alison? I’m sorry you got dragged up.”
Alison shook her head. “That’s ok,” she said. “You must feel proud to have started something like this.”
“Ah well, as I keep saying, it was mainly Rocío’s idea. Has anyone seen Gillian?”
“Over there,” Alison nodded towards the café area.
Gillian and Maria were chatting like lifelong friends over café con leche and fresh churros. Gillian jumped up when she saw them coming, grabbed David, and almost squeezed the life out of him. Her eyes had a sparkle reflecting the spotlights.
“Ok?” David asked, not sure whether it might be better not to know.
“Yes, much better.” She looked relaxed in a dreamy sort of way. “Just a few things that needed sorting out.”
“So – eh – is that it?”
“Enough for now,” Maria put in firmly. “Don’t worry. It’s all good!”
Chapter 21
Southside and Muirhouse
“I don’t know what you think, Mrs MacInnes,” Mrs Buchanan said, “but I’m afraid I just don’t find it suitable. Not suitable at all. It’s just not what we’re used to, with all these other changes as well. I don’t know what the minister must be thinking but us older folk find it harder to adjust you know. Allowances have to be made. Mr Grant here agrees with me, don’t you Mr Grant?” The elderly gentleman next to her shuffled a bit, scratched his chin, and sucked his teeth.
“I do think she has a point, Mrs MacInnes,” he said. “She definitely has a point. See for yourself…” He gestured round as if the point he had in mind would be self-evident if only she cared to look. Mrs MacInnes did indeed have a look, not because she needed to but just to make sure that she was seen to be more than reasonable before the time came to have her own say.
It just so happened that the first Sunday David, Juan, and the others had to be absent in Spain was also the first Sunday Eric and Lorraine had persuaded some of their friends to come with them to church. So, in addition to the normal congregation, the pews were filled that morning with a couple of dozen new faces, all definitely more used to the Ferry Inn than the likes of Southside Fellowship. While the norms of dress and decorum had loosened quite a bit in David Hidalgo’s time, even these were utterly unknown to the visitors. Eric had warned everybody to be on their best behaviour. There was no question about actually taking anything in church but what could be wrong with a can of lager on the way up the stairs and a couple of rollups before things really got going? The fact was that most of Eric’s friends were scared stiff of church, more so than a visit to court, given the correspondingly higher nature of the authority concerned and the greater rarity factor. So it was only reasonable that nerves needed settling a bit. Once that problem had been sorted out there was the more subtle issue of whether there should be a bit of a curb on “language”. Wives and girlfriends generally thought so but some of the guys thought they should be able to effin’ swear if they effin’ wanted to. What were they gonna effin’ say if they couldn’t effin’ swear all effin’ morning? And so it went on. Putting your feet up on the chairs in the row in front, knowing when to stand up and when to sit do
wn, singing something other than come on the Hibs and the Hearts are rubbish. There also had to be constant surveillance to make sure none of the kids were nicking stuff. Not that there was anything here worth nicking but all the same. It was all a bit weird, and they felt as much at home as Bay City Roller fans at the opera. Everything that was the norm in Muirhouse seemed to be the opposite here. But Eric was a mate. A bit of a nutter, but nevertheless a mate, and if he said it was magic then they were prepared to give it a go, however painful, awkward, and embarrassing it might be.
Mrs Buchanan and Mr Grant, however, did not appear prepared to give it a go. As soon as the service was over, even while the tea and coffee were being served and Eric and his mates were laughing and joking, getting to know a few of the regulars, letting the kids muck about on the drums and queuing up for a cuppa, the delegation approached Mrs MacInnes, officially left in charge in Señor David’s absence.
“And what would you say the point was, Mr Grant?” Irene MacInnes drew herself up to her full height which, diminutive as it was, imparted additional gravitas. Ladies from Morningside are not to be measured in feet and inches when it comes to gravitas. Rather it is a quality born of a lifetime of telling the coal merchant that in no way does that look like three hundredweight of smokeless briquettes and would he kindly take them back to his yard or wherever smokeless briquettes are to be found, weigh them again, and next time bring the right amount? Ladies from Morningside are not to be trifled with and Mrs MacInnes now felt she was on the receiving end of the trifling. On this occasion it did not matter that it was her lifelong friend, Bella Buchanan, who was doing the trifling. There would be no trifling on her watch. Señor David had left her in charge and things would be spick and span when he got back.