Medusa

I ordered more coffee, and another brandy for us both, and we sat there, not saying anything, each alone with our own thoughts. I touched her hand again, the fingers answering to the pressure of mine, her grip almost urgent. Did she want me to stay? Was that the message she was trying to convey? And the slight flutter of her nerves. Was she scared? I hadn’t thought about it until that moment, my mind so concentrated on my own predicament. Now I tried to see it from her point of view, alone here, her husband slipping away on a yacht bound for Malta and the police suspecting him of complicity in a political murder.

Political? It had to be political. Martinez had no other interests. He hadn’t been in business, he hadn’t fiddled his taxes. He hadn’t slept with other men’s wives. No breath of scandal had ever touched him. But political enemies — he had those all right, and of course decisions had been made that did affect the business community. ‘It’ll be all right,’ I said, holding her hand tight. ‘Once I’m away they’ll forget all about me and concentrate on other leads. A week and they’ll know for sure that I had nothing to do with it. They’ll get the date when I took Thunderflash over and then they will begin to enquire into Evans’s movements.’

Her hand tightened on mine as she slowly nodded her head. ‘But suppose — ’ she hesitated — ‘suppose the police are in on it? Suppose it’s political and they’re covering up.’

‘Then there’d be a single name emerging as the new alcalde.’

She sat there for a moment, her head still bent and not saying anything, the almost black hair gleaming in the lights, which had just been switched on. ‘Fuxá,’ she murmured. ‘I keep hearing the name Fuxá. Ismail Fuxá.’

‘He makes a lot of noise,’ I said. ‘But the separatist element is only a small minority. The people know very well an island like this could never make it on its own.’

We talked about it for a moment, then I paid the bill and we left, hand-in-hand, and the man in the red floppy hat watched us from his post by the bollard just a few yards from the Atlante. Maybe it was the brandy, but I felt warm and very close to Soo at that moment, and my mind, dreaming in the softness of the evening, the faint lap of wavelets the only sound, turned to thoughts of a ménage à trois, wondering whether I was macho enough to keep both a wife and mistress satisfied. Petra with child! Petra on Bloody Island, a kid running around the dig, our son, Soo here in the house with her basenji, running the office. She and Petra, they liked each other. They were so different it might work. Soo cared about marriage. The Navy and Malta, she’d been very conventionally brought up. But Petra — I had never discussed it with her, of course, but I was quite sure she didn’t give a damn.

It might work, but as I climbed the stairs my mind returned to normal and I knew it was only a dream.

I got my holdall and my oilskins and dumped them in the boot of the car. ‘What about your minder?’ Soo said. ‘The guy in the floppy hat.’

‘You drive,’ I said, still buoyed by the drink. ‘I’ll ride in the boot till we’re clear of the town.’ I crawled in, holding the lid of it slightly open. I had done it more or less as a lark, and Soo, who was always very quick to respond to a mood, was giggling as she said, ‘You look like something out of Alice crouched in there.’ She was still giggling to herself as she got in and started the engine.

We went about a hundred yards and then she slowed to a stop and I heard her say, ‘Am I permitted to drive out to see my friends? I’m supposed to be playing bridge tonight.’ And a male voice answered her in Spanish, ‘Of course, senora. You do not take your husband?’

‘No. He’s looking after Benjie.’

‘Benjie? I do not understand.’

‘The dog — el perro.’

‘Ah si, el perro.’ And then they were both laughing as though Soo was out on a cuckolding run. I nearly burst out laughing myself, thinking of Gareth Lloyd Jones safely tucked away in a frigate under the massive bulk of the Rock.

She drove fast after that, following the curves of the waterfront, and I watched the road astern through the slit under the boot lid. Nothing followed us, the cars along the Levante all parked, their owners still occupied with whatever it was they had come to the harbour for. By the Aduana I glimpsed the lights of a vehicle snaking down the Abundancia from the centre of town, but when it reached the Customs House it turned away from us.

By then we had reached the point where the Andén de Poniente runs into the Passo de la Alameda and the road to Fornells. I banged on the lid and after a while Soo stopped. ‘I thought perhaps you’d gone to sleep.’ She was still in a giggly mood. ‘You could have got out back by the Maritimo. There was nobody following us. I was watching in the mirror.’ And she added, ‘Are you sure you haven’t got delusions of grandeur? I’m beginning to wonder if it’s all an excuse to go for a sail in that damned cat.’