‘If I were you,’ I told him, ‘I’d go to confession.’
Forty
And that was it. I caught an evening flight back to Barcelona, and was home in time to have supper in Mesón del Conde with Alex and Gloria, with Marte in a pram beside the table. In Spain babysitters aren’t in great demand: in our culture we tend to take the kids with us, from infancy, when we go out to eat.
Next morning, I awoke feeling completely drained, empty, devoid of purpose and alone. I hate being idle, and usually fight against it by doing something constructive with Tom or by getting involved with local projects, like the annual St Martí wine fair. But that Sunday I couldn’t think of a single thing to do.
So I took the advice I’d given to Caballero. I went to midday Mass, even though I was baptised in the Church of Scotland, a country not famed for its ecumenism. Once the service was over, and as Father Gerard saw the congregation off the premises, I slipped into the confessional, remembering what he had said about never turning away sinners. When he took his place on the other side of the divide, I told him all that had happened to me, from Adrienne’s first phone call. I left nothing out. I described my meetings in London and Sevilla, and I told him of my encounters with Frank, on the train and in the pool. When I was done, I waited.
‘I suppose you expect a penance,’ he said. ‘You’re not getting one.
I absolve you from the sins of fornication and taking the Lord’s name in vain. You’re clear on arson, since it was your cousin who burned those bikes, and in the circumstances the least Caballero could have done was lend you his Suzuki. As for the rest, soon the memories will not be so sharp.’
I settled for that and invited him to lunch.
The story broke in London next day, thanks to a press release issued by the Foreign Office. I had advance warning, courtesy of a guy in the Barcelona consulate who had been advised of my interest, presumably by Gomez. He sent me a copy by email. It seemed to me when I read it that the party line had been agreed between Whitehall and the Catalan tourist ministry. It said that Adrienne and Frank had died after being engulfed by a wildfire on hillside overlooking the Mediterranean. There was no hint that they had been used as kindling.
The animal that was once called Fleet Street was on to it in a flash. I had one or two calls, which I fended off, but I was small fry in story terms alongside my famous sister, who drew top billing in most of the red-tops, and whose grief was expressed in a statement issued, and probably written, by her husband’s media spokesman. It did not hint at the truth, that she had barely known either victim, family members or not, but that wouldn’t have looked too good. I read as much as I could on-line next day: Adrienne rated respectable obituaries in the Telegraph and Times, but not in the Guardian: I don’t believe she’d have minded that at all.
For the rest of the week I was like a solitary black cloud in a clear blue sky. I moped around the house. When I couldn’t stand that any more, I hung about the cafés, in turn, drinking coffee and frowning at any tourists who tried to make polite conversation. On the Thursday morning, I went up to Shirley’s for some peace and wisdom, but I didn’t feel comfortable there. The memory of that waterborne knee-trembler, and the promise I’d made to Frank in the summer-house, Tonight, then, were still too fresh in my mind. Finally, I found something to occupy me: driven by a force I still can’t explain, I sat down at my computer and sketched out a synopsis of what had happened to me; it was the start of a process that led in time to what you’re reading now.
The outline was pretty much finished on Sunday afternoon, when Conrad Kent arrived with Tom and Charlie. In front of the whole village I gave my son a hug of embarrassing proportions, which he tolerated before dashing indoors to fill a water-bowl for the dog, and probably to check that I hadn’t damaged or pawned any of his possessions in his absence.
Conrad would have driven straight back, but I had prepared lunch and made him stay to share it with us. He didn’t say much, but I could tell he wanted to. ‘Spit it out,’ I told him, in the end, as I poured him coffee on the front terrace, after Tom had been cleared for beach duty.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine.’
‘I read all the reports: a real official stitch-up.’
‘Very true.’
‘What does Kravitz think about it? Have you asked him?’
‘He’s not thinking anything.’ I lowered my voice. ‘He’s been told not to, like me.’
‘Leaned on?’
‘Hard.’
‘Can I help?’
‘If you could find a security-service operative who goes by the name Moira, and do something painful to her, I’d appreciate it. Otherwise, no, but thanks for the offer.’
‘If Kravitz can’t do that, neither can I, I’m afraid. The best you can do is forget about it, and concentrate on that lad of yours. He’s looking more like his father every day; that means he’ll be a handful.’
‘Any advice?’
‘Make sure you teach him the difference between right and wrong in black and white,’ he replied. ‘It was a grey area to Oz.’
I looked at him. ‘I know that better than anyone in the world.’
‘Of course you do,’ he conceded. ‘But he didn’t do what you think he did.’ After he had gone, I found myself wondering whether Susie had put him up to saying that, but decided he was sincere, and that he believed it. I wish I did.
Tom’s return brought Planet Primavera back into its usual orbit: around him. I put the writing aside for a bit and asked him to draw me up a list of things he’d like to do. The water-park at Ampuriabrava featured high upon it. We went there a couple of times, we did some bird-watching at Aiguamols nature reserve, we hit a lot of golf balls on the practice ground at Gualta and we fished, morning and evening, off the long jetty that stretches out from the rocks below the village.
After a few days of that, I was happy again and the bad memories were fading, as my confessor had promised they would. And then, in all his wide-eyed innocence, my lovely son knocked the lid right off the can of worms.
Forty-one
We had just returned from the beach at Montgó, where we’d gone to escape the strong afternoon breeze that was stirring up the sand at St Martí. We were in the living room, drinking carrot and orange juice and Coronita beer respectively, and Sky News was on the box. I allow one telly in the house, and that’s all, although sometimes I cheat by watching on-line.
I wasn’t paying much attention as the evening bulletin began. The main story of the day came from Westminster, where the dour and unloved Prime Minister had attempted to freshen up his image by freshening up his cabinet.
One by one, the losers appeared, one or two with brave smiles, the rest about to trip over their long faces. And then the winners were paraded, in no obvious pecking order: third in line, the new Home Secretary, was. . Justin Mayfield, MP.
An official photograph appeared on screen, and then the programme cut to live footage from the doorstep of a posh terraced house, a red-brick job in a nouveau riche suburb like Fulham or Herne Hill. There he was, the man I’d last seen being given a one-finger salute by Frank as we wished him goodbye, smiling haughtily alongside his smug-looking little wife, a stumpy blondette.
‘I know her,’ Tom exclaimed.
‘Yes, I know him too. He’s on the telly a lot, but I met him a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Not him.’ Tom sighed, in his be-patient-with-her voice. ‘Her. I’ve seen her.’
I stared at him. ‘You must be mixing her up with somebody else.’
‘I’m not,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve seen her.’
‘Where?’
‘Here, in the village. It was her, I know it.’