Read Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) Online
Authors: Thomas Mogford
‘I’m glad it was so memorable.’ She walked past him to the hotel-room door. ‘Forget it, Spike.’
The door was locked.
‘Do you want to grab some breakfast?’ Spike said.
‘It’s Ramadan.’
‘Still?’
‘The last day.’
‘After sundown?’
‘I’ll be at my friend’s house.’
‘Which friend?’
‘The one I’ve been staying with since you came to Chinatown.’
‘The man with the red rucksack?’
‘Not this again. Can I have the key?’
‘Why do you need to see him?’
‘For my papers.’
‘Why do you need those?’
‘You don’t remember that either?’
He gave her the key and she went inside. As she gathered her bag, he reached out and took her hand. ‘I do remember,’ he whispered in her ear.
She tried to pull away but he had a hand on her hip. Leaning forward, he kissed the nape of her neck. She turned and faced him. Her lips were swollen, her breath warm. He smelled her sharp scent as she dropped the bag and slid her hands up beneath his T-shirt.
Zahra had two little dimples on the small of her back, one each side of her spine. Light, wavy lines traversed her skin, fading into dark treacle. On her right shoulder rose a neat oval bruise where the rifle had recoiled. ‘What?’ she said as she stepped into a pair of pink knickers.
‘Just looking.’
Tutting as though he were a deviant, she pulled on jeans and a tank top. After crouching to her trainers, she held the black kaftan over her head and let it unfurl downwards.
‘I think it’s depressing.’
She moved to the dressing table beneath the window, using the cracked mirror to tie back her hair. ‘What’s depressing?’
‘The whole covering-up thing.’
‘My
foulard
?’
‘Your what?’
She gestured at her sequinned headscarf, which she was positioning over her ponytail.
‘All of it,’ Spike said, lying back. ‘The suggestion that if men actually see what you look like, they can’t be answerable for their actions.’
‘Coming from a man with second-degree sunburn, that sounds a bit naive.’ Zahra stood and gave a rich, croaky laugh. ‘I find it comforting,’ she added, knotting the headscarf beneath her chin. ‘I would still wear it in Europe.’
A beat passed. ‘I will help you,’ Spike said. ‘I’ll help with your visa. Act as a referee.’
‘You don’t have to do anything for me.’
‘I want to.’
‘That’s not why I slept with you.’
‘Of course.’
She sat down on the side of the bed. ‘Show me.’
He stuck out his tongue.
‘Better.’
‘So I’ll meet you at five at the café?’
‘Or four? For the application . . .’
‘OK.’
‘Or five?’
‘No, four’s fine.’
Zahra took his hand, caressing the palm. ‘Look at your long fingers. Like a musician.’ She leaned in and kissed him, reaching below the covers, breathing rapidly before drawing away. ‘Better not. I have enough praying to do as it is.’
She glanced back from the door and smiled. When she was gone, he slid out of bed and searched through his trousers. His passport was still missing. He checked the dressing table, then heard the bedside phone ring. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Nadeer. I’m down in reception. Mind if I pop up?’
There was a rap at the door. ‘Tracked you down at last,’ Nadeer said, coming in unasked as Spike stood bare-chested by the bed. ‘Christ alive, what happened to your face?’
‘Too much sun.’
‘I thought you were going home.’
‘Got held up.’
Nadeer was back in his suit, a tan leather satchel slung over one shoulder. He looked down at the floor where a ‘Rock Hard’ condom lay replete and exhausted.
‘Have a seat,’ Spike said, toeing the condom beneath the bed and sitting up against the headboard.
Nadeer took off his satchel and sat down at the dressing table. ‘I was starting to get worried,’ he said. ‘I called your office and was told you weren’t there.’
‘I’m touched by your concern.’
‘I wanted to check how Solomon was.’ As Nadeer reached forward to open the shutters, his reflection caught in the dressing-table mirror. The crack bisected his forehead, warping his face into two distinct parts like a fairground hall of mirrors. ‘So what have you been up to, buddy?’ he said, sitting back in the shadow.
‘Taking some downtime.’
‘Here in Tangiers?’
‘Yup.’
‘That’s odd. Because I came by the hotel on Tuesday. They told me you’d checked out.’
Nadeer nudged something along the table with a manicured nail: a hairclip. ‘I passed a young lady on the stairs.’
‘Oh?’
‘A rather pretty young lady. Looked to me like she came from the desert. You know, we have a proverb here in Morocco: “A Bedouin took his revenge after forty years. It was said he was in a hurry.” Heard that one?’
‘Have you been talking to the receptionist?’
Nadeer stared across. ‘Be careful you’re not being played, Spike. That’s all I’m saying.’ He stood. ‘Miss Solness was asking after you. You’re quite the dark pony. Quite the dark pony.’ There was a spot of orange sand on the floor; Nadeer dipped in a finger, checking the colour. Ahead in the corner lay the plastic tape box. ‘What’s that?’ he said, straightening up.
‘What’s what?’
He walked over and picked up the box, gripping both sides then pressing them together.
‘It was here when I checked in.’
From next door came the first notes of a movie soundtrack. Nadeer turned to the wall, then back to Spike. ‘I was talking to Professor Castillo. He told me some thug from Gibraltar had been harassing him just when he was at his most fragile.’
‘Riddell gave me his address.’
‘I wouldn’t pay too much heed to Tobes – he’s just a donkey I’ve comfortably stabled.’ There was a pause. ‘I asked you to my party, Spike. We cut a deal, I seem to remember. It involved you going home to help delay a trial. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t see much evidence of you fulfilling your side of the bargain.’
‘Maybe I prefer the long goodbye.’
‘There’s a ferry to Gibraltar this afternoon. I’d really hate to see all the good work you’ve done for Solomon go to waste.’ He threw the tape box onto the bed, then picked up his satchel and left.
‘The whole world united cannot harm you as much as you yourself can.’
‘Have you got my passport?’
The receptionist opened a drawer and handed it over. ‘Shall I put you down for another night?’
‘Why not?’
‘May your God go with you, friend.’
‘And also with you.’
Spike stepped out into the late Tangiers morning, face immediately throbbing in the heat. Sunscreen and refreshment, his two main priorities. He passed the guard hut then came out onto the street. A man was waiting with his back to the whitewashed wall that ran around the hotel. He was squeezing a squash ball in one hand.
‘I hear you’re catching the 3 p.m.,’ Riddell said.
‘You working on commission now?’
‘Comm-iss-ion,’ Riddell repeated, aping Spike’s accent. ‘Is it Spike or Spick, by the way? I never could tell.’ He detached himself from the wall and followed Spike up a narrow lane at the edge of the Medina. ‘Saw your lady friend back at the hotel,’ he called out.
‘Always the voyeur, Riddell.’
‘How much she set you back?’
Spike stopped. ‘What did you say?’
‘Your Bedouin whore. I hear they fuck like bitches in season. Arseholes even wider than their –’
Spike slammed Riddell back against the wall, one hand on each shoulder. His balding sandy head knocked against the stucco. He looked shocked for a moment, then grinned his stained teeth. With a double sweep of the arms, he pushed Spike’s wrists away, using the heel of his hand to jab at the lower part of Spike’s stomach. Spike felt his lips open as a pocket of air puffed between them. He tried to breathe in but nothing happened. Riddell kicked his feet away and he fell to his knees. Riddell kicked him again; he slumped to his side.
Men in djellabas bustled by, eyes carefully averted. ‘You Gibbos are all the same,’ Riddell said as he stood over Spike. ‘Piggyback on the garrison for three centuries, then on the banks once the garrison’s gone. Inbred camp followers. Leeches.’ Spike felt something warm spatter his cheek.
‘Now run along and catch your boat, little Gibbo, and go get your kike out of jail.’ He walked away, leather soles ticking on the cobbles.
There was spittle on Spike’s left cheek. He wiped it off and staggered to his feet, leaning against the wall until he got his breath back.
‘A mere two days late,’ Inspector Hakim Eldrassi said as he stood up from his desk. ‘Ouch. I hope that barman didn’t catch up with you.’
‘May I?’ Spike said as he sat down.
Hakim cleared the clutter from his desk, then pushed a sheet of paper towards Spike. ‘The translation on the top is my own.’
Spike scanned through. ‘Suicide?’
‘I was a little surprised myself,’ Hakim said, screwing a cigarette between his lips. ‘Especially as handwriting samples suggested Mr al-Manajah was left-handed and the knife was found in his right. But there you have it. He was a Bedouin. They go a bit crazy when they leave the desert. Hence all the . . .’ Hakim waved his cigarette over the room; seeing the state of his own furniture, he drew it back to his mouth.
Spike read the rest of the statement. ‘And the Arabic corresponds to the English?’
‘No doubt you will extricate yourself on a technicality if there are any problems.’
Spike signed, then handed it back. ‘Any chance of a copy?’
‘In . . . theory.’ Hakim turned to lift two styrofoam cups from the antique photocopier. ‘I’ll telephone the port authorities and have your name removed from the list,’ he said. ‘You should be pleased. Passage home. Trial in Gibraltar. No extradition for your client.’ He dropped the blurred copy onto Spike’s lap.
‘So what happens now?’
‘I celebrate the Eid ul-Fitr with my wife and daughters,’ Hakim replied as he sat down. ‘Watch the fireworks. Come back on Monday to deal with a tourist mugging.’ He turned up the corner of a piece of paper. ‘Round up a few of the more persistent
sans-papiers
.’ He turned up another. ‘It’s most odd. All the big crimes seem to have disappeared.’
‘Have you heard of a man called Nadeer Ziyad?’
Hakim grinned through his fug of smoke. ‘Do you remember the advice I gave you when we first met?’
‘Remind me.’
‘There’s a catamaran to Gibraltar at 3 p.m.’ Hakim reached into the bin for a scrap of paper. ‘I’ll need to liaise with your friend, Sergeant Navarro,’ he said. ‘The Hassan file will have to be conveyed to Gibraltar. This is my mobile number. Tell her to call me.’
Hakim clipped the scrap of paper to the photocopied statement. Spike read it as he came out onto the street. Beneath the digits were the words ‘CATCH THAT BOAT’.
A bandstand and bunting-clad Bedouin tent were being erected on the beach below the police station. Spike walked away up the coast road, pausing as a lorry rumbled by, its rear compartment stacked with crates of wide-eyed lambs. He passed a travel agent on the Place de la Marche Verte, where a poster advertised twice-weekly ferries from Genoa to Tangiers. He wondered how things might have turned out had his forebears made that journey across the Mediterranean instead of to Gibraltar.