The Marks of Cain Page 7

  Amy leaned close and reassured him with a hug.

  ‘I’m fine. David helped me. Really, José.’

  ‘But Amy. El violencia? It is so terrible!’

  ‘José!’ Amy’s response was sharp. ‘Please. I am completely OK.’

  The elderly smile returned.

  ‘Then…we must go and eat! Always we must eat. When there is trouble the Basques must eat. Come inside, Davido. We have a feast to satisfy the jentilaks of the forest.’

  There was no time to ask any further questions; as soon as they sat down they were presented with food and drink, endless food and drink.

  Fermina, José’s much younger wife, turned out to be a fervent cook; with dark eyes and bangled arms she served them traditional Basque food from her miniature kitchen, all of it rapturously introduced and explained by José. They had fiery nibbles of Espelette chillies skewered with tripotx – lamb’s blood sausage from Biraitou; they had a Gerezi beltza arno gorriakin – a cherry soup the colour of claret served with a white blob of crème fraiche; then the ‘cheeks of the hake’ decorated with olives; this was followed by unctuous kanougas – chocolate toffee – and soft turron nougat from Vizcaya, and Irauty sheep’s cheese next to a daub of cherry jam, and all of it sluiced down with foaming jugs of various Basque ciders: red and green and yellow and very alcoholic.

  Between the courses of this enormous meal, José talked and talked, he explained the origins of the beret amongst the shepherds of Bearn, he declaimed on the splendours of the ram-fighting of Azpeita, he showed David a cherished ormolu crucifix once blessed by Pope Pius the Tenth, he spoke mysteriously of the cromlechs in the forests of Roncesvalles built by the legendary giants and the mythical Moors, the jentilaks and the mairuaks.

  It was exhausting – but also engaging, even hypnotic. By the end David felt obese, drunk, and something of an amateur linguist. He had almost forgotten the fierce grip of anxiety, and the reason why he was here. But he hadn’t wholly forgotten. He could never wholly forget. El violencia, el violencia.

  It was hard to forget that.

  David looked at Amy. She was gazing out of the window. He looked back.

  José was sipping a sherry; Fermina was busy in the kitchen, making coffee it seemed. It was the right moment. David filled the silence, and asked José if he’d like to hear the story, the reason for David’s mission to Spain. José sat back.

  ‘Of course! But as I said in my texting message, I think I know the answer already. I know why you are here!’

  David stared at the old man.

  ‘So?’

  He paused dramatically. ‘I knew your grandfather. As soon as Amy told me the name, Martinez, I knew.’

  ‘How? When?’

  ‘Long time ago – so many years!’ The old man’s smile was persistent. ‘We were childhood friends in…in Donostia, before the war. Then our families fled to France in 1936. To Bayonne. Where they have the Jewish chocolate. The best chocolate in the world!’

  David leaned close, asking the most obvious question.

  ‘Was my grandfather a Basque?’

  José laughed with a scornful expression – as if this was a surreally stupid query.

  ‘But of course! Yes. He did not tell you? How very typical. He was a man of…some enigmas. But yes he was a Basque! And so was his young wife, naturally!’ José glanced pertly at Amy, and then back at David. ‘There now, David Martinez. You are Basque, in part at least: a man of Euskadi! You can play the txistu on San Fermin day! And now, have I answered all your questions? Is the mystery solved?’

  David sat quietly for a few seconds, absorbing the information. Was this all there was to it? Granddad was a Basque, but never admitted it?

  Then David remembered the map, and the churches. And the inheritance. How did that fit in?

  ‘Actually no, José. There is more.’

  ‘More?’

  Amy interrupted: ‘José…The stuff in the papers. The bequest…The map. You didn’t see it?’

  ‘I never read the newspapers!’ José said, his smile slightly fading. ‘But what is this other mystery? Tell me! What else must you know?’

  David gazed Amy’s way, with a questioning expression: she shrugged, as if to say, go on, why not, we’re here now.

  So David began. He told the story of his grandfather, and the churches, and the bequest. As he did, he reached in his pocket and pulled out the map, marked with blue stars.

  The atmosphere in the cottage was transformed.

  Fermina was standing by the kitchen door, wrapped in a consternated silence. The old man was frowning as he stared at the map. Frowning very profoundly: almost tragically. He looked almost…bereaved.

  Shocked by the effect of his story, David dropped the map on the table. It was as if the light in the room had dimmed; the only brightness came from the soft white pages of the map itself.

  José leaned over and took the map in his hands. For a few minutes, he caressed the worn paper. Opening it, he examined the blue asterisks, muttering and mumbling. No one moved.

  Then he looked up at David.

  ‘Forget about this. Please, I beg you. Forget about this. You don’t want to know any more about the churches. Keep your money. Get rid of this map. Go back to London. Por favor.’

  David opened his mouth. No words emerged.

  ‘Take it away,’ said José, handing the map back. ‘Get it out of my house. I know it is not your fault. But…get it out of my house. Never mention these matters again. Ever. That…that map…the churches…this is the key to hell. I beg you both to stop.’

  David didn’t know what to do; José’s wife was wiping her hands on a cloth, still at the door to the kitchen. Wiping her hands over and over, full of nerves.

  The tension was heightened by a noise. José Garovillo looked up; the scrunch of the gravel outside the house was distinctive.

  A red car was pulling up.

  Amy had a hand to her mouth.

  ‘Oh no…’

  José was gasping.

  ‘But no! I told him not to come. I am sorry, I told him you were coming but I asked him to stay away. Barkatu. Barkatu. Fermina!’

  The very tall man climbing out of the car was unmistakable: Miguel Garovillo. A second later he was pushing the farmhouse door and was inside the house, tall and wild and glaring – at Amy and David. And gazing at the map in David’s hand. A little twitch in his eye was quite noticeable, likewise a slender scar above his lip.

  ‘Papa!’ said Miguel, his voice rich with contempt.

  The son had his hand raised; for a ghastly moment it looked like he was actually going to clout José, to beat his own father. José flinched. Fermina cried out. Miguel’s black eyes flashed around the room; David saw the dark shape of a holster, under the terrorist’s leather jacket.

  Fermina Garovillo was pushing her son away, but Miguel was shouting at his father, and at Amy and David, shouting in Basque, his words unintelligible – the only thing that was obvious was the ferocious anger. José shouted a few words in return – but weakly, unconvincingly.

  And then Miguel shouted in English. At David. His deep angry voice vibrated in the air.

  ‘Get the ffffffuck out of here. You want the whore? Then take her. You take all this shit out of here. Go now.’

  David backed away. ‘We’re going…We’re going…’

  ‘First time I hit you. Next time I shoot you.’

  Amy and David turned and ran into the yard and jumped in the car.

  But Miguel followed them outside the house. He had taken out his gun, he was holding a black pistol in the air. Holding it – as if to show them. David got the strange jarring sense of something inhuman about him: a giant. A violent jentilak of the forest displaying his strength and anger. The gun was so very black. Glinting in the watery sunlight.

  David urgently reversed. He spiralled the wheel – and at last they turned, revving in the mud, and then they rocked down the track, skidding out onto the road.

  For half an ho
ur David drove fast and hard, into the green grey foothills, just driving to get away.

  When the panic and shock had subsided, David felt a rising anger, and a need to stop and think.

  He pulled over. They were halted at the edge of a village, with a timberyard on their left. The distant Pyrenees seemed a lot less pretty now; the pinetops of the forest were laced with an insistent and smothering mist. A church, surrounded by circular gravestones, sat on a hill above them.

  Everything was damp, everything around them was faintly, ripely, perceptibly rotting away in the damp.

  David cursed.

  ‘What. The. Fuck.’

  Amy tilted her face, apologetically.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry…’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘But…’ She shook her head. ‘But it is. Maybe you should go home, David. Miguel is my problem.’

  ‘No. No way. This is my problem too.’

  ‘But I told you what he is like. Murderously jealous. He…really will…do something. He might even…’

  ‘Kill me?’

  She winced.

  David felt the surge of a rebel spirit.

  ‘Fuck him. I want to know the answers.’ He started the car and negotiated the road slowly for a few minutes. ‘I want to know it all. My grandfather wouldn’t have sent me here – sent me into all this – unless he had a reason. I want to know why.’

  ‘The map.’

  ‘Exactly. The map. You heard what José said, saw how he reacted – there is something – something –’

  He was searching for a way to describe the complexity of puzzles; his next words were interrupted.

  ‘Don’t stop.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Drive on.’

  ‘What?’

  David felt the cold possibility constrict around his heart.

  Amy confirmed.

  ‘Miguel. In the car. Right behind.

  9

  Her eyes were locked on the mirror. David copied her gaze.

  ‘Jesus.’ He squinted. ‘Are you sure? Is it the same one?’

  ‘Numberplate. It’s him.’

  The road ahead was narrow, the fog was thickening as they climbed the mountainside.

  ‘But…’ David gripped the steering wheel tightly. ‘Was he there all along? Following?’

  ‘Who knows. Maybe he followed us. Or…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He is ETA. This is real ETA territory.’

  ‘So…’

  ‘They watch the roads all the time. He has friends and contacts all over. Maybe someone made a phone call. We were just parked there by the village. What do we do?’

  The fear was tangible. But David felt the rising defiance – again. He thought of his beloved mother and father: who left him alone. He thought of his loneliness: he’d had to fight his way through college, on his own, with just a distant grandfather in Phoenix. He had made it through all that shit, he had dealt with all that, so he wasn’t going to be frightened off, even by the most demonic of murdering terrorists. Not now. Not when he knew his grandfather’s mystery was linked to his own background, his own identity. This revelation of his Basqueness.

  And he didn’t like being hunted.

  ‘Let’s lose this bastard.’

  Pressing the throttle, he accelerated up the narrow, sharply curving road; the noise of the engine was painful as they shot between the stony hedgerows and the muddy slopes. Then he checked the mirror.

  The red car was closing.

  ‘Shit.’

  David could taste the savour of alarm; he ignored it, and changed down a gear or two – then he surged on, as fast as he could.

  ‘David –’

  On their left was a sudden cliff-edge. The slope was brutal – a fall of three hundred metres, or more. Just a few metres the wrong way and they would spin helplessly over the precipice.

  David steered back to safety – but then – thump.

  The red car had smacked into them. The bump from behind was firm, deliberate, and destabilizing. David gripped the wheel desperately, and kept them gripped to the road – then he flicked a frightened glance at the mirror. He couldn’t see for sure, but it felt like their pursuer was…smiling?

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s alright –’ he said to Amy.

  Why was he saying this? He was terrified. And yet he was feeling a rush of fury as well. Not now. Don’t give up now. If he gave up – what had it all been for? All those years of doing nothing, sitting in that sterile office, being a lawyer; struggling to make relationships, so scared that people would leave him – leave him alone, again.

  His heart swelled with angry revolt; he was going to save Amy, and save himself – he could do it.

  The accelerator crushed to the floor, he raced the car as fast as he dared. He felt a certain confidence as he did this – despite his grinding fears. He’d had to learn to drive when young, to get himself around. He was pretty good.

  But this was a different kind of driving: they were skidding madly round bends, higher and higher. And they were being chased.

  Then the road began to zigzag, turns getting tighter, until at last it slashed around a sheer rock wall, totally blind – David caught his own breath, his heart thumped, this was it – but the corner was clear.

  David scoped the mirror. The red car had slowed for a moment, he’d outpaced their remorseless pursuer. He had a few seconds’ grace.

  As they roared along, he tried to think. If they stopped the car and got out and ran, maybe they could hide…but the red car was surely too near. Miguel had a gun, maybe he would chase them across the rocks. Teasing them – then shooting them. A simple execution in the forest.

  ‘David!’

  The red car was speeding towards them. David couldn’t go any faster. They had reached the crisis: the terminal moment. No one would see. They were right above the clouds now; the sun was brilliant and dazzling, shining off clumps of unmelted snow. This was where they would die. A man and a woman in a car. Like his parents. Both dead.

  But then David saw a chance. Up ahead was an expanse of bare rock. Three seconds later he slid the car onto a flank of raw limestone and did a squealing handbrake turn. They spun like they were kids in a nightmarish fairground ride, a vicious carousel.

  And it worked. The red car shot right past. At once David took off the other way, descending fast and hard.

  He was racing vertiginously down the mountain road – he could see the red car turning, in his mirror. But this time he had a plan, as he rounded the sharp rocky corner at eighty miles an hour and they raced into the grey forests. He took a wild right turn up a farm track.

  Into the trees.

  The track swung this way and that, catapulting them into the dark woodlands. The car bounced and groaned, and after half a mile the track stopped. David parked the car with a jolt, he kicked open the door and jumped out – Amy was already outside and waiting. He grabbed her hand and they fled into the woods, running between the trees and the rocks and leaping over a stream until they found a great boulder.

  And then at last they stopped, and crouched down. And waited. Panting and breathing.

  David’s heart was a madman clattering his prison bars; Amy’s hand was tight and clammy in his fist.

  They crouched there, cold and mute. The forest crackled, under the mournful drizzle. Nothing happened. Wisps of fog drifted between the sombre black larches, like fairytale wraiths.

  The low sound of a car engine throbbed in the distance. The red car, presumably – looking for them. The engine seemed to slow, somewhere on the road. Somewhere quite near. David felt Amy’s fingers tighten on his. The agonizing moments marched slowly by, like a funeral parade. They waited to be found, and shot.

  Or worse.

  The car engine throbbed again. It was going. The red car was taking off, heading downhill maybe. Silence surrounded them. David allowed himself to breathe.

 
But his relief was aborted by a singular snap: the sound of twigs, broken underfoot.

  10

  The old women were singing through their noses, a rising carol of weird sounds; the tremulous voice of the dark-suited man at the front – warbling and waving his hands – led and yet followed the intense humming from the choir of ululating women.

  They were still in Foula, about three hundred miles from Glasgow.

  Simon and Sanderson and Tomasky had spent an uncomfortable night in Foula’s only B&B, waiting for a chance to interview Edith Tait. The B&B owner, a middle-aged widower from Edinburgh, had been all too excited by the influx of glamorous tourists – of new people to talk to – and he had kept them up, over tots of whisky, with bloodcurdling tales of Foula’s weirdness and danger.

  He told them of the German birdwatcher who had slipped on some lamb’s afterbirth, banged his head on a rock, and had his brains devoured by Arctic skuas; he mentioned a tourist couple who had gone to the highest cliff, the Kame, and been swept over the precipice when one of them sneezed.

  All this Simon absorbed with a suppressed smile; Sanderson was openly sarcastic: ‘So the tourist death rate, is what, about fifty percent?’

  But there was one thing the journalist found truly and deeply interesting: the Gaelic heritage of the isle. As the hostel owner explained, Foula was so isolated it had maintained Norse-Gaelic cultural characteristics that had almost disappeared elsewhere. They used their own Gregorian calendar, they celebrated Christmas on January 6th, and some of the locals still spoke authentic Scots Gaelic.

  They did this especially at church, where the services were, apparently, some of the very last of their kind: notable for a capella nose singing, known as ‘Dissonant Gaelic Psalmody’, as the B&B owner explained – with loving relish.

  So now they were actually in the kirk listening to the Nasal Celtic Heterophony, waiting for a chance to talk to Edith. Simon was distinctly drawn to this authentic, ancient, possibly pagan tradition; DCI Sanderson was less impressed.

  ‘They sound like a bunch of mad Irish bumblebees in the shower.’

  His sidelong remark was loud. One woman turned around and gave the DCI a stare; she was singing through her nonagenarian nostrils, even as she glared.