Read Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) Online
Authors: Thomas Mogford
She moved her face above his, smile replaced by an intense, almost angry, look. He watched her pupils dilate. ‘Are you sure you’re well enough?’ she said.
‘Definitely.’
‘Do you have any. . . ?’
‘In my wallet.’
She reached behind, fingers seeking the small foil square, which she tore in two to work out the shiny pink mollusc inside. With a small, backward shuffle, she hoisted him up. He felt a sharp electric tingle as she pressed the greased cap hard down.
He took her hand and then they were both rolling down the long, ridged condom. Cupping her buttocks, he brushed a thumb over the slick fold between. Breathing more quickly, she reached down and drew aside her knickers.
Spike felt the abrasive cotton edge as she eased herself up and down, head back, one hand on his ribs, the other squeezing her left, then right nipple, almond eyes half closed, long hair coiled over one shoulder. He raised his hands and eased her onto her back. He tried to relax his body, to empty his mind, but now she was grinding back into him, and then there was nothing he could do, the shivers were intensifying, throbbing in time with his tongue, pain mixing with pleasure, everything drawing to a point, like the blood on Abdallah’s ceiling, like jagged violins, her moan rising at the same time as his.
The carriage, the seagulls, the hawkers, the
petit taxi
, the sound of her breathing . . . Sleep.
Tangiers
Spike was sure he was home in Gibraltar. He heard the creak of floorboards and assumed his mother was bringing him up a mug of tea. Instead, on opening his eyes, he saw a figure crouching beside the bed. She picked up his trousers, slipping a hand into one pocket and taking out his wallet. After placing it on the dressing table, she reached for another pouch. His passport; now she was creeping towards the door.
‘Zahra?’ Spike groaned, his voice a full octave lower than normal. He swallowed and felt his throat scrape.
Zahra turned. ‘I didn’t know you were awake.’
‘Mm,’ Spike said.
‘The receptionist called. He wants a copy of your passport. At least, I think that’s what he wants.’
The door closed, leaving just the helicopter whirr of the ceiling fan above. Tentatively, Spike touched his head, feeling a double quail’s egg on the crown. Two separate headaches were battling it out in his brain, jockeying for position. He sucked on his tongue: the upper half was swollen with fluid, twice as fat as the lower. The main discomfort, though, was in his throat.
The hotel bedroom at the Continental was either the same as before or of identical layout. The sheets beside him were disturbed. On the dressing table, next to his wallet, lay two mobile phones, his and Esperanza’s. He crawled over the bed towards them.
Having retrieved his phone, he lay back. 8 a.m. on Thursday.
Thursday
?
He’d lost a day somewhere. He could remember the sandstorm, the knife, Zahra, the rifle. But how he’d got back here he had no idea.
Two voice messages, the first from Inspector Eldrassi, asking him to come by the station, the second from Galliano, asking where the hell he was.
He could see Eldrassi today. That would free him up for the night-boat home, get him back to civilisation, out of this godforsaken country forever. He rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom, stopping as he passed the mirror. His left eye was black, the lid two-thirds closed as a purple sunset blushed through the socket. His forehead and neck were a fuchsia pink; he opened his mouth and saw pale clusters of ulcers crowding his tongue. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered as he steered a tangerine cord of urine into the lavatory. Water droplets covered the bathtub as though someone had just showered. His stomach rumbled.
Back in the bedroom, he saw Zahra’s woven handbag on the floor. Something bulky lay beside it. He stooped down; orange sand shifted from black plastic as he picked the package up. Hearing the door handle turn, he replaced it and rolled back into bed, wincing at the sudden movement.
Zahra passed him two veterinary-sized aspirins, which he swallowed painfully with mineral water. The shutters were closed; she sat down at the dressing table beneath them. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Beginning to be very.’
‘How’s the tongue?’
‘It only hurts when I breathe.’
She smiled for a moment, then became serious. ‘It’s called
Bisha’a
.’
The soft sibilants of the word transported Spike back to the hangar.
‘It’s an ancient Bedouin tradition. Supposed to be illegal but it’s still practised in rural areas.’
‘I don’t see why they bothered. I’d have told them anything.’
‘They call it trial by fire. They use it instead of courtrooms.’
Spike kept crackling the plastic water bottle in one hand; he put it down on the floor.
‘If the defendant’s tongue blisters, it means he’s lying. If it doesn’t, he’s telling the truth. Apparently it’s quite accurate. Your mouth gets dry when you lie, so . . .’
‘Sounds about as effective as witch ducking.’
Zahra frowned, not understanding the term. ‘Do you want me to take you to the hospital?’
‘No way.’
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I can never go back to my village now.’
‘It’s no consolation.’
‘At least we’re even. You rescued me in Chinatown. I rescued you in Zagora Zween.’
An uncomfortable silence passed. ‘Thank you,’ Spike said eventually.
Zahra undid her headscarf and shook back her still-damp hair. Something in the motion made Spike’s groin stir, as though it knew something his mind didn’t. ‘What time did we get in?’ he asked.
‘About 10 a.m. You kept repeating “Hotel Continental” so we came here. You’ve been asleep. You had a fever.’ She smiled, as though waiting for something more. He felt as though he were missing a detail. ‘What were you doing,’ he asked, ‘in the desert?’
She lowered her eyes. ‘I went to find something.’
‘What?’
‘A secret.’
‘Abdallah’s secret?’
‘Yes.’
‘More than just a death rattle?’
She stood and went over to the plastic-wrapped package. More sand trickled to the floor.
‘So what did he say to you?’ Spike asked as she brought it over.
‘At first I thought he was asking for his mother.’
‘But?’
She sat down on the bed. ‘He was telling me to
see
his mother. To ask for what was hidden.’
‘So you went to her tent by the waterhole . . . Did you tell her that her son was dead?’
‘She was old; I thought it best not to. She hardly had any possessions. Except this.’ Zahra held up the package. ‘Buried in the sand outside her tent.’
Spike stared at the layers of faded masking tape around the plastic.
‘When the storm died out, I walked home,’ Zahra said. ‘Salwa told me Othman was angry. I saw he’d been through your stuff. The pickup was gone and I guessed where he might have taken you.’ She pressed a nail through the plastic and tore it open. Another plastic bag inside; she repeated the process, then drew out what looked like a blue hardback book.
Digging her fingers beneath the lid, she bit her lower lip, giving Spike another strangely erotic flashback. The hinge wouldn’t come so she passed it over.
Spike’s sunburn pulsed as he prised the case apart. Inside lay a videotape; he turned it over in his hands. Twice the size of a normal VHS, a sticker of bleached spidery Arabic on the front. ‘What does it say?’ Spike asked.
‘
Play me
.’
The celluloid band was warped. ‘Easier said than done, I suspect.’
From next door came a 20th Century Fox fanfare. Spike smiled as he climbed out of bed.
Jean-Baptiste’s dreadlocks dangled over his face. He flicked them up when he saw Spike. ‘
Chingongo!
I thought you go.’
‘Change of plan.’
Jean-Baptiste peered over Spike’s shoulder, widening his eyes. ‘
Bien évidemment, mon frère
. What happened to your face?’
‘Beach football. Got out of hand.’
Zahra stepped forward. She still had her hair free. Jean-Baptiste took her hand in greeting, sucking in his small pot belly. ‘
Enchanté
,’ he said, planting a noisy kiss on the back of her hand.
‘Jean-Baptiste? Zahra.’
‘
Za-rah
,’ Jean-Baptiste repeated. ‘She speak French?’
‘
Mieux en anglais, si possible
,’ Zahra replied.
Jean-Baptiste widened his eyes still further. ‘She burn you up,’ he whispered to Spike as he held open the door.
The room was glowing with its usual bank of monitors. ‘Sorry for chaos,’ Jean-Baptiste muttered, picking up a pair of Y-fronts, ‘sometimes, you know,
pour la créativité
. . .’ He turned down the volume, then opened the shutters. ‘Now, what is it I can do for
Chingongo
and his . . .’
Zahra sat down on the bed and drew the tape from her kaftan. Jean-Baptiste frowned as he sat beside her. He examined the tape in his large hands.
‘Can you get it to play?’ Spike said.
Jean-Baptiste puffed on the celluloid band. ‘Not easy like with mobile phone. Model is eight . . . maybe ten year. Where is it from?’
‘Home video.’
Jean-Baptiste looked at Zahra. ‘You have CCTV in your home?’
‘Her father’s a judge. Now can you do it?’
Zahra said something in French to which Jean-Baptiste shrugged a response. She added another comment and he laughed.
‘What was that?’
‘I said it had been in the sand,’ Zahra explained.
‘And?’
‘He told me the damage was from the sun not the sand. I said in the desert you can’t tell the difference. He agreed.’
‘Is there anything you can do?’ Spike said. ‘There’s money in it.’
Jean-Baptiste clicked his tongue. ‘I think impossible. Maybe at the Café des Étoiles . . .’
‘What time?’
‘I go for usual hour. Five o’clock?’
Zahra reached back for the tape. ‘
Non
,’ Jean-Baptiste said, lifting it away. ‘You leave with me. You have the box?’
‘It broke,’ Spike said. As they made to leave, Jean-Baptiste went to his bedside table and took out the envelope Spike had given him. ‘Maybe I talk to your contact soon,’ he said. ‘
La vida española
, uh?’
‘Catch you later, Jean-Baptiste.’
‘Are you sure we can trust him?’
‘Yes.’
‘The great expert on Morocco,’ Zahra muttered as she went over to the landing wall with its framed maps of Tangiers. ‘Tourist bullshit,’ she said. ‘What was in that envelope?’
‘Information.’
‘What kind of information?’
‘I said I could help him get to Spain.’
‘You say a lot of things.’ She turned away from the wall. The frankness of her glare took Spike back to the sleeper. His memories were still blurred: it was hard to know what was real. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, stepping towards her. ‘I think I had sunstroke. On the train . . . that actually happened, didn’t it?’