and Staffe thinks if he hits him again any harder‚ he might crack Manolo’s skull.
‘It’s all right,’ says Manolo. ‘I don’t want him dead.’ He relaxes his grip and Jackson gulps for air. Manolo’s eyes hood down and he wavers, unsteady on his feet. ‘Really. I don’t want him dead. Far from it.’
Jackson bends double, coughing and cursing as Staffe and Raúl lead Manolo back to his chair, ease him down before his legs give way.
‘Are you all right?’ says Staffe.
Jackson nods, quite vociferously. ‘It was nothing. Let’s forget it. Come on, let’s have a drink and then get to bed.’
Staffe clears the table and sweeps up the spilled fabada . By the time he is done, Manolo is asleep in his chair with a sad look on his downturned face, his arms hugging his big torso and Suki burrowed into the crook of his neck.
As he puts a blanket over his friend, Staffe catches Jackson taking down the landscape painting, placing it against the wall in the other room. ‘I never liked the fucking thing,’ he says.
Staffe notices Manolo’s knife on the floor by the fireplace. He picks it up and runs his fingers all around the intricate carvings of the goat’s head and horns. You’d think he would have had enough of goats.
The three of them sit up, drinking and talking about Barrington and all the while, Staffe waits for Jackson to leave, but instead he bunks down on the sofa. ‘You take the bed in the other room.’
‘No, it’s your bed. I came uninvited.’
‘I insist. As a guest, the least you can do is accept my hospitality. I won’t take “no” for an answer.’
‘Go on,’ says Raúl, on the verge of sleep in his chair. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. You can buy me lunch – in Fuente.’
And with that, Staffe retires. He sleeps deep; so deep that not even Raúl’s snoring wakes him.
Eight
Staffe sits on the slate rim of the stone trough outside Jackson’s cortijo. He dips his feet into the icy water and the shorn edge of the slate cuts into the backs of his thighs. The sun is just up and, five thousand feet high, a chill from the night still clings.
He thinks about last night and what Raúl had said to him about things being worse than he thought. He cups his balls with one hand, edges himself off the slate with the other, sliding into the trough and it catches all his breath. He gasps, can’t help but whoop at the cold.
Lying in the trough, he soon becomes numb and for the first time in months, he cannot feel his wounds. He runs a thumb over his scar tissue and presses, can feel it a little, and he realises he has left his medication down at his house. Woozy, and almost in a trance, he sees the events of the past two days quite clearly, but he doesn’t believe it – not as presented to him.
His fingers and toes are all gone to prune by the time he gets out. Staffe had hoped Raúl would rise early and join him outside, tell him what happened down in the greenhouse, which for some reason he is intent on keeping secret from Jackson, and maybe Manolo, too. But as he gathers his clothes, a chorus of deep snoring comes from the comatose cortijo , where Jackson sleeps alongside Raúl. Every now and then, Raúl snorts like a pig, just like he did the other night at his place in Almería. Staffe smiles to himself and makes his way down the mountain, wondering what more Raúl will have to say to him today when they meet for lunch in Bar Fuente. By the time he crosses the lateral track that runs to Mecina, he can see the old boys coming up the mountain, to tend their water. The campo is pitted with cortijos , like single bricks of Lego, and if you listen closely, even though they are still half a mile away, you can hear the old boys talking to each other, hundreds of yards apart.
In his first weeks in Almagen, before the wounds reopened and became infected, Staffe would come up here to spend a day with Edu. Edu runs the tiny Museo de Almagen, which is three small rooms above the ayuntamiento near
‘It’s all right,’ says Manolo. ‘I don’t want him dead.’ He relaxes his grip and Jackson gulps for air. Manolo’s eyes hood down and he wavers, unsteady on his feet. ‘Really. I don’t want him dead. Far from it.’
Jackson bends double, coughing and cursing as Staffe and Raúl lead Manolo back to his chair, ease him down before his legs give way.
‘Are you all right?’ says Staffe.
Jackson nods, quite vociferously. ‘It was nothing. Let’s forget it. Come on, let’s have a drink and then get to bed.’
Staffe clears the table and sweeps up the spilled fabada . By the time he is done, Manolo is asleep in his chair with a sad look on his downturned face, his arms hugging his big torso and Suki burrowed into the crook of his neck.
As he puts a blanket over his friend, Staffe catches Jackson taking down the landscape painting, placing it against the wall in the other room. ‘I never liked the fucking thing,’ he says.
Staffe notices Manolo’s knife on the floor by the fireplace. He picks it up and runs his fingers all around the intricate carvings of the goat’s head and horns. You’d think he would have had enough of goats.
The three of them sit up, drinking and talking about Barrington and all the while, Staffe waits for Jackson to leave, but instead he bunks down on the sofa. ‘You take the bed in the other room.’
‘No, it’s your bed. I came uninvited.’
‘I insist. As a guest, the least you can do is accept my hospitality. I won’t take “no” for an answer.’
‘Go on,’ says Raúl, on the verge of sleep in his chair. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. You can buy me lunch – in Fuente.’
And with that, Staffe retires. He sleeps deep; so deep that not even Raúl’s snoring wakes him.
Eight
Staffe sits on the slate rim of the stone trough outside Jackson’s cortijo. He dips his feet into the icy water and the shorn edge of the slate cuts into the backs of his thighs. The sun is just up and, five thousand feet high, a chill from the night still clings.
He thinks about last night and what Raúl had said to him about things being worse than he thought. He cups his balls with one hand, edges himself off the slate with the other, sliding into the trough and it catches all his breath. He gasps, can’t help but whoop at the cold.
Lying in the trough, he soon becomes numb and for the first time in months, he cannot feel his wounds. He runs a thumb over his scar tissue and presses, can feel it a little, and he realises he has left his medication down at his house. Woozy, and almost in a trance, he sees the events of the past two days quite clearly, but he doesn’t believe it – not as presented to him.
His fingers and toes are all gone to prune by the time he gets out. Staffe had hoped Raúl would rise early and join him outside, tell him what happened down in the greenhouse, which for some reason he is intent on keeping secret from Jackson, and maybe Manolo, too. But as he gathers his clothes, a chorus of deep snoring comes from the comatose cortijo , where Jackson sleeps alongside Raúl. Every now and then, Raúl snorts like a pig, just like he did the other night at his place in Almería. Staffe smiles to himself and makes his way down the mountain, wondering what more Raúl will have to say to him today when they meet for lunch in Bar Fuente. By the time he crosses the lateral track that runs to Mecina, he can see the old boys coming up the mountain, to tend their water. The campo is pitted with cortijos , like single bricks of Lego, and if you listen closely, even though they are still half a mile away, you can hear the old boys talking to each other, hundreds of yards apart.
In his first weeks in Almagen, before the wounds reopened and became infected, Staffe would come up here to spend a day with Edu. Edu runs the tiny Museo de Almagen, which is three small rooms above the ayuntamiento near
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