Death in the Sun by Adam Creed Page A

Harry’s school. It opens Tuesday afternoons, saint’s day mornings for an hour after the misa and by appointment. When he’s not overrun with museum duties, proud Edu tries to stay off the local alcofilth by busying himself at his cortijo just above the village. He lives alone and always has, they say, and Staffe can’t quite work him out. He is from good stock, but is a loafer with a penchant for the Russian girls down on the coast. Above all, Edu is bitter.
    ‘You should choose your company more wisely,’ says Edu as Staffe approaches. His skin is tight and his eyes are bright. His nostrils are flared and his face has something of the baby about it even though he must be into his sixties. Life seems to have taken it easier on Edu than on most of the locals. He once confided to Staffe that his father did rather well under Franco. Rumours have it that his sister once had a thing for Barrington.
    On the terrace, Edu pours coffee into shot glasses on an upturned plastic beer crate. ‘I saw you coming down the mountain. There’s only one person up that way.’
    ‘I was with Gutiérrez. Do you know him?’
    ‘I know plenty Gutiérrez.’
    ‘Raúl. He’s a journalist.’
    ‘Aah.’ Edu drinks his coffee down in one and turns away, fussing with his vine. It is trained over an iron frame to give shelter. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with these leaves. I need them bigger.’
    ‘He’s from Mecina, this Gutiérrez.’
    ‘And fancies himself as a little emperor. But you don’t get to be a little emperor without first being a big prick.’
    ‘That’s Edu’s Law?’ laughs Staffe.
    ‘Edu’s Law. I like that.’
    ‘You must remember him, when he lived up here.’
    ‘His mother was left stranded when her husband went to Germany. He went for work and money and got so much he never came back. Raúl was left with all the mouths to feed and he took them all down to Almería. This place was always too small for him if you ask me.’ Edu goes back to his vine and curses. ‘You know, it doesn’t do to mix. People here should stay here. I’m sorry, Guilli, but . . . These shoots aren’t good enough. The shade is ruined. Ruined to hell.’
    ‘How would Gutiérrez know the American?’
    ‘Tell me about your wounds. Are you recovered?’
    ‘And how would the American know Barrington?’
    ‘Anybody would think you are the Guardia‚’ laughs Edu. ‘All your questions.’
    ‘He’s a good host.’
    ‘I’ve known him thirty years and not so much as a glass of terrano from the cocksucker.’
    ‘Thirty years!’
    ‘What’s that?’ Edu raises his eyebrows, purses his lips.
    ‘Jackson Roberts has been here thirty years?’
    ‘Maybe more. Since Vietnam. But quiet, please. I can hear something.’
    An engine is roaring, but Staffe can’t see where. Edu clambers up the small bancale to the bean field which stretches away up to the Mecina track.
    ‘Son of a whore!’ shouts Edu.
    Beyond the beans, a cloud of dust plumes up, curving away to the left, but the sound seems to be coming straight at the house. The engine roar gets louder and louder and the partridges, caged at the back of the cortijo , start flapping and squawking, then a blur of red whooshes through the sound of the engine and is gone, leaving an imprint of the sound of ‘She Bangs the Drums’.
    ‘Stone Roses,’ says Staffe.
    ‘What?’
    The dust comes across onto the terrace and the engine noise fades, but when it is gone, the sound of music remains, like a tattoo.
    ‘Gutiérrez,’ says Staffe.
    ‘What?’
    ‘That was his music. His car. But where does that track lead?’
    ‘He’ll have to go down to the bridge. There’s only one road across the Rio Mecina, but he knows that. He’ll be going to his family’s cortijo . They were shepherds. It’s in the blood, you know. Up and down the mountain like cocksucking goats.’
    ‘Like Manolo?’
    ‘That family!’
    ‘You don’t like Manolo?’ Staffe looks away from the diminishing cloud of