It was dark when we got back to the former Villa Bernabeu; late enough in the day for me to phone Prim. I called her on her mobile, rather than on Miles and Dawn’s home number, figuring, correctly as it turned out, that she might be at the hospital. She was at her mother’s bedside, so I got to speak to Elanore.

  ‘How are you feeling, Mother Phillips?’ I asked her. I’d never called her that before, but it had a Victorian echo, which seemed to fit her.

  ‘I’ve never been shot,’ she answered, ‘but I imagine that afterwards it feels a bit like this.’ She sounded tired, but there was still a booming tone in her voice that made me feel good. ‘They’re going to give me some chemicals tomorrow. Once that’s under way, there might be a chance that these fussy daughters of mine will clear off and get on with their lives.’

  Prim came back on line. ‘Family gone?’ she asked.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So you’re on your own.’

  ‘Nope.’ I told her about Susie arriving and merging with my half-dream. She was fine about it; I hadn’t expected her to be otherwise, but still . . .

  ‘I could move her into Crisaran, if you like,’ I suggested.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ she retorted. ‘You’re not going to stick her out there all on her own. How long’s she staying?’

  ‘About ten days.’

  ‘Right; all being well here, I’ll fly home on Sunday. Dad’s staying on for the duration, so he can keep an eye on Dawn, and let Miles concentrate on work. How’s the script going, by the way?’

  ‘Steadily.’

  ‘Keep at it. Can I speak to Susie?’

  ‘I think she’s in the bath.’

  ‘Okay,’ Prim chuckled. ‘Just don’t be scrubbing her back!’

  The thought had never crossed my mind, until my wife put it there.

  We ate out again that night. I knew that Susie liked seafood, so we went to the fishermen’s bar in the new marina complex, to pig out on prawns and monkfish. I would have moved the wine choice a bit upmarket, but Susie saw a bottle of Penedes rosada, nestling in an ice bucket two tables along, and asked if we could have some of that.

  The table talk was easier than at lunchtime. Susie told me about her construction company, the Gantry Group, which was running well, it seemed, now that she had slimmed it down, and proved herself in the eyes of the business community and of her bankers. She tried to surprise me by telling me that she had given Joseph Donn a non-executive directorship. She failed though. Old Joe’s her only living blood relative, her natural father, for Christ’s sake, although his isn’t the name on her birth certificate; for all the bust-ups they’ve had in the past, there’s nobody she could trust more.

  I have trouble keeping count of my own drinks, far less anyone else’s, but it did occur to me that Susie’s intake during the day had been pretty formidable. She was holding it better than I’d known, too. When we’d finished dinner, she reminded me of my promise to take her to Bar JoJo, and since I had left the car at home in favour of a taxi, I had no good reason for wriggling out of it.

  As it turned out, we were the only customers . . . well, it was still short of midnight . . . apart from a couple of guys whom I could hear but not see, playing pool in the back room. Jo treated Susie like a long-lost niece, and even poured her some of the best brandy, unbidden.

  ‘You heard any more about that upset you had?’ she asked me as she handed me a beer.

  ‘Not lately,’ I answered. ‘I’m trying to forget it.’

  ‘Was it the Frenchman then?’ I was surprised; I thought the jungle drums would have sent out the message.

  ‘No, as it happens. It turns out that it was another of your customers, Sayeed.’

  ‘What? The fisherman? Him as went to prison?’

  ‘He didn’t go to prison, Jo. He got a death sentence.’

  Susie was intrigued. ‘What’s this?’ she asked me.

  ‘A bit of local difficulty, that’s all. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.’

  ‘No! Tell me now.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’

  By the time the taxi arrived to take us home, she had forgotten all about it. By the time it had got us there, she had probably forgotten her name into the bargain. One minute she was okay, the next she had crashed, right there on the back seat of the white car. I suppose I shouldn’t have let her drink as much, but I’ve never been my sister’s keeper, literally or figuratively. As a matter of fact, in my childhood it was the other way around.

  I had to carry her, more or less, up the drive, into the house and up the stairs to her room. I sat her on the edge of the bed, knelt down and pulled off her ankle-length boots. She gave me a woozy smile, then a giggle. ‘The rest you do yourself,’ I said.

  ‘Easy,’ she mumbled, then slowly toppled backwards. I swung her legs up on to the bed and left her to it.

  My alarm read forty minutes past midnight. I undressed, got into bed and picked up a book; my dad’s Chester Himes. He had finished it and left it for me; half-cut though I was, the magic Technicolor prose got to me at once.

  Next thing I knew, the alarm was showing seven minutes past three. The bedside light was still on, but the book was on the floor. I reached over and snapped the switch off, as I did so I thought I heard a faint sound.

  In Spain, the night is full of noises; I dismissed it, until a few seconds later, I heard it again. It was a squeak, more than anything else. Then it turned into a kind of shuffle; and next, a soft bump. I got out of bed, knocking over the table lamp with my elbow in the process. ‘Shit!’ I swore, and again, as I half-tripped pulling on my boxers, which I had left on the floor earlier.

  I wasn’t even halfway to the door when there was another sound, long and continuous this time, a bumping, tumbling noise. It ended in a thump, and a soft, short squeal, then there was silence.

  I stepped out into the upper hall and switched on the light. There was nothing there, but the rug, which ran along to the left of the stairway, to the point where it opened on to a wide landing, was twisted and crumpled in places, as if someone had staggered their way along its length.

  I strode to the top of the wide flight of steps and looked down. The ground floor was in darkness, but there was enough light spilling down from above for me to make out the form which lay motionless at the foot of the stairs.

  I jumped on the right-hand banister and slid down; it was the fastest way I knew to get down there.

  Susie was lying on her back, motionless, her eyes closed. Her red hair was damp with sweat, and was plastered across her forehead. She had managed to get out of her clothes, apart from her black push-up bra. I was relieved to see from the way her chest rose and fell that at least she was still breathing. I stared at her for a moment, trying to think what Prim would do in these circumstances, and, as I did, she moved. Her eyes flickered open; she looked up at me, trying to focus, but she was badly dazed and confused.

  I decided that I had better give her some reassurance, before she could start to panic. ‘It’s all right, Susie,’ I said, as calmly as I could. ‘It’s Oz. You’re in my place in Spain, remember? You’ve had a bit of a fall, that’s all.’

  She let out a whimper, and began to cry, softly, small, sad sobs. I wondered if this was the real Susie Gantry, lying before me, lost and lonely in the dark, with her sparky exterior stripped away. I felt desperately sorry for her.

  ‘Lie still for now,’ I murmured. ‘I know a bit of first aid. Relax, now; just let yourself go, and tell me whether anything hurts.’ Her right leg was bent at the knee, awkwardly up under the other. I touched it, gently. ‘How about there?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she whimpered. ‘That’s okay.’ I took her by the right ankle and straightened the leg, letting her lie more comfortably.

  ‘My shoulder, right shoulder. That’s sore.’

  I felt my way from the joint along the collarbone, squeezing gently as I went. She didn’t scream and everything seemed in one piece.

  ‘I think that’s okay,’ I told her. I reached across and smoothed her hair back from her eyes. She winced as I touched her and I saw a vivid red mark on the right side of her forehead.

  ‘Sore,’ she whispered.

  ‘I think you banged it.’

  ‘Where am I?’ she asked.

  ‘At the foot of the stairs. It looks as if you fell down them.’

  ‘No!’ She looked more distressed than ever.

  I pressed on with my injury check, trying to put her at her ease. ‘I want you to take a deep breath.’

  She did as she was told, without showing any fresh signs of discomfort. ‘Okay, let it go.’ She gave a great sighing sound. ‘Good. If you had rib damage you’d have felt it there. Now, I want you to move your arms and legs one by one; lift them up and put them down again.’ I nodded approval as she checked each limb. ‘Now make a fist with each hand, then unclench it.’

  By the time we had finished the fear had gone from her face. ‘Oz,’ she murmured, so softly that I had to bend over her to hear her, ‘can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She smiled. Just a wee crack in her face, but a smile nonetheless. ‘Have I got any clothes on?’

  I tried to stay matter of fact about it. ‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ I told her. ‘It’s probably just as well that you were too pissed to undo your bra . . . even though it spoils the view . . . otherwise you might have squashed your tits on the way downstairs.’

  She started to laugh, then winced and put a hand to her forehead.

  ‘Lie there,’ I said, ‘I’ll get a sheet to put over you, then I’ll carry you back up to bed. It’s safe to move you now.’

  ‘Don’t bother with the sheet, just help me up.’ She grabbed my arm and tried to haul herself into a sitting position, but struggled. I got my arms underneath her and lifted her clear of the floor.

  She put her arms round my neck as I rose carefully to my feet. ‘You’re stronger than you look,’ she said, with a degree of surprise which hurt my feelings.

  I carried her upstairs back to her room. The door was ajar, and the light from the hall let me see the bed clearly enough; the duvet was turned back, almost neatly. I laid her down and pulled it up to cover her. At once she rolled over, putting her back to me. ‘Undo that for me,’ she asked. She meant her bra. ‘I don’t think I can reach the catch with my sore shoulder.’

  I flicked it undone quickly, expertly even. She slipped out of it, awkwardly, tossed it out of the bed, then turned towards me again, pulling up the duvet to cover her chest as she did.

  ‘Thanks Oz,’ she murmured. ‘Can I have a drink?’

  ‘I think you had enough last night.’

  ‘Go on, just a wee one. I feel really shaky.’

  I gave in. I went downstairs, poured her some Le Panto from the decanter and brought it to her. She looked at me gratefully and took a sip. I sat on the bed, beside her. ‘What happened?’ I asked her.

  She frowned, then winced from the pain of the lump on her forehead. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’

  ‘What’s the last thing you remember?’ I asked.

  She thought for a moment. ‘I remember you pulling my boots off, then I remember looking up at you downstairs. There’s nothing in between.’

  ‘You don’t remember getting up? I heard you in the hall.’

  ‘I don’t remember at all.’ Then she began to cry, for real this time. ‘Oz, I’m just so frightened. It’s so bloody diff icult.’

  ‘What is, love?’

  ‘Everything.’ She finished the brandy in a swallow. ‘Just everything.’

  ‘But you get through it.’

  ‘Do I? Do I really?’

  I smoothed her hair again, and took the goblet from her. ‘You get some sleep now, kid. You’ve had a shock, that’s all; that and a bad fall. You’ll have a few bruises in the morning, but a few hours’ kip and you’ll feel better.’

  I stood up, but she grabbed my hand. ‘Don’t go, Oz. I’m really scared; I think I must have been sleepwalking. What if I do it again?’

  I had to admit that there was some logic behind that fear. So I sat down again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, plaintively. ‘I’m a wimp, I know, and it’s a hell of a thing to ask, but stay here with me, eh?’

  Call me daft if you will . . . and you will, I know . . . but there was something small and fragile in her expression that got to me. ‘Okay,’ I conceded, crossing my fingers in the hope that Prim would understand. I went out to the hall and switched off the light, then closed the door and slipped under the duvet, beside her.

  ‘Thanks,’ she whispered. I felt the warmth of her as I lay there awkwardly in the dark, practically hanging off the edge of the big bed to make sure I didn’t touch her, listening to her as her breathing softened, and grew slower, in time with my own.

  20

  I hadn’t intended to drop off, but I’d had a few drinks too. When I woke, it was daylight. The room was warm and one of us had thrown back the duvet during the night. Susie was still sound asleep: she was lying face down, with her bum half uncovered. Her right arm was thrown across me, and her hand was inside my boxers.

  I gave some thought to this predicament. In fact I was still thinking about it when she stirred beside me, and her eyes flickered open, registering instant amazement as they met mine across the pillows. I watched her as she remembered where she was and what I was doing there. It only took a couple of seconds, but her expression was priceless while it lasted.

  She had barely surfaced before Mr Bendy . . . it’s always had a mind of its own, and absolutely no self-control . . . stirred and began The Change, under her hand. She realised where it was and drew it back quickly, then rolled on to her side and looked at me.

  ‘We didn’t, did we?’ she asked.

  ‘Naw. I think you must have been wandering in your sleep again, that’s all.’

  She shot me a mischievous look. ‘Pity,’ she drawled. ‘That’s another of your hidden assets.’

  I propped myself up on an elbow and glanced down. The way she was lying, and the way that my boxers were arranged, I saw that there were absolutely no secrets left between Susie and me. I pulled the duvet up again, quick. Naturally, I considered getting up and out of there, but walking to the door would have been awkward, or embarrassing, or both.

  ‘Just something that happens to us chaps in the morning,’ I said, lightly.

  ‘Wish it happened to us girls,’ she shot back.

  ‘You’re feeling better, then?’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m feeling. Well I do, but that’s not what you’re asking, is it? About last night, I still have no idea. I know that I was drunk as a monkey, but I’ve never chucked myself down a flight of stairs while I’ve been under the influence.’

  I began to wonder whether she still was under the influence, thanks to that medicinal brandy I’d given her after her fall.

  ‘I do act funny when I have a drink, though. I get very randy for a start; the real me comes out.’ Her voice was higher than normal. A corner of her mouth twitched, and she blinked, several times.

  ‘I’m a selfish, manipulative, wee bitch, you know,’ she exclaimed, sounding just a wee bit strident. ‘At least that’s what Mike told me once, and he should have known. He was all of that, the bastard, and in spades, wasn’t he just?’ Her mouth was set hard now, and her eyes were narrow; there were tears behind them.

  ‘He was mine, though, Oz; he was my bastard. Wasn’t he?’

  ‘No, Susie,’ I told her truthfully. ‘He was his own; or he thought he had to be; that’s why he did what he did. He saw a chance to have it all, and he took it.’

  As she gazed at me, her face creased with a wicked smile. ‘If it was good for him, then, it’s good for me.’

  Lightning fast, she threw an arm round my neck, closing the space between us, and kissed me. I was taken by surprise, and I was off balance, so I couldn’t prevent myself from being rolled on to my back. She slid on top of me, way up on top, reaching down with her free hand. At first, I thought she was trying to rip off my boxers, but there was no need. They were no impediment at all.

  I know that I could have picked her up and thrown her across the room, even as she thrust me inside her; no, I know that I should have done just that. But some things happen so suddenly and so unexpectedly that you don’t react logically, or morally, or anything else . . . you just react.

  In this case, I can only remember feeling myself getting bigger and harder, until I seemed to explode, at the very moment that she started to come on top of me, thrusting and gasping, drawing her orgasm from my life-juice as it pumped into her. Then, with a last, climactic shout, she collapsed, spent. It must have taken only seconds, that was all, the whole frantic act; yet the sudden violence of it left me stunned.

  For a long time, afterwards, Susie couldn’t look at me. She just lay there, astride me, as I slowly subsided, clutching me tight, with her face buried in my chest, baptising me with her pent-up tears, which had finally found release. I lay there, numb, looking up at the ceiling. I felt like an idiot, which I was. I also felt something I had never even imagined before. I felt like a victim.

  There was no point in acting like one, though. She slid off me eventually, down on to the bed once more, her back to me this time. She was still shaking with her silent sobs. I heard her whisper something.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked her.

  ‘I’m s-sorry,’ she cried out. ‘I told you I was a selfish, manipulative wee bitch, didn’t I?’ Whether she was or not . . . and Prim would have agreed with her, that’s for sure . . . she wouldn’t have been helped by me telling her that. I put my hand on her shoulder, the one she’d hurt in her fall, and rubbed it gently.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I said, quietly. ‘You’ve been through a terrible time, Susie love. You’re not going to make me call you names.’

  ‘Make love to me again, then,’ I heard her mumble.

  ‘No, I’m not going to do that either.’ Instead, I put my hand between her shoulder-blades and eased her over until she was lying face down, turned away from me still. I could see that the muscles of her back and neck were bunched and tight, and so I began to massage them, slowly but firmly, drawing the tension from them. There was a bottle of her body lotion, unpacked the day before, I assumed, and lying by the side of the bed. I picked it up, squeezed some down her spine, and began to rub it gently into her shoulders, her back, her buttocks, her legs. As I worked, she began to moan softly, as if I was soothing more than her muscles.