He shivered in anticipation. His eyes drifted around the floors, walls and unsafe ceiling, seeing it all. His baby.
Two young men at the far end of the bar caught his attention. Initially they had been sitting in one of the booths and Rider thought they might be gay. They had sauntered up to the bar, leaned on it and rudely rapped bottles on it to attract Jacko’s attention.
Rider’s bowels gave a sudden flutter.
He knew the sort. Not too far removed from the two who had appeared in the zoo, but maybe not as far down the road as them, being slightly younger.
Jacko served them each with a bottle of Foster’s Ice. Both drank from the bottle, their teeth showing as they swallowed each mouthful, almost as if it was painful. The ‘in’ way to drink.
Rider beckoned Jacko over. ‘Know ‘em?’
Jacko knew most locals.
‘ No. Blackburn lads,’ he said. Over the years of working behind bars in Blackpool, Jacko had learned to identify regional accents, quite specifically in many cases. He could tell easily whereabouts in Lancashire a person came from and his other regional specialities were the West Midlands, Scotland and London. He was rarely wrong. The Blackburn accent was a common one in Blackpool.
‘ You happy with them?’
‘ They’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘ Yet.’
‘ Yet,’ agreed Jacko.
Rider glanced down at them. One eyed the other and nodded. He held out his bottle at arms’ length and smashed it onto the floor. It shattered spectacularly.
‘ Yet,’ said Rider again under his breath. He lowered himself from the stool. Before he could get to them, the other one swept his left arm across the bar top, catching half a dozen newly-washed pint glasses, sending them crashing to the floor. As though he was throwing a knife at a target, he lobbed his bottle of Foster’s into the optics behind the bar. A large bottle of Bell’s and a few glasses exploded.
‘ This is a shit-awful place,’ the young man roared.
‘ Oi oi oi,’ shouted Jacko, running down the bar.
‘ Hold it, Jacko!’ Rider screamed.
The two youths turned to face Jacko and Rider, adopting the threatening pose so beloved of the British hooligan/hard case: legs apart, fingers gesturing to come forwards, eyes bulging in their sockets, rocking on the balls of their feet.
‘ C’mon then, y’ cunts,’ one sneered.
Normally Rider would have been happy to wade into troublemakers, but something held him back here; that nod given by one to the other which meant premeditation, not simply drink. He was wary.
‘ Hang back, Jacko,’ Rider hissed through the side of his mouth. He was aware of Isa hovering by his shoulder and the eyes of every other punter focused on the scene, something witnessed all the time in bars throughout the world. ‘OK lads, we don’t want any trouble here. I’m sorry you don’t like the place, but you’ve had some fun. So now get out.’
‘ Or what, pal?’
‘ Look, if you want me to call the cops, I will. But we can call it a draw now, you can leave, nobody’s suffered and we’ll all put it down to experience.’
‘ Boss,’ Jacko began. ‘The damage…’
Rider held his hand up to silence him.
‘ What if we don’t wanna leave?’
‘ Yeah, pal, what you gonna do?’ they taunted.
Rider became controllably angry. Not afraid. Still cautious.
He pointed a finger at them. ‘If you don’t get out of here, boys, you’ll face the consequences, one way or another. If you think me and Jacko here can’t handle you, then you’re very much mistaken. We’ll lay you both out until we’re satisfied — then we’ll call the cops. It’s that simple. If you want hassle and aggro, fair enough, the choice is yours. You can call it quits or end up in a police cell with matching injuries.’
Rider held his breath. The two youths looked at each other and nodded reluctantly after weighing up the odds.
It was all too easy, but Rider’s relief clouded his judgement. Perhaps after all they were not the sort of people he believed them to be. Maybe they were just kids flexing their muscles.
Angrily they shouldered their way to the exit, accompanied by Rider and Jacko. They left peaceably.
‘ What about the damage?’ Jacko said into Rider’s ear again.
‘ Chalk it up to experience.’ Rider held up a finger when Jacko began to say more. Jacko shook his head disgustedly and made some under-the-breath remark about ‘every Tom Dick and Harry thinking they can get away with it from now on.’
Rider ignored him.
When he was sure they’d gone, Jacko returned to the bar. Rider stood alone at the club doors. He lit a cigarette, noticing his hands were shaking. Whether it was drink or nerves he wasn’t sure.
Puzzled, he tried to figure out what that had all been about. At least they’d gone without a fight. He blew out a lungful of smoke and turned back into the club.
Karl Donaldson walked slowly along the sea-front in Funchal, the port on his right, towards the marina and restaurants. The night was cool and fresh, pleasant for walking.
He was dissatisfied by the way things had gone. Sam had died tragically — accidentally — and he could not prove otherwise.
Hard to accept.
What he really wanted to do was bring in a team and get a real investigation going with real detectives. He knew it was an irrational desire and that he’d never get the go-ahead for it. What he was trying to do, as Santana had rightly hinted, was blame someone for her death, just like a grieving relative.
But there was no one to blame. Sam had died accidentally and that was an end to it. It hurt him to think he hadn’t known her as well as he thought. She could well have been a secret drinker, an alcoholic
… and yet somehow that wasn’t Sam.
All that remained for him to do was arrange for the body to be flown back to the States, tidy up the loose ends here paperwork-wise, and fly home to London and his wife. He missed her like mad.
‘ You speak English?’ a female voice said to him.
‘ Yes, I do,’ he replied without thinking.
‘ You’re American,’ she said, picking up on the accent immediately.
Donaldson held back a swearword. He’d been so wrapped up in his melancholic thoughts, he’d walked straight into it without realising. The timeshare tout. That dreaded disease, now a worldwide plague which had even reached the tiny island of Madeira.
‘ Yes — and I’m not interested, thanks.’
‘ I’m not selling anything,’ she persisted pleasantly, smiling.
‘ Of course not.’
‘ Please,’ she said as he began to outpace her. ‘Give me a minute of your time.’
Fuck, what did it matter. He was going home tomorrow. And ever the sucker for the pretty face — which the girl did have, along with other attributes — he gave in. Within five minutes he had promised to visit a timeshare development (although the words ‘time’ and ‘share’ never reared their ugly heads), had been given some literature, and was on his way.
He turned down onto the marina and wandered past the series of restaurants there, finally plumping for one where he received least hassle from the salesmen-cum-waiters. He ate a good meal. Tomato soup and onions with a poached egg floating in it, followed by espada, the island’s very own fish which looked like a creature from a horror movie, and a bottle of Vinho Verde.
Ninety minutes later he emerged full, light-headed and completely resigned to Sam’s fate to be branded a closet drinker.
He was back in his room fifteen minutes later, emptying his pockets and undressing with not much coordination. The wine had had more effect on him than he’d imagined. His eyes managed to focus very briefly on the leaflet the timeshare tout had foisted on him. He was about to screw it up and bin it when he stopped, laid the paper out on the bedside cabinet and thought for a moment, difficult though this was.