“Is good, Senhor?” Rheumy eyes crinkle in a face like a Roman mosaic.
“Yes, very good,” I cough into a napkin. “Just… surprised me, that’s all.”
The crinkles deepen. “Americano?”
For a moment, my mind blanks out…
Who the hell am I supposed to be?
… then the information surfaces. “No. English.”
“Ahhh…” The brows rise, then, “Senhor, Você quer nosso vinho local?” He stares into air for a second.
“Our wine locale… You try?”
“Yes, please.” I cough again into the napkin, clearing a final fiery fragment from my throat. “Your local
wine would be good.”
He offers up a bottle: the contents pale, a plain white label and a heavy-duty waxed cork. “Is of the …
wine garden…” He gives me a questioning look…
“Vinyard.”
“… The vinyard of my brother. Is good. You want? Yes, no?”
“Yes. Yes.”
The wine is indeed good: nominally a sparkling white but in fact the palest of primrose yellows when
held up to the sunshine. Medium-dry and lightly fragranced, it’s perhaps a little light to go with the
volcanic salsa, but works well with the bread. By the time I’ve worked through all of the meal and most
of the bottle, I’m feeling well-fed, slightly tipsy and brimming with bon ami.
“Você quer café, senhor?”
“Yes, coffee would be good, thank you.”
The sunshine warms my face as I sip at the excellent coffee. This place is everything I ever enjoyed
about travel and I’m developing a kind of holiday mood. Perhaps it’s inappropriate, but you can’t keep
your guard up all the time.
No-one knows I’m here…
What’s to worry about?
And, if I’m truthful with myself, I’ve learned to chill out in the days spent with Mitch…
… and with Jenny…
… and her family…
James too?
Alright, we had words at the end, but I know it wasn’t really me he was angry with …
Was it?
?
He’s a friend. Who else have I ever called friend?
I’ll make it right with him…
When I get back…
Perhaps Michael too, I could call a friend. He seemed to thaw out after Jenny’s rescue. I couldn’t have
handled Jenny’s rescue without him.
Even Haswell gave me a handshake.
And his buddy Stanton, the police commissioner…
He could have arrested me…
… locked me up.
He didn’t.
It feels good.
I’ve read the stuff the scientists write: the psychologists and the anthropologists and brain-men.
Humans are social animals…
It never meant a fucking thing to me. I could have been reading about Alice in her Wonderland -
another book I never rated - for all the connection I felt.
But now, it’s different.
Mitch…
Are you wearing my ring?
…
Emerald eyes outshining any gem I could give…
And that cloud of copper hair…
You… under me… gasping as I make love to you… hilting myself… burying myself ball-deep inside
you.
You… riding me, displaying yourself with your broad, bright smile as I let you take me, pleasuring me
as you pleasure yourself.
I knock back the last of the coffee then set the cup on its saucer.
It’s quite clear to me, what I have to do. I have a situation to deal with. That’s fine. I can handle it. I’ll get
this sorted out.
After that…
Is it possible?
A normal life.
What kind of wedding would Mitch want?
Something big and flashy? In a church? Lots of guests? The marshmallow dress? All the… I dredge my
memory for my limited knowledge of such things… … All the stuff…
That sort of thing matters to women…
… Doesn’t it?
Perhaps I should ask James?
Or maybe Michael… He’s the one legally married to Jenny…
I rise, flinging my napkin down to the table… “Excellent.” … and proffering far more than the cost of the
meal. “Keep the change.”
The old man beams. “Obrigado, senhor. You come again? Yes, no?”
“I come again, yes.”
His hand thrusts out. “I am Antonio, senhor.”
I take the hand and shake. “Hughes. Harry Hughes.”
*****
Rolling out of the bar with a case of wine-induced sea-legs, enough common sense asserts itself to tell
me I’m in no condition to go chasing down the next of Finchby’s invoice addresses. Horizontal on my
cheap hotel bed is where I’m best suited for the next few hours.
Arriving at my room, I’m sufficiently compos mentis to check my ‘guard hair’ - still nicely in place. As I
open the door, it breaks free, floating down to the corridor carpet.
Nonetheless, as I flop down on the bed, staring up at a spinning ceiling, my thoughts spiral with it…
A family restaurant...
And yet, with an address from Finchby’s invoice. Several invoices in fact. All for trafficked women and
girls.
Why?
Tomorrow I’ll go investigate some of the other addresses.
NB - stick to coffee.
*****
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