that had been playing at Granddad’s funeral. Wasn’t it? A vigorous, slightly discordant guitar song. What did this mean? Was there some direct link to the Basques? Was his grandfather actually…Basque?
David had never heard his granddad speak anything but Spanish – and English. And their family name was authentically Hispanic. Martinez. Yet the stocky men actually looked like Granddad. And David’s father, for that matter.
Another mystery. The mysteries were breeding.
Leaning on the bartop, he ordered some cerveza in his conspicuously pathetic Spanish. Then David sat down at a nearby table and drank the beer. Again he felt paralyzed: idiotic. But he also remembered his grandfather’s words: go to Lesaka, find José Garovillo, and ask about the map. So he should do it. Just do it.
He stood up, and tapped the shoulder of the largest guy at the bar.
‘¿Ola?’
The man ignored him.
‘Er…Buenos días.’
Several other customers, with wide brooding faces, were contemplating David’s failed attempt at conversation. Faces impassive. Yet somehow surly.
He tapped the man’s burly shoulder once more.
‘¿Buenos días, señor?’
Again, the man ignored him.
Two of the other drinkers were now glaring at David and asking him sharp questions in their glottal accents. He didn’t understand what they were saying. So David pointed at the map, and reverted to English.
‘Look, I’m sorry to interrupt…but. Really sorry. But this map…I was just kinda given this by my grandfather…and told to come here and look…at these places – see, Ariz…kun, Elizonda? Also I need to find a guy called José Garovillo. Do you know where I could find him?’
Now the biggest man turned, and he said something very terse.
David was lost.
‘Er…I’m sorry…But…my Spanish is pretty poor?’
The men scowled, with real fury; David realized he must have made some major error. He’d gone too far. He had no idea why or how, but he’d done something stupid. The atmosphere had most definitely intensified. The music had been switched off.
One of the cider drinkers was yelling abusively at David. Across the room the barman was jerking a thumb at the door. David knew he should take the hint. He raised both hands – and made for the exit.
But the drinkers moved first, three of them were up and blocking the way: obstructing his escape route. The big guy had been joined by a man with a denim shirt and muddy boots, and another guy with a Led Zeppelin singlet and tatts on his shoulders.
Jesus. What now?
His best choice was to just barge his way through, hope to reach the door and the light and freedom. But he made one more attempt at talking his way out.
‘Look – guys – sorry – por favor –’ It was useless; he was stammering. One of the cider drinkers was actually rolling up his sleeves.
‘Stop!’
David swivelled, and saw the blonde girl. She was physically interposing herself between David and his assailants – and she was talking very quickly to the men. Her smart and staccato Spanish was accented, and the words came too fast for David to understand.
Yet her intervention was…working. Whatever she was saying – it was succeeding. The anger in the men perceptibly dwindled; scowls became sullen glares, the cold angry faces sank back into the shadows. She was rescuing him from a nasty beating.
He looked at the girl, she looked at him, and then she looked right past him.
Now David realized – maybe there was another reason the guys had fallen back. Right behind him, a figure was walking across the room. If the drinkers had been calmed by the girl, they were positively cowed by this new figure emerging from the shadows. Where had he come from?
The man was tall and dark. His face was stern, half shaven, and mournfully aggressive. He was maybe thirty-five years old. Maybe an athletic forty. Who was this? Why had he silenced everyone?
‘Miguel…?’
It was the barman – gabbling nervously.
‘Er…Miguel…Eh…Dos equis?’
Miguel ignored the offer. He was gazing with his dark, deepset eyes directly at the blonde girl and David. He was standing close. His breath was tinged with some alcohol, strong wine or brandy. But he didn’t seem drunk. Miguel turned, and looked at the girl. His voice was deep and smooth.
‘Amy?’
Her answer was defiant. ‘Adiós, Miguel.’
She took David’s hand, and started pulling him towards the door. Quickly and firmly. But Miguel stopped her. He reached out – and simply grabbed Amy’s throat. Her fingers loosened from David’s grasp.
And then Miguel hit her. Hard. A shocking and brutal blow across the face. The girl fell to the floorboards, sprawling in the