Canary Islands Mysteries Collection

Chapter 15

I"m awake in the gloaming after a night of fitful sleep. The shoulder will keep but the leg is in a bad way. I can feel the swelling beneath the fabric of my trousers, inflamed, hot and throbbing, signs of infection.

I"m not sure I can hold out another day. My instincts are telling me to stay put but the hole in my stomach is urging me to risk it and head back. Then again, there"s food out there in the rock pools. If I wait until low tide and take my weapon, I should come back with a feast of shellfish. A feast!

It"s a long and tiresome wait. I nibble on a chocolate bar and sip some of the day"s water ration. I keep my eye on the ocean. There"s a gentle swell. Boredom soon kicks in. I find a stray pencil and some scraps of paper in the rucksack and doodle little sketch: a pitiless still life replete with upturned table, broken chairs, crates and a bucket. Even in moments such as this, there is art.

Satisfied at last that the time is opportune, I grab hold of my weapon and head off, taking my time, scanning every nook and cranny on my way, pressing against walls at the corners. I picture myself from afar and begin to feel ridiculous. The whole situation is surreal.

Before long I"ve left the village behind me. Now I"m too exposed. Paranoia kicks in, all my senses alert, and my heart beats that much faster.

I tell myself to get a grip.

The day is bright and the sun warms my back. The only sound, the waves hitting the rocks. There"s no sign of the dog. As I walk I look behind me, ahead, to my left at the cliff. If the dog comes, I"ll be prepared. If it"s the henchman, I"ve had it. My best option would be to launch myself into the ocean and drown. Better that than a bullet.

I need to stop thinking like that. The chances are I"ll be fine.

I apply myself to the hunt for food. I crouch on my haunches beside rock pool after rock pool, making sure I"m facing the cliff. I divide my attention between dog watch and the shellfish—limpets mostly—and I creep up softly and use a stone to tap them free. Before long, my pockets are full.

I head back, pausing by a clump of spurge. I grab that too; it"s edible, although I"m not sure of the taste. The moisture in those fleshy stems will add to my water intake. For a brief moment, I feel like a survivor washed up on a desert island, awaiting rescue from a passing ship.

The sunshine, the waves slapping the rocks, the shimmering blue and the vast expanse of malpais beside me, encrusted with lichen and euphorbia, it"s a kind of paradise for those who like open space and isolation. Although the tourists don"t come here; few leave the enclaves in the south and east, the island"s leeward side, sheltered, where they can enjoy beaches of creamy white sand. Why, with all that, would they come here?

Lanzarote, a playground for pleasure seekers; I like to keep my distance from the madness of it. I"ve seen what it"s done to my people, a violent and radical transformation in a single generation, perhaps two.

The wealthy were quick to seize the opportunity and scramble for advantage, the poor peasant farmers too slow and ignorant to see what was coming. Manrique saw as early as the 1970s, and he tried to pre-empt the tide and mitigate. I admire him for that; the island"s hero. Paula thinks I don"t, but I do. It"s just that we need living heroes, not dead ones; we need to undo the damage that has already been done and prevent further destruction. Manrique cannot campaign from the grave. Memorialising him only serves to make history of the present. Suddenly, we are mourning instead of fighting. And fight we must.

All these thoughts I have as I hobble back to the hut, keeping an eye on the ridge, not only for the dog, but, by chance, a passing tourist.

A laugh, brief and bitter, escapes my lips in a single short burst. Never before have I wished to see a tourist so badly, not even on my market stall on quiet days. Then, I only wanted cash to pay the bills. My life has never depended on a sale. Now my life might depend on a tourist appearing, full stop.

My mind drifts to Paula. Tourism is how I met her. And she was not just any tourist, but a woman working in a tourist information centre. I"ve always felt a private triumph stealing her from her career and depositing her into my world. But what world is this I"ve put her in?

As I open the door to the hut, doom descends in my mind, black as night.