The Secret Wound Page 3

  He made his way towards the mountains which pushed into the sky like Gaudi sculptures – weird shapes which held their own beauty. They were not symmetrical but leaning, swerving, curling into the air. Emerging from the tunnel, he saw the olive terraced mountains, dotted with almond and carob trees and the town of Soller with its golden stone houses. He drove past field after field of orange and lemon trees before turning off the main road and winding his way towards La Torretta.

  La Torretta overlooked Soller valley. Before opening the front door, Gurtha walked along the crazy paving to a stone hexagonal gazebo with its terracotta tiled roof and sat to drink in the view. The sky was lightly covered in feathery clouds. The houses of Soller were small orange and grey rectangles with scattered mirrors twinkling in the sunshine. A plane growled overhead, like a thunderstorm in the distance. He listened to see if he could hear the moment that the sound disappeared. It became an attenuated rumble, a gentle purr, before it disappeared. Cicadas were singing loudly out of sight. He heard the click clacking of the wooden train before it emerged from the tunnel in the mountains. An almond tree to his left was covered in furry green shells. The carob tree beside it was full of black pods swinging gently in the breeze. A donkey sang its painful song nearby as a blackbird swooped to his right. The air was perfumed with pine. He took three deep breaths before getting to his feet and turning towards the front door. The earth outside the gazebo was tanned and loose. A single pink daisy nestled among bright green shoots near the door. The wind unexpectedly started to blow strongly, sounding like the sea in a storm. It had a hollow sound as if Gurtha had pressed an enormous conch shell to his ear. The olive tree beside the front door was waving its branches enthusiastically. Its bark light brown with black rough crevices – corrugated wrinkles hundreds of years old. The sun shone on the light green shoots, making the leaves glitter like small silver swords. A hawk settled on a rickety post to his right, it swayed from side to side before launching itself into the valley below with a wide opening of its wings. Gurtha turned the key in the lock.

  Inside La Torretta, Gurtha creaked open the green shutters allowing sunlight to fall on the red tiled kitchen floor. He patted the two plump sofas in the sitting room covered in cushions and examined the wood burning stove before walking upstairs. He explored the two bedrooms and bathroom. He opened the windows and shutters in all of the rooms and threw a suitcase on the floor of the largest bedroom which had a view of Soller from one of the windows and the sea from the second. The bed smelt musty and was cold to the touch. A mosquito net dangled from the ceiling. Gurtha sat on the bed, listening to the silence which was interrupted by the tinkling of sheep bells as the sheep made their way up and down the mountain. Birds chirped overhead, making a nest in the roof. For the first time since Nuala’s death, Gurtha felt a hint of peace moving within him. In the silence of the room his thoughts stopped churning. He lay back on the bed, stretched wide his arms to form a cross and breathed deeply.

  That night Gurtha wakened to the sound of thunder. He pulled back the mosquito net and opened the bedroom window. Over the sea, in the distance, the black sky was ripped apart by streaks of silver. He looked up. Overhead it was a clear starry night. Huge black cumulous clouds moved from the horizon heading towards La Torretta. Thunder rumbled, muffled within the clouds which continued to swell and billow – their edges briefly etched in silver. Gurtha climbed onto the windowsill, dangling his legs into the blackness. He overflowed with excitement, like a child, as the thunder, now closer, shook the house; a strong wind banged the shutters on either side, forcing him to reluctantly climb back into the bedroom. He closed the shutters, leaving the windows open to listen to the storm. As he lay in bed, rain and hailstones like marbles, thrashed against the tiled roof. Thunder exploded directly overhead with lightning flickering through the shutters like strobe lighting. Tomorrow, he would go to Soller and make plans for the opening of the art exhibition. He had arranged to meet Cornelia and Barry at eleven for coffee. He realised, with a start, that he had forgotten to ring Paddy to tell him that he had arrived safely.

  ♥

  In Belfast, Paddy sat on a chair in the sitting room with a photograph of Nuala in his hands. It was taken somewhere by the sea, before they married on the 14th January 1967. He couldn’t remember where. Was it Carnlough, Bangor, Portstewart or Newcastle, Co Down? He searched for any signs that would help identify the location but there was only a boat resting on the sandy beach, out of the water and twelve people smiling for the camera, including Nuala. She looked radiant, wearing a soft beige cashmere coat, her hair in curls down to her shoulders. She had reached a hand into the left pocket of the coat. Was she looking for a tissue or a sweet? Paddy was in the photo wearing an open-neck shirt and a V-neck jumper. He looked straight at the camera. The sun shone on the right side of his face leaving the left side in shadow. He had thick straight dark hair brushed off his forehead. Nuala looked absorbed in thought. She also looked invincible.

  A tear rolled down his face.

  “I’ve been a bad boy,” he whispered to himself.

  The fire had gone out. It was cold. He looked through the lace curtains and could see the cherry tree which Nuala had planted, cared for and loved. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. When Nuala was alive, he regularly cooked “an Ulster fry” for two - with bacon, egg, soda farl, tomato, potato bread and black pudding. Since Nuala’s death, he merely fried an egg for breakfast. He cracked an egg into a bowl before placing it in the frying pan. Nuala had explained to him in the early days that putting the egg first into a bowl means that you can decide if it is “off”. He smelt the egg. It was fine. He dropped it into the frying pan. It hissed, spat and sizzled. The edges burnt and curled. Little bubbles burst in whiteness. Popping sounds of brightness splashed onto his face.

  He stabbed a few of the bubbles with a fork. He found a spoon and caught the oil at the edge of the pan and poured it over the yolk. It glazed white like a dead fish eye. It was ready to eat. He ate it from the frying pan with his fork. It didn’t taste of anything – there was only texture – crispness from the burnt white, softness from the yolk. No flavour. He threw the fork into the sink and sat at the table, looking at the chair where Nuala would have sat. He waited a few moments and then shuffled from his chair which faced the wall to sit in Nuala’s chair with her view of the room, the window into the garden and the toilet. As he looked at the toilet door, he felt a little trickle run down his leg. He ignored it.

  The house was strangely empty without Nuala. For Paddy, being in the house without Nuala felt like he didn’t exist. It was a double emptiness. He looked at the telephone beside him. It didn’t ring. He scratched his head and picked up the Irish News. Who else had died? Was there a wake he could go to? He turned the pages without recognising any names. He stared at the flameless coal, heaved himself to his feet and forgot what he was planning to do. He sat down again. There was always ‘The Easter Rising Club’. He staggered again to his feet, pulled on a cap and a jacket and opened the front door.

  ♥

  When Paddy turned the key in the lock five hours later it was four in the morning, about the time Gurtha dangled his legs over the windowsill of his bedroom in ‘La Toretta’.

  The sky was lightening; blackbirds were breaking their night’s silence and called to each other. Paddy staggered up the first flight of stairs to his bedroom. He reached under the pillow for his pyjamas, peeled off his clothes, leaving them on the floor beside the bed and climbed in under the sheets. With the help of the moonlight he saw streaks of blood on the pillow. He was bleeding. He touched his head and looked at the bright red blood glistening on his fingers. What had happened to him? He couldn’t remember. Where was his wallet?

  He heaved one leg out of bed and then the second. He sat for a few minutes trying to remember the evening. He recalled entering ‘The Easter Rising’. He remembered having a pint but couldn’t remember with whom. He knew that he had laughed and so there had to be someone else there with him
but couldn’t remember who or what was said and or why he had laughed. Where was his wallet? The next memory that he had was of turning the key in the front door. He didn’t remember looking into Nuala’s bedroom before opening the door to his own bedroom.

  He knew that he did not want Nuala to see the bloodied pillow cases and sheets. He dragged the sheets from the bed and hobbled downstairs, with the sheets and pillow cases under one arm and one hand gripping the bannister. He couldn’t find the washing powder and used the Fairy Liquid to rinse away the blood. It wasn’t so easy to do. His hands were wrinkling with the water before he stopped trying. He found bleach and poured it onto the pink sheets which turned yellow in patches. The water from the kitchen tap gushed fully open when he remembered the washing machine. He carried the soaking sheets and pillow cases and put them in the washing machine. He poured the washing powder which was sitting on top into the drawer, closed the door and left without turning it on.

  The phone rang. It was Gurtha.

  “How are you doing, Paddy?”

  Silence.

  “Are you there Paddy? It’s Gurtha here. I’m in Mallorca.”

  “Where’s Mallorca?”

  “It’s in Spain, Paddy. Do you remember that film with Grace Kelley, driving around the coast of Mallorca? Nuala really liked it.”

  “When will I see you?”

  “You’ll see me Friday. You’re coming out here for your holiday.”

  “Am I? How will I get out there?”

  “I’ll collect you. Don’t worry about a thing. Remember Nuala always sang that Bobby Ferrin song?”

  “Bobby who?” Paddy whispered.

  Gurtha began to sing down the phone,

  “Here’s a little song I wrote

  You might want to sing it note for note

  Don’t worry, be happy

  In every life we have some trouble

  But when you worry, you make it double

  Don’t worry, be happy.”

  “Do you not remember, Paddy – that was Nuala’s favourite song?”

  Paddy was silent again for a few seconds before asking.

  “Are there any other songs that Nuala liked? Could you sing me another one? Could you sing ‘Danny Boy’ for me?”

  DAY 2

  GURTHA DROVE the winding track down to join the main road to Soller. Old men in slippers bent over wooden canes, shuffled through the Plaza. Alongside, the local Mallorquins drank coffee, read newspapers and chatted to one another under the leafy sycamore trees. Sunlight dappled the tables and chairs. A tram tooted its way across the square. Gurtha looked for Café Soller.

  He spotted Cornelia. She was wearing a long tight-fitting jersey dress covered in pink and yellow flowers with an outline of black around the flowers like an artist’s simple brush stroke to highlight features of an almost finished painting. Gurtha was surprised that his first feeling was not one of pleasure at seeing Cornelia again, but rather one of missing Henry at her side. Even when temperatures soared towards thirty degrees centigrade, Henry would have worn a navy pin-striped suit with a white shirt and, as it was Monday, a purple cravat. His shoes would be reflecting the world above him. His hair dyed a subtle dark brown, layered, glossy, falling in layers onto his shoulders. He would have reached a manicured hand towards Gurtha, before patting him on the back, the way you would a horse.

  Cornelia kissed Gurtha before opening a white parasol – which - using only the slightest twist of her fingers on the mahogany handle, she circled above her head.

  “Meet Barry.”

  Barry stood up and shook Gurtha’s hand. It was a half-baked handshake – neither too firm nor too weak. He was half-baked all over – neither too tall nor too small – shorter than Gurtha – maybe five foot eight inches. He was neither too thin nor too fat – although he had the look of someone who would have a tendency to fatness rather than thinness – with rosy cheeks, a hedonistic smile, and sported a crisply ironed linen shirt over beige cotton shorts. Gurtha spotted his sandaled feet with two surprisingly gnarled big toe nails and wondered why anyone would not cover them up with a pair of leather boat shoes.

  “How was your journey?” Cornelia lifted the white straw hat from the chair and placed it on her head, pulling the brim down to almost cover her eyes.

  “Everything went to plan.” Gurtha nodded as he requested sparkling water from the waitress.

  “What do you think of La Torretta?” Cornelia leaned forward in her chair.

  “I like it a lot.”

  “Oh good. That’s a relief. I was hoping you would say that. Let’s hope you like what I’ve chosen for you as the venue for your art exhibition. It’s quaint.” Cornelia sipped her Americano coffee.

  “If you like it, I have the rental agreement. We can sign it today. You are sure that you only want to stay for forty days? We hardly need to bother signing a contract but we’re in Mallorca and the world revolves around paperwork.”

  Gurtha sipped water and surveyed Barry who inspected his nails.

  “Forty days will be sufficient.”

  Cornelia continued to twirl the parasol.

  “So what else are you going to do during your forty days? After all, Angelina will be mostly taking care of the exhibition.”

  Gurtha looked into her eyes which were like button-green cat eyes, placed in her face but having a life of their own rather than being a part of her body.

  “It will be good to have time to do nothing. I have no plans. No doubt a routine of sorts will emerge.” The sunlight stung his eyes. He slid the chair into the shade.

  “What about you, Barry – how are you enjoying retirement?”

  Barry finished off Cornelia’s croissant, before replying.

  “There’s always something to do to keep the women happy.”

  Gurtha was aware of a sense of irritation arising in his body. Trying not to let it affect his tone of voice, he attempted to sound jovial, aware that it sounded false, “How many women are you struggling with?”

  Barry wiped his mouth with the napkin.

  Three. Feels almost like full time – Cornelia, Angelina and Stephanie. I imagine that more will arrive – they always do when there’s a handsome man like myself with money around.”

  Cornelia gave him a kick under the table.

  “Behave yourself or you will be sent to the ‘naughty room’.”

  Barry laughed.

  “I can’t wait.”

  Cornelia ignored him.

  “It needs a bit of work.” Cornelia touched Gurtha’s hand across the table.

  “The gallery I mean. I could also have said that he needs a bit more work.” She laughed, looked again in her purse for a mirror and applied fresh lipstick.

  “Are you ready to see the gallery?”

  They walked from the Plaza towards the small alley of Son Joan. Cornelia handed Gurtha a long black iron key.

  “You can open up. It’s yours for the next forty days.”

  The door squeaked open and the first thing that Gurtha noticed was the aged, oak-panelled floor. Then his eyes moved towards the beams embedded in the ceiling, the white walls and a large door into the patio garden at the back. The front window was stained glass, which threw a kaleidoscope of blue, yellow and green onto the floor. Small flecks of gold and silver circled within golden sunbeams which pierced the clear air exploding onto the back wall.

  “There’s upstairs to see.” Gurtha followed Cornelia up the first wobbly wooden staircase. He ducked his head to avoid swinging terracotta lamps. Even more sunshine flooded the first floor, lighting up the dark wood panelling and falling onto a range of agricultural tools pinned to the wall. There was an old mace with a cylinder studded with iron thorns on the end of a chain, which Gurtha imagined could have been used in Roman times by a gladiator, two sharp knives with wooden handles, strapped with cord, at least seven different ploughs, a long three pronged fork and a large wooden sieve almost a metre in diameter.

  Gurtha felt himself falling back through the c
enturies to a time when these instruments would have been used. There was something about time being held unspoilt in this small terraced house that felt good - a sense of peace, stability, a palpable rootedness in the hands and hearts of those from the past. It was also smelt in old polish and varnish and heard in creaking floorboards.

  “I wouldn’t change it too much.” Gurtha looked out from the first floor window onto the narrow street below with its flowerpots filled with aloe vera, cacti and ferns.

  Cornelia stood beside him, wiping a glass with her finger,

  “Well, it needs a bit of a clean, at least and everything taken off the walls to make room for the paintings.”

  Cornelia polished a small circle of window with a cotton handkerchief, turned to him and smiled, “How about dinner on Thursday? It’s your birthday. Meet a few new friends.” She opened her briefcase.

  Gurtha opened the top button of his shirt,

  “It’s hard to believe that this day last year, Nuala was still alive.”

  Cornelia opened a plastic wallet containing the contract. She handed it to Gurtha with a fountain pen to sign.

  “It must be hard for you – as it is for me with Henry. Is there any progress in the Police case about who murdered her?”

  Gurtha placed the contract on top of a wooden bench and, as he prepared to sign the papers, he glanced at Cornelia.

  “No. There have been no developments. It’s frustrating. The longer there are no leads and the more time that passes, it is becomes more unlikely that the murderer will be found.”

  As he talked, he watched Cornelia lift Barry’s hand and gently squeeze it. Then she touched his nose with the cotton handkerchief she had used earlier to clean a blemish on the window. They looked into one another’s eyes with complicity – something which he had never seen her do before with Henry. The scene sent a slight shiver along his spine from top to bottom. He hesitated, without knowing why, in scratching the pen across the contract - but there was no going back. It was like the critical moment before take-off when the pilot commits and a ping tells the crew that there is no going back and that the plane is taking off, no matter what.