Gordon Brown - 59 Minutes

With the boat now still, the flow of fresh air stopped and the gangplank space soon took on the temperature of the engine room. The rocking continued which suggested we were not moored up and when I caught the clink of glasses I figured they had stopped for lunch.

My throat was dry and the 2 litre bottle of water had long since gone. I reached for the little hatch and cracked it a little more and pushed my head into the gap. It wasn’t much cooler but it was better than nothing.

Forty minutes crawled by and I was on the point of giving up again when the engine fired up and we lurched forward. The movement caught me by surprise and I let go of the hatch. It fell away — banging against the hull. I froze, waiting for someone to notice, but nothing happened. I tried to reach out and pull the hatch closed but I would have needed to lean my head and shoulders out to reach it, and that was asking for trouble. I left it alone.

The air flowed freely, now joined by salt spray. I could see the Mediterranean framed where the hatch door had been. There was no sign of land.

An hour later a large black and white ship slid across my little picture frame. The words Barcelona-Mahon were writ large on the side. I smiled. At least we were on the main ferry route and this suggested that we were still on track for Barcelona.

Around five o’clock the engine dropped its note again. In the last hour I had seen an increasing number of boats and ships that suggested we were getting closer to land. Pulling myself forward I risked poking the top of my head out and was rewarded with the sight of the rising cliff that sat above the commercial port of Barcelona. I knew that on top of the cliff sat the Parc de Montjuic and just out of sight was the old Olympic Stadium.

The boat purred along parallel to the shore, keeping the commercial port on her left until we reached the entrance to the main marina. I wriggled back into the engine room and felt a wall of heat wash over me. Closing up the door to the gangplank, I crawled around the engine and back into my cubby hole.

The boat seemed to take an age before the engine was killed and the guys upstairs stopped moving around and got off. I waited for another ten minutes to make sure they were gone and crawled back through the engine room before opening the main hatch. For the first time in nearly twenty hours I stood up and felt my back crack. The boat was deserted and I wasted no time getting off the bloody thing.

I got my bearings and headed for the exit from the marina.

Half an hour later, and a full two litres of Coke in my stomach, I was in a public toilet at the bottom of Las Ramblas. My face in the mirror was black with diesel smoke and I was sporting the kind of hair that you get by plugging your fingers into the mains.

Stripping to my waist I did the best I could to clean my hair, face and arms. I scrubbed out my armpits and retired to a cubicle and slipped out of the rest of the clothes and put on the spare stuff from the plastic bag. I bundled the soiled clothes into the bag and ‘over skooshed’ some deodorant on all offending parts.

Back at the sink I brushed my teeth and straightened myself up.

I walked out into the evening and found Las Ramblas rammed with tourists and pretty people going for a walk.

The place was alive. Chatting, drinking and eating were the norm as I wandered up and away from the sea. I passed a row of living statues, all of them impressively made up.

One, a small evil looking dwarf had painted his entire body, including his tongue, green and delighted in slobbering and gibbering at tourists who approached him. No one dared go near him and I wondered how he made any money as the statues relied on tourists filling the plates or hats that sat in front of them.

I turned into the gothic quarter, made my way to a small internet cafe and found a terminal. Ordering up three cokes and a coffee I added a spectacularly sticky bun and the waiter looked at me with a look that said ‘you greedy bastard’.

I pulled up the Ryanair site and after a major struggle booked the last flight out of Girona that night at an exorbitant price. By my reckoning I had three hours to make the flight.

I killed the cokes and the coffee and wolfed down the bun before heading back into the night. I walked up Las Ramblas to the square at the top and over to El Corte Inglis, Spain ’s’ answer to Debenhams, and jumped in one of the taxis sitting there. The driver’s face lit up when I said Girona. I asked how much and he said a hundred Euros. I winced but nodded my head, and we were away.

The taxi drive took over an hour and I was dropped at a building site that doubled as an airport. The place was tourist city but I put on my patient head and joined the queue for my plane.

I’m sitting in the middle of a row of three seats, with a snoring man who keeps trying to use my left shoulder as a pillow, and a woman who has drunk herself into a stupor on my right. Around me the plane is quiet and the lights low.

Bring on tomorrow.

Thursday August 7 ^th 2008

I got in late last night. I assumed Martin was in bed and I didn’t wake him. When I got up in the morning he was gone. I wasn’t actually sure if he had been in. A quick peek in his room and it didn’t look slept in. Then again he was neat and probably made the bed up before he left. As I yack into this thing, there is still no sign of him and it has gone ten o’clock at night.

The day has been a quiet one. I went over the events in Mallorca until I was blue in the face but I can’t make head nor tail of them. The whole thing was a set up. Of that there is no doubt, but the question is why and why in that manner?

If Dupree has decided I am excess baggage then he could have taken me down long ago. I have one working theory, and it is a poor one at best.

I’m thinking that Dupree knew of Spencer’s intentions and also found out about the box in Mallorca. He could have raided it, removed anything that might incriminate him and have left the single sheet of paper for anyone else that came along. When someone was fool enough to appear, then the local goon squad were alerted and that was why I was caught bang to rights in the shop.

As such there may be no pre-meditation in all of this. I simply followed the trail that someone else had already trodden. What I can’t figure is how they knew I was in the shop at that particular moment. Maria might have been in on it and the whole ‘helping me’ thing was a game. It would certainly explain the ease with which she decided to lend me a hand. But then why hit the alarm and save me? If she was in on it she could have just left me to the goon patrol. So if she didn’t alert them then who did and why?

I haven’t got any answers to this one yet. I’ll front up with Martin when he gets back and see if he has any ideas.

Sunday August 10 th 2008

No sign of Martin. When he was still A.W.O.L. on Friday I put it down to him going away for the evening and not informing me. However he should have been back Friday night as a minimum, as he was picking me up from the return flight. I fully expected him to appear on Friday evening in a rage, having driven out to Glasgow airport only to discover I wasn’t on the plane.

I’ve tried his mobile but it isn’t even tripping to answer machine. It simply rings out and then dies. On Saturday I tried a few of his usual haunts but with no success. I didn’t push too hard. If Dupree wants me I’m not going to spread myself around town and advertise my whereabouts. I’m assuming that Martin’s house is safe, if for no other reason than that I would be dead by now if Dupree wanted me and knew I was holed up with Martin.

Mallorca is still spinning in my head but I’m no further forward.