Catherine O’Flynn - Mr Lynch’s Holiday

‘Pringle?’ Becca whispered loudly, holding out a bowl to Dermot. He shook his head and she continued around the room in a low crouch.

‘It seems the programme in question was one of the kind so very popular here, you know the type, I’m sure: people sitting around a table discussing something: la crisis or immigration or lactose intolerance or whatever it might be. (I’ve never known a nation with such an appetite for watching other people discuss things.) Anyway, you are all familiar with such shows: the women with the little glasses and the men with the trimmed beards. I didn’t see the programme, of course, but I was able to imagine it quite vividly from this man’s description of it.’ He paused thoughtfully and turned to Simon. ‘I’m forgetting his name. Isn’t that terrible?’ Then he said something in German and they both laughed.

Gill cleared her throat and said gently, ‘Raimund. The red paint.’

‘Yes. Yes. The red paint. So. There is the programme, that I did not see, but which I hope I have given you some flavour of. It seems the historian, Dr José Dominguez (I have googled him since and he is based at the University of Salamanca and is very respected) is doing a larger research piece about the latter part of the Civil War and in particular attempting to locate some of the graves of those who went missing.’

Becca whispered loudly again: ‘What’s he going on about?’ And Ian shushed her.

‘So, it seems that in November 1937, and no one disputes this, sixteen men were taken from Agua Blanca by Nationalist forces to be executed and the whereabouts of their bodies has never been discovered. Obviously all this was hushed up for years, but now there’s this new investigation into all the executions and disappearances and Dr Dominguez has been active in this.’

Gill had given up on politeness. ‘For God’s sake, Raimund, get to the bloody point.’

Raimund looked put out. ‘Very well. To cut a long story short, there is some justification to believe that there may be an unmarked mass grave under Lomaverde.’

General commotion broke out. Raimund held up his hand. ‘That, anyway, is the contention of Dr Dominguez. Apparently another historian on the programme disputed it. The politician from the left said questions need to be asked about how much the local council knew and how permission was ever given to build here, and the politician from the right said there was no good to come from opening up old wounds.’

Jean held up her hand and gradually everyone quietened. ‘Can I just ask Raimund, did you get from your acquaintance any sense of whether this information was going to be acted upon? I mean, are they planning to excavate?’

Simon answered for him. ‘I’ve read up a bit about it in the meantime. There’s a fierce debate raging on both sides. I don’t think ultimately much will happen, but when we heard all this and read the news stories afterwards, we looked at one another, didn’t we, Raimund?’ — Raimund nodded — ‘And we both said, “I bet that was what the red paint was about.”’

Becca was tearful. ‘This is awful. Awful. Just horrible.’ She blew her nose. ‘We will never, ever, ever be able to sell.’

Roger shook his head. ‘Incredible, isn’t it? Just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse. Do you ever wonder what we’ve done to deserve all this?’

Rosemary stood up. ‘With respect, Roger, I think it’s in poor taste to portray ourselves as the victims here. We’re talking about people being abducted and murdered. Families left not knowing what became of their loved ones for over seventy years. I think we should show a little compassion.’

Inga shifted slightly in her seat and Eamonn and Dermot were able to see the notebook she had been busily scribbling in. Instead of notes, the page was filled with a sketch of Roger. She had captured his likeness exactly, somehow rendering even the roll of his eyes. It was a faithful reproduction in every way except instead of sitting on a dining chair, he was shown sitting inside a glass case with a coin slot to operate.

Gill was speaking again. ‘So, taking all this on board and returning to the original point, if we can, about the security situation. We’re paying Esteban for three days a week. Is that enough?’

David spoke again. ‘I think with all the potential uninvited guests we have to contend with, from outright criminals to locals with grievances and now to bereaved families, we might all feel safer with Esteban here full time.’

Ian nodded. ‘And, quite frankly, the economic situation as it is, there’s very little work down here in this part of the country. I don’t know if you’ve been into Agua Blanca or San Pedro recently but they are slipping over the edge — shops closing down, delinquent kids necking Don Simon under the trees. And here we are, in what appear to be fancy houses; I don’t like to be alarmist, but people will turn to crime and we’re obvious targets.’

Eamonn remembered the not so subtle insinuations made by Ian in the wake of the burglaries about the community of Gypsies in the nearby town. The gang was in fact English, professional criminals from Essex targeting the many ghost towns and failed golf resorts of the Spanish Costas.

Becca joined in. ‘He has a point. I mean, I don’t think we’re saying people who fall on hard times automatically become thieves, but envy is a terrible thing. Ian and I have plenty of tales of trying to establish up-and-coming pockets of housing in run-down, tatty areas. There can be a lot of resentment. Also, I’m not being racist but’ — Eamonn braced himself — ‘you have to consider the immigrants.’

Gill looked at her. ‘What about the immigrants?’

‘Well, there’s more of them everywhere.’

‘Like us, you mean?’

‘No, I mean the ones from Romania, Morocco, places like that. The women with the babies begging for money. You ask any Spanish person who’s responsible for most crime in this country and they’ll tell you it’s the Romanians. Or the Moroccans.’

Raimund said softly, ‘I don’t think that is the view of all Spanish people; I think that is the view of racist Spanish people.’

Ian called over: ‘What did you say?’

Gill put up her hand. ‘So, I’m taking my turn now. As far as I can see, we might all feel happier if Esteban was here more, but at the same time I don’t suppose any of us can really afford that. The burglaries have stopped and that is the main thing. The other issues we face, it seems to me, can best be addressed not by increased security but by putting our message out there.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Jean.

‘I mean, something simple like approaching the local paper to do an article about us. Get active on community forums. Make it clear that we have suffered at the hands of the developers too. That we are sympathetic to others. That we are just normal people, struggling with the same economic situation as everyone else. It might achieve nothing, but I think the answer is to join forces with the local community, not barricade ourselves away from it. A siege mentality, this idea of “them and us”, will not do us any good.’

She got a round of applause from some of the residents for that. Eamonn wondered if her words would do any good. No one wanted to be paranoid but the condition seemed endemic in Lomaverde. It was hard not to overreact to events that in less isolated places or for people with busier lives might have seemed minor. He remembered with some embarrassment his own fearfulness at times. The adolescent pranks of kids from neighbouring towns had occasionally felt truly menacing. He recalled one particularly inglorious afternoon after an argument with Laura. It was, he’d realized at some point, an argument with himself and he had used her as his proxy, something he had started doing more and more. Afterwards he’d been walking through the nearby woods to clear his head when a loud crack sounded in a tree above him. He had looked up and as he did so something hit him on the arm. He put his hand to where the pain was and saw a stone hit the back of his knuckle. He peered into the thicket of trees from where the stone had been thrown. Someone whistled, another made a monkey cry and then the air was thick with small stones, flying past his ears, pinging his face and body. It took him a moment to understand what was happening — bored kids, guiri -baiting. He knew he should be cool, be on their side, say something to show he understood. But he didn’t understand. He found them unknowable and sinister. They weren’t on his side, they were alien and hostile, like everything else in this place. He had fled in terror and shame, his heart pounding and a terrible anger burning his eyes.