300 Days of Sun (4 page)

The penny dropped. “The Alliance . . . the Aliança?”

“Bingo.”

I had the distinct feeling he wanted to say a great deal more but was holding back.

“You should read it,” he repeated.

The waiter interrupted us there with the bill, which I insisted on paying, and Rylands accepted after a gentlemanly show of reluctance. It was only as we stood to leave that I remembered.

“Horta das Rochas,” I said. “When you told me the Café Aliança had plenty to do with it, was that just in the abstract, or was there a specific link?”

“There is a link.”

He gave a chuckle. It seemed to be a sound he used to denote a private joke. I was never keen on playing games for information, but sometimes there was no way round. I was the one who had made the first move, and so I had to let him draw even.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I'll get hold of a copy of Esta Hartford's book and let you have it. Then we can talk again.”

 

iv

N
athan was still distracted when I told him about meeting Ian Rylands. I had to admit I hadn't learned anything new about Terry Jackson, and there didn't seem much more to say.

On the Thursday he didn't turn up for morning class. No one thought it was that surprising. He'd been out on the tiles again. Even he couldn't escape the cumulative effect of too many all-­nighters.

It was quiet without him. The others in the class were all right, but the women seemed to have formed a group that didn't automatically include me. Enzo was eager to take me out to dinner, and I was having to find more and more feeble excuses to avoid the inevitable. Tomas the IT man from Berne was pleasant and friendly, but there wasn't the frame of reference and easy humour I shared with Nathan.

When I went into Café Aliança on the Friday morning, I hadn't heard anything more from Ian Rylands. I'd called the
Algarve Daily News
, but the reporter I needed to talk to was on holiday and wouldn't be back until the following week.

I took it as a kind of acceptance that the same tubby barman prepared a coffee for me without being asked. This time the minuscule coffee cup came without chips in the china, and what's more, breakfast was on offer.

“Tosta?”
he asked.

I now knew that was toast and cheese, and accepted eagerly. We attempted a halting continuation of our exchange. His name was João. It would soon be the weekend, I managed to say, as if that might have been news to him (this is the worst aspect of trying to speak in a new language: it makes you seem stupid), and I had decided to go to the beach.

João nodded encouragingly and asked slowly and clearly if I liked to swim. I did. He told me to have fun but not to fall asleep on the beach; the wind could burn. It wasn't a meeting of minds but it was progress.

As I paid the small bill in coins and picked up my bag to go, João raised a finger and reached under the bar. He brought out a small package, its brown wrapping paper mummified by parcel tape, and held it out to me.

“What is it?” Actually, I think I asked him
how
it was.

“For you.”

Sure enough, in the small exposed patch of paper was my name, etched in neat block capitals.

I didn't open the package there and then, mainly because it was bound too tightly to be ripped into, and partly because I've learned the value of a public poker face when confronted with anything unexpected. João delved again under the counter and produced a knife, but I shook my head and slipped the parcel into my bag.

It weighed like lead in the bag over my shoulder until I got to the nearest pharmacy and went in to buy a pair of nail scissors. On a bench on a small square at a junction of cobbled streets, I slit open the tape and extracted the contents. There was no note enclosed, but there was no need for one.

It was a book, an old hardback with a torn dust jacket.
The Alliance
by Esta Hartford.

I hurried on, hoping to find Nathan had used his day off wisely and was now fully restored. But he was not there when we sat down for Caterina's class, and he didn't appear his usual ten minutes in.

None of the other students had heard from him. They seemed to think that if any of us were to have done, I was the most likely—­which was true.

“Senhora Davim?” I put my head round the office door on my way out. “Can I ask you—­is Nathan not well?”

“We think so, but we don't know.” She shrugged, raising painted eyebrows. “I was going to ask you.”

“I don't suppose you have his mobile number?”

“He didn't give it to you?”

“It didn't seem necessary. We were here all day in person.”

“We are not permitted—­”

“Have you tried it?”

Senhora Davim pursed her lips. “I left a message. He has not returned my call.”

What was she supposed to do? Not much, she implied with a drumroll of fingernails on the desk. He was a grown man, and it had only been two days. If he chose not to attend each session of a course he had paid for, that was his business. I didn't disagree and exited graciously. If I left it there, she might change her mind about giving me his number if he failed to come in on Monday.

I tried to recall the street Nathan's lodgings were in but I'd never known exactly where he was staying. Neither could I remember any specific landmarks that might have narrowed it down, except a stork's nest on a lamppost, and I wasn't so desperate that I was willing to tramp all over town searching for that.

But Nathan's absence was all the more frustrating because I was eager to rake over my conversation with Ian Rylands. The way he had left the book for me in the café was odd, even faintly creepy. How did he even know I would return? And there was something else that bothered me, an anomaly that had taken a while to rise to the surface of my consciousness: how was it that Rylands remembered my old colleague Will Venning's name from a one-­off approach by telephone—­he said they had spoken but not met—­yet he couldn't recall the name of any reporters at a local newspaper?

The other students filed out of the language centre in orderly fashion. Some of the women were meeting up later at O Castelo, and promised to look out for Nathan. I told Enzo my long-­standing boyfriend was coming for the weekend, and went back alone to my studio.

L
ater that evening, using the Wi-­Fi signal at the bar-­bakery in the Rua Dr. Francisco Gomes, I was idly checking my emails and various news sites when I had an idea. I pulled up Facebook and entered Nathan's name in the search bar.

He wasn't on Facebook. Fair enough, it was worth a try. But I rarely give up when I want to know something, so I googled “Nathan Emberlin,” wondering whether he was on any other social media sites.

It was a very uncommon name. Only four results came up, not one of them for a British man. The only Nathan Emberlins in the whole world were a ­couple of old men in the American Midwest, one of them allegedly a hundred and six years old, to be precise. I sat back, shocked. How did a young person, in these days of all-­pervasive social networking, not register anywhere online?

I pressed search again, thinking there must have been a glitch. The result was the same.

 

v

T
he temperature was climbing. The air was heavy with orange dust from the Sahara that fell like a sprinkling of paprika powder over the town's white sills and ledges. I walked down to the ferry, needing to get out over water to catch some fresh wind. As the boat ploughed through green salt marshes, I did breathe more easily. Saturday morning, and the day was mine. But I was not feeling relaxed.

Heading south to the narrow sand strip of the Ilha da
Culatra, where the outer rim of the marshes was exposed to the full strength of the sea, we could see the lighthouse on the horizon marking the Cape of Santa Maria, the southernmost point of continental Portugal.

Fishing activity was all around, most visibly on the smallest scale. Men rowed solo, their boats stacked with rods and other gear. Groups of men and women stood knee-­deep in the water with rods and lines; here and there rods stood upright, screwed into the wet silt to allow one person to operate several lines. Clam diggers bent and scraped at the mud, reminding me yet again of Nathan.

There was no getting away from what was now an obstinate unease about him. Our conversation on the ferry to Faro beach took on a significance it hadn't at the time. He'd said he hadn't come by plane but by bus. So where had he come from? Another town on the Algarve? From Spain? If he could afford the not inconsiderable fees for the language course, it surely could not have been a lack of money that made him opt for the bus.

The ferry docked. A man standing on the jetty fished out an octopus to cheers of encouragement.

I followed the other passengers down a sandy path in the direction of the lighthouse. There were plenty of buildings here, of solid Moorish design in white-­painted stone with roof terraces and pretty gardens of cacti and other parched-­earth plants. They looked like holiday homes. At the beach, walkways of wooden slats led off left and right. It was as well to keep to them; the sand under my flip-­flops was too hot to walk on.

The beach was not crowded, and the further I went, the more isolated and exposed it became. I swam in the grey-­blue rollers with only a few other bathers in sight, but lasted only half an hour in the raw dazzle of the sun before I returned to a more populated spot where sunshades were available.

The cry of a doughnut vendor against a background of waves collapsing and receding brought Nathan to mind yet again.

The only possible conclusion was that Nathan Emberlin was not his real name. Possibly he had chosen it because it was one of those rare things, a completely blank slate. But why?

T
he wind picked up and fanned some life back into the coast. By the time I had returned to town, washed the sticky sand out of my hair, and assessed the red burn marks on my shoulders, the temperature had fallen back to a pleasant simmer for the evening.

I wandered down towards the marina. Perhaps I would try a new place to eat that Tomas had recommended. With plenty of time to decide, I had a fizzy water at a waterside kiosk. A ­couple of guys raised their glasses to me, and I felt good as I strolled towards the maze of cobbled streets. I'd worried sometimes over the past few months that I'd forgotten how to have fun.

A top in one of the clothes shops had caught my eye on the way to class, and I thought I'd go and try it on, might even wear it later to one of the clubs Nathan talked about. It was about time I had a little adventure. I turned the corner into the entrance on the Rua Vasco da Gama.

About thirty metres ahead of me was a tall man with white hair and a loose cotton drill jacket. He looked just like Ian Rylands. I picked up my pace, keeping him in sight. The evening parade packed the street. Casual shoppers stopped dead and changed direction right in front of me. ­Couples stood reading menus outside restaurants. Children ran swerving arcs through the crowd. I bumped into someone and in the seconds I looked away from the white-­haired figure ahead, to apologise, I lost him.

I walked faster towards the junction with a small triangular square where restaurant tables were laid for dinner under some trees. Cars were permitted here, and on the other side of the square the man was waiting to cross the road. I could see his face. It was Ian Rylands. There was no doubt about it. I called out. He appeared not to hear.

I carried on behind him, deciding not to run, just to catch up naturally. Only a few streets to the northwest of the main tourist area, even more businesses were closed, apartment blocks were shabby, and peeling buildings stood empty under À Venda notices. One house, once beautifully dressed in blue and white tiles, was now stripped to patches of terra-­cotta and graffiti. Weeds tufted from the gutters.

Rylands was still ahead of me, though not by very far now. I expected him to sense my approach at any moment and look round. But he didn't. He kept up a steady march down unprepossessing side streets.

We emerged into a large square dominated by a church and a modern post office. He headed straight across the cobblestones to the steps of the church. That was when I hung back, feeling as if a line of acceptability had been breached. I'd only wanted to catch up with him to thank him for the book, and possibly to ask him why he'd chosen to leave it at the Aliança without even letting me know it was there. But he had led me so far from where I'd spotted him that I felt too self-­conscious. Any approach would now be awkward.

He went into the church.

I wasn't going to follow him. Suppose he was a devout man. That would make me—­well, I didn't care to contemplate what that would make me.

T
ucked into the side of the square, camouflaged by plane trees, a small bar offered a ­couple of tables with a view of the church steps. One was taken by a group of older men playing cards. I took the other and ordered a beer.

The waitress didn't know whether there was a church ser­vice on Saturday evening. Or, more likely, she couldn't work out what I was trying to ask her, either in Portuguese or in English. I made my bottle of Sagres last as long as I could, but Rylands did not reappear on the church steps. After a while—­and the euphoric effect of the beer on an empty stomach may have had a bearing on this—­my decision to hang back no longer seemed so vital.

I made a circuit of the square and then gave in to impulse. Beggars held their hands out as I paused at the entrance to the church. A mad shriek from across the square made me jump. Two drunks had started fighting down by the post office, flailing arms beating the dust out of each other's clothes. I went in. The Church of the Third Order of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, I read in English.

The space was more intimate than the exterior had indicated. A soaring arch over an ornate altar and the reredos behind it was embellished by astonishing gold work. Intricate baroque carvings dripped with gilding. In contrast, the wooden pews were plain, in rows over a red carpet. They were empty.

To the right of the altar was an entrance into an antechamber with the air of a dining room in a Tudor house.

“The Chapel of Bones?” asked a middle-­aged woman quietly in accented English.

She handed me a printed brochure. I read the word “ossuary” and allowed her to make the sale. For a euro coin, I was granted access to a cramped garden. It might just be possible to claim I was doing my sightseeing at a quiet time when the tourists had gone, so I opened the brochure and looked around.

A short path led to another doorway. This was the mysterious Chapel of Bones. An inscription over the threshold read: “Stop here and think of the fate that will befall you—­1816.”

At first glance, it seemed to be a shell grotto. I registered the skulls first. Then, I saw it: the inner walls and ceiling were entirely covered with a mosaic of skulls and other human bones, laid out in patterns that were all the more macabre for their intricate orderliness. Some were so small they must have been children's heads.

Ian Rylands wasn't there. But Nathan was.

He stood in the far corner, looking uneasy. I went over to him, unable to hide my surprise. Dark circles under his eyes and the prominent bones of his face made for uncomfortable comparisons with the surroundings.

“Nathan! Bloody hell. What are you doing here? And where have you been?”

He tried and failed to rally his easygoing persona. “Just . . . hanging.”

I wasn't in any mood to be messed about. “Where's Rylands?”

“What?”

“Ian Rylands.”

“Who?”

I gave him a hard stare.

Nathan wiped his hands through his hair and looked away.

“Don't play games with me, Nathan.”

“I'm really not. What the hell are you doing here anyway?”

A standoff ensued. I kept quiet until he cracked.

“OK. I came to meet someone here—­but they didn't turn up.”

“They?”

“He.” Nathan sighed. He looked as if he needed to sleep for a week on a food drip. “Look, shall we get out of here? I've been here for an hour and it's giving me the creeps.”

“An hour?”

He led the way back out into the garden. “I was told to be here at seven.”

“Who, though? Who were you meeting?” My impatience was increasing.

We nodded at the woman in the Tudor dining room and passed through into the nave without speaking. Still no one in the pews. Nathan reached into the side pocket of his jeans as we went out onto the church steps, and took out a coin, which he gave to the nearest beggar, a toothless woman in black. I looked around for Ian Rylands—­down in the square, by the ugly modern post office building, under the trees outside the bar—­but he was nowhere to be seen.

We set off towards the marina. Smells of hot oil and garlic and fish funnelled down the narrow streets; clatter and chatter wafted from small dark restaurants.

“Who, Nathan?”

“All right, all right. A bloke called Peter Maitland. I've been doing what you said. I went to Albufeira as it's the nearest big town to Vale Navio and I checked the records. It was easier than I thought. There was a girl on the information desk at the town hall, and she was super-­helpful.”

“Which records?”

“The electoral roll. If Terry Jackson was registered, there would be an address for him.”

“And was he?”

“No.”

“Might not be the right place. Or he might not be eligible to vote.”

“For sure. But I reckoned Albufeira was a big town and it would cover places all around. I got them to look at the lists of local taxpayers, too, but they still didn't come up with anything. So I'm going down the corridor to leave and this man runs after me and gives me a piece of paper with a name and phone number on it. Peter Maitland. Apparently, this Maitland had been in recently asking to check the records for Terry Jackson, too. And he left his details, saying that if ever anyone else came asking the same question, would they pass them on.”

“So you got in touch with him.”

“Exactly.”

“You spoke to him?”

“Yeah, but not for long. He didn't seem to want to say too much, and neither did I.”

“Did you ask why he was interested in Terry Jackson?”

“Didn't get a chance. He told me to meet him at the small chapel at the Largo do Carmo at seven o'clock today. He didn't say it was full of flaming bones—­not sure I appreciate his sense of humour.”

We passed several unsmiling older men, stepping off the pavement onto the road as they seemed determined not to give way to us. They moved with a compacted strength that might have been borne of aggression, or a barely buried resentment of the tourists who were keeping the town afloat.

“But Peter Maitland never showed up,” I said, feeling queasy. “Did you see anyone who you thought might have been him?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you got to the church, was there anyone else there—­in particular, a man who you thought might have been this Peter Maitland?”

“There were a few ­people around in the main part of the church. I didn't really look too closely. I went straight to the little chapel because that's where he said to go. No one came into the bones place except a French ­couple, and then some women—­and then you.”

“You didn't notice a tall, white-­haired man with a loose, cream cotton jacket?”

“Now you come to mention it . . . perhaps there was someone who looked like that. He was over by one of the gold recesses on the other side of the altar.”

“Did he seem to notice you?”

“How would I know? Why do you ask?”

“Because I followed Ian Rylands and I saw him go into the church at about ten to seven. Rylands is the Anglo-­Algarve Association guy I met last week,” I reminded him. “He couldn't wait to help me out with what I wanted to know. I don't have a good feeling about this.”

“It's just a coincidence.”

“Perhaps, but . . .” I shook my head. “No. What did this Maitland sound like on the phone? How old did he sound? Did he have any kind of accent?”

Nathan gave a long exhalation. “He sounded . . . older. Quite a posh accent. A bit like yours.”

“Or Rylands'.”

W
hen we spotted a modest pizzeria close to the junction where I'd almost caught up with Rylands, I steered Nathan into it, fed him a large pizza and limited his alcohol intake to a small beer.

“Now I want to ask you something else,” I said. “Is Nathan Emberlin your real name?”

He blinked. “It is for now.”

“Care to explain?”

His elbows were on the table and his head went down into his hands. I watched the long brown fingers kneading his scalp through the mop of hair.

Minutes went by.

When he raised his head he looked me straight in the eye. “This is not easy,” he said. “And you probably won't even believe me. I don't even know whether I do, actually.”

He twisted the buttons at the open neck of his shirt. I noticed for the first time that his fingernails were bitten, or maybe they hadn't been before. I smiled to let him know I was on his side and could wait as long as necessary.