As the morning progressed, the heat became intense enough to fry eggs on the pavement. No joke. Paul Chaise had seen that done once, in Eilat. This was Spain, the Costa Del Sol. Inland, hotter than hell on party night, with the furnaces newly stoked with the souls of the sinners. Thank God for the air-con, which he turned to full blast.
The office had made the appointment at this ridiculous time, but what could he do? Opportunities were few and far between nowadays, and any pickings were better than nothing at all. Paul received the scraps thrown from the king’s table, but if that was all there was, so be it. He had no intention of starving.
He saw them straight away. A couple, on the wrong side of sixty, lily-white legs exposed, sporting wide-brimmed straw hats, outrageous multi-coloured shirts, and beige shorts with turn-ups. Sensible, but not the most attractive of accessories for the discerning Brit-abroad. Paul chuckled to himself and pulled his car alongside the kerb, rolled down the window and called out to them, “Mr and Mrs Smithson?”
The man doffed his hat and leaned in. Up close, his meaty face was oozing sweat. “Is it always this hot?”
“Only on the cooler days. Get in, we haven’t got far to go.”
Riogordo screamed with the heat, the sunshine reflected off the white-faced walls of the houses cluttered close together in the side streets.
“This is quaint,” said Mrs Smithson as they all stood in the hallway of the house they had arranged to view.
Paul smiled but remained silent. He could have told them about the lack of air-con, the roof that needed replacing, the damp in the garage and in the bathroom. He said nothing. Sales were few, and he didn’t want to lose this one.
The house, nevertheless, was good value for what it was. Nothing special, but it stood next to a beautifully restored townhouse, a testament of what could be achieved with a little imagination and a lot of money. Paul did his best to detail all the things the Smithsons could do to improve this, their own house if they chose to buy it. Which would be a bargain purchase, especially now when things weren’t moving.
“It’s not exactly...” The wife’s voice trailed away, and when she stepped into the kitchen, she gave a little cry of despair, and came out again, hand over mouth. “There’s something dead in there!”
Paul closed his eyes. Damn the office for not sending someone out to check the property over first. He dipped into the kitchen, saw the dead cat, and came out again. “Obviously we’d clear it all for you, before you moved in.”
“It would need some work,” said Mr Smithson.
Now, he’s the more realistic one. Got his feet on the ground. He knows he has to spend a little, to make the dream into reality. But she, she would be a much tougher nut to crack.
“New kitchen,” said Paul, “and a bathroom. Maybe do the patio. Roof is good. So, maybe seven thousand? Not a lot really.”
“No.” Smithson looked at his wife, who still appeared shocked by the discovery of the cat. “It’s the best we’ve seen.”
She nodded, but wasn’t speaking.
“How many bedrooms?”
“Three. It’s the garage which is the best thing – you could convert it into a studio flat. Rental opportunities, or just leave it. Storage is at a premium here. People would kill for a garage.”
Smithson nodded, then grinned. “I hear they like killing.”
“Oh yes,” said Paul with meaning. “They certainly do.”
They went out onto the roof terrace and looked out across the view. The river had dried up and probably wouldn’t experience water again until March, when the rains really took hold. December was wet, but nothing like March. Well, that was the theory. Sometimes it didn’t quite work like that. He remembered last year, when the rain began in December and didn’t stop until the end of March. The worst rains in living memory. Roofs collapsed, rivers burst their banks, cars floated away. And now, in July, the same rivers were dry. Crazy.
“Those houses over there, they don’t seem finished.”
Paul frowned, stepping up next to Smithson as he gazed at the buildings opposite. A lot of them had upper storeys which had not been completed. “Yeah...it’s got something to do with tax, I think. You only pay tax on a finished property. Something like that.”
“So, they’re illegal?”
“No, not exactly. Just another loop-hole. Spain has got lots of them. And then there’s the corruption. It’s a way of life here, always has been. But they’re cracking down on that, at last. Lots of mayors in prison.”
“Mayors?” Mrs Smithson held onto her husband’s arm. “Good God. I never knew.”
Paul shrugged. “It rarely gets into the Thomas Cook brochure. Doesn’t serve the tourist trade well.”
“But it’s not dangerous is it?”
He laughed. “Dangerous? Spain?” He shook his head. “Nah, Spain is fine. One of the safest places in Europe.”
“Wasn’t a gangster shot and killed here, not so very long ago?”
“That was further down the coast. Drugs, as usual. But no, the gangsters are on their way out. New agreements between governments, greater openness, more exchange of information. It’ll all be like Disneyland down there soon. Fit only for families and kids.”
That was why Paul had come here, for his ‘family’, and left the old life behind. The old life that still came to keep him company at night, with the memories of how he’d tried it all before, the starting again. For a while, it had worked, but then disaster. Redundancy, little chance of anything else. Go away, all of his friends had said, far, far away. They meant South America, or New Zealand. Somewhere very far. But Paul’s girlfriend was half-Spanish. She already had offers of a job there. It seemed the obvious thing to do, the move. They did it anyway, made the plunge. At first, they didn’t like it, but that was five years ago, and the years had slipped by. They settled into a sort of domestic bliss. Paul loved Angelina, and she him. Whatever happened, they got through it together. Fortunately, nothing had happened, so everyone was happy.
Unfortunately, all of that good feeling was about to end very, very soon.
