Hollow Mountain Read Online Free Page A

business partner. Your friend.’
    Spike took a first step down to the jetty. ‘I know. But I can’t leave Genoa right now.’
    ‘You’re joking.’
    ‘I’ve just heard from Zahra, Jess. She’s alive.’
    There was an intake of breath before Jessica spoke. He prepared himself for a tone he knew well. ‘Spike. Your best friend is probably going to die tonight. And you want to stay in Italy on some wild goose chase which . . .’
    Spike could hear Jessica talking, but her words faded into the background as he remembered Zahra’s warning: It won’t be you he comes after. It’ll be the people close to you. He interrupted her, feeling adrenalin starting to heighten his fear. ‘When did this happen?’
    ‘About an hour ago, I told you.’
    He checked the time: three hours since he’d spoken to Zahra. ‘Any eyewitnesses?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘CCTV?’
    ‘It’s possible. Nothing so far.’
    Spike paused. ‘Will you do me a favour, Jess?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Look in on my father.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘To . . . tell him about Peter’s accident. It’d be better coming from you. In person.’
    ‘If you want. But . . .’
    ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ She was still talking as Spike killed the call and ran back to the taxi rank.
    ‘Genoa,’ he said to the new driver at the front of the queue. ‘Christopher Columbus Airport.’
     
    So I go and meet Hernán in one of those fashionable restaurants just off the Plaza Mayor. You know the sort: blending, as they would put it, an ultra-modern decor with an historic location. Fucking shithole, basically. I’m shown to a table by the door, always a sign they value your custom, and some bread is dumped on the cloth, a couple of stiff roundels of baguette. The plate is deliberately asymmetrical, a sort of contorted china rhombus. Beside it lies a ramekin of yellow oil – cut-price Italian crap, no doubt. I tell the waiter to remove both, then start rearranging the cutlery so that my knife and fork are perfectly aligned. Once I’m done, I look up and see Hernán standing there, grinning like a cat. ‘Thought you’d like this place,’ he says in his peasant Castilian accent. As usual, his presence has an immediate effect on the servant classes, and the waiter wafts back, tray held high in one limp hand. His bleached blond hair is thin and spiky; a steel bolt pierces his right eyebrow. Right ear, right queer, as they used to say in the Force .
    ‘El caballero me pidió que los quite,’ the waiter lisps . The gentleman asked me to remove them.
    ‘Bullshit,’ Hernán replies. ‘I adore French bread.’
    The waiter replaces the plate and ramekin with a distinct look of triumph. Oily little fag. I consider leaving, but instead peruse the menu as Hernán sates himself on stale baguette. The usual cultural mishmash: the only local dish is marinated octopus. A couple of years ago you’d have had that as a tapa, no need to order, let alone pay. Oh Madrid – must you cede to this recession as well? Still, I admit as the food arrives, the meat is nicely marinated, tender and sweet. I eat heartily, watching Hernán nibble at a corner of his Wiener schnitzel. These things are sent to test us.
    We preamble: Hernán’s fat wife and her fitness club in Villa de Vallecas, his charmless twin children. He asks about me, and patiently listens as I tell him of the books I have recently revisited – the complete works of San Juan de la Cruz, some Calderón de la Barca. Why does a man with a photographic memory need to re read, Hernán asks, and I give him the same reply as always, that familiar delights taste the sweetest of all. He laughs, then pauses, and I know that we are finally getting down to business.
    A glance over one shoulder, then a dip into his record bag (a gift from his wife: I don’t need to ask) and out comes the photograph, placed equidistant between my knife and fork.
    ‘Impresionante,’ I reply. It is impressive . . . He leaves the image in place long