The Khufra Run

‘Can’t I come with you?’

I shook my head. ‘Not your style at all, Sister. The sort of place stevedores and sailors use. They’d run for the hills if a nun walked in. You have a coffee and admire the view.’

I steered her firmly towards a table under a large and colourful umbrella, snapped my fingers for a waiter and was away before she could argue.

She was on her second cup when I got back, the waiter hovering, anxiously a table to two away, for Ibizans, like all Spaniards, have enormous respect for anything to do with the Church.

She looked up eagerly. ‘Did you get anywhere?’

‘I think you could say that.’ I told the waiter to bring me a gin and tonic and sat down. ‘The man who owns the place, Pepe, had arranged to hire Talif a thirty-foot sea-going launch and he was trying to find him a diver.’

‘And Talif?’

‘Pepe hasn’t seen him for the last couple of days, but he was able to tell me where he’s been staying. It seems Talif wanted somewhere cheap and quiet so Pepe arranged for a cousin of his to rent him an old cottage in the hills near Cova Santa.’

‘Is it far?’

‘No more than half-an-hour.’

She didn’t even ask if I would take her, simply pushed back her chair, stood up and waited for me to make a move with obvious impatience.

I swallowed the rest of my gin and tonic hurriedly. ‘Don’t I even get to eat, Sister?’

She frowned in obvious puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand, Mr Nelson.’

I sighed as I took her elbow. ‘Take no notice, Sister. Just my warped sense of humour. Lead on by all means and let us be about the Lord’s business.’

We drove out of town following the main road to San Jose. As was to be expected at that time of day, we had things pretty much to ourselves, the locals having the good sense to get in out of the fierce noonday heat.

She didn’t say a word until we were through Es Fumeral and then she said suddenly, as if trying to make conversation, ‘This Cova Santa you mentioned. What is it? Another village?’

I shook my head. ‘Some underground caverns. A big tourist attraction. The mugs roll up by the bus load during the season to see the stalactites by electric light. Then they’re invited to take part in a barbecue, for which they’ve already paid handsomely. Roast sucking pig and plenty of cheap wine. And I mustn’t forget the exhibition of folk dancing in national costume. They’ll even allow you to take part. A wonderful chance to experience something of the simple joys of peasant life.’

She turned to look at me and I kept my eyes on the road. ‘You hate life then, Mr Nelson, or just people?’

I was angry, touched on the raw, I suppose, and showed it. ‘What in the hell is this supposed to be - confession? Three Hail Marys, two Our Fathers and be a good boy in future.’

She turned to look at me, no anger in her at all, only a slight frown of enquiry and then she sighed, the breath going out of her in a dying fall.

‘Ah, I see what it is. Now I see. It is only yourself you hate. Now why should that be?’

But now we were close to the dangerous edge of things - too close for comfort.

I said warmly. ‘I’ll go to hell in my own way, Sister, like all men. Let’s leave it at that.’

I put my foot down hard and took the jeep away at the kind of speed which made any further conversation impossible.

About a mile up the Cova Santa road and still following Pepe’s instructions I turned left into a cart track and climbed into the hills.

On the lower slopes there was a farm or two, terraces of almonds and wheat still in its young growth, but we climbed higher into a wilder terrain of jagged peaks and narrow, tortuous ravines, stunted pines carpeting the slopes.