Andalusian Night

(also here, as Shoulder to Shoulder, http://www.editred.com/Uploads/st_35468_Shoulder_to_Shoulder )

Tom was at the wheel. He drove the Combi van like it was an extension of his own large frame, with forceful aggression. The shades that concealed his eyes seemed to emphasise his smile. His unshaven jaw worked mechanically at his gum.
"Dam hot!" he cursed. "Gimme a beer."
"None left," came the reply.
"Shoot! How long til the next town, Davey?"
The short man in the back leaned forward. Sweat oozed down his forehead from his curly black hair and changed the color of his shirt. "'Bout twenny minutes, Tom, if I recall rightly."
"Fifteen if you step on it," said Billy, lounging in the passenger seat with a roll-your-own in his mouth. "It's like a bleedin' oven in 'ere." The shadow of growth that covered his jaw continued around the back of his head. His sinewy arms were tattooed green. Piercings glittered on his narrow wet face.
They had the air conditioning up high, but the effect was largely negated by the sweltering air that poured in through the open windows. The windshield was caked with dust, for the spray had run dry some time ago. There was temporary respite from the fierce Andalusian heat as the sun dipped below the jagged rocks. But it found them again a short while later when they emerged from the cliffs and began the descent to the coast.
Tom's shades fixed Davey in the rear-vision mirror. "Sure you know yir way around?"
"Been a long time, Tom. But towns don't jest disappear. It's up ahead a ways."
"Better be," said Billy. "This 'eat's killing me."
Davey slapped him on the pink crown of his head. "All you can do is complain. Yir buyin' this time, man."
Tom chuckled at the pair of them. "Don't worry, dudes. I got it. Jest get us to that next town is all. I need beer!"
It was another twenty minutes before the town came into view, perched unexpectedly on the banks of a ravine, a cluster of whitewashed buildings, the spire of a church in its midst. Washing hung from the balconies.
Tom steered the Combi down the off-ramp with barely a reduction in speed. The streets were deserted but for a group of boys playing football. They scrambled aside as the van roared by. A small dog yapped in its dusty wake.
The liquor store was on the Calle Mayor. A few old men in caps, vests and shirt-sleeves were playing chequers in the shade and smoking cigars. They peered up from their game, frowning with vague suspicion. One rose from his seat and preceded the foreigners inside.
Tom went to the cooler and pulled out a case of San Miguel. "How much?" he asked, placing it on the counter.
"Diez-y-seis cincuenta cinco."
"What a he say?" Tom turned to the others.
Billy shrugged. "'Ere, write it down." He mimed the action with his hand.
The old man scribbled the figure onto a note-pad and showed them. 16:55.
Tom drew a pair of ten euro notes out of his wallet. "Keep the change, amigo," he said, grinning as he chewed his gum.
They drove on through the sleepy town, drinking the beer and gazing out the windows.
"Kind a place you'd expect to see a bandit or two," mused Tom. "Belt-load a cartridges over his shoulder, six-shooter in his lap, snoozin' in the shade of his giant sombrero."
"That's Mexico!" Davey chided him. "You watch too many movies, man."
"In't you the one wiv all the Roy Rogers books?" said Billy, and Tom laughed with him.
"Hey, gimme a break!" Davey protested. "I had a hard life already."

They first spied the Mediterranean in the pink glow of the sunset. The sky had taken on a purplish hue. The terrain before them was arid and desert-like. now scattered with villages, the barrios on the outskirts of Malaga. They passed an old man with a donkey hauling a cart-load of produce. A goat-herd and his flock were silhouetted against the sky, like that, on the ridge of a hill above the road.
It was dark when they arrived on the coast. The black water reflected only the moon. Away to the south stood the Rock of Gibraltar, and beyond it the lights of Algeciras. From there you could see Africa, said Davey, who had taken the ferry to Tangier many years before.
Tom parked the van and they went for a stroll along the promenade. A light breeze blew, bringing the warmth of the Andalusian desert and the odour of fried fish. Gulls wheeled and squawked above the rippling shoreline. Mosquitoes buzzed all around. The beach bars were packed. More English than Spanish could be heard. From somewhere in the distance came the timeless, haunting strains of flamenco, too often drowned out by the rasping drone of the motor scooters.
"Paradise!" said Billy, sucking in the air. "Why'd you ever leave this place, Davey?"
"I got mugged downtown one night an' wound up in hospital. But don't worry." He pulled a switchblade halfway out of his pocket. "I'm ready for the son-of-a-whores this time."
Tom, his shades atop his crew-cut head, was looking in the other direction. "Check out the babes in the bars, dudes. My my my! Gotta get me some a dat!"
"Cor," Billy came up beside him. "Wouldn't mind goin' 'ome wiv one of 'em tonight, tell you wot. But let's get somefink to eat first. I'm bleedin'starving."
They crossed a busy plaza with an American Burger located at the north end. There were queues in every lane. Tom, however, manoeuvred his large frame directly to the front of one of them. The spiky-haired youths he had shouldered aside cursed him in Spanish. He chewed his gum and grinned down at them. One attempted to force his way around the foreigners, and for his trouble Tom sent him reeling back again. The cursing grew more vehement, but Tom paid no attention. He was soon occupied with placing his order at the counter. They took their food upstairs and sat by the window.
"How about those kids!" said Davey. "They weren't even half your size, Tom."
Billy shook his bald head in wonder. "They was calling you a 'illy-poya. That's like a dick'ead, innit?"
"I'd like to drop 'em all in a swamp," Tom growled through a mouthful of hamburger.
He scowled out the window as he chewed. The crowded plaza was full of smiling faces.

Davey led them to a bar on the promenade with a terrace extending onto the sand. It was alive with the metallic beat of pop music and the babble of many voices. Arsenal and Manchester were playing on the big screen indoors. Even the waiter who served them was English, as were a good proportion of those around them.
Billy went inside for a look at the football, returning fifteen minutes later with news of a party. "Down the coast a bit. These guys were invited but they ain't got no wheels."
"Let's go talk to 'em," said Tom, picking up his beer.
He and Davey followed Billy inside. They came to a table occupied by four young men. Two were on their feet, eyes glued to the screen. They muttered obscenities about the defense and general state of refereeing. The others, a shade darker in complexion, seemed more relaxed, sitting on their stools with cheerful expression. One of the latter was introduced as 'Diego from San Diego.' It was he who had told Billy about the party, having been invited himself by a girl he had met at a club the previous night.
"I can take you there," Tom informed him. "Got the Combi parked jest down the street."
Diego elevated his bushy eyebrows with interest. "Hey, guys, listen up. These dudes got wheels."
Even the former pair were distracted from their game by the announcement. "Aye, but 'ave they got room for the four of us?" asked one in a broad Lancashire accent. "Seven in total, like."
"We got a van," said Billy. "Room for us - an' all the birds we score besides!"
"Well, thir's gonna be chicks!" Diego assured them.
Tom laughed. "So what a we waitin' for? Come on. Let's go!"
During the ride down the coast Billy got talking with the Lancashire lads. Kev and Damian were backpacking around Europe. They were staying at the same hostel as Diego and Miguel in Torremolinas. Miguel was from some French-speaking town in Quebec.
"'Ere, is that the Star 'n' Sun?" enquired Billy, pointing to the tabloid under Damian's arm. "Ain't read the news in weeks."
He spent a moment ogling the topless blonde on the front before flicking his way inside. ""Bleedin'' marv'lous, that is! 'Britain wins race to 'ost Olympics.' Well, 'ad to be, really, dinnit? I mean, the Spanish 'ad all 'at trouble wiv the racism at the football. An' France! Couldn't let those bastards get it."
"Per'aps," said Damian. "Though the French 'ave a better climate than us, like. They did a fine job of 'osting the football world cup, to be fair."
"French be damned," Tom put in. "We saved their sorry asses in two world wars. But where are they now in Iraq?"
An animated discussion ensued along these lines: Tom, Billy and Davey united in their ridicule of a nation which had been invaded the previous century, but which now refused to contribute to an invasion itself. The others fell conversely silent.

A tower of flames far out on the beach marked the spot. As they drew closer the dancing silhouettes of human forms could be distinguished around it. The rhythmic pulsing of Latin pop reached them through the windows. Tom drove the Combi down onto the sand so that the yellow beam of the headlights flashed across the faces of the youths in attendance, most of whom had now stopped dancing to stare at the new arrivals. Their uneasiness was obvious as the seven men got out of the van. Diego stepped forward to calm them, speaking in Spanish. Suddenly a girl flew out of the crowd and embraced him, yelling his name like he were a long lost brother. Anxious looks gave way to grins and laughter, and soon they were dancing again.
"Bienvenido, amigos," said one young man and passed them a joint.
A girl as slim and dark as a desert Arab caught Tom's eye. He pursued her into the crowd, to find her dancing in front of the flames, provocatively, it seemed to him, for her limbs and midriff were bare and shone like copper in the firelight. Her eyes flitted back and forth across his. And he, like some predatory beast, moved in on her, clapping his hands and gyrating his hips. There was no longer any doubt; they were dancing together. But even in his moment of glory she spun away and disappeared behind the flames. He followed, sure she was teasing; a part of the game they were playing. Considerable was his surprise, therefore, when he found himself confronted by the hostile features of an angry young man.
"No toca mi novia!" that one yelled, the fire reflecting in his eyes.
"Pedro!" appealed the girl, coming up beside him. "No soy tu novia. Estas loco!"
Tom understood enough. He seized the youth by the T-shirt and hurled him headlong into the sand. Another came at him, from nowhere, it seemed, and was dealt with as swiftly. Then there were three of them, spiky-haired kids, cursing wildly as they advanced. In the same moment Billy and Davey appeared at his sides, the former brandishing a lump of driftwood; Davey with the knife out.
"No, don't do it, man!" Diego cried out behind them.
Too late. Billy had felled one of the youngsters with the driftwood. What followed was mayhem; an all-out brawl, with Tom, Billy and Davey taking on almost a dozen youths, Diego, Miguel and the Lancashire pair trying to keep them all apart, and the seven or eight girls running around shrieking.
Tom was indestructible, a hulking ogre raging about the fire, roaring with triumph at every victim he swatted aside. Billy kept clubbing them with his lump of wood. He was driven on to even greater excesses by a cut he received from a penknife-wielding youth. "See that?!" he screeched, staring at the blood on his tattooed forearm, his face twisted in fury. "See wot the li'l devil done to me?! See wot 'e done?!" Then Davey went down beneath the blows of one young man evidently versed in the art of boxing. His switchblade was lost in the sand. Tom moved quickly to his aid, wrenching the assailant back to his feet in a half-nelson, holding him there for Davey to take his revenge. The latter came up snarling, blood spurting from his nose. The youngster wriggled desperately to free himself but was as helpless as a child in Tom's powerful grip. Davey struck him several times across the face, then pounded him viciously in the stomach.
"Okay, let 'im go, Tom," he seethed through his bloody mouth. "He's gonna pay for that, the maggot!"
By this time most of the other youths had fled with the girls. Billy was staving off the remaining few with his length of driftwood. Davey was left unimpeded to stamp his victim into unconsciousness. Only Diego and Miguel sought to intervene before it went too far, but Tom would not let them.
"He's got a right to defend himself," he said. "It's a fair fight now. Let 'em go."

Back in the van Billy remained furious at his knife wound. "Violent li'l buggers, these Spicks. 'Ow 'bout we go back and finish 'em off proper!"
"I dare say you've done enough damage already." Damian frowned with concern. "A few o' those lads'll be visiting the 'ospital tonight."
Davey removed the rag he was holding under his nose. "An' what about dis? Mug me, da son-of-a-whores! I had a hard life already."
"Well, we showed 'em who's boss, eh!" Billy suddenly broke into laughter.
"That we did!" Tom hurrahed from the driver's seat.
Even Davey managed a blood-caked smile. "Dey outnummered us ten-to-one, man! We still kicked deir asses!"
"Dozen-to-one, at least!" cried Billy.
"More like three-to-one," Miguel cut in. "An' we were holdin' half a them back."
"He's right," said Diego from the rear of the van. "They were jest kids, man. Half-drunk, half-stoned teenagers."
Tom scowled over his shoulder. "Say, whose side a you guys on anyhow?"
Miguel leaned closer to Diego and Kev, who were seated on the floor at the back of the van with him. "I'm for gettin' out an' losin' these jackasses."
"Nah, think about wot you're saying, man," Kev whispered back. "'Ow we s'posed to get 'ome then?"
Diego put a hand on Miguel's shoulder. "Jest stay cool til we're back in Torremolinas, brother. Then we lose 'em. An' that's for sure."
A little further along Tom stopped the van so he and Billy could take a pee. They were outside attending to business when the monotonous buzz of a scooter came into earshot.
"'Ere, wot do you make o' that, then?" said Billy.
Tom grinned. "Looks like we're in for company, dude. Those stupid butt-heads!"
Barely had they zipped up and turned around than the scooter was upon them, a blazing headlight moving swiftly through the darkness. It disappeared behind the van and a blast of blue flame shot up, simultaneous with the clash of breaking glass. The scooter sped off into the night. The front seat of the Combi was a-fire.
"Shit!" Tom bellowed. "He tossed a Molotov cocktail right in there! A freakin' Molotov cocktail!"
He ran around to the back of the van, from whence the occupants were hastily scrambling out, and grabbed up the blanket. With this he set about battling the flames, smothering them frantically, working like a demon. The others pitched in with containers full of sea-water, drenching the blanket in the process. Eventually they got the fire out. The Combi's interior was streaked with black and reeked of charred upholstery. But the damage could have been worse.
Tom was nonetheless outraged. He stood there panting, his back to the sea, the new moon up over his shoulder. The breeze had changed direction. It now blew from the west, bringing the pungent odour of kelp and a chill from the ocean that lowered the temperature by ten degrees.
"Davey, toss my sweater over, man. Billy, roll me a smoke."
The latter was staring wild-eyed into the van, the piercings in his face glinting in the moonlight. "I was sitting right there, Tom! It could a bleedin' killed me!"
"Don't worry. We'll catch up with 'em. But first roll me a smoke, dude."
Billy's bald pate revolved slowly around. "Thought you'd quit."
"Looks like I jest started again, don't it."
The smoking calmed him. His thoughts began to clear. And into Tom's mind came the dancing figure of a slim Andalusian girl, her long tanned limbs and flat abdomen exposed. Her eyes flitted across his. She smiled and spun away.
"Okay, let's move," he said, flicking the butt into the shrubs.
"Where to, Tom?" Davey asked. "The scooter went north. The party's down the coast."
"Scooter's sure to double back on the freeway. Let's head south. See what we can find." He turned and called out to Diego and the others. "You guys a comin'?"
They were down on the beach, talking quietly among themselves.
"Give us a mo,'" Kev shouted back. "We'll be right there."
Tom stared incredulously at them as he climbed into the driver's seat. He revved the engine a couple of times to emphasise his impatience.
"Man, how'd we ever get caught up in this?" Miguel was asking.
Diego's bushy eyebrows came together in a frown. "Guess I'm to blame. We had no other way a gettin' to that party. Never figgered these guys would blow the whole thing."
"Don't know about you lads," said Kev. "But Damo and I'll stick with them til they get us back to Torremolinas."
"Aye," his companion nodded. "It'd take all night to walk back from 'ere."
They had come to the shore. Miguel exhaled gravely. "Not me, Diego. I got a bad feelin' about these jackasses. Thir capable of anythin.'"
"If he's out, I'm out," said Diego. "We'll try an' hitch a ride back. See y'all at the hostel."
Kev and Damian returned to the van and explained the situation to Tom.
Billy poked his bald head out the window as they drove away. "Bye, girls! Enjoy your walk 'ome!"
"'Diego from San Diego,' huh," Tom muttered beside him. "What a flake he turned out to be."
Kev countered from the back seat. "They're good enough lads. Spent the entire day showing us around when we first got 'ere, like. Just shy of a brawl, I s'pose."
"To hell with 'em," said Davey. "They didn't wanna help out is all. Reckon they had somethin' against us right from the start."
Tom met his eyes in the mirror. "Let it go, dude. Jest a disagreement between pals. Right fellers?"
Kev and Damian nodded, the latter with less conviction. Davey folded his arms and muttered indiscernibly to himself.
On through the darkness they drove. The sea shone silver in the moonlight. There was little traffic. The stench of the burnt upholstery was choking, relieved only slightly by the cool wind that blew in through the windows. As they approached the location of the party they peered ahead for any sign of life. The bonfire was still burning out there on the sand but was less than half its earlier size. There was clearly no one on the beach around it.
"They've buggered off 'ome, by the look o' things," said Damian. "Well, I s'pose that's that then."
Even as he spoke a yellow light loomed up on the hills to their right and sped down the slope toward them. It disappeared for a moment behind the trees and houses, then suddenly shot out onto the road ahead.
"That's him!" yelled Davey. "That's the son-of-a-whore. Chase him, Tom! Run him off the freakin' road!"
Tom pressed his foot to the floor and the van surged forward, gaining quickly on the scooter. The white helmet of the rider twisted around, then it too increased speed.
"'Old up a mo,'" said Kev. "That's not 'im. 'E was wearing jeans."
Billy laughed. "'E's running. Sure sign o' guilt. It's 'im alright."
The gap continued to close. The rider kept glancing back over his shoulder as the Combi bore down upon him; the terrified prey, a lonely figure in the high-beam. The first bump sent him reeling across the lanes. The second caused him to lose control completely. He went down in a blizzard of sparks, spinning along ahead of them.
"Ha! ha!" Davey cheered. "We gottim! We got the son-of-a-whore!"
The van pulled up and they all jumped out to have a look at their victim. He was rolling about on the side of the road, a few paces from the bike. It's wheels were still turning. There was the smell of spilt fuel and scorched rubber. In the silence they could hear the rush of the tide behind them. Then the rider began to moan; a piteous sound that stopped them dead in their stride. It was not the voice of a male. The five foreigners knew this. They paused in the middle of the road and gazed quietly at the writhing form. It was as slender as a child's. Then Tom marched forth and removed the rider's helmet. A tangle of black hair fell out. The face was dark and beautiful. It was the girl he had pursued around the fire earlier that night. A shudder went through him as he looked into her eyes. But there was no comprehension there. She was lost in her pain. And still the moaning; high-pitched and forlorn. Tom began to unzip her jacket.
"Oh, for the love o' jeeziz!" Damian cried as he realised what was about to happen.
He took a step forward but Kev seized him by the arm. "Just walk away, Damo, my boy. Just turn around and forget we ever laid eyes on 'im."
Tom sprang to his feet and came and stood over them; a mountainous figure in a green hooded sweater. "See what they did to my wheels? A Molotov cocktail, man! Could a killed us! She was with 'em, man! She's one a them!"
"Leave 'er be!" Damian shouted back as Kev restrained him. "She's only a lass. She needs an ambulance, for pity's sake."
"Are you with us or against us?! Make up yir minds," Tom snarled. His features contorted hideously.
A cloud moved in front of the moon, so that the only illumination on this starless night came from the beam of the Combi's headlights. The cold wind blew with greater intensity. Kev dragged Damian a few paces back, then pushed him in the direction of the sea.
"Come on, my boy. We're going to walk away now. We can't take on a guy 'is size."
They staggered on up the beach, like that, Kev pulling Damian along. Suddenly the latter ceased all resistance.
"'Old up a mo,'" he said, digging into his pockets. "I got my mobile 'ere. I'll call the ambulance myself."
But when he searched he found the mobile phone gone, lost somewhere during the night's adventures.
In the darkness behind them Billy called out, "'Ave a nice walk 'ome, lads! You ought a be there by Tuesday!" His laughter was the depraved cackle of a hyena.

As the sun rose up over the Mediterranean, casting its golden rays across the gentle sea, three young men sat in a dimly-lit bar in Alhaurin de la Torre, slouched over their drinks, smoking roll-your-owns, listening to the low, monotonous beat of psychedelic music. They were Tom, Billy and Davey. Their appearance was unkempt, their faces drawn and unshaven. The former drained his glass and ordered another round.
"Come on, Tom," Davey appealed to him. "Let's go find a hostel an' get some sleep."
"Too risky," said Billy. "'Em guys might a called the cops."
Tom shook his head groggily. "Cops be damned. Thir all fat li'l wine-guzzlers here. Corrupt as hell. I jest don't want another Molotov cocktail hurled through my window."
"Those kids weren't even old enough to drink anyhow," said Davey. "They'd be shootin' 'emselves in the foot."
Billy came upright and leered about with contempt. "'Ere, I fink they was on somefink. Bleedin' junkies, they was!"
"Scum a the earth!" Tom growled. He downed another whisky and rocked back in his chair. His eyes were out of focus as he gazed at his companions. "We had a right, didn't we? You guys saw her on the beach. She was beggin' for it."
"Like you said, Tom; she was with 'em," Davey replied.
Tom thrust an arm loosely about his neck. "Y'all saw what they did to my van. We had a right, didn't we?"
"Forget it, man," Billy told him. "There's worse fings 'appen every day."
"Yeah, dude!" Tom flung his other arm over that one's shoulders. "We go to hunt some more booty tomorrow night. What a ya say?"
The three of them laughed together. "Who in hell's gonna stop us?!" cried Davey.
A dark figure came toward them through the drifting haze of smoke. It was the overweight form of the barman. Baggy-eyed, mustachioed, clad all in black. A silver cross hung from his neck. He placed a steaming platter of patatas bravas on the table before them.
"Eez okay, I invite you," he said in some Latin American accent. "Was a good night, gentlemen?"
"Oh, yeah," said Billy with obvious sarcasm. "'Ad a run-in wiv a 'uge mob down the coast. Molotov cocktails an' all. "
Davey ran a hand over his swollen lips and nose. "Tried to mug me, the son-of-a-whores. I had a hard life already."
"But don't worry, we took care of 'em," Tom added.
The barman chuckled down at the three grubby foreigners. "Whatever you say, chicos! Whatever you say!"
Tom leaned forward and grabbed a handful of fries. They were greasy in his fingers. The bar reeked of stale beer. He could barely keep his eyelids open. But into his mind's eye came a pair of long tanned legs, now dancing, shining copper in the firelight, a vision of youthful grace; now twitching, covered in blood in the dark, helpless.
"I can't eat this," he moaned, dropping the fries back onto the platter. "Got no stomach for eatin' right now. Barman, bring me another whisky, will ya. Come on, boys, y'all gotta join me."

Outside a glorious day had dawned over the Costa del Sol. Families, friends, lovers, tourists, came out to breakfast in the seaside cafes, or to relax on the wide sandy beaches among the palms, in the warmth of the sun with a view of the tranquil blue sea. There were smiles and laughter. Fresh fish were fried and served with salad, green olives and bread. There were churros and tortilla. The coffee was rich and strong in the South American way. 'El Clasico!' blared the front and back pages of the newspapers, heralding the evening's much-anticipated clash between Real and Barca. Children chattered, dogs yapped, gulls wheeled and squabbled. And from somewhere in the distance came the timeless, haunting strains of flamenco.
end