The Statue and the Stones

By Gerard O'Keeffe

A family quest that spans two generations comes to a dramatic conclusion on the Canary Islands in the present day...

1975: Jewels belonging to the Virgin of the Pine disappear from the Teror basilica on the Spanish island of Gran Canaria. The perpetrator is never found.

2011: An innovative young chef Gregory Sheridan is delighted to land himself a new job on Gran Canaria. He loves the climate, the people, the culture and the language. But when he tells his mother back in England the good news, he is shocked to learn that his own unspoken family history may be tied up with that robbery.

Was his father really a gangster, as Gregory had always been told? Was he responsible for that terrible crime? What really happened on that hot Sunday night in the Canary Islands?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gerard O'Keeffe
• Release date: Apr 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476306728

Gerard O'Keeffe

Gerard O'Keeffe was born and brought up in the Midlands and studied Irish and American literature in London before qualifying as a teacher. He switched careers to business and marketing across the charity sector, where he worked with leading social enterprises, cultural and educational providers. He continues to work in consultancy, education and on creative projects with new talent. Coming from a family with Irish roots, he has written and painted since his teenage years, as have his siblings. In his writing he often changes genre but is particularly interested in themes of trauma, silence and salvation. Much of his fiction has its basis in fact and he uses research and real events as the springboard for his work. He lives with his family in Cambridge where he enjoys collecting contemporary art, working with other writers and attending arts events.

Book preview

Chapter One

Madelaine: 1975

Her underground prison was silent, except for the sound of her own breathing and the gurgle of water filling the cavern. It gushed into the sealed cement box, splashing into deep water. She knew she was in a water storage cave of some kind, beneath the local mountain range, but was disorientated and could not guess its distance from the villa, her former refuge. The young woman was struggling to catch up with her thoughts, which raced through her head, prompted by fear. She had been forced there in the boot of a car, her head wounded as she was thrown about in the constricted space, swerving round the hairpin bends between her home and the capital of Las Palmas. In a different life, she had been on the edge of her pool less than an hour before, enjoying the heat haze that made the land shimmer. But all memory of sunlight was extinguished. Her life as a lotus eater was over. She had been attacked by a stranger and pushed in this tomb, left to die for all she knew.

With a catch in her voice, she balanced on the rungs of an iron ladder in the cueva pequena. She gasped with pain and her head throbbed from wounds sustained in the boot of the man’s car. She felt the blood on her scalp and the dried threads of gore covering her face. Her face felt no longer familiar. As she clung on, the metal bar cut into her instep. She moved her position regularly as the touch of the metal became unbearable every few minutes. Her hands hurt too, supporting the weight of her body as she slumped from pain and fatigue. Her arms were being pulled from their sockets, or so it felt. She put her head to the cold metal of the ladder to keep herself awake and listened to the sound of the rising water.

She could not see the liquid below her but could hear it lapping the walls. It sounded deep. She sensed the cold that rose from it, following its percolation through layers of rocks and fossil soils from the hills above her. The air smelt of slime and decay. She tried not to inhale it, as it made her feel sick. Nowadays, she could throw up more easily and she hated the sensation. The blackness around her was absolute. It was the same uniform colour, whether she closed her eyes or opened them. All around her was nothingness.

She recoiled as rising water touched her instep and hurried up another rung. As she did so, her hand encountered a protruding nail. With a cry, she lost her grip and tumbled backwards. She fell in the darkness, seeing only black. With a splash that echoed from the walls, her body hit the water. It stung her flesh. She gasped and took a mouthful as her body froze. She remained paralysed for several heart beats, as streams of bubbles rose around her. She fell deeper. Reflexes kicked in as she sank and she convulsed her legs and forced her arms to move. She bumped into hard surfaces as she fell deeper and gulped more water as she hurt herself on the rock walls she encountered. Under water, she saw shadows behind shadows.

Holding her breath, she found the bottom with her outstretched hands. Head down, she turned her body around. She didn’t know how she did it, and it took a long time as she revolved in slow motion. The water felt heavy. Finally, her legs were positioned below her. Using the cave floor for leverage, she turned her face upwards and pushed off. She swam through the darkness. It seemed to go on forever. In an agony of bursting lungs, she broke the surface and screamed. She saw only blackness, but it was dry blackness. She struggled in the water and kept her head up. Her flailing arms found the ladder again and she hugged it with fright, pausing to come to her senses. She coughed from the muck she had swallowed on the bottom. Her body bent in two with the effort. Her limbs ached. She spat out as much as she could. It tasted sour and was full of grit. The dirt formed a rim around her lips. She struggled to concentrate on survival. She forced her breathing to become more regular. She focused her mind and forced herself not to panic. She inhaled through her nose, determined to control her chest and stop it heaving. Water and tears flowed down her face as she held on.

Her silk crop top was soaking wet and her high-waisted trousers dripped as she took her time finding the rungs with her feet and mounted again, one step at a time, her fingers more tentative this time, until her body was clear of the water once more. Below her, the gurgling continued, sounding eerie in the shadows. Her underclothes clung to her skin and caught beneath her arms and legs, chafing her flesh every time she moved. Her sandals had been lost in the water so the metal rungs cut deeper into her soles than before. The flesh was sensitive there. It felt as if she was standing on a sharp blade. Her toes curled up in pain. She put one foot on another, but it didn’t help. The pressure on her bare feet was agony. She did not know how long she could bear it.

Still shivering, she struggled to the top of the ladder, pressing her shoulders to the manhole she encountered there. She pressed but it would not budge. It felt like solid rock. She used her free palm on it, gripping the ladder with her other hand. It resisted her. She positioned her arm under her palm and tried again, with extra leverage. It was immobile, its edges so snug they let in no light. She hammered on it but the sound was muffled by its great weight. Her fist made almost no sound so the banging would not be heard in the outside world. It was like hammering on rock.

She sobbed in the gloom, perched at the top of the ladder. She called out but heard only her own voice in response, with an echo attached to it. She hummed to herself from the effects of the cold and patted down her top and trousers to drain more water from them. The silk top yielded a few drops while her velvet trousers had acted like a sponge. She persisted with the pressing and wringing task until she felt almost dry, grateful to have something to do as she hung in the drain, uncertain what awaited her.

*

The man with the gun had terrified Madelaine when she first saw him staring at her in the grounds of the villa. It was not so much the weapon in his hand that frightened her but the way he addressed her. He spat his words out and spoke with scorn. From his accent, he seemed to come from Northern Ireland. He addressed her as if she was a piece of meat that he had come across. She hated his crewcut and the round rimmed spectacles concealing cruel eyes. They looked like those of a shark. They had no life in them. His mouth was a slit in the lower part of his face. She feared the way he prodded her with the muzzle of his gun, as if he was investigating something he disliked. His finger seemed to itch on the trigger. Her horror had made him smile to himself. She felt lucky to be alive, such was his hatred.

He had taken her from the villa and kidnapped her to this place, boasting of his local knowledge.

It’s a good job for you I found a hole in the ground already, or you’d have to dig one yourself.

I don’t understand. Who are you? I don’t know you. This must be some mistake. I haven’t done anything.

They all say that. It’s curious how predictable people are in these situations. They all look so innocent, when I know they’re guilty. They all say the same thing, but I don’t believe them. It’s time to pay up. I’m here to collect. I don’t like the company you keep. You should have been more careful in that regard. You’re my guarantee nothing goes wrong. He owes me. That bastard owes me.

You’ll get nothing, He hasn’t got anything. Let me go.

Then it’s too bad for you, isn’t it? If that’s the case, do you want the bullet now or later?

She had resisted climbing into the darkness of the hole, but he had waved his gun at her and motioned her to its entrance where the lid had been removed in readiness. The pit leered up at her. She held back and begged him to reconsider. He slapped her face with the back of his hand and prodded her with the gun in the other. I never change my mind. Don’t you know that yet? Save your energy. You’re going to need it. I’m an engineer, did you know? These are most interesting hydraulic structures. I can’t tell how fast this cave’ll fill up after the mountain rains, so be sure to keep me informed. I’ll need a full report, as long as you don’t drown first. There’s always that possibility.

You’re mad!

And you’re not the first to have said that either. But I’m the one holding the gun, aren’t I? So at least that makes me smart.

*

The woman was in a panic. She had not taken her contraceptive pills since coming to the island. They had run out during the first week in Gran Canaria. They had partied in the sunshine of the villa. The days and nights had been filled with their love making. Nature had taken its course. So there was not just herself to save from the well. It was not a matter of her own survival. She had new life growing inside her. Her breasts ached and her stomach was taut, the tell tale signs of her new condition. By her reckoning, she was five weeks pregnant. As a nurse in the hospital, she remembered seeing the full colour cross sections of the womb in posters in the maternity wing. Now they meant something to her. The baby was a fraction of an inch long, held in suspension inside her. The heart was no larger than a poppy seed, but its beating had started. It wanted to live. But no one else knew of its existence, least of all the father. As she clung on, she forced herself to pray, using rusty prayers, for the safety of her unborn child if not herself. As her stomach pressed against the ladder, she felt the water swell beneath her. She exclaimed with the cold and could not stop her lips from shivering. She mounted another rung. The flow of rainwater from the mountain was not slowing down. It was increasing.

Chapter Two

Gregory: 2011

With his knives laid out in front of him like gleaming sardines, Gregory Sheridan set to work in the kitchen with a smile on his face. He was slim and energetic, his body tanned from his Mediterranean lifestyle. He wore a blue shirt and close fitting jeans. He had plastic and braid rings around each wrist and his hands moved quickly. He moved lightly on his feet and seemed assured. Behind him in the restaurant kitchen, he had a wok and two frying pans warming up over gas jets. The chilli oil was heating up in one, filling the workplace with an appetising aroma. The others contained olive oil, his own blend. He waved a finger to check on the semi circle of bowls full of raw ingredients set out in front of him on the kitchen counter, ready to be assembled. He had prepared the blessed trinity of dried cumin, coriander and caraway seeds next to fat garlic cloves, already peeled. Other small dishes contained a spectrum of spices. He mixed together his signature chillies into a big dish that stood in front of him. In it, he assembled pimentón, chile de árbol and a rare green pepper he had brought with him to the island. He added a sprinkling of cayenne for good measure. He squeezed fresh limes into a bowl and chopped onions so quickly his blade became a blur. They joined the other ingredients. With an easy motion, he created a batter with water and a sprinkling of Japanese flour. The fork made a happy sound in the glass bowl and he concentrated hard. When he was content with the consistency, he added a splash of beer into the bowl, to give it air. He tasted it with a spoon and laced it with chili flakes.

With his iPod plugged into one of his ears to give him music while he worked, he dashed to the fridge to carry prawns and chicken portions to the counter. He smelt them and put them down, content with their state of freshness. He returned to the cold store to add fresh sardines and lamb to his assembled ingredients. He showered the meat and fish with salt and pepper, scattered from on high, forming a fine dust in the air.

He checked the oil in the pans. It shimmered and was starting to smoke. He addressed the café owner, a man who was sitting on the other side of the counter, gently sipping a dry sherry. I’m ready, Señor Colon. What do you want to see first?

The café owner shrugged from his stool. He was dark featured but his smile was welcoming. His teeth were a brilliant white. It’s up to you. Give me some dishes I can add to the menu. Show me your style.

The men spoke in Spanish, Gregory speaking it fluently, with only the trace of an English accent. "Here it comes, my tapas de fuego!"

He removed the grey line of spine from the tiger prawns, dipped them in the spice mix and trailed them in batter. With care, he lowered them into the pan, watching as they retained their coating and crackled in the hot oil. That’s one for you.

He chopped the lamb into bite sized chunks and rolled it in half a dozen pinches of herbs, until he was satisfied with its appearance. It had already been marinated in red wine vinegar, to improve its texture. This is my home made harissa. I got the recipe from Tangiers but added my own twist over the years. It’s unique and the customers love it.

I’ll give it a try. The patron sipped from his glass and watched the chef closely.

Gregory dipped the lamb in the oil and threw in onions and garlic to fry with it. It smelt succulent. He stepped back as the pan hissed and spat at him.

His brow wrinkled as he addressed the fresh sardines. Here we have our biggest challenge. What do you do with the freshest and best sardines in the world? Some would say nothing, they’re perfect as they are. At least, that’s what your competitors would say. In a way, they’re right. But I have a plan for using the bigger ones differently. They’re not so fine and are often passed over by tourists.

With his smallest knife he gutted the fish and laid out the fillets. He rubbed their sides with a green mixture from a bag and dropped them in a red batter. "This is the lightest kind of chili I could find but it dyes the batter red. I call this pesca de amor. It retains the freshness of the fish but leaves a tang of spice on the tongue. This would be served on a bed of rocket and dill. I do a similar thing to all white fish, covering them in a green batter that I call pesca verde."

With a slotted spoon, he lifted the prawns from the oil. They glowed a golden colour as he set them down on a paper napkin in front of the owner. Eat!

He lit the lamb with a splash of rum that he let catch fire, to burn off the alcohol. He carried the pile of sizzling lamb and brown onions to the table. Here’s dish two.

He turned to the frying sardines and watched the batter go crisp in a circle of bubbling oil. He swirled them in the pan for an even colour. He created a fresh curry sauce while he waited. The smell of cut peppers and eastern spices gave a pungency to the air. He removed the fish when it was done. It looked like a pile of red slivers on the plate, striking and modern. He drizzled his creation with a secret sauce. This dressing must be used sparingly as it’s very hot, but the smallest amount gets the taste buds going. It brings out the umami taste on the tongue. I serve this on fried seaweed, like with a Chinese meal. You’ll have to order that in. I make it well. Then you have the red and green colours working together on a plate. It’s unusual. You still taste the fresh fish but it has added heat and flavour. Taste!

The owner grunted and selected morsels from each plate placed in front of him. Not bad!

Gregory smiled as he dipped the bites of chicken in the curry sauce before transferring them to the wok. They sizzled as they hit the hot oil. I showed you the easy stuff. Modern cuisine is all about the right ingredients at the right price. Tourists love tapas, as you know. It’s what they expect to find here. Plus, I have a menu of a hundred recipes for them, but using only a small core of shared ingredients. The art lies in using them in different combinations. So the choice is huge while the outlay for the restaurant remains manageable. Seventy-five are for meat and twenty-five are for vegetarians. Those are fun to make, and they’re cheaper too. It means lots of added value when you stuff cheap leaves with tasty snacks. We’ll buy locally each day. Use sesame oil for extra flavour with the vegetables with less flavour. Buy what’s in season and have a dish of the day that you push hard. In the past, I’ve had forty percent or more choosing that alone. It saves money. They love the variety and it’s how you keep the regulars happy. They have to feel flattered and cared for. Also, hot dishes make people thirsty, so they drink more. Let the people sample before they eat. I like to do tasting plates that the waiters and waitresses try first each day, so they know what they’re selling. Leave samples out. So what do you say?

Gregory served the sizzling chicken to the restaurant owner and switched off the heat before cleaning his knives. He removed the earplug and waited. He saw the plates wiped clean by the café owner. He had consumed everything. His prospective boss used a piece of bread to mop up the sauces. He appeared to be nodding. Feeling relaxed, the chef put the spare meat back in the fridge and slotted the knives into canvas pouches that he rolled into a scroll shape and stored in his shoulder bag. He had made no mess and the counter ingredients could be packed away or used by the next chef. He checked the state of his work station and seemed satisfied. He stood to one side.

The owner beckoned him forwards and walked him out of the empty restaurant. Together, they stood on the colonnade at the top of a flight of steps, looking out on to Plaza Cairasco, a square in the centre of the old town of Las Palmas. It had a halo of trees beneath which buses gathered in a line, before crossing the town. Decorated buildings rose gently on all sides. There were cafes, hotels and public buildings, rising a few storeys with carved facades that caught the sunlight. A row of tall palms stood outside. The air was hot but the sun remained hidden behind cloud, the famous grey mist that the locals in the capital of Las Palmas called ‘the belly of the donkey’.

The restaurant owner waved to a well-appointed hotel with red and yellow livery to his left. It had neat tables in front of it and a foundation gurgled gently. It looked serene in the shadow of two rows of mature palm trees. Café Madrid has had business its own way for too long. They are great at what they do but could do with a bit of local competition. La Paloma will give people something new. You and my young staff are the people to do it. I like it.

We entertain people as well as feed them. Have live music at night and create a party atmosphere. That’s why I answered the ad. You want to give them an experience. Use your great local rum as a mixer. We’ll serve up cheap cocktails and get them merry. Make it a volume business. A chef exists to make people happy.

For sure. In tougher times they want more for less. That’s right. We keep the place full and buzzing with people. Let’s get people talking about us.

That’s my metier. I change things for the better. I get it right and transform a place.

Very well. Pepe leaves in a week. He returns to the mainland. So come back then. You know how touchy chefs can be. I don’t want to make him unhappy by you moving in too soon. He’s been loyal to me.

Of course. I understand, Gregory said.

And the money?

I need what I asked for in my email. Including accommodation.

Señor Colon nodded. Very well. You live above the place.

So we have a deal? I’m your new head chef?

You are.

Good! I’ll probably take a tour of the island for a few days first.

"Be my guest. Be inspired. There are good markets everywhere. Go to the south where the big restaurants cater for the tourists and steal some more recipes! We will offer something new and call it ‘tapas de fuego’. I like the term. We’ll be the best spice restaurant and fusion cooking place on the island."

Why not? Gregory exclaimed. It has to be fun. You and I think the same way.

It looks like it ...

The older man shook hands with the younger man and patted him on the back. He seemed pleased with himself as he disappeared indoors. At the top of the steps, Gregory basked in the weak sunlight, content with his morning’s work. The interview had gone to plan, though he had probably talked too much. Fortunately, the food had been tasty and prepared quickly. The snacks had been as different as he could make them. As he sunned himself under the colonnade, a light breeze fanned the palm trees in front of him and he saw towers and church domes up ahead that he would explore some time before he took up his new position. They looked picturesque and people were collecting there. The square was busy rather than overcrowded. He could cope with that sort of footfall in this part of town. He knew the proportion of trade his kind of business would attract: it felt familiar. This job would keep him happy for a while, until the time came to try another town. This was his way. He loved to stay on the move and meet new people. The Spanish speaking world was his home. He loved it. The culture was full of duende and a love of the good things in life. These people were close to the earth and he knew how to please them with the local food they loved. He had gained his next billet. So how would he celebrate? With whom should he share his good news? He stretched his arms and relaxed, feeling a cramp move from his back now that the tension of the interview was behind him. He fished in his pocket and grabbed his phone. He scrolled through the names. They evoked people scattered all over the Mediterranean, people from his past, people he had left behind. He stopped guiltily at the one that read only ‘M’. He had been out of touch for a while and this represented the perfect opportunity to break the silence. Would he bother? Feeling nothing in particular, he hit the button and waited to be connected.

Hello? answered the voice on the other end of the line. It sounded young.

Hello Madelaine. It’s me. I’ve got another job.

Have you, Greg? That’s lovely for you. Well done. And when will I see you?

He pulled a face and was glad she could not see it. He had not called her ‘mother’ for as long as he could remember, preferring to use her first name. She seemed eternally young and not so much his mother as a glamorous woman he knew slightly. He fixed a smile on his face and hoped his expression came through in his words. He scratched his face. Can’t you just be happy for me?

You can’t blame me for trying. It’s been ages.

I’ve been busy.

The voice on the other end sounded distracted. I can’t keep up with you. So where are you now, darling? Are you still in Ibiza?

Silently, Gregory groaned. That was last season.

Is it Barcelona?

That was last year.

Oh, I’m sorry. I suppose I should let you tell me ...

It might be quicker. I’ve gone south, but they still speak Spanish here.

I don’t know why you like it there. Come home.

I can’t. Chefs work long hours. We never get time off.

We’d love to see you.

That’s not true.

Her voice crackled on the line. It is. I’m your mother.

What about Dino and the happy family?

They’d like to see you too.

Don’t lie ...

Her voice sounded petulant. I’m not. We’re all one family. We need to be together.

Maybe. Forget it. Can we change the subject?

He heard the sigh that followed. So where are you?

Las Palmas. It’s a great job in a new restaurant with big plans.

Is that Las Palmas in Mallorca?

No silly, that’s Palma, Madelaine. This is Las Palmas. In Gran Canaria.

Oh, she said. I see.

Madelaine, the lover of alcohol was often vague, and Gregory remembered how much it irritated him when he caught her in that distracted mood. She seemed to float through life, only half awake most of the time. The line went quiet and the son thought he had lost the connection. Are you still there?

Another pause followed. Yes. Why Las Palmas all of a sudden?

Gregory ran a hand through his hair. He gritted his teeth. He hated these circular phone calls that so often left him seething with frustration afterwards. He raised his voice. Why not Las Palmas?

It’s a horrible island.

I don’t know why I bothered calling you. I felt good before.

But it’s true. You’ll hate it there.

He grunted at her. Why? Don’t be silly, Madelaine. Have you been drinking? Why spoil my good news?

He thought he heard her crying, but that did not sound like her. Nothing ever got through to her. She was aloof and unemotional, everybody said so. She was a beautiful, ageing model, the classic trophy wife to an ageing Dino. Her voice sounded peculiar. I will ring you back. Go somewhere quiet and grab yourself a stiff drink. Let me think.

Don’t be mysterious.

Go somewhere quiet, she said, and hung up.

Chapter Three

Gregory turned his iPod to his favourite album, a modern fusion of fado and flamenco. It took the best traditions from the Iberian Peninsula and gave them a fresh twist. In his years in Spain he had grown to love the music in the bars and the singing of the people. It was still a living thing, something that was constantly renewing itself. He supposed it was a bit like his cooking, taking the best from the past and dropping it into the present. Perhaps that was why he liked it so much? It sounded plaintive and matched his mood. He grabbed a beer from a bar in the shadow of the Cathedral with its highly decorated stone front. The portico was enriched with conches and other seafaring images to remind the island of its debt to the sea. The patron saint of travellers, Saint Christopher, was evident in some of the carvings overhead, carrying the Christ child on his shoulders as he waded through water made of rock. The chef drank the liquid down and waited for the phone to ring. He stared at it, willing it into life. He had argued with her again: as so often before. His joy at getting the job had dissipated. He felt flat and empty. Why had he bothered? He ordered another drink while he waited for her voice again and sipped it more slowly. He looked out onto the wide paved area in front of him where the statues of two bronze dogs leered at the tourists. They were the famous emblems of the island: the island of the dogs. That was what the island’s name meant in Spanish. It was all about dogs, not birds. And Madelaine had already done her best to spoil it for him. But he would resist feeling guilty. There was nothing in England for him. Her family was not his. He did not share her view of the world.

His mobile remained silent so he moved on, after paying and leaving a tip. He walked in the shadow of the bell tower and turned left. He found himself in a cobbled square after a short walk. There was a high-end restaurant there. He checked out the entrance. The menu on display was in a fine gold case but it left him cold. It was clever, but too fussy for his taste. The sauces looked thick and too heavy for the climate. He walked around the old houses and followed the line of cobbles to another plaza. He found a stone bench outside the museum of Christopher Columbus and sat on it, placing the phone by his side. He stared at it, willing it to ring. Sometimes his mother could be infuriating, and this was one of them. He reached out to call her back, but his hand froze. She had given her order. She would have things her way or not at all, as usual. She was imperious. He watched a man limp across the street when the familiar blast of electronic music shook him in his seat. He grabbed the mobile, seeing the single illuminated letter appear on the screen. His jaw tensed as he answered it.

Yes? Madelaine?

Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry about that. You gave me a shock. I needed to think.

That makes a change, he said drily.

Don’t be rude. Have you had your drink?

Yes. Not that I drink much. Have you had yours?

I’m your mother, Gregory. Please remember that. Why be cruel?

Sorry. You were saying? Why all the mystery?

Before I answer, can I ask you something?