The Innocenti

By Frank Kirtley

Have you ever thought about doing something unlawful but didn’t have the nerve? Lying on a beach or sitting in a café thinking “i wonder what would happen if . . . ?”. Most men would go back to sleep. and get on with their lives. But Michael Jensen wasn’t most men. Trouble is, it is possible to light a fuse that can’t be extinguished. and then all hell breaks loose.
He was on a holiday in Spain, either climbing in the sierra or sunbathing with Diana on the beaches around Malaga. but his curiosity was killing him. “what if?” all he needed was to satisfy his curiosity. Curiosity? Nosiness! An obsession according to Diana.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Kirtley
• Release date: Jun 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301808625

Frank Kirtley

Born in the North East of England. In my teens heard Eric Burdon singing "We've got to get out of this place" and left on hitch hiking tour of Europe to look at buildings. Went to Manchester. Was in the university until the revolution of 1968. It was a gas! Thrown out and went to the great Architectural Association - now there's a school - in London. Couldn't make money in, nor did I fit in, architects' offices so tried other avenues. Have been an underground pipe designer, a property manager, and latterly an expert witness in delay mitigation. Had one job where my budget was a million dollars a day (I never managed to spend it. It's quite difficult, you know). Have lived in 27 houses in 6 countries in 31 years of marriage. My wife tells my son, "Don't worry - your dad doesn't know what he wants to be yet". I want to be a writer.

Book preview

The Innocenti

by

Frank Kirtley

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Frank Kirtley

All rights reserved.

ISBN:9781301808625

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Maggie for the many re-types and keeping me right.

Thanks to Paula Shead for her generous time in the editing.

Thanks to Sue Littleford of APT WORDS for her generous time in the final edit.

Thanks to John Ward for his words of wisdom.

"HELD DOWN SEVEN n. a preconception. First known use in ‘Silicon Valley’, Calif. 1975.

If a computer operator unintentionally holds down, say, the key seven, then the results from the machine will always be out by a multiple of seven, e.g. 1/7th, 1/700th or x7 etc. His instincts and experience should tell him that his answer is incorrect and he therefore must retrace his steps until he discovers his error. The term was expanded to apply to the mind. If one has made the decision that one does not like, for instance, ginger men, there is a fault in one’s logic (deep rooted though it may be). One is said to have a HELD DOWN SEVEN about ginger men." – English: Modern American Usage by F.H. Kaminski and T.S. Smith.

Author’s Note:

Until three years ago this book could not have been published. Names and places have been changed, of course, though events are as close as I could get them.

The book is dedicated to my wife, Melky, who stuck with it through thick and thin; and who has made my life a joy since 1980.

Frank Kirtley, Twickenham, 2012

CHAPTERS

CHAPTER 1:Wednesday 16th June 1982

CHAPTER 2:Thursday 17th June 1982

CHAPTER 3:Friday 18th June 1982

CHAPTER 4:Saturday 19th June 1982

CHAPTER 5:Sunday 20th June 1982

CHAPTER 6:Monday 21st June 1982

CHAPTER 7:Tuesday 22nd June 1982

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 1

WEDNESDAY, 16TH JUNE 1982

He opened his eyes and lay, listening. The rumble of the sea and gurgle of the faulty cistern were by now familiar sounds which would not have disturbed him. His annoyance subsided when he realised that the buzz wasn’t what he expected, but a two-stroke mosquitoing its way through the streets of La Lena. Split time clapping filtered up from that direction too, as late night revellers accompanied a guitar that was inaudible over the distance but would be there, somewhere. Splashes of light from the beacon across the bay signalled on the white gloss of the half open door: three short, one short followed by a period of inky blackness. Watching the trapezium living brilliantly then dying away was a curious experience. He could almost hear it.

He felt more than heard Diana’s easy breathing. Long, cool sighs on the saturated pillow beneath his neck brought an involuntary shiver. He checked that she was sound asleep then with infinite care extricated himself from her arms. Slipping out of bed, he scooped up track suit and jockstrap from the chair and track shoes from beneath it. He’d oiled the hinges and bolts on the doors the day after they’d arrived so was able to close the bedroom door silently. In the living room he dressed in the light of the beacon, his white body disappearing in stages. Next he applied himself to the terrace door. This was heavier and locked. The oil seemed ineffectual as the ill-fitting key grated. The bolt squeaked then he was out and breathing deeply in the cool night air.

He walked to the edge of the terrace, leaned with both hands on the wrought iron rail and looked down. The street lights of La Lena below were poor compared to those of Malaga in the middle distance. Torremolinos, the ‘Big T’ of the underworld disappeared around the headland, a thin, twinkling line. Above and to the left of the line a star drifted lazily in from the sea losing altitude until it finally placed itself on Malaga’s runway. Yet another handful of the thousands of tourists who effectively doubled the population of the Costa del Sol at this time of year had arrived. ‘Tourist’ he’d been – until a couple of days ago.

They began once more. First the whines, then the snarls followed by deep-chested barks. Sometimes they would lapse into a frustrated silence, but never for long. The slightest hint from a neighbouring animal, a sniff of something strange or a twig breaking half a mile away would instantly re-prime them. Other dogs joined in, some from quite far away, but all his attention was focused on those Dobermans. He knew that they knew he was there. Could they read his thoughts? Were they accepting the challenge, supremely confident in their own savage ability? Certainly they seemed more agitated than usual these days. Did they fret for old man Parra or was it that formidable sixth sense which told them of his fate?

Dogs terrified him. Some people were amused at his phobia, but he remembered as a small boy looking up at the salivary purple tongue of a chow as its far from brave owner tried to pull it away. It had been, he was sure, about to sink its teeth into his throat when a stranger from the crowd had taken hold of the dog’s collar and dragged it off. He’d give a small fortune to have that sort of courage. Those who had it seemed to think it was insignificant. There’d been hundreds of similar people at Crufts when he’d made a clandestine visit once, only to hurry out after fifteen minutes in a cold sweat.

He shivered again, making an effort to relax his grip. Their apartment, which looked more like a cottage, was one of the top two of three pairs which nestled above one another high on the side of the hill. An alleyway stepped up between them, giving access from the road below. Between the apartments and the village lay a knoll spread on top of which was a barrack-like fortress of a house known by the local expats as ‘El Cuartel’, retreat of a once famous bullfighter. He’d examined the building through a 100 mm lens whilst pretending to take photographs of the USS Kennedy which had been moored in the bay for several days. The inevitable Russian shadow, a cruise liner bound for the Black Sea, had dawdled past before heaving to in Malaga’s harbour. As long as the Kennedy remained he knew those Russian holidaymakers could guarantee themselves an extended stay.

A small window looking onto a balcony at the top of El Cuartel’s three-storey tower was often left open. A careless servant or overconfidence in the dogs, perhaps? High wrought iron gates in the perimeter wall prevented uninvited entry into the drive. The top of the wall, which was over ten feet high, bristled with curved iron spikes. The dwelling took the form of a square, with the tower at one corner standing nearest the gate. Ground between building and wall made up the Dobermans’ domain. From his vantage point he sometimes caught sight of them during the day. If there were a dog inside the house then he knew he was finished. The servants would be on their toes when important guests were about. Unfortunately this was precisely when he wished to be there, himself.

Next time, Jensen, he promised himself. Next time.

But would there be one? The Mercedes had come and gone over the past few days, its occupants discreetly cosseted behind Sundym glass. Yet he’d seen them. He had to be ready.

Leaning on the balustrade he went over the arguments for going in. Diana was against it in no uncertain terms. They’d had a row about it only that day. She was a magnificent woman and when she was serious about something he listened, but this time his instincts said ignore. After all he didn’t intend to steal anything. All he wanted was to do a little eavesdropping.

Another two-stroke droned in the distance. He tried to find it in the black street-lit mass beyond El Cuartel. It would be using side streets and driving without lights to avoid the Guardia. If they had nothing better to do they often stopped vehicles, especially at this time of night.

Retracing his steps he peered through the window into the living room. The illuminated digits on the clock radio glowed blue-green. 2.43 AM. He turned for one more look, filling his lungs with the cool clean air. Half-consciously he still searched for the glow of Parra’s cigar, listened for the cough, the spit, the good natured grumble to the dogs.

Rumour in the village had it that Parra could no longer resist the smell of the bullring. He’d been with it all his life! Once bitten … Bullshit Michael thought. The Don had retained him since the late fifties. He was old and had earned his pension the hard way, staying through thick and thin until finally fame, success, wealth. For the Don anyway, but why shouldn’t he bask in a little of the reflected glory? No one stopped him watching the fights. He probably had access to tickets for the best seats, but from the look of the man he would prefer the company of the campesinos, oblivious to the sun. Though his master had refrained from setting foot in the ring since his final bloody encounter, old Parra would remain as faithful to him as either of those Dobermans for the rest of his life; that Michael could guarantee.

The lingering smell of garlic fried in olive oil enveloped him as soon as he opened the door. He entered the living room as quietly as possible, switching on the anglepoise as he passed to the kitchen alcove. After placing a pan of water over the gas ring he returned to the table. Taking a pad he titled the top sheet, sat down and thought hard. The pan lid clattered drawing him from the chair. Absentmindedly he made coffee. Returning, he free-handed a line down the centre of the page and wrote ‘FOR’ in one column, ‘AGAINST’ in the other. He jotted notes or words until, finally satisfied, he leaned back, sipped the now-tepid drink and read through it.

In many ways there were strong resemblances between Parra and his father. Physically both were short, stocky, dark haired, from the same generation. Their creased faces and twinkling eyes showed that laughter came easily, feelings went deep. Each had fought passionately for his beliefs: Parra in the Civil War and Gunnar in the Second World War.

In his teens he’d gone to the Resistance Museum in Aarhus to see the coat. He’d felt so proud that day. Outside the museum stands an old car. You can only recognise it to be a car because of the four solid rubber tyres. There the similarity ends. It is encased in steel sheets about three-eighths of an inch thick. In the sheets there are slits about twelve inches by one, roughly cut out; there was no time for that famous Danish finish. Yet the machine still looked good. There were many dents and gouges in it, some of them terminating as holes. He’d wondered if the bullets still had power, the ones which had entered.

The museum was a superb piece of simple but effective modern design. Each exhibit was shown to its best advantage, arranged in chronological order: 1940–1945. There were video sets at intervals. When you pressed a button a five-minute piece of film was shown. The Nazis marching their goose step through the streets of Copenhagen, a propaganda film in the Goebbels mould. The bystanders in the film were supposed to look welcoming. They waved, but they didn’t smile.

Around the walls there were many posters and leaflets. It is little realised that the main Resistance industry was printing. Hundreds of secret presses turned out tons of pro-Danish material. One poster showed an arrogant jack-booted Nazi doing his goose step. The next showed the same soldier, his helmet on the floor, crawling away with a Danish peasant kicking his behind. It said simply Before and After. All the posters urged the Danes not to give in. They hadn’t.

Churchill’s favourite Resistance group was Danish. They were known as the Churchill Group and whenever the old boy could he urged the RAF and Navy to supply them. Their average age was fifteen. A huge map of Denmark showed with little blue pins the locations of the group’s successful targets. Michael could hardly see the map for blue.

He’d turned the corner amongst the exhibits and there was the coat. It was thick though poor quality material, and very long. It looked far too big for his father.

He walked unsteadily up to the glass case and peered into it. He felt detached, as though he was standing to one side and watching Michael Jensen regard a coat.

All sounds died from his ears as he stared. His eyes very slowly took in every detail, burning the picture of it into his memory forever. It was shown like a dress coat in a tailor’s shop except that there was no dummy. The collar was turned up at the back as was the fashion of the day. All the buttons that remained – Michael noticed the three missing ones – were fastened. The left arm was arranged as though the hand was in the pocket, the other hanging in a relaxed way by the side. The bottom front corner turned up a little.

There were three neat round holes carefully ringed in white chalk just below where the left nipple would have been. From the lower left thigh to a little over the right hip was a row of holes curiously arranged in pairs, each ringed in red. Beneath the coat was a clearly printed card in Danish, English, French and German. Though he spoke Danish fairly fluently, Michael read the English version.

The coat of Gunnar Jensen it was titled. "On the evening of 29th November 1942 Gunnar Jensen was stopped by a German foot patrol in the streets of Aarhus. He carried a stolen Luger and knew that should he be searched, it would be found. In any case he was out after curfew so was already in deep trouble.

When ordered to produce his papers he put his hand into his inside pocket, took hold of the Luger and fired through his coat. The holes are marked for your attention in white…

Michael shook himself, read the list once more, rose and made his way back to the terrace. He was still watching El Cuartel when the sky turned first greenish, then pink, finally red. It promised to be a beautiful day for Jayjay’s lunchtime party, but before that he wanted at least one more practice with the grappling iron.

CHAPTER 2

THURSDAY, 17TH JUNE 1982

Come on, Pussyface, wakey wakey, laughed Diana nuzzling his beard. Rise and shine. Just look at you! You look more like a grumpy old moggie than God’s gift to the fairer sex!

Who mentioned sex? Michael grunted, struggling to open his eyes.

Not now. Maybe later, if you’re good.

Didi! He pronounced it Dee Dee. I’m always good, you said.

She ruffled his hair, Coffee or tea?

Tea, please.

He struggled to a sitting position focusing on his Casio on the table beside the bed. 9.53 AM. Cursing himself for oversleeping he jumped out and stamped into the bathroom.

Tea, bread and marmalade were on the table before Diana sat down with her coffee. The shower had stopped. Through the half-open door she could see Michael struggling to pull on his track suit over half-towelled body.

You’re not at it again, are you? she said, this time without smiling. Michael, please. Why don’t you let it be?

He moved swiftly, fastening track shoes between sips.

Just going for a run, he murmured.

No you’re not. You’re off up to that old house to play with that rope and anchor thing, aren’t you. It wasn’t a question.

It’s fun, Didi. Good practice.

Please, don’t spoil the rest of our holiday. We’ve had a week’s climbing in the Sierra. I only did it for you. Can’t you drop it and think of me for a change? You said you would relax here and … why the hell can’t you enjoy the sun like everyone else?

But …

Read your books, lie on the terrace, forget the world for a couple of weeks. Last year we spent all our holiday doing this place up. You promised that this year would be different.

It needed it.

"I know it needed it and I know it’s ours and I know it was worth the effort. But the effort was made so that this year we could relax and enjoy it. That is why we bought it, isn’t it?"

There was a long silence.

In the end you won’t do it anyway, not with those dogs…

She bit her lip. It was like a red rag to a bull. She noticed him blush but he carried on eating.

You know I get bored with sunbathing, he mumbled whilst munching and forcing himself to drink the scalding tea.

You promised, Diana wanted the final word.

I promised to try, Michael wiped his mouth as he stood up.

Diana kept up the tantrum but she knew the signs. He’d made up his mind for the moment and it was a waste of time. She would have to get round him later.

Want to come? asked Michael with that I-don’t-want-you-to tone of voice.

No. Thank you. I’ll do some painting.

He gave her a kiss on the cheek, called her his poppet and was gone, bag in hand.

After tuning into Radio Gibraltar, Diana cleared the table. She should have tuned to a Spanish station for the practice but couldn’t be bothered. She wasn’t in the mood and wanted to think. When she listened to Spanish she needed to concentrate.

Carefully, she placed her easel in the centre of the living room, arranged the fruit in the bowl to her liking and began mixing the oils.

It seemed a long time ago and yet peculiarly enough only yesterday since they’d first met. Having returned to England after her broken marriage she’d started work again translating for Orcagna, a small interior design firm with international connections based in Kensington. She’d been so pleased to get her old job back and had thrown herself into it to forget, to start again. Michael had arrived at the office one day on business and promptly asked her to dinner. She’d said no. He’d rung several times after that. Then one day he’d arrived with a huge bunch of flowers. She’d nearly died with embarrassment and said yes only to try to allay the attention of everyone.

They’d had dinner and afterwards she’d waited for the pass. It hadn’t come. She’d thought that he wasn’t interested when he didn’t follow through, only to discover that he’d been to Holland for a week; something he often did connected with his work. She’d teased him on their next date about Amsterdam and its red light area. Still no pass. A goodnight kiss and that was all.

Following their third trip, to a rock concert which he at any rate had enjoyed immensely, he’d asked if she’d seen the greatest modern building in the world. She’d travelled a lot so guessed at this and that but ‘no, she hadn’t,’ he’d said.

Which one is it then?

I’ll show it to you. Are you free Saturday?

Well, I was going to …

His face had dropped into that hurt little boy expression.

Okay, Saturday. What time?

Seven thirty, AM.

"AM?"

Yes, AM.

She rose and prepared more black coffee. The painting was coming along but not well enough. She wasn’t concentrating.

Jayjay had said twelve-thirty for the anniversary drink. On impulse she forgot the painting and began to get ready. Michael had better not be late. Knowing he was usually very punctual, she deliberately spent a long time in the shower. Taking great care she applied creams and make-up