Portals

By Nuno Morais

Carlos Alberto, geologist, amateur speleologist and known to all as CáBé, is a private investigator, under contract with the Portuguese Ministry of Interior. He decides to take advantage of some time off after several days of extenuating surveillance, to explore a cave at the foot of Serra de Sintra, on the outskirts of Lisbon, unaware this will be the start of an adventure that will take him considerably farther than he had initially planned.​

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Apr 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781071595220

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portals

Nuno Morais

Translated

by

Elizabeth Harvey

Portals

Written By Nuno Morais

Copyright © 2021 Nuno Morais

All rights reserved

Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

www.babelcube.com

Translated by Elizabeth Harvey

Cover Design © 2021 Raquel Ferreira

Babelcube Books and Babelcube are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

Info Author:

Nuno Morais

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www.nunomorais.eu

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This is a work of fiction.

The characters and their names, as well as the names of places and the events referred to herein are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner and are not to be taken as factual. Any similarity to events, places, entities, organisations, or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental or the product of the reader’s imagination – for which the author has no responsibility.

Books by Nuno Morais in English

Novels:

Unholy Commerce Trilogy:

Spare Parts

Novellas:

Wish You Were Here

A Treacherous Voyage

Portals

Dedicated to Jules Verne, Emilio Salgari, E.R. Burroughs, Hergé, E.P. Jacobs, H.G. Wells and Arthur Conan Doyle,

creators of adventures.

DEPARTURE

The weekend didn't start off well.

Bright and early on Friday, after several days of living in the street, I sat huddled up beside a derelict building in the noble neighbourhood of Picheleira. Wrapped up in newspaper and old blankets, I observed and took note of the comings-and-goings of a group of sour-faced provincial Angolans. They were dressed in silk, bought with the kind of money that comes from dealing drugs and diamonds. That's when time seemed to run backwards and I saw, finally, the guy who should have relieved me the previous afternoon. He gave me a patchy apology, saying that his mother-in-law was quite ill, that he'd been at the hospital, and that's why he hadn't been in touch. I had no choice but to wait there seeing as the surveillance subcontract from the Ministry of the Interior, through a contact in the Guarda Anti-Robbery Brigade, states that the post must not be left unattended under penalty of a rather large fine. Of course, it could have been true; the guy could indeed have a sick mother-in-law. But only if he had somehow got married since the last time I saw him, some two weeks ago in the Gata Perfumada, a strip club beside the docks. But the pungent smell of expensive spirits that emanated from him made me think that the alcohol he'd had in his hands just before meeting me had gone to waste. Not to mention the zombie-like gleam I saw in his eyes as he pretended to apologise, made me think otherwise. As we changed places, I told him I was sorry to hear about his mother-in-law and, discreetly, introduced my elbow to his nose, wiping the satisfaction of having tricked me off of his face. Like a pro, he didn't whimper or whine as he fell to the ground, clutching his bloody nose as he glared furiously up at me, more enraged at being caught than for being in pain.

See you, then, pal. Send my regards to your mother-in-law when you see her next. I'll see you here in a few days, if I remember where you are, I murmured that last part. I left, pushing a shopping trolley full of old clothes and useless knick-knacks. I'd taken it from an AC Santos supermarket before starting my watch.

It wasn't exactly a job with much future, but a guy who'd recently returned from tour in Afghanistan and with a degree in geology couldn't really turn down many jobs.

Talking aloud to myself and insulting whoever passed me, I get to where I left my car. It's a quiet, backstreet behind the building where I've spent the last few days. As I arrive, I see my old Picasso 4x4 all trussed up like a package on top of a Guarda tow-truck heading towards Areeiro. I shout after them, hey! That's my car! however, considering how I'm dressed, perhaps it's a good thing they don't hear me, or they might have turned the truck around and given me a beating for vagrancy a lot quicker than I would be able to explain who I really was.

I hide the trolley in an empty space that seems to serve as a dump for the numerous building sites in the area, hoping that I'll find it in the same place when it's my watch again. I hop on the metro and head home amid exclamations of disgust regarding the foul perfume that I'm giving off.

An hour and three quarters later including an hour of waiting in a tunnel as yet another nutcase had taken the third rail exit in rush hour exhausted, starving and desperate to bury myself under my bedcovers, I finally place my thumb on the electronic door handle reader which lets me in.

In the kitchen, I drop the canvas bag with my notes and photos I took while on watch, and I head to the bathroom to free myself from my clothes and the smell of sweat and rubbish.

As I walk past the bedroom. I hear a sigh and I guess that Céu must have decided to start her weekend early and have a lie in. As a photography model working for herself, that wouldn't be all that unusual for her.

I open the door to let her know I'm back and that I'm just about to grab a shower and I come face to face with my girlfriend, completely naked, groaning with pleasure as some guy with an Olympic swimmer physique, gives it to her from behind.

She opens her eyes as the draught from the open door reaches her and, in the darkness with the blinds down, she sees me there immobile: a figure dressed in a mud-splattered anorak, dark, stained trousers with my feet wrapped up in broken shoes; my hair is dirty and greasy and my beard is covered in dust. She screams, as she tries to uselessly hide behind a bedsheet and pushes the guy towards the headboard.

Despite having seen me leave the house in more or less the same state, I have the distinct sensation that she hasn't yet recognised me, as I stand there, seemingly indifferent and speechless, not knowing what to say.

Meanwhile, the swimmer, seeing that I am unarmed, engages his brain and decides to be her knight in shining armour. With his dangling glory driving him forward, he launches himself at me, from the bed, quite the naked avenger. 

However, my look of apathy is misleading, I'm far from indifferent, and quite honestly, after the last few nights I've spent on the street and the start to the day I've had, my patience is wearing rather thin. I dodge him right at the last second, stepping around him and shoving him back against the wall. He crashes into it and slides down to the floor, apparently in no rush to get back up.

Céu seems to finally recognise me and, with an air of feigned innocence which she dregs up from God knows where in moments like these, she says: CáBé, darling, I didn't expect you home so soon, she pouts, smiles and then drops the sheet that she's holding to cover herself. Then she straightens her back, sticks her chest out and bends her knee slightly, in a sensual pose like someone out of a photo-shoot. This isn't what it looks like, Quim and I were just...

I interrupt her with a gesture as I close my eyes, in an attempt to get rid of the headache that I can feel coming on at a gallop. I massage the bridge of my nose, run my fingers through my hair and stroke my beard before replying.

Céu, darling. I don't know what you were doing, but I don't care. I'm going to the bathroom where I plan on staying for a good while. I hope I don't see you when I come out. Take what you want now, you can come back for the rest later. Goodbye.

I turned my back and I went to the bathroom before she could say anything else. I could still hear her calling me with a tearful voice, so well rehearsed that she could have won an award. I didn't answer and I locked the door.

Only when I was halfway through my shower did I remember that I was in her apartment.

---

Despite being in her own house, Céu clearly thought it would be for the best not to wait for me.

When I finished scrubbing myself clean of all the engrained dirt, I filled two enormous nylon bags of some famous fashion brand with the royal crest of crown purveyors, which I found in the middle of her things, with everything that I was bothered about keeping. I deleted my fingerprints from the database of her apartment and left, once again, to catch the metro. I headed to the Guarda compound where, through a contact of mine in the ARB I managed to retrieve my car without having to pay the fine.

I slung the bags on the backseat and joined the motorway heading out of the city towards Sintra and Almoçageme for what would be a quiet weekend of caving. It was what I'd been dreaming of, or even obsessing over, since my most recent visit to gruta d'Adraga.

It's a little past midday by the time I get to the entrance of the larger of the caves, at the headland of Adraga beach,