Malik's Revenge

The solitary figure ran at pace along the deserted, rain soaked beach. Despite the heavy rain and the soft golden sand underfoot, he was breathing comfortably, his feet hitting the ground in time to the music playing through his Bluetooth earbuds, his lips occasionally forming the words of the now familiar songs. This was a man in a world of his own, solitary, relaxed, enjoying life in his new home, despite the best attempts of the weather to dampen his spirits.

It rarely rains in the Almeria Region of Spain the people he had bought his villa from had told him. It rained very infrequently on the Almanzora region of the Costa Almeria, the desert of Europe, where Hollywood had filmed its Spaghetti Westerns. When it did rain, it tended to rain in short sharp torrents.

The man, well over six feet tall, had a muscular, athletic build, accentuated by the wet t-shirt clinging to his upper body. In his late thirties or early forties, his complexion was tanned, as you would expect of someone who lived in that area and spent much of his time outside. His unfashionably long, unruly mop of blond curly hair was tied back with a red headband.

He approached a beach front development of townhouses and apartments which fronted on to an adjoining paseo and small harbour with a number of berths associated with the development. Originally planned as a “Little Venice” style community, the worldwide financial and property market crash had ensured that the canals and bridges had been trimmed back to attractive avenues and small plazas all designed around the centrepiece of a large, Spanish fountain.

Running up the ramp on to the paseo the man passed the new buildings and harbour area without breaking stride. Along the harbour front was a small number of retail units, all displaying their wares in grill protected windows, wares which would later that morning spill out onto the promenade. In the middle of the paseo, a small harbour stretched out into the Mediterranean, one side of the wall had been formed into a small marina with the berths being allocated to the townhouses and apartments which made up the recently completed development. The other side of the wall had been formed into a small harbour for a select number of local fishing boats.

Approaching the end unit, a popular bar/restaurant, El Puerto, which he visited regularly for a light lunch or a few evening drinks, he noticed with more than a passing interest, a “Se Vende” (“For Sale”) sign in the window. He ran down the ramp at the other end of the paseo and continued along the beach to his home.

The market crash had allowed him to buy what was now his main home, from a Dutch couple, in severe financial trouble, desperate to offload their Spanish property at around sixty percent of the original purchase price. He was in the right place at the right time and as a cash buyer it was an opportunity not to missed

His was a modern, three bedroom beachfront villa, one of six built as part of a recently constructed development, built in traditional Moorish style, popular along that stretch of the Spanish coastline. An open plan living and dining area; ensuite bedroom and a kitchen took up most of the ground floor. A stairway in one corner of the living area led to the upper floor. The first floor consisted of two double ensuite bedrooms, the master bedroom had its own private roof terrace which gave uninterrupted views of the beach, the small harbour and across the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean. The front door opened out to a large garden; two sets of French doors led from the lounge onto an extensive full-width wooden terrace overlooking the pool and the beach beyond. The entire footprint of the house was home to a spacious basement which he was considering kitting out as a gym.

As he went upstairs to the shower room, his thoughts turned again to the “Se Vende” sign on El Puerto. He knew the Spanish couple who ran the bar, well enough to help them out on the odd occasion when they were really busy. It seemed strange to him that they had said nothing about leaving. Lunchtime would give him an opportunity to talk to the couple in an effort to satisfy his curiosity.

By the time he had showered, dressed and breakfasted it was almost nine o’clock. The rain had thankfully stopped and the skies were returning to their normal cloudless blue. He wandered around the kitchen, listing things he needed from the supermarket in Garrucha and set off to do his shopping. His car was parked in a garage at the side of the house. Stopping only to power down the roof on the red Ford Mustang, he drove out into bright sunlight.

Supermarket shopping was not an enjoyable experience for the man, more a necessary evil. He grabbed a trolley, strode round the aisles, ticked off the items on his list and hit the checkout all within twenty minutes. He made his way down to the supermarket’s underground car park, dropped his supplies onto the passenger SEAT of the car, and headed for home.

Dressed in a pair of denim shorts and a white linen shirt, he strolled from his beach house to El Puerto, grabbed a stool at the bar, swivelling round to watch the activity around the small marina and paseo. He watched two men in a small fishing boat lift their catch onto the quayside, then into a little white SEAT van. He smiled and waved as one of his neighbours walked past the bar with his wife. At long last, he had found somewhere which he was happy to call home. He loved the pace of life, the social lifestyle that the climate afforded and although sometimes irritating, the “manana” attitude to life. He had a comfortable villa in a small, quiet development, which overlooked the beach and was a two-minute walk from the marina and the welcoming ambiance of El Puerto. His neighbours, mostly Spanish, with a smattering of northern European expats, were friendly without being intrusive. Some, who were not permanent residents, let out their properties from time to time. They all had their own lives and spent little time intruding or enquiring into that of others. No one was interested in his past.

“Hey! Big Al.”

A familiar friendly voice broke into his musings. He swivelled round to face the petite figure behind the bar.

“Wee Conchie,” he addressed Conchita Gutiérrez, who with Manuel her husband, owned El Puerto. She laughed and came round the bar to get a big friendly hug from her favourite customer.

She looked up at him with a smile, “I swear you get higher every time I see you,” she laughed, patting his chest.

“What you want, a beer?

“No, una cerveza, por favor”

“That’s what I said, you big lump”

“Oh, sorry. Me being Scottish, my English isn’t too good, Conchie.”

“You’re a bad boy, Alan Brodie,” Conchita chided as she opened a bottle of chilled Corona, which she placed on the bar in front of him. “You want some food or just your cerveza?”

“You got any cocido montañés left?” he asked looking at the Menu del Dia.

“Si, plenty left”

“OK, I’ll have that, please”

“She disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a large steaming tureen of Cantabrian Mountain Stew and a plentiful supply of fresh crusty bread.

As Brodie ate, he noticed the bar was very quiet and took the opportunity to nod at the “For Sale” sign.

“What’s all this Conchie? How do I get fed now?”

“Is too much, this place and the bar in Mojácar, so we sell this and keep the other one we’ve had for years. We have built a good business here but now we look for someone to buy it from us.”

“I might be interested Conchie, that’s why I came round today, I saw the sign this morning when I was out running. I’ve been looking for something to do out here for a while. I’ve looked at a couple of other bars, one in Mojácar and one in Villaricos. I’ve worked in bars before and I live just along the beach. It just kind of appeals to me. What do you think?”

“Maybe too busy for you, am not sure.” Conchita shrugged at him. ”You should talk with Manuel.”