THE SPANISH WAITER: ELEVEN

Boney and his two spies decide to make a return to the uK as quickly as they can

LATER THE SAME DAY

Boney found himself to be suddenly at the end off his tether, a position he had long accused others of being in but had rarely experienced himself.

He pulled Sparky and Murial towards him and looked around warily. He was used to being cautious whenever he had something important to say to his colleagues. Nobody knows, he believed, just how many ears lurk within what appear to be solid walls.

Wars, he thought, have been fought and won in the space between carelessly muttered secrets and eavesdropping spies. One had to be ultra careful or the enemy would know all they shouldn’t know and everything would end in tragedy.

“Quickly,” he hissed, “to the gents.”

“You won’t get me in there!” snapped Murial, “I went into a man’s loo once, and it was disgusting! Piss all over the floor and the air reeking of goodness knows what! I swore it would be never again, and I’m sticking to it!”

“The ladies then!” demanded Boney.

“If I must,” moaned Sparky, “but if there’s a woman in there I won’t be responsible for my actions!”

“What actions?” grinned Murial, “you mean of a frightened little boy nature?”

Once they were out of sight Boney gesticulated that his two colleagues should gather as close to him as they could.

“I’m going to whisper,” he said, whispering.

“Why?” asked Sparky, “there’s nobody in here to hear what you’ve got to say even if you shout!”

Boney frowned at him. “I’ve been on to the Governor,” he breathed almost silently.

“You what?” asked Murial, “speak up or we’ll get nowhere.”

Boney cleared his throat and risked half a decibel more. “I’ve been on to the Governor, and he isn’t happy,” he explained, and Sparky looked at him shocked.

“What have you done to upset His Majesty?” he asked.

“It’s our papers being in another country to the one we find ourselves in,” he explained.

“I knew it was stupid getting off that coach when we did,” grumbled Murial, “without our passports,” she added.

“It was urgent. The Ivan Maybe bloke might have got at me at any moment, and taken me out, and there’s one thing I don’t fancy and that’s being taken out!” explained Boney, risking an additional decibel in order to get his message across clearly.

“Well, he might have been upset by the years he spent behind bars,” suggested Murial, “I know for one thing I’d be upset if it happened to me and I’d probably be on the look out for you with a blade in my hands.”

“Or a bottle of arsenic,” added Sparky, “you’re a woman, Moo, and poison’s reckoned to be the woman’s chosen weapon. Or strychnine, that’s supposed to be good stuff as well.”

“My name’s not Moo!” snapped Murial, “and I’m no feeble female in an Agatha Christie novel! I’d have a blade, you can be sure of that. And it would be sharp!”

“Quiet!” snapped Boney, ignoring his preference for minimum decibels and furious with what he saw as irrelevant time wasting.

“Okay! Don’t wet yourself!” muttered Sparky.

Boney frowned at him. “This is important! The Governor wants us back home as soon as maybe! He was most insistent and almost used threatening language!”

“Almost?” asked Murial, who guessed that her immediate boss was frightened like she’d never seen him frightened before. The Governor must have been more than insistent.

“As I said!” Boney had reduced the sound of his voice to something closer to inaudible again. “Any suggestions as to how we might get back to the UK without a passport between us? You know how fussy they can be at immigration.”

“There are enough people making the trip in small boats if you’re to believe the right wing press,” suggested Sparky, “so how about a nice little dinghy just made for three?”

“I never believe the right wing press,” scowled Sparky, “I know a bloke who writes some of their muck. Lionel the Liar, we call him.”

“I don’t fancy a boat,” grumbled Murial, “I mean, we might be swept overboard and the sea can get a bit rough as you know. Remember how the ferry rocked and rolled as we came across to Santander?”

Boney’s face seemed to change to a pastel shade of green when she mentioned their recent ferry ride, the effects of which he’d tried to keep hidden from them.

“We might find it awkward avoiding the authorities, and if we get questioned we might find nobody understands about our papers being in Portugal in the hold of a coach,” he said doubtfully.

“The Bay of Biscay is a long way across and I’m not swimming it even though I did get my hundred yards badge at school,” mumbled Sparky.

“Look,” said Boney decisively, “we’re skilled operatives of The Firm! We know a thing or two about operating in the shadows! We can hack it! What I suggest is we make our way back towards Santander because we know that’s the right way to find a way home. And I reckon we should go tomorrow as early as seems sensible!”

“What? Walking?” asked Murial doubtfully.

“We’ll do what we have to do,” growled Boney, “and we’re used to a bit of walking when we have to.”

Sparky looked as if he was about to sulk, then thought better of it. Foremost on his mind was getting out of the ladies toilets before a woman came in with her knickers round her ankles wanting to use them.

So they trooped out after Murial, under orders from Boney, checked that the way was clear. It was, so they returned to the bar and its adjacent restaurant. A couple of guests had found their own table and were sitting there, examining the menu.

“Would sir like some lunch?” asked Tomas as he drifted towards them, “on the house,” he added, “our English waiter will attend to your every need.”

“As long as he isn’t equipped with a little bottle of something that might upset us if he spills it in our soup,” mumbled Murial.

“Of course he isn’t,” almost snapped Tomas, “we pride ourselves on the excellence and purity of our cuisine here at the Pyramido, and to make sure that you’re well looked after my wife and I will join you at a table for five. Come on, over there, this way.”

Valentina, smiling, sauntered up to join them holding a glass of something that looked delicious, and Tomas led them to a table close to the bar. It was already set with five places.

“Now,” he said, “choose your starters. I’ll call the waiter over.”

He signalled to Ivan and with looked suspiciously like a cross between enthusiasm and reluctance Ivan made his way to their table. He fixed Boney with eyes that held the memory of twelve years’ incarceration.

“Well sir,” he asked, “can I serve you? May I recommend the soup? It’s asparagus and I prepared it myself, following an old jailbird recipe. And you’ll be comforted to know that, although tempted, I didn’t piss in it even for a moment.”

“He’s such a help to us,” smiled Tomas.

“And he understands the language of our guests so well,” added Valentina, “that’ll be five soups, Ivan, nice and hot, please.”

Ivan nodded, and made his way to the kitchen door.

© Peter Rogerson, 05.11.22

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