You Never Forget How to Ride a Bike

(Re-worked from something I wrote a while ago)

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Sitting at his favourite table, round the side of La Cantosa, Georgie Fleming soaked up the late March sun while waiting for Juan to bring his Tropical and Hamburgera.

The volcanic peaks cutting into the African blue sky made Georgie feel at home. Their bare terracotta slopes momentarily softened with a short-lived green cloak, courtesy of the Canary Island spring. . . . Twenty years since he quit, “the game.”

The locals called him Jorge and el viejo Inglés when he wasn’t listening.

‘Hoy, jo se sesenta y cinco años,’ he told Juan when he came with the beer and food. ‘Una pensionista oficialmente.’

‘Felicidades, Señor Jorge.’ Juan plonked the tray on the table and held up a hand. ‘Today, no pay.’

‘Gracias. Tu muy generoso.’

Juan smiled at Georgie’s awful grammar and shrugged. ‘Nada.’

I know, Georgie thought, must have cost him all of two Euros. Well, bloke’s got a business to run. A frown crossed his tanned forehead. Sixty-five, you’re getting old, my son. Be careful.

Almost subconsciously, his hand moved to his wallet.

Georgie pulled a couple of paper serviettes out of the spring-loaded dispenser and carefully wrapped them round the bottom of the big house-made burger. He bit into it, tasting the mild mustard and vinegary tomato sauce which squeezed onto the napkins. Best bloody burgers on Lanzarote, he mused. Prob’ly the best in all the Canaries.

While he ate, he watched a dusty hound sniffing around the rear-wheel of his beaten-up Land Cruiser. Two more dogs ambled over to the hound, who’d found an abandoned ice cream wrapper some passing tourist dropped. Georgie knew all the dogs that wandered around, he called them, “the gang.” A skinny black one, about the size of a Whippet, followed a squat legged animal with a long pinkish-beige coat, matted and stained grey by road dirt: “the boss.”  It approached the hound who was twice its size. A short growl and an air-snap gave it possession of the soggy paper.

The hound caught the scent of the burger and loped over, but it was too late. Balling the tomato stained paper, Georgie savoured the last chunks of ground beef. He dipped a finger into his beer and offered it to the dog’s probing muzzle. The animal gave an affronted sneeze and wandered off, nose to the ground in olfactoral concentration.

Occasionally, he brought his own dog, Buster Keaton. A yellow Labrador picked out from Sara’s animal shelter in Tahiche. At the time the dog’s sad, deadpan expression gave him his name. Now he was well fed – bouncy and floppy tongued. Problem was, he always picked up a bunch fleas.

Half the beer went in one swig, quenching Georgie’s burger generated thirst. While he sipped the rest at a more leisurely pace, Juan came out and placed another bottle of Tropical next to the glass. ‘José dice, “Feliz cumpleaños.”’

Without turning round, Georgie lifted his arm, knocked on the window behind him and directed a thumbs-up to where he knew José always sat.

Stopping in Uga village for lunch was routine. Twice a week, Monday and Friday, he stopped on his way home after going to Costa Teguise to check on bookings, collect rent and pay bills. He’d eaten at La Cantosa for years.

Last Friday, amongst the envelopes in his post box was one with a hand written letter inside – more of a note really. After reading it, Georgie folded it carefully and slipped it into his wallet.

The pure Canary Island sunlight shone on the church opposite. Its Spanish style open bell tower reminded Georgie of Tex-Mex movies, except like almost all buildings on Lanzarote, it was painted the dazzling white César Manrique insisted on when he was all-powerful. Tiny finches flitted between the fronds of the squat Date Palms in front of it and the flame-red flowers on the Hibiscus bushes below, their high frequency twitter plainly audible in the warm tranquil air.

I’ve not done too bad, Georgie reckoned. The seven apartments he bought in two new holiday complexes when he arrived brought in a steady income. Back then, nobody asked too many questions about where the money came from. If you paid your taxes the authorities left you alone. Worth much more than ten-times the original cost, they now could be sold legitimately.

For himself, he chose isolation. He purchased a lonely, run down finca in the “Garia” wine region. Over the years he modernised the farmhouse and repaired the semi-circular black volcanic rock walls and replanted grapevines inside them. He gave the grapes to a small winery in return for a couple of crates of wine each year. It was there he met his beloved Mercedes seventeen years ago.

Got a good set up here, he thought. I’m not losing this. . . . Can’t have that!

The sound of an approaching car interrupted Georgie’s cogitation. He followed the progress of the new Opel Astra passing slowly, noting the “Hertz” sticker on the rear window. A hire car picked up either at their airport or sea-port office; the only ones on the island. Tourists didn’t normally use them, preferring cheaper locals like “Payless” or “Pluscar.” It pulled into the bus halt and made a U-turn.

Georgie dipped his head so the brim of his bush hat hid his eyes as he watched it park it in front of the church. The driver, sole occupant of the vehicle, wore a sienna Seville style leather jacket. To some, it just might have seemed an odd choice of dress for the climate, but to Georgie, the demeanour of the man told a darker story.

This was no tourist. Most people who hired from Hertz were visiting businessmen, but this bloke didn’t move with the uptight purpose of a salesman. Every fluid step was a calculated assessment of his surroundings. He was here on business alright, but he wasn’t selling anything. The stranger crossed the road toward for the bar entrance. He glanced at the table, his eyes rested on Georgie for just a minuscule moment, but long enough for Georgie to notice.

Careless or cocky? Georgie wondered. A casual shift of his chair allowed Georgie to see through the window using peripheral vision. The man sat by the door, facing away and ordered a beer. Yeah, cocky. Definitely cocky. . . . This ain’t right. Not on a Friday. . . . Not on my fucking birthday.

Georgie emptied his glass, slid off his chair and went to the Land Cruiser. He honked a loud, hasta luego to Juan and José on the twin Klaxons sending a cloud of panicking finches into the air. A little way along the street he parked next to “Cinebank” video hire. Inside, Georgie perused the lines of DVD cases, but his attention was on the gap at the edge of the shelf unit where he could see through the window. He was reading the sleeve notes of “Sexy Beast” when the Astra cruised past. Even though he’d seen the movie several times, he rented it.

‘Este es mi película favorita.’ he told the owner.

At the roundabout by Casa El Morro, Georgie turned left and onto Calle de la Gerria.  A glint from the chromed Opel badge on the Astra, parked off-road two hundred metres to the right, wasn’t missed. Georgie drove two kilometres at an easy pace before turning left onto Calle Toblero, an ill-defined dirt track which split into several meandering alternatives as it served a couple of small bodegas on the fringe of an ancient volcanic vent. After about five hundred metres it was only suitable for SUV’s, tractors and donkeys. It wound its way a further three kilometres round the back of the volcano to where Georgie lived.

The Toyota bumped slowly towards the first Bodega. It was level with it when Georgie spied the Astra in his mirror, slowing as it passed the track entrance, and continuing along the main road. Georgie drove on until he reached a bend about a half a kilometre further, where the Toyota was out of sight from the road. He parked up and waited behind a nearby fig bush. The coconut like scent of its leaves filled his senses. Normally he savoured the aroma, but now he focussed on the Tarmac road below. The chattering of a Canary Falcon high in the black rocks the broke silence. The crack of a distant twelve-bore reminded him it was hunting season. Rabbits were a problem when the vines were in first leaf: gunshots commonplace.

Reggie Hayes’ note was short. ‘There’s a snake loose,’ it read. ‘Was too late to stop this one, sorry mate. Good luck.’

After about fifteen minutes the Astra returned and stopped in the track entrance. Georgie noted the flash of binocular lenses. The Opel moved off, but after about fifty metres it turned onto a lay-by – a spot Georgie knew tourists parked in frequently, to view the volcanic peaks of Timanfaya National Park or to go walking. Often cars would be there for hours. The Opel wouldn’t be conspicuous. Georgie returned to the Land-Cruiser and drove home.

 

Lia Pancheco didn’t know who the hell Georgie Fleming was or even his name. He didn’t know where he came from or what he’d done. He knew he lived in the middle of nowhere, but could be found Mondays and Fridays in Uga.  A guiri, they said, old and gone soft. It’d be easy. That’s why the guy from Malaga was only paying three-thousand.

He slid out of the Astra, opened the back and sat on the tail-board. Changing out of his shoes, jacket and Lacoste polo, he donned an olive-green t-shirt and a pair of hiking boots in their place. He laid his clothes in a neat pile behind him and reached for a medium sized suitcase. When no cars were in sight he opened it and took out a Glock. For a fourth-time since collecting the car, he checked he’d re-assembled it correctly – security was light on ferries from the peninsular, but carrying an assembled pistol was pushing it. The gun, wrapped in oiled cloth along with a silencer and two full clips went into a canvas satchel slung over Pancheco’s shoulder.

He crossed the road and followed a narrow path between lines of semi-circular walls Canary wine growers use to protect their vines. Soon he was past them and onto scrubby terrain. Small thorny bushes and stunted fig plants punctuated the loose grey ash surface. Keeping low and moving slowly, he followed the line of the dirt road. He stopped regularly to check the landscape, making sure he wasn’t seen. The going was easy although he was sweating in the afternoon heat. Steadily, the soft ash ran out and the ground turned to flat compacted terra-cotta soil.

After about a kilometre he came to a wall of jagged black larva, laid down during the last major eruptions in 1730. The black rock was sharp and wildly uneven. Pancheco noticed its metallic odour. Several times he fell, ripping his jeans and slicing a gash in his right thigh. Afraid he’d cut his gun hand, he moved back onto the softer ground, but that took him near the road and the second Bodega. Dodging from bush to bush he made another kilometre until he was on a narrow strip sandwiched between the larva and the track. An expanse of soft black gravel lay opposite, but taking that would leave him fully exposed. The only cover: the treacherous larva.

It took an hour of slow agonising progress, often on all fours, picking a route between razor edged daggers of rock to cover the final kilometre to where Georgie’s small finca came into view. Pancheco rested, panting, sweating and bleeding from painful abrasions, but his right hand was untouched. Cursing himself, he realised he’d been too rash. He knew he should go back and wait – stalk his target for a few days – pick the right moment for the kill. Joder! He wasn’t going to waste more time on this cabron. Not for three measly grand. Anyway, it was getting late. Soon the light would fade. He could get in close, right up to the house. No long shots. He’d probably be able to take the guy and his wife out with two rounds. Plus one each to make sure. He’d be back on the peninsula before anybody found them.

 

When Georgie arrived home, he said to Mercedes. ‘Just seen a bunch of rabbits hanging about the vines, Darlin’. I’m gonna go over and see if can fill in their burrows. I Think I'll take the shotgun, give the little buggers a fright.'

‘But I’m making Paella for your birthday, Cariño.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back by seven.’

‘Promise me you won’t kill any conejos.’

Georgie smiled. ‘No. No dead “conejos” – cross my heart.’

Twenty-one years ago Georgie told Reggie Hayes, ‘I’ve had enough, mate.’

 

From where Pancheco lay, he could see the finca directly ahead on the other side of a field of walled circles containing fresh green vines and fig bushes. They’d provide plenty of cover. Cross the field – slip from one circle to the next – simple. Once on the other side, he’d be fifty metres from the house, an easy shot for the Glock if getting closer was tricky.

Reggie asked one last favour. ‘Give me the Brighton Brothers, and I’ll give you a quarter-of-a-million. You can disappear. I’ll be your guardian angel so long as I draw breath.’

After resting he made his move, keeping low he made it to the first circle. He leaned against the black stones and waited a minute. Taking a deep breath, he stood up and climbed over the low wall into the circle. A short sprint and he was at the next circle. He heard the breeze rustle the leaves of the fig bush inside it.

Four weeks later, Reggie controlled the South coast.

The next thing Pancheco saw was the flash of Georgie’s shotgun . . . a micro-second before it blew his face off.

Reggie said, ‘I have to respect your decision after all you’ve done for me. You’re the best there is: a natural, trained by the military. Killing's as easy as riding a bike for you, ain’t it, Georgie boy?’

Georgie stared down at the bloody corpse and reached for his spade. ‘Fucking amateurs.’