The Marks of Cain - Tom Knox

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this time! All this time his grandfather had been loaded, minted, a fucking millionaire? All the time, he, David, the orphaned grandson, had been struggling, fighting, working his way through university, just keeping his head above water – and all along the Beloved Grandfather had been sitting on two million dollars?

      David asked the lawyer how long his grandfather had possessed this money.

      ‘Ever since he hired me. Twenty years minimum.’

      ‘So…why the hell did he live in that crappy little house? With that car? Don’t get it.’

      ‘Damn straight,’ said the lawyer. ‘Trust me, Mister Martinez, I would tell him to use it, spend it on himself, or give it you of course. Never would. At least he got a good rate of interest.’ A sad chuckle. ‘If you ever do find out where the money came from, please let me know. Always puzzled me.’

      ‘So what do I do now?’

      ‘Come by the office tomorrow. Sign a few documents. The money is yours.’

      ‘Just like that?’

      ‘Just like that.’ A pause. ‘However…Mister Martinez. You should know there is one codicil, one clause to the will.’

      ‘And that is?’

      ‘It says –’ The lawyer sighed. ‘Well…it’s a little eccentric. It says that first you have to utilize some of the cash to…do something. You have to go to the Basque Country. And find a man called José Garovillo in a town called Lesaka. I think that’s in Spain. The Basque Country, I mean.’ The lawyer hesitated. ‘So…I guess the best way to do it is this: when you reach Spain you just let me know and I’ll wire the cash into your account. After that it’s all yours.’

      ‘But why does he – did he – want me to find this guy?’

      ‘Search me. But that’s the stipulation.’

      David watched the rain through the window, as it turned to drizzle.

      ‘OK…I’ll drive by tomorrow morning.’

      ‘Good. See you at nine. And once again, my sympathies on your loss.’

      David dropped the phone and checked the clock: working out time differences. It was too late for him to call England and tell anyone the bizarre and amazing news; it was too late for him to ring his boss and tell him to go choke on his stupid job.

      Instead he went to the little table and picked up the map. He unfolded the soft, sadly faded paper and scrutinized the tiny blue asterisks. The stars had been firmly and neatly handwritten next to placenames. Striking placenames. Arizkun. Elizondo. Zugarramurdi. Why were these places marked out? What did this have to do with churches? Why did his grandfather even own this map?

      And how come his impoverished grandfather had two million dollars that he never touched?

      He needed to look for flights to Bilbao.

       3

      In the crowded Arrivals lounge of Bilbao airport he opened his laptop and emailed Frank Antonescu. Attached to the email was a jpeg of himself holding a Basque newspaper, to prove his arrival in the country: to fulfil the one stipulation of his grandfather’s will. The entire escapade was surreal, and borderline foolish, and yet this was what his grandfather wanted. So David was happy to obey.

      Despite the troublesome time difference, the lawyer emailed back, at once – and with impressive efficiency: the money was being wired over.

      Clicking on a website, David checked his bank account.

      There. It was really there.

      Two point one million dollars.

      The feeling was unsettling, as well as gratifying.

      He was rich but in a garish and discomfiting way; he didn’t quite feel himself; he felt like someone had snuck into his house, and painted his furniture gold. Was he even allowed to sit down?

      Shutting his laptop, David yawned, and yawned again, and glanced through the wide glass terminal doors. It was raining, very hard. And he was very tired. He could do the rest of his travelling tomorrow.

      Sheltering ineptly under his copy of El Correo David wheeled his luggage to the taxi rank; he was saved by a cheerful cab driver with a lurid Barcelona soccer shirt under a smart leather jacket, who smoked and chattered as they pulled out of the airport.

      The taxi slashed along the rainy motorway. On the left was the distant greyness of the Atlantic Ocean, on the right sudden green hills reached to the clouds; in the steep dips between the hills lurked steelworks and papermills, and factories with tall redbrick chimneys churning out ribbons of smoke the colour of faded white underwear.

      David buzzed down the window and let the rain spit onto his face. The cold rain was good – because it pierced the weary numbness; it roused him, and reminded him. He gazed at the Basque Country. He was here.

      He’d done some investigating during his thirty-hour flight around the world: some internet research into the Basque Country, and the Basques.

      He now knew that some people thought the Basques were descended from Neanderthals. He knew that they had surprisingly long earlobes. He knew they had a unique and complex language unrelated to any other language in the world; he knew that Arrauktaka meant ‘to hit someone with an oar’.

      He had also learned that the word ‘bizarre’ came from the Basque word for ‘bearded’; that the people were tall and burly compared to Spaniards; that the Basques were expert whalers; that they had special cherries, a passion for rugby, their own form of linen, a wavy solar symbol called a lauburu, and a tiny wild horse called a pottok.

      David buzzed the window shut. The research had been diverting enough, but it hadn’t been able to give him any of the information he really wanted. Who was José Garovillo? What was this reference to churches? What about Granddad’s map?

      The memory of Granddad was a discernible pain. David fought back the emotion; if he thought of his grandfather the thread of cognition could so easily lead to his parents. So he needed to do and not think; and he had one more severance to make, one more definite change to enact.

      He picked up his mobile and pressed.

      The phone rang in London.

      ‘Roland De Villiers. Yes?’

      It was the normal snooty, self-consciously weary locution. The same voice that David had endured for half a decade.

      ‘Roland, it’s David. I –’

      ‘Oh for God’s sake. Rilly. David. Where are you now?’

      ‘Roland –’

      ‘You do realize your desk is piled high? I don’t care about your frankly peripheral circumstances. You are a professional, get a grip. I expect to see you behind that screen in the next hour or –’

      ‘I’m not coming back.’

      A pause.

      ‘You have one hour to get back here –’

      ‘Give my job to that guy in accounts. The one who’s banging your wife. Bye.’

      David clicked off. And then he laughed, quietly. He could picture his boss in his office, red faced with anger.

      Good.

      In front of him the motorway dipped and curved; they seemed to be cutting towards the middle of the city. Grey apartment blocks, stained by rain, stood to attention along the route.

      The taxi driver looked up at David, mirrorwise:

      ‘Centro urbano, señor? Hotel Donostia? Sí?’

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