Seek him in the valley

A scrabble of feet, a rattle of stones that spill down the path like bleached old bones. More care was needed. With the spine of the hills behind him, the downward journey began with the steepest slopes yet, and the road surface had long since dissolved into a mess of aggregate.

Ahead of him stretched a valley painted in the colours of sweet peppers. Groves of orange trees were stitched with precision into the ground beneath him amongst fields of crops he did not recognise. Gently-sloping hills cupped the plain, save for a few gaps for the autopista and the railway. By leaving the main road he had shaved perhaps hours of walking off his journey; these were the hours that he himself had added by leaving the bus and his paranoias behind. Off to his left he could see perhaps where his dirt track shuffled ashamedly up to the autopista. Could he also see, through a few rare, tall trees, Paio's house, soaking up the sun and bestowing whiteness on the landscape? He thought so. He hoped so. Convinced himself of it. Carried on, scattering pebbles.

He was thirstier and more tired; the pains in his feet grew steadily stronger. It didn't seem that long ago that he had been in London, where the summer heat had broken for a few days into a cool deluge. The streets' dust had been cleaned away, and fumes soaked up into the rain. The memory of it, as he picked his way towards the valley, annoyed him with its coolness. Why had he come all this way? Why did he let himself become embroiled in plans that he had long ago ceased to have any real interest in? Mr Barnaby asked himself this, and could return no answer.

From behind came the skid and clatter of rocks. Mr Barnaby knew in a moment that he had failed, that his pursuer had left the bus too, and had followed him without detection here. Only now, when Mr Barnaby could not run, certainly not as far as the villa, had his sinister shadow picked itself up and abandoned care and secrecy, knowing that Mr Barnaby was in its power.

With slapped, heavy steps he turned resignedly, to be confronted by a muscly old man, not his expected company at all. The man was unshaven and, from his rubbery frame, may have been as much monkey as he was presumably human. When he opened his mouth to speak it was clear from the black holes that his chewing days were now only ever thought of at mealtimes, fondly.

"Señor Barnaby?" His voice was gravelly, but his gums slopped and lisped around the edges of the words. Mr Barnaby could only nod. Had this man, this ape, been sent to intercept him and his message? He cursed himself for leaving the envelope in his back pocket, an obvious white flag. With an effort he stopped himself reaching for it, the impulse to hide it strong.

Strong. Despite his age, the man who faced him was clearly strong, wirily strong. He was probably accustomed to the heat too. Would he try to overpower Mr Barnaby? The younger man tried to tense his complaining muscles, but the old man began to speak.

"Is good to see you OK," he spat. "Señor Paio fear for you. Word from London is someone following. Then autobus turn up and -" he spread his hands wide, "you not on it! But now you're here!" By these words, the old man had come quite close to Mr Barnaby, gesturing up to his face. He laughed roughly and slapped Mr Barnaby on the arm. "Ha ha! OK, señor, let us go. Follow me!" and then, with a rolling sailor's gait, he struck out towards the villa. Bemusedly, Mr Barnaby followed.