Chapter Fifty-Four
William looks up at the massive, ninety-one-metre, golden tower, with its famed weathervane on top, and thinks of The Lord.
More specifically, he thinks that The Lord only knows how he is going to climb up a monument this tall, in the already breathless, frantic state in which he finds himself.
If the Moors were as smart as all that, where’s the bloody lift?
In this same roller-coasting loop of demented thought, he mulls over why, of all the places where he might possibly locate his and Luisa’s younger selves, does that holy wee prankster, in whom he of course doesn’t believe for a moment, park the pair of them at by far the highest spot on the old city map?
It is only when he barges his way inside the surprisingly spacious entrance that he remembers once more that La Giralda is actually composed mostly of ramps, not steps.
He can’t summon up how many ramps there are – the only figure that springs instantly to mind is too many, even for a fit lad in his twenties – but he does recall that they were constructed inside the tower to accommodate horses.
Although why a horse would gallop up to the top of a minaret is a mystery to him, unless it was for some sort of equine suicide pact, which he can sort of understand.
William begins to climb. The psychological puffing starts in earnest way before any strain on the heart and lungs is plausible.
He is hardly onto the second ramp when he hears a noise up ahead, building rapidly in volume. William hopes this isn’t a stampede of angry horses on its way down but it turns out to be a stampede of chattering Korean tourists, who prove almost as dangerous.
It is only when they and their lethal selfie-sticks have surged past him, forcing him to cower against a wall, that he wonders: what if the young couple really don’t know who he is this time round?
Even with all the guidebooks you can buy and every website you can google, no one has yet managed an advice line to the surreal, the occult and the downright perverse. There is no 999 or 111 to fate.
Where the spiral ramp ends there’s yet another clamber for the now spent William. Up seventeen steps into the bell chamber, which in retrospect made the ramps seem like fun. On arrival he can see some incredible bells but unfortunately no familiar faces.
William can only pray that these massive instruments don’t ring before he is well out of range. He has no idea of the time, because he gave an old Andalusian lady his inordinately expensive watch, for reasons that are becoming increasingly unclear to him.
He decides to work his way round the small bell tower, although he reckons that, even in all this bustle, he would have spotted the young couple by now.
Especially as Will is a head taller than most other nationalities currently enjoying the sensational views.
And, of course, he has that red hair, the bastard.
With immense sadness, William realises that it is finally time to throw in the towel. He gave it his best shot. A guy who dares to manipulate his own destiny has to finally accept meeting it head-on.
It takes a few intrepid climbers moving to one side, perhaps to catch a final procession way down in the old city, that he realises he should have set his own eyeline slightly lower.
(So much for appreciating higher things.) There, on the ground, kneel a young, scraggly-bearded man and a pretty young woman.
They are both scrabbling around for some coins that must have fallen out of a bag or a pocket.
William keeps his distance, making sure not to interrupt and quite possibly disquiet them. Until the massive bell right beside him strikes the late hour with inhuman glee and he hears himself screaming in shock.
The young couple, alongside everyone else from his own era, turn to stare at him, clearly impressed that a sound emanating from one slightly above-average sized man can match that of the famous bells in their clamour.
William’s alarm, however, is swiftly overtaken by an intense despair at Will’s and Lu’s palpable lack of recognition. It takes a few agonising seconds before they squint their eyes, tilt their heads in unison and take a closer look.
“Gordon?” hazards Will.
Another spasm shoots through the older man.
As he suddenly realises that it might not be the easiest task to explain to this smart young fellow why his very own name is proudly emblazoned on the rear of a vivid blouson that someone not apparently called William Sutherland is flaunting. For uneasy, read impossible.
Without turning, William casually removes the offending garment and sends it sailing over the parapet, as if this type of cavalier divestment is the most normal activity in the world.
“Oh, Will – hi!” he says, hardly missing a beat. Although he is already realising, in the cooler altitude, that he seriously misses his blouson. “And Lu! Well, fancy—”
“—seeing us here. I’ve a hole in my bloody pants and I dropped some pesetas. It’s the end of our trip and my lovely winnings are practically gone. Jeez, pal, you’ve caught the old sun today.”
“Oh, this,” laughs William, self-deprecatingly. “It’s just… Yes, it’s sun. Sun. Yes.”
He can’t fail to notice the couple exchanging glances, but realises there is precious little he can do other than tread cautiously.
“Where is Fanta?” asks Lu.
“She’s – not herself today, Lu.” Moving on. “Great view from here.”
“Right enough,” says Will. “Hey, anyone’d think you were following us!”
William offers the most insincere laugh that probably ever came out his mouth, although of course he can’t yet fully recall all of his game-show production years.
“As if!” he says then wonders if anyone even said ‘as if’ thirty years ago.
Perhaps it was he who started the trend.
“So where are you going straight after this? Just – out of interest.”
Lu disarms him with the most impish of smiles, her chestnut-brown eyes opening even wider with the pure excitement of it all.
“Will has made the promise to me, Gordon. For this, our last night. We have the very special cocktail – Aqua de Sevilla – with a big cherry and a little umbrella!” This time her smile is just for William.
It pierces him to the gut. “You British – you like the umbrellas – yes?”
Will has no idea what she is talking about and honestly doesn’t care. “Lu, I didn’t actually promise—”
Of course!
William finally recalls the missing pieces of that final Easter Sunday night and where they ended up so long ago.
And just as instantly he sees his way in.
Even if he can’t as yet envisage a way out.
“Hey, guys, my treat! I’ve no holes in my pockets these days.
So no arguments.” No arguments are forthcoming.
“Actually, there’s something I need to tell you both. ”
He can hear himself muttering under his breath, as he looks for hope in the relentlessly starry night, “Though Jesucristo alone knows how.”