by Susan Roebuck
Contemporary Suspense
Published by Mundania Press on March 19th, 2015
Time, and most of Portugal, has almost forgotten Luminosa, a small
fishing community on the Alentejo coast. A cluster of white and blue cottages
huddle under the cliffs overshadowed by the great manor of Herdade Albatroz,
whose family has ruled the village since the days of Napoleon. Far off the
tourist route, nobody visits Luminosa by chance.
When a ruthless American racketeer turns up, the peaceful village’s way
of life could be ruined forever. But will other visitors—Piper Pines, seeking
news of her long dead Portuguese mother, and Leo Shine, bereft of a father and
brother accused of terrible crimes—help or hinder his objective to drag
Luminosa into the twenty-first century?
Amazon UK
– Nook
– Omnilit
– Mundania Press
EXCERPT:
Alentejo, Portugal
Leo woke to find the sun on his face. He raised himself onto his
elbow, disorientated. Had he slept too late? He’d kicked off the covers during
the night and was butt naked, his body sweating in the heat. Shouldn’t it be
raining? It always rained in September. The crashing of waves sounded familiar
enough, but where were the other usual sounds: the clanking of the dockside
crane as it dipped and swung from the fishing boats’ holds, the wagons rumbling
towards the canning factory, the glad shouts from crews on the vessels
returning home? Where was the everlasting stink of fish and gasoline? Why did
it smell of freshly baked bread? He scratched his head to free it from the last
clouds of sleep and forced his eyes open wider to look around the cramped room.
Against the wall was his open rucksack with his few spare clothes spewing out
onto the floor.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it wasn’t that late and then it dawned
on him the sun was in a different position, that’s all, because he wasn’t in
his bedroom in the family home on Wharf Street; he was six thousand miles to
the southeast and he’d arrived last night.
****
Leo had wondered during all those hours on the planes if he should
charge in when he arrived in the village like a storm trooper and shake the
first inhabitant he saw until information rattled out of him along with his
teeth. He snorted at the idea. No, he’d play with them like a fish on a line
and then reel ’em in once they took a bite of his enticing bait. And if it
turned out they had played any part, however small, in the Goblin’s sinking
then he, like Luke Skywalker, would be a force to be reckoned with.
But when he did arrive last night, a stocky and very hairy guy asked,
stating, Leo thought, the damned obvious, “Just arrived?” He said his name was
Serafim as he placed a dish of steaming fish stew in front of Leo.
This was a primo. The main one. Serafim was the guy who sent
the Christmas cards and he hadn’t been difficult to find in this one-horse town
since the sign Serafim’s Bar/Café was the first thing Leo spotted on
arrival.
It felt strange, though, finally meeting a relative who wasn’t his
father or brother, and for a moment Leo was tempted to wonder if he could get
away with introducing himself. Nah—bad idea. Hadn’t he already decided the best
action was to keep schtum? Anyway he was too hungry and he eyed a fragrant dish
brimming with clams, white fish fillets, golden potatoes, and chorizo sausage
with almost the first feeling of pleasure he’d known since March.
Leo chewed on a briny clam and eyed possibly more of his relatives: a
handful of fisherman who arrived, creating a buzz of too many voices so the air
was thick with sounds and a fishy odor that didn’t come from his plate. They
didn’t look much different to the hard-lined, weathered fishermen he’d lived
and worked with all his life, sitting at the scuffed bar on bar stools that had
been broken several times and patched up, their shirts stained with fish blood.
Except money wasn’t flowing like it would where Leo came from. In the dingy
Halcyon Bar back home there would be a constant ringing of a bell when guys had
had a big catch and a bunch of money to spend on buying rounds. Here they
hugged their one beer, chewed what looked like flat yellow beans and spat the
transparent skins out onto a saucer.
Still, their leathery faces looked cheerful enough and they’d given
him a wave or two as they passed, even though they couldn’t have a clue who he
was. Course, they might all be dimwits. His father had once referred to the primos
as “all inter-married and crazy as Crackerjacks. Won’t change a thing in
the village, it’s like walking into a time slip and going back a hundred
years.”
When it came time for Leo to ask about renting a room, Serafim told
him there was one above the café and didn’t even ask his name.
****
This morning, Leo clambered down the wooden staircase and opened the
door that was the inside entrance to the café. The only things he desired right
now were freshly baked bread and a coffee.
The café was empty except for a plump woman holding a straw basket,
her ankles so swollen they rose over her shoes and spilled down the side like
beer foaming over a glass. She turned as Leo came in, saying, “Good morning,”
and her weathered face creased into a brown-tooth filled smile. “Welcome. I do
hope you have a very pleasant stay.”
His mind tumbled in confusion. Where did these people learn their
English? It wasn’t like everyone in the country spoke fluently. The cab driver
last night had stumbled and tottered over his words several times before he’d
managed to convey to Leo he’d have to drop him at the top of the hill that led
down to the village because he didn’t think his cab would get down the narrow
street.
Unaffected by Leo’s lack of response, the woman continued, “Would you
like a coffee the likes of which you’ve never had before? Just the way Serafim
knows how to make it, thick, strong and short—a bit like Serafim himself, but
not so hairy.” The woman gargled what could’ve been a chuckle. “One and a half cups
and you’ll be buzzing.”
“Sounds good to me,” Leo said as she threw a final laugh in Serafim’s
direction before she placed what looked like jars of honey on the counter and
then clattered through the chain curtain hanging at the door.
Leo turned to his primo behind the counter. Primo. God
dammit, families were people you had feelings for and the only people he cared
about had been wiped out by a rogue wave. In any case, Leo didn’t think Serafim
and he resembled each other in any way.
“Bica I presume?” Serafim asked, offering the tiny steaming
cup of coffee with an elaborate bow.
In the fug of ground coffee-beans, tobacco, stale beer and wine, Leo
held the tiny cup of thick brown liquid to his nose, inhaling deeply before
adding three packets of sugar. The coffee began to work its magic, bringing a
warm glow to his insides on a par with a gulp of brandy.
“We aim to please,” Serafim said, obviously reading Leo’s expression
correctly.
The guy had attitude and Leo had to admit he liked it. Serafim wasn’t
morose, nor a meathead, and probably neither were the guys in the bar last
night because after Leo had turned in, he heard a coarse-voiced chorus from
down- stairs which had lulled him off to sleep. “You speak good English,” Leo
said.
“Practice, that’s all,” Serafim said, handing over a warm roll with
butter and jelly that, he told him was, “all homemade. If you want any ask
Rosa, she’s my sister and the one who just left.”
So he’d just met another primo, had he? Rosa? Shame, he’d
kinda liked her.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Sue Roebuck was born and
educated in the UK but she now lives in Portugal with her Portuguese husband.
She has taught at various colleges and institutions in Portugal and her
interest in dyslexia started with a discussion over lunch with a colleague and friend.
Nowadays Sue’s mostly occupied by e-learning courses which, when no cameras are
used, are also known as “teaching in your pajamas”. But, given a choice,
writing would be her full-time occupation. Working from home presents no
problem for her since her office window overlooks the glittering point where
the Tagus River meets the Atlantic Ocean. The huge container ships, tankers and
cruise liners which are constantly on their way in or out of Lisbon harbor are
a great source of inspiration (or distraction). She has traveled widely through
The States and believes that “being born American is like winning the lottery
of life”. If she could live anywhere, she’d live in the Catskills in Upstate
New York.
INTERNATIONAL
GIVEAWAY
GRAND PRIZE:
RUNNER-UPS:
E-copy of Perfect Score
E-copy of Heway Hall
%20by%20Willow%20Thorne.jpg)
