Hollow Mountain by Thomas Mogford Page A

a peal of childish laughter. ‘Is that Mrs Grainger?’
    ‘Who is this?’
    ‘Spike Sanguinetti.’
    A long pause. ‘I didn’t give you this number.’
    ‘That’s what I’d like to see you about.’

Chapter Nineteen
    Clinging to the slope above the land border with Spain was the Moorish Castle Estate, a cluster of medium-rise tower blocks rising from the ruins of the oldest part of Gibraltar, a fort built by the Arabs when they’d captured the Rock in ad 711. The castle’s ancient stones intermingling with the cheap, post-war materials of government housing created a curious millennial clash of styles.
    Spike stopped beneath the castle gatehouse. A family of apes were climbing down from the Upper Rock, using its creeper-clad wall as a bridge down into the estate. They moved in single file, two juveniles, a male, a stocky female up front – macaques were a matriarchal society, Spike remembered as he watched the mother turn and bare her fangs, then crouch for her mate to pick a flea from within her grey pelt. One of the juveniles vaulted across a gulf of a thousand years, clattering down onto a recycling bin shelter. It picked up a sun-bleached Walker’s crisp packet, sniffed, then tossed it aside.
    A brick-lined archway led towards the tower blocks. Macmillan House, Tankerville House . . . The nomenclature reminded Spike of cigarette brands: the cheaper the tobacco – Pall Mall, Regal – the grander the name. Patriotic graffiti – ‘ British Forever! ’; ‘ Give Spain No Hope ’ – was scrawled on the retaining wall of a caged football ground, while the kerb was painted in red, white and blue, like a sun-drenched street in West Belfast. A woman in a velour tracksuit stood guard beside a boarded-up Social Club as a child urinated beneath the porch. ‘Swings, Granny,’ the girl demanded. Granny? She looked younger than Spike.
    Spike gave the woman and child a nod, then passed beneath the Tower of Homage, the one part of the castle that was still intact. Not long ago it had housed Gibraltar’s prison: there were tales of inmates escaping, cheerfully observed by residents, who would only grass them up if they had a Spanish look about them. The prison had since been moved to a purpose-built facility on the other side of the Rock; pigeons now nested in the battlements, though its air of incarceration remained, seeping somehow into the surrounding buildings.
    Keightley House formed three sides of a square. Union Jacks and Gibraltar flags were draped from the upper windows, along with the inevitable selection of smalls and Liverpool FC beach towels. Pinned to one wall was a laminated notice from the Tenants Association. Apparently Gibraltar’s Chief Minister was to visit next month to discuss ‘widening the water mains’. ‘ Nob ’, someone had scrawled helpfully by his name.
    Spike pushed open the metal door to Block C. The pigeonholes were swollen with post – however grim the conditions, the fantastically low rent meant that government housing was always oversubscribed. Spike found the box marked ‘Grainger’ and wrestled out a wad of envelopes. Three were stamped ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’, a misleadingly exciting phrase betokening income or council tax bills. A couple of stiff handwritten envelopes were addressed to ‘Amy Grainger’ – condolence cards, probably.
    Flat 7B, the post-box said, so Spike started up the narrow staircase, apparently built for a generation of Gibraltarians expected to be short and undernourished. Two doors opened at the top of each flight, most with a cheap wall tile alongside, some offering welcome, others an image of a favoured saint – Bernard of Clairvaux, Patron Saint of Gibraltar; Our Lady of Fátima, a Portuguese madonna with a penchant for ghostly appearances. An ironing board sat on the third floor, a man’s designer white shirt stretched across it. The front door was of expensive oak; Spike had heard rumours of cigarette smugglers living on the estate