The Healing of Broken Souls

Chapter 3

I called the airline straight away and managed to book another business-class seat on my return flight to Valencia the following morning. I explained that Mr Lewis senior had a serious lung disease and asked if he could bring his oxygen bottle on board. Certainly not, the lady told me, pure oxygen was classed as extremely hazardous. But the aircraft carried breathing oxygen in case of a medical emergency.

"Don't worry, Michael," my father said, unfazed. "I can manage without it for a few hours, as long as I don't have to climb any mountains ... or run for a bus. But I'm going to need some in Spain."

"That shouldn't be a problem," I told him. "I've got a friend who owns a dive school. She must have bottled oxygen, or at least know where I can get it."

As soon as we'd nailed down all the details of the trip I told him I was leaving and called the number on a business card the taxi driver had given me. I told him I'd pre-book the same taxi and pick him up at eight the next morning. 

"Don't you want to stay and talk for a while?" he asked.

"No,  we'll have time for all that in Spain. I want to check in at the hotel and take a shower before dinner."

"I can give you dinner," he offered.

"You are giving me dinner. You're paying all my expenses, remember?"

"Fair enough, Michael," he sighed. "If that's the way you want it. I'll see you in the morning."

There were a few minutes of awkward silence until the beep of a car horn outside told me my taxi had arrived.

"Don't forget your passport," I said, ignoring his outstretched hand.

My excuse about the hotel wasn't the real reason I refused to stay and talk. The miniature digital voice recorder I used for capturing random ideas for my writing was voice-activated. I intended to hide it somewhere and record everything my father said. If I could get him to incriminate himself I would have the evidence to take to the authorities. He might not have long to live but, as far as I was concerned, spending his final days handcuffed to a prison hospital bed would be a fitting end.

#

The flight back to Valencia was uneventful and tightlipped. I foiled all attempts at conversation with the excuse that I hadn't slept well at the hotel. As soon as we boarded the aircraft I closed my eyes and pretended to doze for the entire journey. I was irked to miss out on the complimentary business-class drinks but managed to rouse myself for the smoked salmon salad they served for lunch. 

I'd only brought my carry-on, but my father had checked in a small suitcase so, while he waited at the carousel, I went to collect my ancient Land Rover from the short-term parking. When I got back he was waiting outside the terminal and I saw the look on his face when he realized I was the driver of the battered old heap that pulled up in front of him. He was diplomatic enough not to comment on my choice of vehicle, or its condition, which was about as far from pristine as it could get. Half an hour later we were bouncing along the rough cart track that led to my finca.

"Now I know why you have a Land Rover," he remarked, holding on grimly. "An ordinary car wouldn't last five minutes here. But isn't it a bit too remote for ..." 

He trailed off as a thought struck him.

"Michael, I never thought to ask if you're married! For all I know you might have a wife and family at home and I'm imposing myself on you ... in my condition."

"Don't worry," I told him. "There's no wife and kids. I live alone."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. But I sensed a hint of relief in his voice.

Just as he finished speaking we rounded the last bend of the track and he saw for himself why I'd chosen to live where I did.  For a few seconds, he sat and stared in speechless surprise as I parked the Landy.

"Michael! This is beautiful! It's more than beautiful, it's ... magical!"

I'd heard the same reaction from visitors many times before, and I felt the same way. Although my home was classed as a finca, a rustic country house, in reality it had once been a watermill. Built from natural stone and standing on the bank of a small fast-running stream, the crumbling remains of the wooden millwheel still dipped its toes in the water. A mixture of pink and purple bougainvillaea clung to its rough honeyed walls. The plentiful supply of water had created an oasis crowded with wildflowers, shrubs and jacarandas on the stream side of the building. Taller eucalyptus trees and Mediterranean pines towered above them to form a shady woodland glade. It was the antithesis of most people's perception of southern Spain. 

As soon as my father was settled into my spare room I told him I was driving into Valencia to sort out some oxygen and pick up supplies from a supermarket.  It would take about two hours and he could come with me if he wanted.

"I think I've had enough excitement for one day," he said. "I'd rather sit outside with a cup of tea and enjoy the view ... if that's okay with you."

"Of course," I shrugged. "You'll find everything you need in the kitchen. I'll rustle up something to eat when I get back."

"Hang on, Michael. You better take this with you."

He rummaged in his suitcase and brought out his oxygen mask with its tube.

"I need to plug this into the cylinder. I don't know if divers use the same  type of connection."

"I'll make sure it fits," I assured him before I left, knowing that, if I had to, I would find somewhere to buy a new mask and tube. I was determined to keep him alive until I had what I wanted.