Sins of the Fathers

Welcome to our regular feature showcasing the talents of the nation’s best writers.

Andrea Suaráz Morán did not like the way the guy at the corner table was looking at her. She carefully set down the tapas he had ordered – sardinas a la plancha, pinchos morunos, albóndigas, chorizo en vino – and a bottle of San Miguel – and headed back to the safety of the bar.

“¿Piensas que ese tío parece un poco raro o solo es mi imaginación?” she asked José as she wiped the tray and slipped it back with the others.

“Hey, speak English, chica” he said. “That’s what we’re here for.”

She rolled her eyes but knew he was right. Her English had improved enormously in the six weeks she’d been in Edinburgh but it still needed more mental effort, particularly if she was worried or tired.

“OK,” she tried again. “Do you think that guy is a bit weird or is it just my imagination?”

“It’s not your imagination,” José confirmed, stealing a glance from under thick black brows as he dried a glass. “He comes in twice a week, orders exactly the same, always on his own, never smiles, no tip. Definitely weird.”

“And he only ever speaks Spanish. There’s something familiar about him but I don’t know where from.”

“I’ll mention it to Martin so we keep an eye on him. When do you finish tonight?”

“Ten.”

“Ok. I’m on till eleven. Just wait in the kitchen till I’m done and I’ll see you home.”

“Would you?”

“Sin duda. No hay problema, guapa!” “Hey – speak English dude – that’s what we’re here for!”

She gave him a playful punch on the shoulder and glanced round, laughing. The guy in the corner was watching, not laughing, and that took the smile off her face. n