The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  Daniela nodded. ‘He’s a friend.’

  Ricci frowned. ‘Better pick your friends carefully if you want to keep your job.’

  ‘I didn’t know she worked here,’ Guzmán said. ‘Leave her out of it.’

  ‘Please don’t make any trouble,’ Daniela whispered.

  ‘Yeah, don’t make any trouble,’ Ricci echoed, ‘or she’s fired.’ He nodded to the three men. ‘Show him the door.’

  The fat man reached for Guzmán’s arm. Guzmán gave him a dark look that made him step back. ‘I’m going,’ Guzmán muttered.

  The three goons escorted him through the swaying bodies on the dance floor. At the front door, the big bruiser with the prison tan pushed him towards the stairs. ‘Better not come back, amigo, looks like the boss took a dislike to you.’

  Guzmán wiped sweat from his forehead. He heard a voice in his head calling for blood. The knife was still in his belt, easily available. The only difficult part of slaughtering these three sons of whores would be deciding who was to die first. As he planted himself in front of them, he had a vision of Daniela in her gaudy top and silver hot pants. Her father in his wheelchair. She was right: how would she pay the bills? He turned and went down the stairs, burning with humiliation.

  ‘Next time you come here, you might find that little girl dancing in the cage. They all do in the end,’ the Arab called.

  Their mocking laughter followed him down the street. When he reached the pensión, the lights were still on in Garcia’s grocery and he went in to buy a bottle of Carlos Primero.

  Guzmán let himself into the pensión. As he passed the reception desk, a cracked voice came from behind the glass bead curtain. ‘Is that you, Señor Ramirez? Can you give me a hand?’

  Guzmán pushed though the strings of glass beads into the windowless room. Señor Argüello was slumped in his wheelchair near the table.

  ‘Dani left me some sandwiches,’ Argüello whined, ‘but I dropped them. See over there, under the table? I can’t reach them.’

  Guzmán bent to retrieve the package from under the table and gave it to Argüello.

  ‘Thanks, I haven’t eaten all day,’ Argüello said, unwrapping the sandwiches with shaking hands. ‘Want one?’

  ‘You need them more than me,’ Guzmán said. ‘Although, there’s a lot there for just one man. What are they?’

  ‘Chorizo and peppers,’ Señor Argüello mumbled, his mouth full. ‘Have one, you’d be doing me a favour, I’ll never eat all these.’

  ‘As a favour then.’ Guzmán picked a sandwich from the pile and took a large bite, suddenly hungry. ‘This is really good.’ He held out the bottle. ‘You want a brandy to wash down your supper? It’s good stuff.’

  Argüello nodded. ‘Just a drop, I can’t handle it like I used to.’

  Guzmán poured him a generous glassful. ‘This will help you sleep.’

  ‘So you fought for Franco?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Nothing. What does it matter now?’ The old man shrugged. ‘If I ever mention the war, Daniela tells me it’s over and to forget about it.’

  ‘Hard to forget something like that, no matter which side you were on.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Argüello nodded. ‘I always say the war won’t be over until people like you and me are dead and buried.’

  Guzmán thought about that for a moment. ‘You’re right. They say you fight a war twice: once on the battlefield and once in memory. One day, there’ll be no one left to remember. Then it will be over.’

  ‘Sad though, isn’t it?’

  Guzmán finished his brandy in one long swallow. ‘Everything’s sad if you think about it for long enough.’

  Argüello looked up as the outside door opened and slammed. ‘That’ll be Daniela,’ he said. ‘She often works late at that college.’

  ‘I want a word with her.’ Guzmán got to his feet. ‘Thanks for the sandwich.’ He pushed his way through the curtain of glass beads. Daniela was standing by the reception desk, wearing a coat to cover her glittering outfit. ‘Don’t start.’ A tired voice.

  ‘Come up to my room,’ Guzmán said. It was not a request.

  In his room, he switched on the cadaverous light and then took a seat by the window. Daniela sat on the edge of the bed. She looked exhausted.

  ‘I didn’t tell your father about the club,’ Guzmán said. ‘He doesn’t need shocks like that in his condition.’

  She glared. ‘Why did you have to annoy Señor Ricci? I could have been fired.’

  ‘You’re not doing a college course, are you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Someone has to pay the bills. After Mamá died, I had to make a choice: find work or put my father in a home.’

  ‘You know how Ricci makes a living, do you?’

  ‘I know. But he’s never suggested anything improper to me.’

  ‘He will,’ Guzmán said. ‘He’s just waiting for the right moment.’

  ‘I’ll deal with that when it happens.’ She got up and went to the door.

  Guzmán poured a finger of brandy into the glass on the nightstand. ‘You can’t handle someone like Ricci. You’re out of your depth.’

  ‘That’s my business. You don’t have to worry about me.’ The door closed behind her.

  He listened to the sharp clack of her heels as she went down the hall, the sound abruptly silenced as she went into her room. He lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, noticing the dark stains and cracks in the plaster. Suddenly, a small patch of light appeared. At first, it seemed to be a reflection from the street outside. But as he watched, the light began to expand, forming a series of concentric circles, turning slowly above him, shimmering and imprecise.

  It was the view of a drowning man, the circles turning faster as they rose through the darkness towards the surface and the light. But it was not the circles that were rising, he realised. He was sinking into the darkness.

  He sat up with a jolt. His mouth was dry. Too much brandy or perhaps not enough. He reached over for the bottle on the nightstand and poured another drink. It had been a long time since those lights had appeared to him. Perhaps it was an omen.

  If it was, it was not a good one.

  CHAPTER 14

  MADRID 2010, CALLE ESPINO

  Lavapiés was buzzing. Galíndez left her car at the end of Calle Tribulete and made her way through the bustling crowds of tourists, declining offers of dope from the dealers lounging outside the bars and cafés. After a few minutes, she turned into a familiar cul-de-sac of residential buildings punctuated by a few commercial premises. At the far end was a nondescript bar, the door flanked by heavily barred windows.

  It had been a while, but the sign over the door was still the same:

  CUERO Y ACERO

  CLUB SADOMASOQUISTA SOLO PARA MUJERES

  LEATHER AND STEEL, LADIES’ S&M CLUB

  HERE ONE SPEAK ENGLISH

  DRINKS AND FOOD AVAILABLE

  WE’LL TAKE YOUR CREDIT CARDS

  As she went downstairs into the cool shadows of the bar, Galíndez felt the same edgy vibe she’d experienced when she came here as a student. The bar was pretty much the same: a sprawl of leather sofas and chairs, low tables, the lingering smell of last night’s cigarettes. On the far wall was a zinc-topped bar and behind it, towering shelves filled with exotic-looking bottles. Afternoon was always a quiet time and the place was empty. She slid onto one of the high stools at the bar. The barwoman came out from the kitchen at the back, drying her hands on her jeans.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  Galíndez shrugged. ‘Mineral water.’

  ‘We don’t serve soft drinks on their own. It’s a house rule.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since we introduced it. You want a drink or not?’

  ‘Give me a vodka and tonic.’

  ‘Any particular kind?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Schweppes. Whatever.’

  ‘I meant what kind of vodka, chiquita.’

  ‘
A big one.’

  The barwoman picked up a large glass and rattled ice into it. ‘Great,’ she muttered, half filling the glass with vodka and splashing in a few drops of tonic, ‘amateur hour.’ She put the glass on the bar and pushed it towards Galíndez. ‘Knock yourself out.’

  Galíndez waited for her to go before taking a drink. The vodka was cold and refreshing. And very strong. She put the glass down. Tempting though it was, she wasn’t here to enjoy herself.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Galíndez called.

  The barwoman turned, annoyed at having to interact with a customer.

  ‘Is Ramona working today?’

  A sudden, knowing grin. ‘I thought I’d seen you before.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘If you say so, doll. So what do you want with Ramona?’

  ‘I just want to talk to her.’

  ‘She’ll talk to you all right. Cost you fifty euros though – and that’s just for starters.’

  ‘Is she here?’

  The barwoman leaned her elbows on the bar and looked at Galíndez, hard. ‘You’re not our usual type of customer. Not on a dare, are you? Seeing how the other half live?’

  ‘I just want a quiet drink and a quick word with Ramona.’

  ‘You want to be careful, darling.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because people who come here don’t usually just want a quiet drink. You saw the sign over the door. We have dungeons downstairs.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh yeah? How?’

  Galíndez took a long drink before answering. ‘That’s my business.’

  A shadow fell over her shoulder. She sensed someone standing behind her. A deep, threatening voice. ‘Was that you I heard asking for me, sweetheart?’

  Galíndez twisted round on the stool. Ramona was big and tall. Spiked hair flecked with day-glo streaks, broad shoulders under her studded leather jacket. No wonder she’d married Sancho: she had a similar build.

  ‘Are you Ramona?’

  ‘I can be who you like, darling. It all costs, though.’

  ‘That’s not a problem.’ Galíndez shrugged.

  Ramona put a finger under Galíndez’s chin and lifted her face roughly. ‘You look like a stroppy little thing to me, kid.’

  Galíndez stared back. ‘I have my moments.’

  ‘Yeah? You sound like a bad girl.’ Ramona smiled. ‘Come on.’ She took Galíndez by the arm and led her downstairs into a small passage. On either side were fake medieval doors set with metal studs. Ramona shoved open the nearest door and pushed Galíndez inside. She flicked a not-so-medieval light switch, filling the cell with a dull red glow.

  Galíndez glanced at her surroundings. One wall was taken up by a collection of whips and scourges. On the far wall, she saw wrist and ankle irons attached to the wall by chains.

  Ramona pointed to a large wooden stake fitted with a crosspiece, handcuffs dangling from each end. ‘Sixteenth-century whipping post,’ she said proudly. ‘At least that’s what it said in the catalogue. Very popular.’

  ‘I just want to talk to you,’ Galíndez said.

  ‘You’ll talk all right, babe,’ Ramona said, pushing her towards the wooden post. ‘You can tell me what a naughty girl you’ve been.’ She yanked one of Galíndez’s hands up to the nearest cuff and tried to close it around her wrist. ‘Do you want to get undressed first?’

  ‘No, I want you to stop,’ Galíndez said, struggling to keep her from fastening the cuff.

  ‘You’ve done this before,’ Ramona chuckled as the cuff snapped shut. ‘Don’t be coy, sweetie. Those marks on your wrists are a dead giveaway. I knew you were the type.’

  She forced Galíndez’s free hand into the cuff on the far side of the crosspiece and closed it. She reached round Galíndez’s waist and tugged at her belt buckle. ‘Want me to gag you as well?’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ Galíndez spluttered, finding it hard to talk with her face pressed against the wooden post. ‘I was tortured a few days ago.’

  ‘And now you want more? I bet I’ll do it better, babe.’

  ‘You’re not listening,’ Galíndez said, struggling against the handcuffs. ‘I was tortured by your husband.’

  The atmosphere changed. And not for the better.

  Ramona let go of her belt and stepped back. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Your husband and another man kidnapped me. They took me to a cellar and gave me electric shocks. For real, I mean.’

  Ramona’s eyes narrowed. ‘So why come here and pretend to be a punter?’

  ‘Because I’m looking for Sancho.’ Galíndez twisted her head to try and make eye contact. ‘I didn’t want anyone to overhear us.’

  Ramona grabbed Galíndez’s hair and jerked her head back. ‘You’ve got a nerve.’ She kept a tight grip on her hair. ‘Why are you looking for him?’

  ‘Look, could you fasten my belt?’ Galíndez said. ‘My jeans are falling down.’

  ‘Tough,’ Ramona said. ‘Tell me why you want Sancho or I’ll flay you. These rooms are soundproofed, by the way, so don’t expect any help.’

  ‘I’m guardia civil,’ Galíndez said hurriedly. ‘Your husband’s involved with a wanted criminal.’

  Ramona scoffed. ‘Know what? I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Sancho could be in danger as well,’ Galíndez said, improvising. ‘If I can nail the man he’s been helping, he’ll be a whole lot safer. It isn’t Sancho I’m after.’

  Ramona went quiet for a moment. ‘Let me see some ID.’

  ‘Look in the pocket of my jeans.’

  Ramona took a few moments before she found her ID card in the pocket of her jeans. Galíndez could almost hear her thinking things through.

  ‘OK.’ Ramona unlocked the cuffs and Galíndez quickly pulled up her jeans.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t say who I was at the start,’ Galíndez said, ‘but I didn’t think you’d trust me.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I can tell you’re worried about Sancho.’

  Ramona was suddenly wary. ‘Like I said, I don’t trust you.’

  ‘All I want is to talk to him for a few minutes. Ask a few questions.’

  ‘It’s not that easy.’

  ‘Do you keep in touch?’

  Ramon gave her a knowing look. ‘You try quoting anything I say, and I’ll deny it. And I’ll tell the guardia why you were here.’

  ‘I’m making an inquiry, that’s all.’

  Ramona shrugged. ‘You’ll be on the CCTV in the bar. Talk your way out of that.’ She laughed as she saw Galíndez anxiously scan the room for cameras. ‘Don’t worry, babe, you’re not on film down here.’

  ‘So how can I contact Sancho?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem complicated. A phone number, an address, that’s all I need.’

  ‘It’s not that easy, sweetheart. I know nothing. Put that in your fucking notebook.’

  ‘Would he talk to me off the record?’

  ‘You’d have to ask him.’

  ‘Look, Sancho could be in danger. If something happens to him, it’s on your head.’

  Ramona’s attitude seemed to soften. ‘Thing is, doll, I’m supposed to report it if anyone tries to contact Sancho.’

  ‘Report to who?’

  Ramona sighed as she took a card from her pocket and handed it to Galíndez. ‘You’d better talk to him yourself.’

  Galíndez stared at the card. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s the one you have to talk to.’

  ‘Then that’s what I’ll do. Thanks for your help.’ Galíndez went to the door.

  ‘Hey.’

  Galíndez turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You help Sancho and I’ll let you have a session in here on the house.’

  Galíndez hurried up the stairs and headed for the door. Behind her, she heard the barwoman laughing.

  Once she was back in the car, she took a couple of painkillers from her
jacket pocket and swallowed them. Then she took another look at the crumpled card Ramona gave her:

  INSPECTOR JEFE ENRIQUE VILLENA JEFATURA SUPERIOR DE LA POLICÍA NACIONAL, AVENIDA DR FEDERICO RUBIO Y GALI

  What interest Chief Inspector Villena had in Sancho, she couldn’t imagine. But she intended to find out. She picked up her phone and dialled National Police Headquarters to ask if Villena was on duty.

  MADRID 2010, JEFATURA SUPERIOR DE LA POLICÍA NACIONAL, AVENIDA DR FEDERICO RUBIO Y GALI

  Galíndez saw the radio mast towering above the complex of red-brick buildings at the top of the hill. She pulled up at the barrier and gave the duty officer her details. Then she waited, drumming her fingers on the wheel while he made a call to reception. Patience was not her strong suit, she was starting to realise.

  ‘Go straight to the car park, señorita. You’ll see the door to reception over there,’ the man said, gesturing towards another featureless part of the building, the dull monotony of its red-brick walls broken by dark glass windows that gave it the appearance of a particularly inhospitable airport hotel.

  She parked and made her way to reception. The receptionist gave her a visitor’s badge and then called to Inspector Villena. ‘He’ll be with you in a few minutes, Dr Galíndez.’

  Villena kept her waiting twenty minutes. By that time Galíndez was pacing up and down the lobby, seething. Finally, Villena arrived, a sharp-faced man with serious acne scars. When Galíndez introduced herself and offered her hand, he ignored it. ‘I don’t have much time,’ he said. ‘Come this way.’

  Glowering, she followed him down a flight of stairs and along a dark narrow corridor. Villena took out a key and opened a door. ‘In here.’

  ‘This is an interview room.’ Galíndez frowned, looking at the spartan furnishings.

  ‘It’s all we’ve got available.’ He slapped a file down on the table and took a seat, facing her. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Are you this rude to all your visitors?’

  He gave her a cold look. ‘Why don’t you let me ask the questions?’

  ‘What the fuck is wrong with you? I want to make a routine request for information and you’re treating me like a suspect. I’ll be making a formal complaint about this.’

  ‘Not for some time you won’t,’ Villena growled. ‘Under anti-terrorist legislation I could detain you here for several days.’