The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  The bar was small. He saw a small stage with an ancient microphone on an upright stand, a few cheap tables and chairs around the stage. At the base of the stage, a worn-out piano. Two dull-eyed gypsies were sitting on stools in a corner, their guitars propped against the wall. Both were dead drunk.

  ‘Quite a place you’ve got here,’ Guzmán said.

  The barman stared at him with bloodshot eyes. He stayed awake only long enough to serve him and then laid his head on his folded arms and slept. Guzmán went and sat by the window to avoid the barman’s troubled snores.

  He glanced at the gypsies from time to time, resisting an urge to go over and pick a fight with them. Bored, he looked out into the darkness, thinking once more about the change the election would bring. It was not a comfortable experience.

  He had always opposed change. When something worked, it was best not to go against it. For a long time he’d thought that of Franco’s regime, although it was stretching the truth to say it worked. It had worked for some: mostly for Franco, and then in lesser degrees for a whole pyramid of subordinates, not least Guzmán, though deep down, he had always suspected the dictatorship might eventually crumble under the weight of its own hypocrisy and incompetence.

  Despite that, he had also hoped the dictatorship would last for his lifetime. That would have been most convenient. But the dour structure Franco built had already been fatally eroded over the years, not by armed resistance or guerrilla warfare but by foreign music and films, men with long hair and women wearing bikinis on the beach. People no longer defined themselves in terms of which side their fathers fought on in the war, but looked further afield to other countries, craving the freedom and democracy that had eluded Spain for so long.

  Despite Guzmán’s scorn for the regime, it had been good to him. It had given him the opportunity to learn during his long years at Calle Robles. Beneath that old police station, the dungeons of the Inquisition hid secrets in its dark recesses unknown even to Franco’s spies. Guzmán had visited that darkness and, on occasion, had asked for its help and received it, though he also learned that if a man asked for such help and his call was answered, afterwards, the darkness remained with him. For some, that was a curse. For Guzmán, it had been a blessing because it gave him power, an invaluable currency in a country where those who lacked it went hungry.

  But things were about to change. And the change would begin around six thirty. While Ochoa and the squad were in Toledo, delivering the files, Guzmán would meet Lourdes at the station and board a train heading south, leaving the city and its shadows behind, where they belonged.

  He got to his feet, glowering at the two musicians as he went outside. When he looked up at the church clock, he realised he would have an entire day to pass before he met Lourdes. A whole day staying out of trouble. Naturally, there were art galleries and museums, where he could lose himself among the crowds of tourists. But he hated such places with a passion and the people who visited them even more. He needed to give the matter more thought. Before he could do that, he paused, sniffing the morning air. A pleasing odour, the smell of frying. Someone was cooking churros.

  Suddenly cheered, he let his nose guide him along a dark cobbled alley. At the far end he saw a stall outside a café. A man was placing the lines of batter into deep, hot fat and then covering them with sugar and salt when they were done. Unable to resist, Guzmán bought a bag. They tasted of salt and fat and sugar and the hot batter burned his mouth as he ate them in big, greedy mouthfuls.

  Lost in memory, he strolled, munching happily as he peered into shop windows, savouring the sweet-salt batter. Some people cooked churros just right and when they did, there was nothing finer on a cold night. Or any other night, come to think of it.

  His thoughts were interrupted as he saw a flickering light in the window of a shop a few doors away. Indolent with churros, he went over, wondering what kind of shop opened at four thirty in the morning as he stared in through the smeared glass. The window was almost empty, but for a shelf covered with a piece of ragged velvet. On the shelf, a small lantern burned alongside a glass ball with a handwritten card next to it:

  Juanita, Genuine Gypsy from Cadiz

  – Fortunes told – Tarot and palm readings – Love potions

  – Husbands and Wives found – Luck restored.

  Exorcisms by appointment only.

  No refunds.

  Guzmán finished the last churro and tossed the paper bag into the gutter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and entered the shop. The room was small and draped with dark cloths embroidered with the moon and the stars in silver thread. The thick smell of paraffin from a lantern gave the room a ghastly pallor. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw a woman sitting in the shadows. He was expecting a wizened crone, but this gypsy was not old. Caught between the shadows and the vacillating lamplight, her face had the terrible beauty of a classical statue.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Her voice was deep and rasping. Too many cigarettes and too much singing, he imagined.

  ‘I’d like my palm read,’ Guzmán said, still smacking his lips from the churros.

  ‘You’ve been here before.’ A statement, not a question.

  ‘I have. But I didn’t see you.’

  ‘Who knows who they talk to when they consult a gypsy?’

  ‘I do,’ Guzmán said belligerently. ‘The one I saw was about ninety. You aren’t.’

  She tossed her long hair from her face. ‘Appearances are deceptive.’

  ‘Gypsies are deceptive,’ Guzmán growled. ‘Just read my palm and cut this nonsense.’

  ‘Come nearer, I don’t bite.’

  He pulled his chair towards her, savouring her perfume. An odour of smoke and roses. A fragrance he always associated with gypsies, though invariably dead ones.

  ‘So, what is it? Unlucky in love?’ The woman took his hand in hers, tracing the lines on his palm with her nail.

  ‘Bad things are happening,’ he said. ‘I want to know how they’ll turn out.’

  The gypsy sighed. ‘Don’t we all.’ She bent closer. ‘I see a woman. Is there a woman in your life?’

  ‘That possibility exists,’ Guzmán said, deciding to make her work for her money.

  ‘I see her clearly, dark hair and big brown eyes.’ She looked up at him. ‘There’s an air of sorrow hanging over her.’

  ‘She’s been unhappy,’ he agreed. ‘But things are getting better.’

  ‘You’re wrong. There’s no happiness for her, not with you.’

  Guzmán glowered, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Why not?’

  She frowned. ‘No matter how hard she tries, she can’t find you.’

  He pulled his hand away. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? She knows exactly where to find me.’

  ‘Soon she will. But that’s when her torment will really begin. You can’t save her.’

  He felt the gypsy’s hand grow cold. When he glanced at her face, her eyes shone with a strange light. ‘Can you see her?’

  ‘I can hear her talking, she’s frightened.’ She put her hands to her ears, as if in pain. ‘Can’t you hear them?’

  He shook his head. ‘What’s she saying?’

  The gypsy’s eyes rolled back in their sockets and her mouth sagged open. Then she spoke, though the voice he heard was not hers. ‘Please, don’t let me burn.’

  ‘You’re making this up.’ Guzmán jumped to his feet. ‘This is the last time I visit a gypsy.’ He threw a hundred-peseta note onto the table and stamped out into the street.

  The gypsy stayed at the table, watching the lamplight play over the walls as his footsteps faded away down the road.

  ‘You’re right about that,’ she said.

  MADRID, 28 OCTOBER 1982, CALLE DE PEDRO UNANUE, LAVADERO EXPRÉS

  Guzmán found a café a few doors away from the laundry and ordered coffee. The day was getting warm and he took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his seat. Sitting at the end of the counter, if he leaned slightl
y, he could see Lourdes, a vague shape through the misted glass of the laundry.

  He looked at his watch. It was eight fifteen. Ochoa was probably getting ready to brief the men about now. He doubted Ochoa would do it as well as him, though he would try. He was always fucking trying.

  ‘Leo?’

  He looked up from his thoughts.

  Lourdes was wearing a plain brown overall, her face glistened from the heat of the laundry. ‘I can’t stay,’ she whispered, taking the seat next to him. ‘We’re so busy, it’s crazy in there.’

  ‘At least have a coffee.’ Guzmán looked round for the barman. ‘He must be in the kitchen, I’ll get him.’

  She started to say something but he was already marching down the bar towards the kitchen. She heard the tinny sound of a transistor radio as he opened the door and shouted to them to bring a coffee, at once. She tensed. If she was going to do this, she had better do it now. Quickly, she took an envelope from her overall and put it into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Lazy bastard,’ Guzmán growled when he came back. ‘He’s making it now.’

  ‘I can’t stay, Leo. I’d better get back or the laundry won’t be ready for delivery.’

  ‘So, six thirty at Atocha Station, then?’

  ‘Yes.’ She hurried away.

  The barman brought the coffee and Guzmán drank it, thinking about Lourdes. She was a hard worker, that woman. She cared about her work, that was very clear. Christ, she’d been so worried about getting the laundry ready for delivery she was shaking like a leaf.

  He finished the coffee and slapped a few coins on the bar.

  Outside, he set off at a brisk pace only to slow as he realised he still had nine hours to kill until he met her at the station. He thought about that for a moment. Then he sighed and went back in the other direction in search of a cab.

  A man could always find something to do if he put his mind to it.

  CHAPTER 28

  MADRID 2010, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

  A street silent in darkness. Deep nuanced shadow broken by pallid street lights. Music and laughter from a nearby bar. The sinister outline of the comisaría, dark and threatening, its detail lost in night shadow. Across the road, a parked car. Inside, two women arguing in furtive whispers.

  ‘Just who are you going to give that USB stick to?’ Isabel asked.

  Galíndez sighed. ‘I think I should hand it over to the CNI.’

  ‘You think the Centinelas don’t have contacts in the Secret Service?’

  ‘I don’t know. But the CNI are our only hope unless we go on the run.’ She tried to smile. ‘Like Thelma and Louise in that movie, remember?’

  ‘Yes, and look what happened to them,’ Isabel muttered. ‘Look, let’s go in, get the files and leave. After that, you call the CNI and we take the files straight to them.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Galíndez paused. ‘There’s something I want to say to you.’

  ‘OK.’ Isabel shrugged. ‘Go ahead.’

  Galíndez took a deep breath and then drew the Glock to check the action. ‘I’ll tell you later, let’s get this over with first.’

  As Isabel climbed out of the car, she saw Galíndez reach into the back and take out a carry case. ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘My camera,’ Galíndez said. ‘I want to get a few pictures of this Western Vault.’

  They hurried across the cobbled street to the dark bulk of the comisaría.

  Above the doorway was an old sign bearing the faded colours of the flag and the words Policía Armada. Fixed to the doors was a more recent notice:

  POLICÍA NACIONAL

  DANGEROUS BUILDING

  PERMANENTLY CLOSED

  KEEP OUT

  ‘They’ve put a padlock and chain on the door,’ Isabel whispered. ‘We’ll never get in.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Galíndez put down her bag and took out a hefty-looking bolt cutter. Moments later, the chain and the heavy padlock clattered onto the step. She gestured to the door. ‘After you, Señorita Morente.’

  Isabel put a hand on the door and pushed. The door swung inwards and she stepped inside, aiming her flashlight into the darkness. Galíndez stood next to her, watching as the brilliant beams revealed the reception hall in all its grim detail.

  She saw the faded map on the wall, the ancient desk at the far end of the lobby. Beyond that, a pair of swing doors that opened into the narrow corridor where Guzmán’s office was located. ‘This way,’ she muttered, heading for the swing doors.

  Over a year had passed since she was last in this hideous old building. Now, in the narrow claustrophobic passageway, that visit seemed much more recent.

  As they passed Guzmán’s office, she looked away, unable to bring herself to look. Then curiosity overcame her and she stared into the wreckage of Guzmán’s lair.

  Little remained intact. The doorway was now a ragged, gaping hole. Inside, she saw piles of shattered bricks, wooden slats nailed haphazardly over a space where the window had once been. The floor was littered with pieces of charred furniture and splintered joists dangling precariously from the sagging ceiling. Galíndez turned away, suddenly uncomfortable. There were too many memories here.

  They moved on past the ruined mess room and down a short flight of stairs into the low, arched passageway where the masters of the comisaría once kept their prisoners. On either side of the passage were cells, the doors open, their damp walls twinkling green under the beam of the torches.

  ‘We found a name scratched on the wall of one of these cells,’ Galíndez whispered, unable to bring herself to speak louder. ‘A woman called Alicia Martinez.’

  ‘Who was she?’ Isabel asked.

  ‘One of Guzmán’s prisoners, I guess, brought here to be tortured or killed.’ She shone the flashlight upwards, lighting up the low stone ceiling. ‘See those carvings?’

  Isabel’s eyes followed the beam. ‘Holy Mother of God.’

  The lintel swarmed with carvings. Small, delicate, time-worn filigrees of menace and hate: bodies being torn apart, impalings, hangings, corpses with no heads, skulls with eyes being gouged out. Spectacular, impossibly violent rape, insanely bloody slaughter.

  ‘I’m surprised you could bear to come back here, Ana.’

  Galíndez attempted a smile. ‘So am I.’

  At the end of the corridor, they stopped to examine the ancient iron-banded door.

  ‘This is impossible,’ Galíndez said. ‘I saw photographs that were taken after the explosion. This door was badly damaged.’

  ‘They must have put in a new one,’ Isabel said. ‘To keep trespassers out, maybe?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Galíndez knelt and ran a hand over the thick iron bands. ‘Look at this lock, there’s no key: I’m not sure we’ll be able to get in.’ Angrily, she hit the door with her hand, and stared as it swung open.

  ‘That’s odd,’ Isabel whispered, staring into the darkness.

  ‘Isn’t it just?’ Galíndez raised the torch, illuminating a small stone balcony inside the door. At one side of the balcony, a stone spiral staircase twisted down into the shadows.

  Galíndez moved to the top of the staircase and shone the flashlight down over the stone steps, seeing only darkness beyond the limits of the pale beam. Cold dank air rose from below as they made their way down the stairs. She felt a sudden momentary vertigo and put a hand against the wall to steady herself, feeling smooth, damp stone, worn by centuries of dripping water. Below, in the darkness, she heard soft whispers.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Isabel said, aware of Galíndez’s silence.

  ‘I’m fine.’ A lie was always more comforting than truth.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Galíndez pointed out the great arched ceiling above them, ribbed and skeletal like some underground church. Isabel gasped as she saw carvings leering out from the stonework, depicting the slaughter and savagery of some hellish massacre. It was easy to see the antiquity of these malevolent runes, the stone so worn by time it seemed almost transparent
in the beam of the light. Above the carvings, a single sentence in large letters following the curve of the roof.

  VERITAS PER POENA

  ‘What does that say?’ Isabel asked. ‘I never studied Latin.’

  ‘The truth through pain.’ Galíndez frowned as she heard a sound in the distance. ‘Can you hear that? It sounds like a river.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ Isabel said. ‘There are no rivers near this place.’

  Galíndez took another look at the parchment map. ‘There should be a doorway somewhere here.’ She played the light over the stone wall. ‘There it is.’

  They were forced to stoop as they went through the opening into a narrow, rough-hewn tunnel. The sound of water grew louder, almost overpowering their voices as the tunnel opened onto a patch of damp rock.

  ‘Jesus Christ, what the hell is this place?’ Isabel shouted, moving towards the edge of the path to get a better look.

  Galíndez pulled her back. ‘Be careful, Izzy.’ She pointed the flashlight in the direction Isabel had been heading. A metre below, a torrent of dark water cascaded from a crevice in the sheer stone wall to their right, surging past in a great muscular tide before thundering into a rocky chasm further downstream.

  ‘Where the hell does that come from?’ Galíndez said.

  ‘And where does it go?’ Isabel wiped spray from her face. ‘It’s not on any map of Madrid I’ve ever seen.’

  They followed the path to a small chamber carved out of the rock. The inside of the chamber resembled a small chapel, like those of country monasteries. Crudely cut stone ledges lined the walls and Galíndez stopped, intrigued as she shone the torch over a carefully arranged line of objects, furred with cobwebs and dust. ‘Wristwatches,’ she said, examining them.

  ‘What was that?’ Isabel’s voice was strained. ‘Jesus, I hope it’s not rats.’

  ‘You know, it’s strange,’ Galíndez said. ‘I haven’t seen one rat yet. You’d think there’d be lots.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be here if there were,’ Isabel muttered.

  Galíndez heard something snap beneath her feet, dry and brittle. She shone the flashlight onto the ground. ‘Jesus, look at this. These are human bones.’ She stooped to look closer and whistled in surprise. ‘It looks like someone was torn apart.’