by Jana Petken
“What?” Joseph’s words had suddenly sunk in. His hand began to shake again. “What did you say?”
“I said, kill me and your family dies. Don’t do it, Peter. Kill me and you lose everyone. Roderick Smyth Burton, an old friend of mine from my Paris days, has strict orders to kill your mother, the Spanish bastard she married, and dear old Aunt Marie fucking Osborne if he doesn’t hear from me before a certain time.”
“You’re lying!” Pedro spat, still pointing the gun at Joseph’s head.
Joseph ignored him. “He will shoot them, stab them, or strangle them. I don’t know which, as I left the choice to him. He’s an assassin and a very professional one at that … I’m not a liar, Peter. I know where your whoring mother and the rest of them are holed up: Mayfair. My friend Roddy is watching their every move, just waiting for my instructions.”
Pedro lost his voice. There was so much he wanted to say and do, but he didn’t know how to take all this in. How did Dobbs get out of prison? How did he go undetected all these years? How did he find him, find his parents? He was so tired, tired and filled with dread, but his mind was clearly echoing the words ‘Your family will die’, and those words were what he had to concentrate on. He took a deep breath and said, “What do you want from me, Dobbs?”
Joseph lost his smile. His eyes were now dangerous and threatening. “Well, first off, I want you to put down the fucking gun.”
Pedro took his finger off the trigger, put the safety pin in place and laid it on the ground. He still wanted to kill him, but instead, he said, “I’m listening. You have my attention.”
“Good boy. Now give me the gun.”
Pedro lifted the gun carefully and handed it handle first to Joseph. If Dobbs had wanted him dead he would have killed him by now, he thought.
“Dobbs, just say what you came here to say,” Pedro said in a dead voice.
“No orders, boy! You are on my time now,” Joseph told him.
Pedro nodded, and Joseph threw him a victorious toss of his head.
“I want revenge for all the dirty tricks your family played on me and for the time I nearly rotted in a prison cell while your mother was fucking a Spaniard! I want back the life I could have had, the life that was stolen from me by your mother’s co-conspirators, and most of all, I want to see your mother suffer! That’s what I fucking want.”
Pedro now saw first-hand the evil brute that his mother had married, and at that moment, he thought about beating the life out of him. Instead, he remained tight-lipped.
“You know, I was going to kill you, Peter, but then I wondered what good that would do. You’d just be another dead soldier on a battlefield. Your mother would whine for you, but she wouldn’t know that it was me that did it, and I’d just end up as poor as I am now. Where’s the fun in that?”
Pedro had his wits about him now, and his initial shock had now turned to calculated anger. “And this revenge you’re looking for – how do you intend to get it?”
“Money, I want money, a lot of it, and you’re going to get it for me. Call it compensation.”
Pedro laughed sarcastically, not surprised that it was all coming down to money. “We’re on a battlefield. I don’t see any banks, do you?” he said, patronising Joseph. “Anyway, why should I give you anything? What have you ever given me?”
“I am your fucking Father. I gave you life; that’s what I gave you. So here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to write a letter for me, and I’m going to read it. I will then give it to the next supply convoy that’s heading to London. In that letter, you’re going to tell your mother to put funds in an envelope for you, enough to pay for my way out of here in the easiest and safest way possible. Then you’re going to tell Celia to open an account in the Banque de France in Paris, under the name of Harry Miller. Fifty thousand pounds should be enough to begin with. When you get the money here, you’ll give it to me, all of it, and then when the rest is in the account and it’s confirmed that it’s there, I’ll get out of this shit hole and get to the nearest fucking border. You’ll never see me or hear from me again, and in return, I promise to leave your mother and the rest of your family alone. This is what I want, and this is what I’m going to get.”
Pedro’s first thought was that the idea was ridiculous. He wouldn’t do it – of course he wouldn’t – but he wondered what would happen if he said that.
“And if I don’t do as you ask?” Pedro said.
A condescending smirk settled on Joseph’s face. “Have you not been listening, boy? I know where your mother is, so if I were you, I’d nod my head just about now and tell me you’re agreed to the terms.”
“I don’t take kindly to threats, Dobbs, especially when it comes to my family.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck whether you like or dislike threats,” Joseph flung back. “Anyway, this is not a threat. It’s a promise. I told you, my friend Roddy has his orders from me, and he owes me his life! He knows where your mother lives, knows the street, the house number, and like I said, if I don’t get back to him either in writing or in person within six months to cancel that order, he will do it. Roddy can be a bad bastard when he wants to be. I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of him so don’t fuck with me, Peter. Don’t threaten me and don’t try to pull one over on me. I’m a very lucky man, always have been, and I always win.”
Pedro felt physically sick. He had to think about this with a cool head and hold himself together. Dobbs might be bluffing, but what if he wasn’t? He’d killed before.
“We’re in a war zone, in case you haven’t noticed. It could take weeks, months even, for a letter to get through, and what if I get killed? What then?”
“Make sure you don’t. Your family’s lives depend on you staying alive and getting me that money.”
“And what am I supposed to tell my mother? She’s not stupid. She’ll want to know why I want money for this, this Harry Miller.”
“Don’t worry about that. She was probably the most stupid woman I’ve ever been with. I doubt if anything has changed.” Joseph laughed.
Pedro lost his strength to fight. He was exhausted, scared, and in the midst of a war that had ripped his insides out. He stared stupidly at Joseph’s victorious smirk and was unable to comprehend the situation he found himself in.
“What if you get killed?” he asked Joseph.
“Peter, I better not get so much as a flesh wound or a sniffling nose, for your sake as well as mine. You need to look after your old man now, make sure nothing untoward happens to me, because if I don’t get back to Roddy, you know what will happen.”
Peter was defeated. The war had just taken a turn for the worse, if that was even possible:
“How did you find me?”
“I told you, Peter. I’m a very lucky man. I take gambles, and I usually win.”
Pedro watched the sun come up and swore under his breath. He hadn’t slept a wink, his body ached, and he had never been so frightened. He finished off the water in the flask and began tying his boots, only stopping when he couldn’t control his trembling fingers. He stopped everything, sat with his back against the dirt wall on the cold, damp ground, and closed his eyes. He had to think. He couldn’t march and fight the enemy with Joseph Dobbs and his family on his mind. He at least had to come up with some kind of plan before the orders to move out came through.
Joseph Dobbs had blown him up into tiny pieces; the enemy could not have done a better job! He didn’t care if he died this day, that was the least of his worries, but the thought of Joseph Dobbs getting his hands on his family was something he didn’t dare think about. Had his mother, his great aunt, and his father lied to him all these years? If so, why? He had seen his mother’s reaction through the years. Every time he’d asked about Joseph Dobbs, she had been open and precise with the information. She had even read excerpts aloud from her journals about the pain and then finally the relief on hearing about his execution. So if his mother didn’t know he was still alive, who did?
And was Joseph Dobbs lying about the man Roderick? he wondered. It was possible that the man didn’t even exist, but what if he did?
Pedro heard the call to arms and finished tying his boots. The dilemma that faced him was twofold now: His mother not knowing that Joseph Dobbs was alive was probably a good thing. But if he knew anything about Joseph Dobbs, it was that he would not hesitate to execute his threat to kill his family. The other problem was that even if he wrote the letter, there was no guarantee that his family would remain safe. He swore again. The supply trucks were starting their engines. He was moving out, and Joseph Dobbs was going with him. There was fighting to do and not much time to think about anything else. Fighting and surviving were all he could think about now. He picked up his rifle. Maybe Dobbs would do him the ultimate service and get his head blown off by Franco’s men. Then he remembered that if he did, his family might also be killed.
Through the truck’s window, Joseph watched Pedro climb out of the hole. He smiled. The boy was thinking about him, and he would still be thinking about him when this day was over. The plan had been brilliant, and like a true poker player, he’d managed to bluff to perfection. He hadn’t thought about Roddy for a while now, but the thieving bastard had come in useful one last time all the same. He had bought him some insurance and some time, and he had become an unwitting player in the biggest game of his life as well. At first, he had wanted to kill all the Merrill brats, but now he just wanted to get out of Spain; on this occasion, money would be more satisfying than murder!
He watched the trucks filled with men and supplies leave the ground where he’d slept for what seemed like years, and then he closed his eyes. The driver next to him never spoke, and he didn’t want to listen to what the Spaniard was saying anyway. He’d had his fill of Spain, of the fighting, and of the men that went with it. He was scared of dying and scared the brandy would run out and give him the stomach cramps that made him want to shoot himself, but they were marching like ants again, fighting again, and some poor sods would die again. He would get the money and get out of the war, and then he would take himself off to London to kill Celia Merrill.
Chapter 71
On the other side of the bridge that separated the opposing armies, Miguel watched the grey light of dawn wash over the blackened fields of the Jarama valley. It never ceased to amaze him that even in the ugliness of war, the sunrise could still find his heart and fill it with its beauty. The sky miraculously transported him to Valencia and the mountains of La Glorieta, where there were no burnt-out trees and smoke-filled air in the sky’s rainbow of colours. There was no Mónica, cold and unrepentant, or blood-red grass where men died in agony, with faces black and grey with layers of unwashed mud. La Glorieta, that untouched piece of heaven on earth that war and death could not reach, would always be there. The morning sky and stunning sunsets were what his sister María described as her rainbow world. They were all ghosts in that rainbow now, for they had become mere shadows of their former selves, changed forever and dead to innocence.
He thought about Mónica now with nothing more than distaste and bitterness that didn’t stem from her indiscretion but from his own growing self-disgust. He had allowed her to mould him, dictate to him, and to make him fall in love with her, knowing that her political leanings went far beyond his own. He had not communicated with his own family because they were not like him; she had told him that. They were probably waiting out the war in comfort somewhere and allowing him to fight for La Glorieta without even a thought for his safety. She’d told him that too, and he had agreed. Recently, he’d questioned his actions on the night he found Mónica naked in bed with the man she’d called Juan. He still wondered why he hadn’t shot them both, something that he would have done at the beginning of the war. Conflict was everywhere, and he would not have been a suspect. A republican scavenger would have been blamed for the death of two well-known Phalanx members. He could have beaten the man Juan to a pulp. He could have thrown them both into the street. No one would have blamed him for doing what was, after all, a husband’s right to defend his honour. So why hadn’t he done any of those things?
Chapter 72
The International Brigade unit set up camp on the outskirts of a small village taken earlier that month by the nationalists. It wasn’t strategically important, but the objective was now to try to retake it and use it as a forward base. They had taken quite a beating in the spring of 1937, due to Franco’s colonial army, backed up by Germans and Italians, coming at them from all fronts, but the brigades were still determined, and their morale was still high.
Pedro spied Joseph Dobbs approaching his position and steadied himself for the onslaught of threats and insults to which he was becoming strangely accustomed. He was tired, more tired than he’d ever felt during any previous campaigns, but Joseph Dobbs had made sure that he didn’t sleep, pee, or breathe without him watching. The envelope sat in Pedro’s hand, written in a hurry but full in detail. He lay down his rifle, blanket, and belt bag containing maps, soap, and cigarettes and proceeded to take off his boots. He watched the flowing clear water rippling in the narrow river in front of him and promised himself a swim as soon as his business with Joseph Dobbs was completed.
“So here you are,” Joseph Dobbs said from behind him at that moment. “I wondered where you’d got to.”
“That surprises me. You haven’t let me out of your sight for a minute in the last four days; you must be slipping,” Pedro said with a casual distaste in his voice.
“You got the letter ready? You’d better have; I’ve given you nearly a week, and it’s not a fucking sermon I’m asking for, now is it!”
Pedro held the envelope in his hand and waved it in Joseph’s face. “Ready and waiting for you.”
Joseph licked his lips, stretched out his hand, and gestured with his fingers. “Give it here. Let me read it before you seal it.”
Pedro handed it to him and then waited in silence for the nod of approval. When Joseph had read it twice and was satisfied, he handed it back to Pedro and asked, “Why two envelopes?”
“To reinforce the letter. It’s probably going to change hands a few times and get dirty, maybe even ripped, so I thought that if the outer envelope gets torn, the one inside with the letter in it will be saved. I’ll only use one if you want. Makes no difference to me.”
Joseph shrugged and then watched Pedro slip the envelope inside a slightly bigger one. “Not as stupid as you look, are you?” he said.
With effort, Pedro produced a false smile. “I look like you, remember.”
“That’s the only thing you’ve got going for you. Right, give it here.”
“Just one more thing,” Pedro said as an afterthought. “I’ve got another letter in my belt bag. Seeing as how you’re in a good mood, give it to the convoy that’s leaving tonight, along with the one for my mother. Jim McGrath gave it to me just before he died, asked me to have it sent for him.”
“I’m not a fucking postman,” Joseph spat, all hint of a smile gone.
“Yes, I know that, but you work with supply, and you’re the only person I know that can get letters past the communists without them seeing. So will you do it?”
Why not? Joseph thought. He’d won anyway.
“Get it but hurry up. I’ve not got all fucking day to run your errands.”
Chapter 73
At the beginning of July, temperatures soared, and an unbearable oppressive heat filled the air. María and Lucia followed a brigade of Russian fighters in convoys to their new field hospital just outside the town of El Escorial, leaving the Jarama valley’s killing fields with mountains of unburied soldiers from both sides. The town of El Escorial was famous for numerous reasons; its history played an important role in many Spanish classical novels, and most notably, it was where King Philip II of Spain had died. Here, they were told, was where they would remain for as long as it took to push the nationalists back.
The buildings that they were to inhabit were part of an old school
, and the small wooden huts surrounding the main hall were to be used as sleeping quarters for the medical staff. They were quite luxurious and spacious compared to Jarama, with proper windows and a roof that kept out the rain and unbearable heat.
During her first couple of days there, María found herself working alongside a Scotsman called Jack McFadden. He was from Glasgow and had recently arrived with a batch of medical aid workers out of London. The first thing María noticed about Jack was his size. He was very tall, with wide shoulders, and although a somewhat portly man, he carried his weight around with the ease of an athlete. He was also the strongest man she had ever met, with muscles that bulged and tore at the seams of his shirt, on arms as wide as tree trunks. He could lift almost anything in sight, was quick on his feet, and always ready to help when others had exhausted themselves to the point of unconsciousness. He wasn’t handsome, but his freckled pale skin and thatch of bright red hair, which he covered with a colourful bandana, gave him an unusual and interesting persona that didn’t go unnoticed. He told María that he was a father of three, a boy and two girls, who were so much like their mother that it scared him to death. According to him, his wife was pretty enough but dull – up at seven o’clock every morning and in bed for the night immediately after the children went to sleep, with nothing much in between. He was in his early thirties but felt as though he were knocking at the door of middle age.
“Boredom is making me old before my time. I need this adventure,” he’d told her, truthfully.
María respected his honesty when he’d pointed out that he was there not because he believed in the republican cause, compelling him to leave his family, but that his motives were to be able witness the war and return home with new stories and accounts of his experiences in it. She didn’t take offence at his motives for being in the thick of a foreign war, and she in turn told him that whatever his motives were, the Spanish people were grateful for his help.
