The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  Progress was slow. He was becoming light-headed. If I could find a policeman, he thought, he could help. But there’s never one about when you need it. He laughed to himself. He paused by a street lamp and clung to it, looking back at the splattered trail he had left behind him in the snow. He took a deep breath of frozen air and continued on his way. A couple passed on the other side of the road, laughing. When Guzmán slipped and fell they turned, and were about to cross over to help when the woman saw the blood. She spoke to the man quietly and they turned again and walked quickly away towards Puerta del Sol, their anxious footsteps fading in the dark. Guzmán retrieved the big pistol from the icy pavement and stowed it in its holster, anxious not to drop it again in case it went off and put another more serious hole in him.

  As he approached the comisaría, Guzmán had begun to notice flurries of light in his peripheral vision, frosted roses dancing across his line of sight. He was drenched in sweat and his leg had stiffened to the point where he had to drag it. The doors of the comisaría were only a metre away now, a metre of pain, of dizzying struggle to keep his balance. What was usually a short brisk walk had taken almost an hour. If the Dominicans were here, Guzmán thought, only vaguely lucid, he was finished. He looked down the narrow road. Saw nothing. Or was that the shape of a man in a black coat? Guzmán squinted, blinking the sweat from his eyes. Take another step. You fat bastard, Guzmán, you could have run this distance when you were in the army. Peralta should be here. They would have shot him first. Someone will. He’s with Alicia Martinez. Paying her with vol-aux-vents. Whores. It costs so much more if they’re naked.

  ‘Not a bad woman really,’ Guzmán slurred as the man in the dark coat started to come down the street. Guzmán heard his footsteps. Belatedly he began to fumble for the pistol but the ground must have shifted because there was a sudden impact and he found himself face down on the icy pavement. The footsteps continued.

  ‘Joder, jefe, what the fuck have you been drinking?’

  Someone rolled Guzmán onto his back. The sarge leaned over him, his voice suddenly concerned as he saw the blood.

  ‘Probably a decent woman if you get to know her,’ Guzmán said, his voice faint and distant. ‘Admirable in her own way.’ He tried to pull the Browning from its holster but his fingers had turned to rubber. ‘Respectable women are hard to come by…’

  The sargento was pushing open the door of the comisaría, his voice fading as Guzmán started to pass out. ‘Give me a hand out here,’ the sarge yelled. ‘I think the comandante got shot by some woman.’

  He knelt alongside Guzmán. ‘You’ll be all right in a minute, Comandante.’

  Guzmán felt the world start to spin. He opened his eyes and saw the sarge kneeling at his side.

  The sarge was looking at someone across the street. ‘What are you looking at? Fuck off out of it before I arrest you.’

  Guzmán’s head lolled to one side and he saw the man in the black coat turn and walk briskly into the darkness. Then there was shouting, the sound of boots on stone and the cursing of the sargento, all suddenly giving way to a welcome dark silence.

  BADAJOZ 1936

  The line of men lay waiting among the pine needles as the first Moors came through the narrow rocky lip that formed the entrance to the plateau. The kid saw one of the soldiers come forward into the long grass, alert, his bayonet fixed. The man stopped and called to his companions. Four of them followed cautiously, in single file. There was a brief discussion. One of them pointed upwards, towards the position where the men were hiding. The Moors started forward, again, dark faces shining with sweat, their uniforms dusty. They advanced cautiously, pausing to listen for any sound as they came.

  The corporal fired first and the others immediately unleashed a sharp ragged volley, that was immediately accompanied by a rolling echo around the hill behind them. The nearest Moorish soldier fell backwards, his rifle clattering to the ground, his fez rolling along the stony path. The other Moors were mown down, scattered in a broken tangle of limbs, weapons and equipment. They lay, entwined in death, awkward and angular in their disarray, thin cordite smoke from the guns that killed them wafting across their bodies.

  Shouts from below. The clattering of boots. A Moorish NCO ran up the stony path only to be hit by the crossfire from the Republicans above. Another of the African soldiers followed, stepping over his comrade’s prone body, crouching but defiant, running forward shouting the praise names of God, cursing those who opposed him, his bayonet ready for the enemy above. The fusillade that struck him left a thin crimson mist hanging in the air, as his body rolled down the slope, raising small clouds of dust as it went.

  The kid looked over to the corporal. The corporal grinned. They turned back, aiming their rifles at the narrow gap through which the Moors must come. The kid’s mind was whirling. As long as they had ammunition they could fend off the Moors all day – or at least until the enemy were able to get aircraft or artillery support. That would take time and by then it would be dark and new possibilities for escape would present themselves. As long as they had ammunition. The kid opened the pouch on his webbing belt and counted his remaining cartridges. There were five left.

  9

  MADRID 2009, CALLE DE LOS CUCHILLEROS

  ‘Joder.’ Galindez sat on the edge of the bed; every movement provoked a firestorm of free-floating pain. She winced as she checked the bruises and grazes that were her souvenirs of the fight with Sancho. You should see what the other guy looked like. She tried lifting her right arm and groaned. Shit, I am the other guy.

  Tali was making coffee in the kitchen. ‘I’ll help you with that, querida,’ Galindez said, struggling to hold herself upright in the doorway.

  ‘I can manage, Ana María. Go back to bed.’ Tali steered Galindez into the bedroom. ‘Stop being stubborn and lie down.’

  Galindez slumped onto the bed and watched as Tali pulled the sheets over her. ‘I’m not used to having things done for me.’

  ‘I noticed.’ Tali laughed. ‘Last night you were telling me how to lock the door, put the salad back in the fridge and put the cat out. Then you slept for ten hours. Maybe a coffee will do you good.’

  ‘I haven’t got a cat,’ Galindez called after her.

  ‘Or a sense of humour, mi vida.’ Tali came back from the kitchen with their coffee. ‘And you talk in your sleep.’ Sitting on the side of the bed, she examined the livid bruising around Galindez’s right shoulder. ‘How do you feel? And tell me the truth: don’t give me any of that macho stuff.’

  ‘Like I’ve been hit by a truck. How’s that for honesty?’

  ‘Be honest about this then: are we safe after what happened yesterday?’

  ‘Of course. We can’t let a loser like Sancho scare us, can we?’

  Tali frowned. ‘I am scared, Ana. It wouldn’t have been so bad if yesterday was just us being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it wasn’t. They were looking for us and Sancho was in on it. I don’t think he’s just some loser. He’s dangerous.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Galindez admitted. ‘His fighting skills are on a different level to mine. I could hardly handle him.’

  ‘No, Ana María, you couldn’t handle him,’ Tali said. ‘I thought he was going to kill you.’

  ‘He had a gun. Otherwise, I’d have beaten him senseless with that pool cue.’

  Tali was unconvinced. ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t shoot you. For some reason he hates you.’

  ‘I did notice. And yet, at times when we were fighting, I thought he was holding back – as if he wanted to take me down a peg or two rather than just beat me senseless.’

  ‘Maybe he wanted to humiliate you for standing up to him.’

  Galindez nodded. ‘He also said something about not messing with things that weren’t my concern – and pushing the wrong buttons.’

  ‘You think he meant entering the Guzmán password at work when you set the alarm off?’

  ‘I think so. Maybe he wants to stop us finding out more about
Guzmán. Remember that day at the university when he first attacked me? He said he was looking for “Guzmán’s book”.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘If he keeps this up, I’ll report it. Have him arrested.’

  ‘I’d like that. Will you do it? Please?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘You should stay in bed today,’ Tali said. ‘We can postpone the visit to Guzmán’s HQ.’

  ‘No, I want to go,’ Galindez said, suddenly animated. She struggled to sit up and grimaced.

  ‘Well, if you think you’re up to it,’ Tali said doubtfully. Galindez’s expression told her she was. ‘You get showered and dressed, Ana. I’ll bring my car round to that little car park by the market – it’ll save you a walk.’

  Galindez found it strange having someone organise things for her. ‘Yes, nurse,’ she said.

  The hot air was damp and heavy, pressed down under a sky bruised with storm clouds. Sitting on the low wall of the car park, Galindez wondered if Tali would arrive before the rain began. She pushed the letters she’d just retrieved from her mailbox into her bag. Scattered raindrops were beginning to pattern the dusty ground as Tali’s car pulled up. Sliding carefully into the passenger seat, Galindez squirmed in discomfort as she pulled the seat belt across her bruised body. Tali heard her swear at the pain as she struggled to fasten it. She said nothing. It was clear Galindez wasn’t one for being mothered.

  ‘All set?’ Tali asked.

  ‘Vamos. Calle de Robles and step on it, my good woman.’ Galindez smiled.

  ‘You’re in a good mood – considering.’ Tali adjusted the mirror with considered precision before touching the St Christopher medal on the dashboard and then crossing herself and kissing her fingers. She sensed Galindez watching her. ‘What?’

  ‘Just observing your little ritual. It’s cute.’

  ‘Cute? It’s prudent. You want to get there safely, don’t you?’

  ‘I trust your driving more than any ritual,’ Galindez said.

  Tali slowed as the car reached the main road. Traffic rolled past in an unbroken and unyielding line; no one remotely inclined to give way. She drummed her fingers on the wheel. ‘I can do cute.’ She launched the car into the gap left by a faster than average motorist. The driver behind her slammed on his brakes, loosing off an angry blast of disapproval with his horn.

  ‘Jesús Cristo,’ Galindez muttered. ‘I only hope that ritual works.’

  ‘Calle de Robles. Follow the M-30 and past the Planetarium, verdad?’

  ‘Exactamente. Park in the first space you see. Those narrow streets are always full.’

  ‘See, you’re the sensible one, Ana María,’ Tali said. ‘I’m just cute.’

  Appalling traffic, a slow procession of ill-tempered, overheated humanity. Drivers’ arms hung from their windows, hands beating an impatient tempo on the hot metal; tempers on a hair trigger, sudden raging explosions of horns at every junction, screams of abuse at those perceived to be impeding the already funereal pace of the traffic. An hour passed. Galindez felt her shirt sticking to the seat. Tali seemed as cool and composed as she had been when they set off.

  The sky turned darker. A distant murmur of thunder. Tali passed Galindez a bottle of water. The water tasted of warm plastic.

  ‘You and Luisa seem to be getting on now,’ Tali said, ‘apart from the theoretical sparring.’

  ‘She’s been pretty good about us splitting up,’ Galindez said. ‘She even gave me a pair of ear studs as a break-up gift – they’re lovely – look.’ She held back her hair to let Tali see the small onyx studs. The car veered sideways and Tali reluctantly turned her attention back to the road, prompted by a chorus of blaring horns.

  ‘Know what?’ Galindez said. ‘Luisa and I will never agree on the best way to write about Guzmán. Science versus hermeneutics, as she says.’

  ‘She says it a bit too often for my liking.’ Tali smiled. ‘Even so, do you think there’s any chance of a truce so Toni and I don’t get too bored waiting for your arguments to end?’

  ‘We do get carried away. But it’s her fault. The idea was to approach this investigation from different angles. She’d do her textual thing while I tried to connect Guzmán to some of the killings after the war using more conventional methods. Instead, she insists on criticising my methods at every opportunity.’ Galindez looked up, suddenly realising where they were. ‘Mira, that’s Calle de Robles over there on the right – see the farmacia on the corner?’

  Tali twisted the wheel and the tyres squealed as she cut across two lines of traffic, pulling in to the kerb and braking sharply, bringing them to a noisy halt. She turned to Galindez, self-conscious at her sudden recklessness. ‘Sorry, Ana, did I scare you?’

  ‘Joder. You terrified me. Do you always drive like this?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Tali turned off the engine.

  Galindez looked at her. ‘It’s funny, you don’t look like the terror of the roads, Señorita Castillo. A case of still waters, I’d say.’

  ‘It’s always the quiet ones, Ana María.’ Tali smiled.

  ‘You can say that again. That’s why I’m in such a good mood despite being black and blue.’ Galindez slid across the seat. ‘I mean, sending me that photograph. Hostia, it really got me steamed up.’ She squeezed Tali’s leg. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

  Tali looked blankly at her. ‘What photograph?’

  ‘You know very well. It came in today’s post just after you went to get the car. You must have known the effect it would have on me when I opened it.’

  ‘Not really, Ana, because I didn’t send you a photograph.’

  ‘Verdad? What’s this then?’ Galindez pulled the manila envelope from her bag.

  Tali looked at the handwritten label on the envelope. ‘That’s not my handwriting.’ She slid a black and white print from the envelope and stared at the photograph. It was her. Under the shower, hands raised as she washed her hair. Definitely her. Her face captured in exquisitely sharp detail. Everything was.

  ‘But…’ Tali fumbled for words, her face pale. ‘Dios mio, Ana, I wouldn’t let anyone take a photo of me naked. Is there a message?’

  Galindez turned the photograph and examined the back. Nothing. She examined the envelope, turning it upside down. A small white card fell onto her lap. ‘Mierda. I never even checked the envelope. I was so sure it was from you.’

  Tali picked up the card and stared at the written message. Her hand began to shake. ‘Hostia.’

  Galindez took the card from her and read it:

  I said I wanted to see them – Sancho.

  ‘That bastard.’ Galindez was flushed with anger. ‘He must have planted a camera in your flat.’ She chewed her lip. ‘Another attempt to scare us.’

  ‘In that case, it’s worked.’

  ‘I’m sure I’m right that he wants to stop us searching for Guzmán. Dios mio, Guzmán’s still dangerous even after all these years.’

  ‘That’s great news, Ana María. Just as we’re about to go into his comisaría.’

  ‘We’ll be fine.’ Galindez got out of the car and carefully slung the bag holding her equipment over her aching shoulder. Across the main road, beyond the slow lines of traffic blurred by exhaust fumes, was the green cross of the farmacia. The building stood on the corner of a small, narrow street, high buildings on either side, their detail lost in shadow.

  Crossing the choked main road was an exercise in risk-taking. Grabbing Tali’s hand, Galindez dashed forward, darting across the lanes of traffic, pursued by the monstrous hooting of a refrigerated truck as it thundered past. They stopped to catch their breath on the corner by the farmacia. Galindez looked up and read the sign on the wall above the shop. ‘Calle de Robles.’

  The thunder was getting closer. High walls rose steeply around them. A few shops, a grocery, a fishmonger, a shop selling wool. ‘Do people still knit?’ Tali wondered. Probably not, since the shop appeared to have been closed for years, judging by the fashions on th
e faded knitting patterns, some time in the seventies. The windows were obscured by dust and the yellow cellophane sunscreen was pulled down inside. Pictures on the knitting patterns were almost bleached away; the shop a sort of desiccated relic.

  Further along, the narrow road was bisected by another, much narrower street. To their right, an old building, a school or a seminary perhaps. Beyond that, a large church, strikingly unattractive, almost threatening, its sharp, uneven profile accentuated by dark, angular statues.

  ‘Mira.’ Tali pointed to the old building on the corner. Its great wooden doors were like those of a church and the bars on its windows seemed far thicker and more imposing than necessary. A sign above the door, in faded paint, Policía Nacional. A more recent sign pasted to the door: Permanently Closed.

  ‘This is it,’ Galindez said quietly.

  ‘Hope so,’ Tali said, producing a large key from her bag. ‘I’d hate to think there were more like this. It’s so ugly.’

  ‘Is there a caretaker?’

  ‘No.’ Tali handed Galindez the key. ‘We’re on our own in there. And you know what? I can’t believe it but I’m afraid of a building.’

  The storm was almost above them now, the sky an ominous quilt of black cloud. Rumbling echoes shimmered along the cobbled street.

  ‘A building can’t hurt you.’ Galindez put the key into the lock. The rusty metal protested loudly as she turned the key.

  The door swung open. The air felt cold after the oppressive humidity of the street. Their eyes were not yet accustomed to the sudden change from the summer light and they stood hesitantly in the marble-floored vestibule, its dark panelled walls leading into darkness.

  Galindez found an old light switch and pressed it. Weak lights flickered into life. ‘Mierda. It’s like la Familia Addams,’ she muttered.

  A skeletal light vaguely illuminated the empty hallway. On their left, a wooden bench against the wall beneath a faded map of Madrid. At the far end of the hall, a small reception desk. Old, empty shelves, pigeon-holes for mail. Just an everyday office. Except they tortured and killed people here, Galindez thought. Behind the desk were glass-panelled office doors. To the right a set of wooden double doors. From the hand-drawn plan Toni had given her, Galindez knew those doors opened onto the corridor leading to the comandante’s office and, ultimately, to the cells.