The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘What did Luisa say this building was before it was a police station?’ Tali asked.

  ‘A convent. Destroyed on the orders of the Inquisition. They built a seminary in the eighteenth century on top of the ruins.’

  ‘Why would they destroy a convent?’

  ‘Corruption, apparently.’

  ‘What, the nuns were taking bribes?’

  ‘No, moral corruption. They were all burned at the stake.’

  ‘They did that outside, surely?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Galindez pulled out the plan and flattened it out on the dusty counter of the reception desk. ‘Vamos a ver.’ The electric lights above gave off an absurdly weak light, smearing the plan with shadow.

  Tali looked around nervously. Again.

  ‘Come on, Tali. We may never get this place to ourselves after today,’ Galindez said.

  ‘That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?’

  ‘You can’t be that scared? We’d be crazy not to check it out now.’

  The building reverberated as the storm outside intensified. Tali walked to the double doors and opened them. The corridor beyond was pitch-black and there was a strong smell of damp. Galindez moved the flashlight beam over the wall to help Tali find the switch. And then pale light twinkled unsteadily from a line of small bulbs in the ceiling.

  ‘Me cago en Dios,’ Tali whispered.

  The corridor was some three metres wide and maybe two metres high. The floors were old stone, much older than the material used to construct the walls. There were a few more recent interventions here and there: light switches, patches of cement, a noticeboard. But those things had a dusty, dated quality, looking less like alterations than tentative additions the building had begun to reject. The corridor was cold and uninviting, Galindez thought, a strange place for what she wanted to say. But she felt safe here with no risk of being overheard or interrupted.

  ‘Tali, I know it’s probably the wrong time, but there’s something I want to tell you.’

  It wasn’t easy. Galindez had never said this to anyone in her adult life. Had never wanted to and had never been able to. There hadn’t been a right time with anyone else. But she’d not imagined the right time would be in the cold darkened corridor of an abandoned torture chamber with dust and cobwebs flickering in the pale beam of the flashlight and rolling angry thunder overhead. But that’s me, Galindez thought, when something has to be said, I have to say it.

  Tali shook her head. ‘This isn’t the place. Nothing good ever happened here. You can feel it. There’s no room for love in this building. Let’s finish the search and go.’

  Galindez swallowed her disappointment. I should have kept my mouth shut. What was I thinking of?

  ‘Look, Ana,’ Tali said, ‘things feel right when we’re together. Leave it at that for now?’

  ‘Sure,’ Galindez said, grateful for the shadows hiding her disappointment.

  They continued along the dim passageway. The flashlight shone on a door to their left, a few metres ahead. Galindez looked at the plan. ‘That’s it. Guzmán’s office.’

  A very ordinary door, Galindez thought, dark wood, with a large rusty lock. She noticed her hand was slick with sweat as she gripped the handle.

  ‘What if it’s locked?’ Tali said, echoing Galindez’s own concern.

  The handle turned easily and the door opened.

  Galindez fumbled for the light switch. A single electric bulb set in a khaki metal shade threw cadaverous light across a disappointingly bare room, empty except for a plain wooden desk.

  ‘I don’t like it.’ Tali grimaced. ‘I can imagine him here.’

  ‘He’s not here now though, is he? Let’s check his desk.’

  Galindez opened a drawer. It was lined with yellowing newspaper but otherwise was quite empty. Galindez picked up the newspaper and smoothed it on the desktop. ‘ABC. I’d expect Guzmán to read a right-wing paper.’

  Tali examined the front page. ‘Wednesday, June eighteenth, 1986.’

  ‘What’s the headline?’ Galindez asked.

  The front page was dominated by a black and white photograph of a bullet-riddled car, its front door wide open, the driver slumped across the seat, one arm still on the steering wheel. The vague shape of another body was just visible on the back seat.

  ‘ETA Provocation,’ Tali read. ‘Teniente Coronel Carlos Vesteiro Pérez, Comandante Ricardo Sáenz de Ynestrillas and soldier-driver Francisco Casillas were murdered yesterday in Madrid by the terrorist group ETA in an attempt to destabilize the democratic system.’

  ‘I wonder if Guzmán was still working here then?’

  ‘Isn’t it unlikely? After all, he disappeared in 1953.’

  ‘I suppose. Though we can’t be sure of anything without firm evidence.’

  A search of the other drawers revealed nothing further. Meanwhile, Tali moved slowly around the empty room, examining the walls, peering at the stone floor. She stopped and knelt to examine something. ‘Look at this, Ana María.’

  Galindez left the desk and joined her, excited by the note of discovery in Tali’s voice. ‘Look there.’ Tali ran her finger across the big flagstone beneath her. The stone was scarred by a deep, irregular fissure. ‘Looks like it’s split in two.’ She touched the jagged incision in the broken stone. ‘There might be something underneath.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Galindez pointed to the parallel patterns of scratches and gouges made by something heavy that led across the broken flagstone to the door. ‘Clumsy removal men by the look of it. Moving something big like a filing cabinet. That’s probably what broke the flagstone.’

  Tali persisted, pulling at the stone, trying to lift it. ‘Help me, Ana. I can’t get a grip.’

  Even with Galindez helping, the flagstone stayed put.

  ‘There’s probably nothing there,’ Galindez said, ‘and I can’t get a proper grip with this bad arm anyway. We’d need a crowbar to lift this.’

  She decided to examine the desk again. She lay on the floor and peered underneath.

  ‘There’s something under here.’ She slid her arm under the desk, straining to reach the small object she’d seen.

  ‘Qué es, Ana María?’

  ‘Something’s attached to the bottom of the desk. It’s…’ Galindez winced as she strained her injured shoulder. She paused. ‘It feels horrible. I can’t quite reach.’ She withdrew her arm slowly, rolling away from the desk, exhaling heavily at the pain.

  Tali knelt to examine the glutinous black smears on Galindez’s hand. ‘It looks like tar.’

  Galindez tried again, this time using her other arm to reach under the desk. ‘There’s something under this sticky stuff. If I can get my nails under it I might be able to prise it off.’ She struggled for a moment. ‘Got it.’ She rolled away from the desk.

  Tali looked at the object in Galindez’s hand. A crusted black viscous mass with a rusty piece of metal protruding from its centre. ‘Look.’ Galindez pointed to the crust. ‘This is electrical tape. God knows how long it’s been here.’

  She took out a plastic evidence bag and sealed the gelatinous mess inside it. ‘That’s our first piece of evidence. Let’s see if we can find any more.’

  Leaving Guzmán’s office they followed the passageway, passing several depressingly empty offices. ‘Look in there.’ Tali pointed to an open door on the right of the corridor.

  Galindez saw a coffee urn rusting next to a cobwebbed sink. ‘It looks like their mess room.’

  Galindez pushed a corroded switch by the door, and the small light in the ceiling washed the room with a dirty grey glow. A sink, a small stove, empty cupboards, a cup and plate on one of the tables, all thickly furred with dust and cobwebs. Galindez started examining the fly-blown papers pinned to the noticeboard with rusty drawing pins. Messages and memos relating to expense claims and holidays. She lifted some of the papers with her gloved finger, finding other, older messages underneath. And then she saw it.

  ‘Tali. Ven aqui. Rapida.’ Her voice w
as taut with excitement. ‘Mira.’

  A typewritten notice, signed in a strong, broad hand, the ink faded to an ethereal blue.

  Important Notice – 16th January

  All leave cancelled until further notice. No exceptions will be granted. Officers and men will gather in the mess room at 18:00hrs for further instructions.

  Comandante L. Guzmán, Officer Commanding

  And his signature. Guzmán.

  ‘Puta madre, it’s him.’

  ‘But January of what year?’ Galindez said, in frustration. ‘God, it’s like he’s taunting us.’

  ‘Venga, Ana María,’ Tali said. ‘You wanted to find something. Christ, it’s his autograph.’

  For a moment, Galindez stared at the paper, willing it to give up its secrets. It didn’t and she opened her shoulder bag, bringing out another plastic evidence bag.

  Further along the corridor, they halted at a large heavy door, the studded wooden panels reinforced by diagonal iron bands.

  Galindez looked at the plan of the building. ‘This is the door to the cells.’

  The door swung open on dark greasy hinges. A damp unpleasant odour drifted up from below.

  ‘What’s that smell, Ana?’

  ‘Drains, I think.’ Galindez’s flashlight cut through the darkness beyond the old door. A flight of stone steps led down into a narrow corridor. Steps worn smooth by centuries of passing feet.

  They went down into the passageway below. It was narrow and crypt-like, its curved roof almost too low even for Galindez to walk upright, the dark rough stonework of the walls punctuated by olive-coloured doors, eight cells on each side. At the end of the corridor was another great door strengthened with bands of iron, a door clearly even older and stronger than the one they’d just come through. This door seemed crude and primitive: the wood seemed to strain against the bands.

  ‘What’s behind that door?’ Tali whispered.

  ‘The vaults.’

  Tali found the light switch and the low short corridor was latticed with sinister sharp-angled shadows from the miserable glimmer.

  ‘This must have been one of the original dungeons,’ Galindez said. ‘Guzmán and his men just adapted it by fitting these modern doors.’

  The cell doors were made of thick metal. Galindez pushed one. It was unlocked.

  The flashlight played on the inside of the cell and over the low arched ceiling, the beam glinting on the damp green sheen of the stonework. No bed, no sign of occupation.

  ‘Let’s get a closer look, I don’t want to miss anything.’

  ‘What are you looking for, Ana María?’

  ‘Prisoners sometimes leave graffiti,’ Galindez said, running her hand over the stonework. ‘I can’t see anything. It’s hard stone. Maybe it was difficult to make a mark or maybe they weren’t here long enough to scratch anything.’

  ‘That’s a comforting thought,’ Tali said gloomily.

  Galindez began examining the other cells.

  ‘I’ve still got a bad feeling about this place,’ Tali said quietly.

  ‘Just this last cell and then we’re done, all right?’

  Tali muttered reluctant assent as Galindez pushed open the cell door. The smell hit them at once. Tali stood behind Galindez, peering over her shoulder. ‘Something bad happened here,’ Galindez muttered. ‘It feels wrong.’

  ‘What do you mean? It’s haunted? Come on, don’t spook me any further, Ana,’ Tali said. ‘You’ve got a Ph.D. in forensic science. You know places aren’t haunted.’ Yet she too sensed the malevolent atmosphere, its mixture of malicious aggression and wretched despair.

  ‘I think maybe they saved this cell for the people who suffered the most,’ Galindez said. ‘It smells of fear. And shit.’

  It was true. There was a faint faecal odour. Tali suggested it was probably due to ancient plumbing.

  ‘There are no drains down here, Tali. This place must be steeped in human waste.’

  ‘Even so, that’s not the same as being haunted.’

  ‘Oh yes it is,’ Galindez said. ‘It’s a physical trace of all the people who died here.’

  Tali looked towards the ancient door at the end of the corridor. ‘Madre de Dios,’ her eyes glinted in the sullen light, ‘what if they’re still down there?’

  The building trembled under the sustained violence of the storm. The sky was suddenly torn apart by a terrific echoing clap of thunder. They flinched. And with the noise of the storm came unwelcome insight.

  ‘I think they kept prisoners in this cell so they were near to the door to the vaults,’ Galindez said quietly. ‘They wouldn’t go through the door willingly because they knew something horrible was waiting for them down there – so they were kept here to make it easier to force them down into the vaults when their time came.’

  ‘Joder, you’re really creeping me out. Let’s go,’ Tali said. Then she saw Galindez’s face. ‘Ana?’

  Galindez heard her but said nothing. Could say nothing. It was as if her thoughts had congealed, thickened by the oppressive air of this dismal repository of pain and suffering. Coherent thought was replaced by echoing screams of terror, the sounds of desperate futile struggles to resist being dragged towards the ancient door, the noise of beatings and more screaming, screams that were nothing compared to those that came up from the vaults as the door opened.

  ‘Mira, I’m shit scared, Ana. Can we go and discuss this somewhere else? Like several kilometres away?’ Tali pushed Galindez in frustration. ‘Ana, what’s up with you? Are you in a trance? Puta madre, Ana, por Dios, coño. Que cojones haces?’ Her voice was sharp with anxiety.

  Galindez felt the screaming fading, her thoughts returning to normal, time suddenly restored. What was that? ‘Sorry, I was dreaming. I’ll check this last cell and we’ll go. Promise.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Ana María?’

  ‘Of course.’ Shaken, Galindez began to explore the rough stone of the cell with her fingertips. The beam of the flashlight suddenly picked out a line of letters. Tali crouched next to her, training the flashlight onto the wall. And then she crossed herself.

  The letters were quite large. They must have taken some time to carve.

  I AM IN HELL, AND WORSE TO COMME BELOW.

  PRAYE FOR ME. S.VILAR 7 SEPTIEMBRE 1741.

  Tali’s voice trembled. ‘Fuck. This is freaking me out.’

  ‘There’s more.’

  ‘What does it say?’ Tali sounded really worried now.

  ‘It’s a series of crosses. Look.’

  Tali peered at the irregular line of rough crosses.

  ‘These weren’t all carved at the same time.’ Galindez said. ‘I think he was recording something.’

  ‘You mean like how many days he was kept here?’

  Galindez shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have known: there’s no daylight in these cells.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Tali agreed, ‘maybe he was counting how many times they took him down into the vaults?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Galindez said, ‘and look how many there are. If each cross represents a session of being tortured, he’d have been in a terrible state at the end.’ She photographed the inscription before continuing the search. Tali was silent now. The graffiti had frightened her badly. That and Galindez’s behaviour a few minutes earlier. Further along, Galindez found scratches, as if someone had begun to carve something into the stone but had been interrupted.

  ‘Here’s another one.’ She shone the light onto faint words etched in the damp stone. A name and a date.

  ALICIA MARTINEZ 17-1-1953

  ‘Christ. A woman,’ Galindez said. ‘Maybe she was one of Guzmán’s prisoners. How awful that must have been.’

  The camera flash bleached the darkened cell momentarily. The dark returned.

  Outside the cell, Tali leaned against the corridor wall. ‘Sorry. I’m feeling a bit weird. I’ll be fine in a second.’ She rested against the wall, running a hand over her face. Tilting back her head, she took deep breaths,
trying to stay calm. As she looked up, she saw the stone arch over the ancient door. ‘Puta madre. Look at that.’

  The lintel over the ancient doorway was alive 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. Taloned hands grasped serrated blades buried in the twisting bodies of their victims. Spectacular, impossibly violent rape, insanely bloody slaughter. As Galindez focused the camera on the carvings, Tali was already making her way back up the corridor.

  ‘There are more of them over the arch at this end as well,’ she called.

  Galindez photographed the carvings while Tali waited unhappily at the top of the stairs. ‘Ay, Ana María, no puedo más,’ she said plaintively.

  ‘I don’t think I can take much more either,’ Galindez agreed. ‘Let’s go.’

  Outside, Galindez turned the big key in the lock of the outer door of the comisaría. She savoured being back in the real world, in the bruised light and pressing heat of the passing summer storm. Tali waited across the street. Further away they could hear the distant rumble of traffic from the M-30.

  ‘Mierda, we forgot to turn out the lights,’ Galindez said, wondering if it was worth making another journey in there, to restore the malevolent building back to the silence and the dark.

  ‘Leave them.’ Tali’s voice was stronger and more confident in the daylight. ‘Let them sue us.’

  10

  MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

  Guzmán felt corpses pulling him into the stinking marsh. All around him, the bee-hum of bullets, the crack of small-arms fire, smoke, the moans of the wounded and the dying. Men screaming for their mothers, their wives, a priest. Begging to die, the voices of pain broke in waves of ceaseless torment. He heard the roaring of the dead, ancient voices calling his name, spectral hands clinging to him, trying to drag him down. ‘Guzmán, Guzmán.’