Tapestry of Fear

by Margaret Pemberton

Chapter Twenty-two

  I felt sick and dizzy and had no idea of what I was going to do as the throb of his car engine sounded faintly in the distance. The note altered, vibrating on the air as he changed down gears, the sound coming steadily nearer and nearer. My eyes stung with unshed tears as I waited for him, my heart empty of anything, even of hate.

  Then he was below me, forcing his car round the last tortuous bend and I stepped out into the road, my mouth dry and parched, my heart hammering.

  The sun glittered on his windscreen, temporarily blinding me and then he swerved to avoid me, the car bonnet smashing into the loose stone of the decaying wall, missing me by only a couple of feet.

  I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. And then as my heart turned a somersault I said weakly: “Romero.…”

  He slammed the car door behind him, walking towards me. I sat down suddenly on the wall, my knees weak, my head in my hands, my cheeks wet with tears of relief.

  “Alison,” he said, and I wiped my tears away, lifting my head, saying thankfully:

  “I thought it was Garmendia.…” and then I saw his face and my heart died within me.

  He made no move towards me, simply stared at me with deadened eyes. I struggled to speak, my body bathed in sweat.

  “Where … ?” I managed at last.

  Romero said tonelessly. “ There’s a deep quarry about ten, twelve miles away. The grass at the roadside was flattened by tyre marks … he must have been travelling very fast. The car was still burning. I couldn’t get down to it … but there was no point. The fire was dying out and I could see the remains of his body still at the wheel …”

  I turned my head, crying into the flower filled grass and then Romero put his arm around my shoulder, and leaving his car spread-eagled across the road, led me back to the inn, his shoulders hunched in grief and defeat.

  The worst had happened as I had known it would. Jose was dead and I would never see him again. I remembered our last parting, when I had determindly kept my eyes averted from his, and the pain submerged me. Nothing mattered anymore. Somehow I would return to England, back to the office and to my life in London that I had never given one thought to in the past few days. It seemed impossible that so short a time could alter my life so drastically.

  From now on, no matter how many people I was surrounded by, no matter how many friends I had, I would always be lonely. Without Jose I could be nothing else.

  They stared at me, their faces white and shocked. Romero sat on a bar stool, staring down at the floor, his hands hanging loosely between his knees. Javier and Miss Daventry looked helplessly on, unable to offer any words of comfort, stunned into silence.

  At last I said. “There is no point in staying here now.”

  “No, of course not,” Miss Daventry said, rallying herself. “ How many of us can get into the car, Romero. All of us?”

  He nodded. “All except Cia.…”

  I had forgotten Alphonso Cia. Romero’s voice was expressionless. Javier said. “Let the barman see to him when we have left. It is better for Cia that none of us go to him now.”

  Miss Daventry adjusted her hat slowly and wearily. “Come along, Alison. And Romero. It is time we left.”

  Dejectedly Romero slipped off his stool, putting his arm heavily round my shoulders as we began to walk to the door. It was Pedro who spoke. His gun was in his hand and he was pointing it at us, saying pleasantly. “ No-one is leaving.”

  Incredulously Javier said. “Are you mad? The only person to come back here is Garmendia,” and then, more surer. “ You want to wait for Garmendia … to be revenged?”

  Pedro shook his head. “I am sorry my friend,” he said unregretfully. “You have not understood.”

  Miss Daventry gave a small cry, like an animal in pain, then said slowly in disbelief. “ I understand Pedro. I wondered about it before … Garmendia wasn’t in Miguelou when Father Calzada told us of the plan to take Luis and Jose back to Bayonne by sea. I assumed he’d been told of it … but he didn’t need telling, did he? You knew of it, and it was you who warned the coastguards and the police about the rescue attempt in the bay. And in the war, it was the same, wasn’t it?” she said, her voice shaking. “ You played it safe then. I often wondered at your luck, Pedro. How you managed to recover so quickly from Guernica. The others lost everything, yet within months you had a new inn … a new boat.… What a heaven sent gift you must have been to the Nationalists. A staunch Basque Republican, suspected by no-one, willing to sell information about our defences or lack of them.…”

  Pedro cut her off abruptly, saying to Javier: “Don’t do it! It won’t be you I’ll shoot before you shoot me. It will be the girl.”

  Javier had his hand on his gun.

  “You son of a bitch!” Javier hissed, tensing himself like an animal ready to spring on its prey.

  Pedro said viciously. “Don’t try any heroics. Simply get down those cellar steps and release Alphonso.”

  “Never,” Javier said, his eyes blazing. “ You’ll have to kill me first, Pedro Triana. And not in the back. While I’m stood here facing you!”

  “All through the war …” Miss Daventry was still saying, ashen-faced and trembling.

  “I made the right choice though, didn’t I? We could never have won. I knew that. And I like to be on the winning side. Angel Garmendia is on the winning side. He means business. Villada is dead now. The local units will be re-grouped, re-organised.…”

  Romero dived past me, knocking Pedro backwards and in the same split second the gun went off. Romero was sprawled on the floor and Pedro, cursing and gasping for breath was raising himself up shakily, the gun still in his hand, pointed lethally towards us.

  “Romero!” I cried, moving forward at the same time as Miss Daventry cried out:

  “No, Alison. Don’t move! He’s alive … he didn’t hit him!”

  In grotesque slow motion, Romero heaved himself to his feet. Pedro’s eyes, wild and uncertain, his face glistening with sweat, trying to keep us all covered, watching every movement.

  “You,” he said to me, his eyes on Javier and Romero. “There’s a knife behind the bar. Take it with you and free Alphonso. If you don’t I’ll shoot again. I mean it. Angel said to keep you all alive till he came back … but another false move and so help me, I’ll kill every last one of you.”

  His eyes were glazed, the eyes of a madman. Slowly I walked past him to the bar. The barman had long since discreetly disappeared. The knife was there as he had said it was. Gingerly I picked it up and paused a second. Wild thoughts of spinning round, plunging it deep into Pedro’s back, chased through my mind, but it wouldn’t work. Even if I tried Pedro would still manage to kill one of the others. I opened the cellar door and stepped down into the darkness.

  There was only the shaft of light from the opened door to see by and it took several seconds before my eyes became accustomed to the gloom and I could see. A shape, darker, more solid than the wine barrels that stacked the wall, was vaguely discernable only yards from where I stood.

  I was beyond fear now. Emotionally exhausted, numbed into a stupor, I sawed through the rope that bound his hands behind his back, and at the rope tying his feet and knees. I had no need to unknot the rag that covered his mouth. He pulled it viciously away, cursing with pain as he tried to stand, rubbing his aching muscles and joints. Then, gripping my shoulder, he pushed me violently in front of him, my shins grazing against the cellar steps. As I fell he blasphemed angrily, pushing me again as I rose to my feet, sending me stumbling through the doorway, back into the airless room.

  Romero was on his feet again, his face contorted with hatred and grief. Javier was still motionless, but the dazed look of disbelief had long since vanished.

  Cia pushed me in the small of the back again with his fist, and I saw Javier’s face tighten as I lurched into him. Pedro seemed relieved at having Cia’s support. He handed him a gun and Cia said: “Where’s Angel?”

  “I don’t know. But he won’t be long.
Villada is dead.”

  Alphonso didn’t query it. One look at Romero’s face was enough to satisfy him of the truth.

  “Stay here while I go for a look.”

  It was obvious that Pedro would have preferred to be the one going for a look, but he didn’t argue. Romero, Javier and myself stood helpless before him, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Miss Daventry, looking old and tired.

  I remember thinking. He’ll walk to the bend like I did, and watch for Garmendia’s car approach just as I had watched for Jose’s.

  Romero said quietly. “Before this day is over Pedro Triana. I am going to kill you.”

  Pedro’s geniality was getting a little ragged at the edges, but he managed a half-hearted smile and laugh.

  “There will be no-one left to kill me. Not after Angel arrives.”

  I looked from Pedro’s face to Romero’s, and if I had been Pedro, gun or no gun, I would have been a frightened man.

  Silence fell, thick with tension as the seconds lengthened into minutes and the minutes increased. Pedro was sweating hard, drips of perspiration running down his face.

  Miss Daventry said: “And if it had been Garmendia dead and Jose who returned, I don’t suppose we would ever have known the truth about you, would we, Pedro?”

  He didn’t bother to reply. There was no need. Running footsteps rang out over the cobbles and panting for breath Alphonso Cia burst into the bar, gasping: “ I’ve seen him. He’s on his way here!”

  Relief was apparent on Pedro’s face. It filled him with fresh optimism and his smile was no longer uncertain.

  “Not long now,” he said gloatingly to Romero. “And after you it will be your brother’s turn. Luis.”

  He was mad, quite mad. The three of us stood like figures in a Greek tragedy, watching the shadows fall across the genial face, and his eyes grow more fevered.

  Cia had swung back out, racing across the square to the bend once more, his running feet no longer within hearing.

  “No chance of revenge now, Villada,” Pedro said smugly.

  The shot exploded in the small room, splitting the air, deafening our ears. Pedro screamed, reeling back, his gun falling to the floor, his hand hanging limply, blood pouring down his arm. He stared uncomprehendingly in those few split seconds as Miss Daventry stood, the gun Romero had given her earlier, smoking in her hand. Then Pedro dived down, still screaming and Miss Daventry was clutching frantically at Javier’s arm, as he tried to take aim.

  “No Javier, No. Don’t face a murder charge for him!”

  Romero had lurched forwards and Pedro jumped across him, leaping for the door and the street.

  “Get Cia!” Romero yelled to Javier, flying out after Pedro, Miss Daventry, her battle with Javier won, hard at his heels. With a face of white-hot rage Javier raced out of the bar and across the square. Miss Daventry had gone, her straw hat firmly wedged on her head, camera and binoculars crosswise about her chest, tearing after Romero like a woman possessed.

  Only the pool of Pedro’s blood on the floor gave any indication of what had happened. I ran to the open door, but there was no-one in sight. From the left of me I could hear Romero’s shouts and I turned, running in the direction of his voice. There was only one point in Cotanes higher than the square and that was up a dirt track that led behind the inn up to the village church. I could see Miss Daventry running as fast as she could and Romero several yards in front of her, and Pedro nearly at the church door. With a last backward glance for Javier, I plunged up the hillside after them.

  Perhaps Pedro had turned upwards in the hope of finding a priest in the church. Perhaps there was a priest in the church. If so he would stand little chance of protecting Pedro against the raging Romero.

  I raced on, my chest hurting me as the way steepened. Twice I fell, struggling back to my feet, my knees stained with grass, my hands dirty. The wooden church door was slammed shut as I gasped my way up to it, thrusting it open and running in.

  My immediate surge of relief that the church was derelict and no innocent priest in danger, was tempered by the fact that Pedro, Romero and Miss Daventry had seemingly vanished into thin air.

  “Romero …” I cried, dashing down the nave, “ Romero.…”

  The noises came from above my head. I halted, panting for breath, searching for the source of Romero’s muffled voice. Beside what had once been the high altar, a door swung softly shut. I ran across to it, pulling it open. The spiralled stone steps wound narrowly upwards, sunlight pouring down on them from above. Romero was saying:

  “I told you I would kill you Pedro Triana, and I meant it.”

  Miss Daventry was saying urgently. “Romero … no.…”

  I raced up the stone steps, lurching out onto the perilous ledge of the bell tower. Pedro was facing Romero, his back to the drop behind him, his arm hung loosely. I dashed past Miss Daventry, grasping Romero’s arm, saying: “For God’s sake, no, Romero. He isn’t worth it … he.…”

  My words were lost on the man by my side. Without looking at me, he handed me his gun, pressing it into my palms. Then, unarmed, while Pedro’s petrified eyes stared transfixed, he took a deliberate step forward.

  “No!” Pedro screamed, backing away. “ No! …

  “You would kill Luis as well, would you Triana?”

  “No! I didn’t mean it! It was a mistake!”

  “It was a mistake all right,” Romero said, moving a step further forward.

  Beside us the giant bell hung rusted on its heavy chain, creaking as the wind tugged at it. I kept my eyes firmly away from the vast drop. From the steep slopes of the towering bastion of rock on which Cotanes stood. From the dizzying distance of the plain far below.

  “No!” Pedro screamed again, backing away. Then his foot slipped and his scream lengthened, rending the air as his outstretched arms flailed, mouth gaping, eyes wide, plummeting to the stony ground.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  For minutes Romero stood, poised on the very edge of the narrow parapet, gazing down at Pedro’s broken body.

  My breathing was slowly returning to normal and Miss Daventry grasped my hand in hers, saying tiredly: “It was best that it ended this way. No-one has his blood on their hands. He could have stepped forward and faced Romero. Romero was unarmed. He wouldn’t have lived a day in Miguelou once the villagers knew of his treachery.” She was thinking, I knew, of the civil war.

  Grim-faced Romero took his gun from me and in single file we hurried down the narrow spiral of stone, into the cool dimness of the church. Romero began to run and Miss Daventry cried after him: “ Where are you going?”

  “For Cia,” he shouted back over his shoulder, then he pushed the door open and was gone.

  Miss Daventry raised her eyes heavenwards, re-arranged her camera and binoculars, took a deep breath and began to run down the nave towards the still open door.

  “Miss Daventry …” I called, but my efforts to stop her were useless. She paid no attention at all and by the time I reached the door was already twenty to thirty yards away, chasing down the hillside like a girl of twelve.

  I had no desire to follow. Both Romero and Javier were armed and match enough for Alphonso Cia. I had had enough of death for one day. The afternoon sun was stiflingly hot, the breeze that stirred the long grass and weeds, merely a soft breath and nothing more. Below me I could see the rear of the inn and the still empty square. Shielding my eyes against the sun’s glare I could see the bob of a straw boater as it hurried towards the bend and the road that led into Cotanes. If only she had left me the binoculars, I thought, straining to see more clearly. I held my breath, seeing the familiar figure of Romero run round the bend and out of sight.

  I lowered my hand, intending to walk steadily down and meet them, but as I turned the corner of the church I sucked my breath in sharply.

  Only yards away from me, sprawling bloodily and lifelessly, was the crumpled figure of Pedro. For a hasty moment I thought he was still moving, but it was only the
scarf around his neck, blowing lightly in the air.

  I hesitated, not knowing what to do. I couldn’t just walk off and leave him like that … I would have to stay there till Romero and Javier returned. Unwillingly I took a step towards him … after all, Romero had not checked that he was dead. I fought a rising tide of nausea as I drew near enough to see his face, quickly turning my head away. One brief glance at his face, at the staring eye-balls, the blood matting his hair, the trickle of vomit at the side of his mouth, was enough. Pedro was dead as anyone can be.

  I did not look at him again but walked away, over the grass to what had once been the churchyard, sitting gratefully down beneath the shade of a solitary oak tree. I could no longer see the inn from where I sat, but the dust-white road showed clearly as it left the village, sweeping in an arc, disappearing as it looped round the hillside, appearing again much further down before emerging at last on the flat plain of land that swept away into the distance. The green of pasture land merging into the pale gold of the cornfields. I closed my eyes, leaning my head against the mossy bark of the tree, the leaves rustling above my head giving me cooling shade.

  It was as if in the last half hour I had been anaesthetised against my loss. Now I was coming round, the hurt of my grief raw and open. I unzipped my shoulderbag, lifting out the German Walther he had given me in the cottage and which I had kept ever since. It seemed too cruel that the only memento I should be left with, was an object as destructive as a gun. I pushed it out of sight, closing my bag.

  The sun, still hot was beginning to shift to the west and the shadow of the tree was lengthening. There was still no sign of anyone returning and the parts of the road that I could see remained deserted. I closed my eyes again. They would be back soon, and whatever they decided to do with Pedro’s body it would no longer be my responsibility. Until then I would stay here, unable to see it myself, but able to shoo away the children if they should venture anywhere near.

  A bird called, plunging into the foliage above me and I was reminded of Lindaraja. Of Jose sitting up in the giant four-poster bed, hair tangled, eyes laughing, complaining none too seriously about the noise of the doves that cooed and fluttered outside his open window.