The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (30 page)

Guzmán began moving quickly to the far corner of the square, still intent on reaching Calle Mayor. He heard movement and huddled behind the nearest pillar as a raking machine-gun blast carved across the stone, destroying the windows of the shops behind. Guzmán dived to the ground and fired three shots in the direction of the machine gun. There was an angry curse in the darkness and Guzmán heard something heavy and metallic hit the cobbles. As he lay on the icy stones, Guzmán saw a dim shape hobbling across the square and raised the Browning, steadying his right hand with his left to improve his aim. He squeezed the trigger.

‘
Hijo de la gran puta
.’ Guzman grunted.

There was no shot, just the sharp sound of the hammer on the empty chamber. The magazine was empty. Guzmán struggled to his feet, aware for the first time of the blood running down his leg. Barbed pain lanced through the wound as he tried to pursue the fleeing man. And then a bellowed curse as he lost his footing on a patch of ice and fell heavily to the ground. With no time to reload, Guzmán gripped the pistol by its barrel as a make-do bludgeon. The expected attack never came and as he hauled himself up, he heard footsteps fading in the darkness on the far side of the square.

Leaning against a pillar, he reloaded the automatic. The night was glassily silent. He heard only a faint ringing in his ears caused by the percussion of gunfire, and tasted the familiar astringent smell of cordite in the still air. Pistol first, he moved cautiously down the walkway towards the café where the dead man was lying. Where he should have been lying. In the shadows it was possible to make out the skeletal wreckage of the chairs but there was no trace of the dead man. Guzmán took out his lighter and snapped it into flame. The café doorway was illuminated in flickering light, turning the objects around him into vague monochrome etchings. Blood stains glinted black against the night-glazed flagstones. A large dark pool marked the spot where the man had fallen. Slick wavering tracks led away down the side of the square where someone had dragged him – he hadn’t walked away by himself, Guzmán knew, given the amount of blood left behind. In the faint light, he saw the long shattered row of windows around the edge of the square.

They were good, Guzmán thought, as he made his way from the square down a series of side streets, pistol held by his side. Professional and daring as well. They had dragged the dead man away quickly and very quietly. Too quiet for his liking, since he had been unable to tell if they were Dominicans or not. Guzmán would have preferred that they were. But from the noise they had made earlier at Valverde’s reception, he doubted if they could have stayed so silent during the attack. He looked round again, inhaling the thin sharp air, his breath a steaming halo in the pale street light.

The pain in his leg was very bad. How could a shard of glass hurt so much? It would slow him down, he thought angrily. He thought about returning to his
piso
. A few hours in bed and a couple of glasses of brandy would see him right. But it was possible they’d second guess that move and already be waiting there. Or they might be staking out the
comisaría
in case he went there. He felt a wave of rage, made worse by his hesitancy.

The
comisaría
. He made the decision as soon as he saw his leg, increasingly aware of the blood filling his shoe. He examined the wound. A deep bloody groove carved out of the flesh above his knee. It was more than a piece of glass, there was possibly a bullet in there. He used his handkerchief to staunch the bleeding. He needed to get back to the
comisaría
but he took his time in binding the wound with the handkerchief and then his tie. No use pressing on and hoping the bleeding would stop. He’d seen men in the war fighting on despite a gaping wound, unaware of their life’s blood draining away. Guzmán felt his senses dulling. He was fucked if he was going to collapse. It was not that bad, he told himself. But it would slow him down and that made him vulnerable – and therefore angry:
Comandante
Guzmán was not a person to tolerate vulnerability – especially in himself. Señora
Martinez was vulnerable but she argued with me anyway
. His thoughts were becoming tangled. It was important to keep moving. If his legs would obey him.

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
.

MADRID 2009, CALLE DE LOS CUCHILLEROS

‘J
oder
.’ 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.