The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (51 page)

There was more shouting. Two shots. A long, anguished scream. The sound of someone suffering, suffering while knowing that, although the suffering would end in death, death would be some time in coming. The screaming stopped and then started again, rising and falling, a demented fugue conducted by the men with the long knives. And now shouts in Spanish and Arabic. The sound of men running.
 

The kid kept low, crawling through the scrub, finding a spot between two stunted trees where he could hide. Across the parched hillside, five of the African soldiers were gathered around something on the ground. One of them raised his rifle and thrust it downwards. They were bayoneting someone. Two people – the soldier who had lost his rifle and his mate. It took them some time to die. The kid watched it all. When the men were finally dead, he saw the Moors hacking at the corpses, lifting grim trophies in bloody hands. And then, a shout. The kid saw them turn and look back. One of them waved, beckoning. Guzmán had arrived.

17

MADRID 2009, CALLE DE LOS CUCHILLEROS

‘Que coño es este
?’ Galindez threw the newspaper angrily onto the breakfast table.

Tali looked up. ‘Is that Luisa’s piece about the new research centre?’

‘Bloody right it is. You know what? She criticises my contribution to the Guzmán project. Listen:

This contribution from a member of the guardia civil represents – textually speaking – an example of the Guardia’s historical role of repression and control. History and historical memory do not lie within the conceptual calculus of mainstream science. In reconstructing the historical narrative of those found in these unmarked graves the tenets of positivist science do not obtain. We read this forensic report with its obsessive attention to detail, its analytic passion obscured or, perhaps, repressed by its reliance on cold, scientific detachment. As if the author were trying to detach herself from a scene so intense it must be buried in calculus and calibration; operationalising suffering into a two-dimensional sketch, an always provisional account of the technical and the probable.

Nowhere in this mass of forensic detail do we approach anything resembling a coherent emotional narrative, nor does it deploy the necessary experiential vocabularies of cruelty and suffering needed to articulate lived human experience. Science will not – cannot – do this for us. The reconstruction and reformulation of life using restrictive pathologised understandings is limited. In short, we must restore the palimpsest.’

‘Palimpsest?’ Tali shook her head. ‘
Dios mio.
That’s from an essay by Derrida.’

‘You’ve read it?’

‘Some of it. Luisa’s very into his work. What you do is well outside her field of interest. Strange really, that she wanted you to join the team.’

‘She said she wanted my scientific expertise,’ Galindez said, suddenly defensive.

Tali laughed. ‘She wanted
you
. And she got you for a while,
mi corazón,
even though it meant letting you stay on the investigation after you split up with her.’

‘But we agreed to differ. She’s been writing her part of the report knowing I was taking a different approach. Yet not only does she slag me off in this article, it’s also a blatant advertisement for her forthcoming book on the suffering of young Guzmán – how society is responsible for his deeds. She’s not only damning my contribution before it’s even finished, she’s making it look as if it’s the
guardia civil
who’ve written it to silence her and prevent her… what the fuck does she call it? Revoicing the victims.
Dios mio,
at least you can identify the arguments in my work, not like her wordy, lit-crit crap. Uncle Ramiro will go nuts if we get a load of bad press as a result of this.’

‘She set you up.’ Tali poured more coffee. ‘She wanted your expertise so she could bounce her intertextual work off it and make you seem as if you were censoring her attempts to stand up for victims everywhere.’

‘Well, it’s very negative. And sneaky.’ Galindez slumped back into her chair. ‘And she’s used this piece to support the university’s bid for European Union funds for the Centre for Textual Studies. With her at its head, of course.’

‘Ana María Galindez meet Luisa Ordoñez.’ Tali laughed. ‘She’s a sharp operator,
cariña.
Stand too close to the flame and you get burned, no?’

‘It makes me look an idiot and it’ll confirm all Uncle Ramiro’s prejudices about women and forensic scientists. I’ll probably be demoted to coffee lady – no, make that assistant coffee lady.’

‘You haven’t completed your work on the Las Peñas killings yet,
mi amor.’

‘True. Hopefully, I’ll come up with something to challenge Luisa’s picture of Guzmán as a victim of circumstance.’

‘There’s a quotation in his diary about that, isn’t there?’

‘Yes, that line from Ortega y Gasset: “I am me and my circumstances.” It worries me.’

‘Por qué?’
Tali perched on the arm of Galindez’s chair and smoothed her hair.

‘Because it sounds like something a thoughtful man might write in his diary when his conscience was troubling him,’ Galindez said. ‘Luisa will no doubt claim it supports her argument.
And
there was that memo in the
Centinelas’
file, saying Guzmán was difficult and unreliable. Fuck, what if he actually was against the attempted coups?’

‘I can’t imagine Guzmán was on the side of the angels. Keep working on it.’ Tali said. ‘After all, what was it your teacher said? That you were revoltingly dogmatic?’

‘You cow,’ Galindez smiled, ‘she said refreshingly dogged.’

‘Made you laugh, Ana María.’

‘You always do.’

‘So don’t take things so seriously,
mi vida,
just stick with it. It’s what you do best.’

‘I’ll get started once I’ve had another coffee,’ Galindez said, pouring a refill. ‘Anything in the papers?’

Tali pushed the newspaper across the table towards her. ‘They found an undercover
poli
dead yesterday.’

‘A cop?
Nacional
or
Guardia?’

‘Nacional.
Shot dead at the Campo del Moro.’

Galindez skimmed the piece. ‘Undercover agent… dangerous operation, colleagues paid tribute to Enrique Bolin, 39, married, two daughters. God, it’s sad when this happens.’

‘Still glad you didn’t go into uniform?’

‘Absolutamente.
It wasn’t for me.’ The photograph accompanying the article showed a familiar crime scene, the English-style formal gardens of the Campo in the background and in the foreground, a knot of forensic officers in white coveralls. Behind them, several men, clearly plain-clothes officers. At the centre of the tableau was the body, covered by a plastic sheet. In line with the law, the faces of all the policemen were obscured by small pixellated boxes. Below the piece was a small photograph of the dead man.

‘Ana,
qué te pasa
? You’ve gone white.’

‘This is the man who hid the
Centinelas’
memos in the archive,’ Galindez said, clearly shaken. ‘The guy whose blood was on the plastic bag containing the files. I sent the bloodied tissue to Mendez for DNA analysis.’

‘But you said he was an old guy.’

‘Because he walked kind of doubled up. He must have been injured. Oh my God, I just watched while they grabbed him. When I heard someone say “Policía”, I thought it was the other guys who were police. Shit, this is terrible. I could have helped him. I should have helped him.’

‘It gets worse,
querida.’
Tali pointed to the photo of the policemen with their pixillated faces. ‘They can’t hide the identity of this one, can they?’ Despite the attempt at anonymising the image, Galindez recognised the man immediately. Sancho.

‘Puta madre.
Sancho’s a cop? That means that we can’t even rely on the police if we need help. The
Centinelas
have infiltrated them.’

Tali came out of the bathroom. She was wearing her hair up. ‘What do you think?’

‘It looks great like that,’ Galindez said.

‘I borrowed your black studs, hope you don’t mind?’

‘No, you wear them if you want. They look good on you.’

Tali looked in the mirror. ‘Maybe not. I think something lighter would go better with my hair. Thanks anyway.’

She took out the studs and went back into the bathroom. When she came out again, she saw Galindez’s expression. ‘What’s up,
querida?’

Galindez shrugged. ‘I’m worried about Sancho, I worry about not finding more evidence about Guzmán and—’

‘God you’re a terrible liar.’ Tali shook her head in disbelief. ‘What’s really upsetting you?’

Tali was taken aback by Galindez’s sudden rush to embrace her, an unexpected need for affirmation and support that surprised them both.

She buried her face in Galindez’s hair. Light kisses, warm breath. The gentle pressure of her body. Her soft voice,
‘Qué cariñita? Qué te pasa mi amor? Qué te pasa?’

‘Something happened with Luisa. Something weird.’ Galindez shook her head, trying to make the memory go away.

‘What did she do?’

‘She came on to me. It wasn’t so bad. But it was what I did that frightens me.’

‘Jesus, what, exactly?’ Tali asked. ‘You didn’t hit her, did you?’

‘No, nothing like that. I froze. I’d started with a headache a little while before and then this happened. My mind just clogged up and stopped. I sat there like I was watching a movie, completely distanced from it. She started making a pass at me. She was stroking my leg and for a minute or two I couldn’t stop her. Finally, I managed to get up and leave. But it was so hard to break away – as if I was hypnotised…’ she paused, ‘or I’d lost my mind.’

‘And were you OK after that?’

‘It passed off pretty quickly. But it felt as if I’d lost my mind – I couldn’t think at all.’

‘You went a bit funny in the
comisaría
as well –
recuerdas?
Have you had anything like this before?’

‘Never,’ Galindez lied. If she mentioned the possibility of her amnesia recurring, Tali would insist on her seeing a doctor. She didn’t have time for that. Didn’t have time for them. Not after what they did when
Papá
died.

Tali hugged her. ‘
Dios mio,
Ana María. You’ve been under so much stress lately, maybe it’s that?’

‘It must be. But it’s scary. Normally I have this feeling I have to keep going, no matter what. I was like that with all my studies: I felt if I took a day off I’d never catch up again. Same at work. I never like feeling out of control.’

‘Did you think I hadn’t noticed,
mi vida
?’ Tali said. ‘Come on, there’s so much positive stuff to focus on. Apply some of your repulsive drudgery.’

‘You know what? This is the happiest I’ve ever been – despite all that’s been happening.’

‘Well, as long as I’m good for something, Dr Galindez.’ Tali moved closer.

‘Don’t,’ Galindez groaned, pulling back. ‘We’ve got to take those documents to Judge Delgado’s office.’

Tali sighed. ‘OK. But you’ll have to make it up to me, Ana.’

‘Or we could wait until it gets dark before we deliver them,’ Galindez said. ‘It might be safer.’

‘See, you’re still the clever one.’

Outside there was a faint rumble of thunder. A few minutes later the rain began.

The evening sky was bruised by rain clouds. The windows of the elegant offices and shops of Calle de Serrano glimmered with halos of soft light distorted by the hazy curtain of rain. A few chic pedestrians hurried by, hunched under umbrellas, paying little attention to the two women standing in a doorway, waiting for the rain to ease.

The night was filled with the sound of rain. Noisy cascades poured from roofs and balconies, awnings bulged and sagged, overflowing noisily into the street below. Walking up the rainwashed road, they paused, feigning interest in the glittering windows of Cartier while Galindez scanned the street for any sign of them being followed. Satisfied they were alone, they continued on their way in silence, subdued by the steady rhythm of the rain.

Judge Delgado’s office was set amid a group of similar, expensive office buildings, its only notable feature the reinforced nightsafe by the door. That and the ten-centimetre-thick bulletproof glass of the windows. Galindez pulled the plastic bag containing the files from under her coat. She passed it to Tali and stood guard while Tali tried to slide the flap of the nightsafe open.

‘Stop.’

A familiar voice somewhere in the shadows across the road. Galindez looked up, the water streaming down her face, stinging her eyes. She saw only the blurred lights of shops, all detail lost in the screen of rain.

Illuminated by the twinkling lights of a stylish fashion emporium was Sancho, rain streaming from his shaved head. Behind him, another figure. Galindez recognised the pasty features of Agustín Benitez, the man from the archives. Agustín looked across the road at Galindez and said something to Sancho. They came forwards. Above the drumming of the rain, Galindez heard Tali’s breathing, rapid with fear.

Adrenalin burned in her veins as Galindez stepped forward, placing herself between Sancho and Tali, her fists clenched. Sancho reacted angrily. He muttered something to Benitez and shook his head at the reply. He came nearer, splashing through the water streaming down the road. Two metres away from Galindez, he stopped.

‘Come any nearer, Sancho, and this time I’m really going to hurt you,’ Galindez said in a low voice. She wiped wet hair away from her face, revealing the dark violence in her eyes.

‘You don’t know what you’re dealing with,’ Sancho said quietly. ‘You’re way out of your depth and you don’t have a fucking clue.’ He took another pace forward. Galindez tensed. The next step he took would trigger her attack.