The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (48 page)

‘I’ve given tentative acceptance.’ Luisa beamed.  

Galindez congratulated her half-heartedly.  

‘You know, Ana,’ Luisa said, ‘I do miss you. I miss touching you.’ Her hand slid over Galindez’s knee. ‘Your skin fascinates me.’ Her hand moved higher, settling on her thigh.  

Galindez’s first thought was to push her away. But it was suddenly impossible to think. A dark band of pain slid across her consciousness. Where her thoughts were clear and precise a moment ago, there was now a dull, painful fog. She tried to protest, but instead of words, she found herself frozen in submissive confusion, thoughts and words failing to align themselves in meaningful patterns. Luisa’s hand moved up her leg towards the hem of her skirt. Rigid, unable to form the words to stop her, Galindez found herself spectator to her own unwanted seduction.  

‘I thought so,’ Luisa said. ‘You just wanted me to make the first move.’ Galindez struggled to speak. All she had to do was tell Luisa to stop, yet her voice was hesitant, stammering unsuccessful attempts at protest. Luisa placed her finger on Galindez’s lips. ‘I know what you want, Ana María.’ Her hand slid under her skirt and Galindez felt the enervating miasma grow as Luisa’s hand moved like a slow rising flame on her thigh, her finger tracing random, teasing patterns.  

‘No.’ Galindez’s voice was slow and confused as she struggled to her feet, snatching up her bag as she staggered to the door.  

‘Don’t be silly,’ Luisa said softly. ‘What’s the problem?’  

Galindez couldn’t say, because she didn’t know, couldn’t explain. She had no language for this. She walked unsteadily from the room and down the corridor. Outside, the mental haze began to lift, the raw heat of the day suddenly seemed cleansing. But something was wrong, she thought. She leaned against the wall outside the faculty entrance, keeping in the shade.
I forgot Belén’s email, then the episode in the
comisaría
and now this. What’s wrong with me?
The trouble was, she knew. The doctors had said it might happen. For eighteen years, she’d believed it wouldn’t.  

MADRID 2009, CALLE DE LA RIBERA DE CURTIDORES  

Galindez and Tali strolled leisurely down the cobbled hill, window shopping and dawdling in the lazy afternoon heat. Shop blinds were tightly drawn against the glare. Outside the Bar Almeja, a few customers braved the fierce sun, lounging at tables crammed into a diminishing area of shadow. Further along, an African drummer beat out a low, tumbling rhythm, bouncing percussive echoes off the high walls around him.  

At a stall a man was frying
churros
, pouring lines of batter into the deep hot fat until they were brown before covering them with sugar and salt. The smell of frying filled the warm afternoon air. Tali bought a paper cone full of steaming churros and bit into one with relish.  

‘Quieres
?’ She rattled the cone, showering sugar onto the pavement.  

‘Not really. I eat less calories in a week than you’ve got in that bag,’ Galindez said.  

‘They remind me of childhood. The taste makes me feel like a little kid again.’  

Galindez felt a sudden sadness.
I can’t remember what childhood tastes like.
‘Go on, then, just one.’ The churro was hot, salty and sweet. And very greasy.

‘Want some hot chocolate to dip them in?’ Tali asked. ‘Go the whole hog?’

‘I’m fine. You go ahead.’  

Tali bought a plastic cup of thick warm chocolate and dipped a churro into it. After a moment Galindez followed her example. ‘The Galindez willpower at work,’ Tali laughed, wiping chocolate from her lips.  

‘I know. I’m just a slave to my desires.
Mira
. Look over there. It’s a fortune-teller. You don’t see many of those. Let’s take a look.’  

The dirty shop window was almost empty but for a shelf covered with a piece of ancient black velvet. In the middle of the velvet was a large glass ball. A handwritten card was propped against the ball:  

Aurelia, Genuine Gypsy from Jerez – Fortunes told – Tarot and palm readings – Love potions – Husbands and Wives found – Luck restored

‘It’s all nonsense, isn’t it?’ Tali snatched the last churro.  

‘Scientifically speaking, it is. To be honest, I’m intrigued by them.’  

‘Really? Go in then, Ana. My treat.’ Tali opened the door. Inside, the shop was dark. It smelled of damp and dust. ‘
Holá, señora,
’ she said to someone inside. ‘How much for reading my friend’s palm?’  

A cracked dry voice told her it was fifteen euros.  

Tali stepped into the darkened shop and paid. ‘
Venga,
Ana María. In you go. I’ll wait by the
churro
stand.’  

Inside, the small room was draped in dark cloth embroidered with the moon and stars in silver thread. It was cold after the heat outside. An old lantern gave off a strong smell of paraffin. As her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, Galindez saw an old woman dressed in black, sitting at a table. She smelled of smoke and roses. Outside, the faint drumming pulsed hypnotically.  

‘Muy buenas, señora.
’ Galindez could still taste
churros
on her lips.  

‘Muy buenas, hija.
Come nearer,
princesa,
I don’t bite.’ The old woman took Galindez’s hand in hers, her sharp nail tracing the lines on her palm.  

‘Odd things are happening,’ Galindez said. ‘I want to know how they’ll turn out.’

The gypsy sighed. ‘We all want that,
hija
. A ver.’ She bent closer. ‘I see a man. Is there a man in your life,
guapa
?’ She saw Galindez’s amused surprise. ‘No? This man wants you. He knows you’re looking for him. He’s a writer, isn’t he? I see him sitting at a desk, writing in a book. The book you’re looking for.’

Suddenly, with a cry, the gypsy released Galindez’s hand as if it were red hot. She struggled to her feet, crossing herself.
‘Qué te vayas. Fuera. Por Dios.
I can’t see any more. Go.’

‘Puta madre,
you’re supposed to tell me I’ll meet someone nice, have six kids and live happily ever after,’ Galindez snapped. She was angry: she’d only come in for a bit of fun, not to be spooked by this old witch.

The old woman grabbed her arm. ‘Here, I can’t take this.’ She handed Galindez the money Tali had given her. ‘Now go,
chica.
And be careful.’

Galindez opened the door, glad to see bright sunlight again. And then, curious, she turned back. ‘Why can’t you tell my future,
señora?’

The old gypsy sank back into the seat behind the table, her face lost in deep shadow. ‘You don’t have a future,
chica. Dios mio,
you only have the past.’

The door slammed behind as Galindez stepped back into the street. She heard the sound of the lock turning. Across the road, Tali waited in a pool of sunshine, listening to the African drummer. ‘Well, what did she say?’ She looked in surprise as Galindez handed her the money back.

‘It was rubbish.
Joder
, some fortune-teller she is – she nearly frightened me to death. Never again.’ Galindez plucked a five-euro note from Tali’s hand. ‘I think I need more
churros.
’

16

MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

‘Mierda
. There are bodies all over the city.’ Guzmán put down the telephone.

‘How many,
jefe
?’

‘Forty-five so far.’ Guzmán said, looking absently across the room.

‘Forty-five?’ Peralta was shocked. ‘This is a massacre.’

‘There’s certainly going to be trouble,’ Guzmán said, annoyed. He got up and walked to the door. Peralta followed him across the corridor into the mess room. Inside, twenty uniformed policemen were cleaning rifles, opening cases of ammunition and placing cartridges into rucksacks. The tables were strewn with the detritus of combat: bayonets, pistols, a pair of metal knuckledusters studded with long spikes. The men worked methodically, cheerful and boisterous, the promise of action invigorating them.

At the centre of the hubbub was the sarge, grinning as he packed a satchel with hand grenades. He saw Guzmán and saluted. Guzmán returned it by giving the
sargento
the finger. He then took out a packet of Ducados and lit one. Peralta looked longingly at the cigarettes and Guzmán absently passed him the packet, belatedly realising his mistake.

‘They sell them. You give them money, they give you cigarettes. It works every time.’ Guzmán’s words were punctuated by clouds of acrid smoke.

Peralta nodded. ‘Sorry, boss, I thought I had some.’ Guzmán sighed and turned away. Tapping the loose black tobacco back into the end of the cigarette, Peralta lit it, taking a deep drag until the tobacco burned evenly. As the coarse smoke hit his lungs, he coughed, thus failing to see Guzmán as he mouthed something to the sarge. The sarge guffawed and without warning tossed a hand grenade to Peralta. Alarmed, the
teniente
caught it, snatching it out of the air with two hands before gingerly placing it on the table.

‘Hope you put the pin back,
Teniente
,’ the sarge cackled. Peralta looked in horror at the green-grey ball of metal.

‘Very funny,
Sargento
.’ He tried to affect a more nonchalant air and failed. Throwing explosives around a crowded mess room was not his idea of entertainment, although from the smirks and sniggers, Peralta could see he was alone in thinking that. He returned to his cigarette, inhaling the smoke gratefully. Guzmán was looking at the table of weapons, lost in silent meditation. Peralta waited.

‘Ever think about what makes this country tick?’ Guzmán asked.

‘What it runs on, you mean? Like petrol? Oil? ’

Guzmán looked at him. ‘Power.’

‘Power? That’s what I said,
jefe
, petrol and oil—’

‘No. Power. As in the army, the navy, the air force, the police, the
guardia civil.
Franco. Us.
Coño
, can’t you see?’

‘Well yes, of course, I understand,’ Peralta said, not understanding.

Guzmán looked at him, unconvinced. ‘You speak to an informant, some bootblack on Calle Durango. He tells you shit. He’s clearly lying. What would you do?’

‘What any good policeman would,’ Peralta said. ‘Give him a slap. Maybe a kick up the rear.’

‘And why would you?’

Peralta frowned, annoyed at Guzmán’s tone. ‘So he would know he couldn’t mess me about. And so anyone he talked to would know that I do my job right.’

Guzmán nodded approvingly. ‘Exactly. And what is it we do here?’

Peralta thought for a moment. There were many ways of describing it: protection of the State, upholding public order and morality, the maintenance of Christian society. He looked at Guzmán. Guzmán’s face was impassive.

‘We kill people,’ Peralta said. ‘To order.’

Guzmán beamed happily. ‘We do,
Teniente
. We do it properly. And we do it for the State. The State’s built on scaffolding and people like us are that scaffolding. And to keep everything held up and stop it falling down, we have to do things right. That’s what keeps the pay cheque coming, no?’

‘What we do is about more than money,’ Peralta said.

‘We all have a price,’ Guzmán smirked, ‘don’t we?’

Peralta was not convinced. ‘Possibly.’

‘So if Carrero asked you to take it up the arse, would you? For money. Say enough to buy a house.’

Peralta flushed. ‘Of course not. Not for any money. And I didn’t even know the
almirante
was queer.’

‘He isn’t. But who knows, he might try it one day. What if he said he’d kill your kid?’

Peralta was unhappy with this turn in their conversation. But it was Guzmán who decided their topics of conversation. Always.

‘I’d kill him first. There are limits,’ Peralta said.

‘You’re in a cell and he has your kid. Maybe your wife too. They’ve repeatedly raped her in the next cell so you can hear. Now he says unless you take it up the arse, they kill the kid. Slowly. All you could do is beat on the walls like a lunatic while you heard every scream. What then?’

‘When you put it that way, a man would have little choice but to give in.’

‘Maricón.’
Guzmán laughed. ‘See, you’re a whore as well. We just needed to establish your price, didn’t we?’

Peralta chewed his lip and stayed silent.

‘Muy bien.
So we agree,’ Guzmán said. ‘Think about Franco for a minute. His rule depends on some things being predictable. People go hungry but there’s about enough for most of those who deserve it. So people can be fairly certain they’ll eat each day. Well, most of them. We also have to have the certainty that life will carry on in certain ways. That Reds, fairies, Communists, Freemasons and Liberals will all be dealt with.’

‘Order, you mean.’

‘Exactly. Order. So everyone knows what’s what. That there’s a line.’

‘And you don’t cross that line.’

Guzmán grinned. ‘It’s the same as with your bootblack informant who messes you about – you let him go so far and no further.’

‘We don’t know who’s crossing the line, though. I mean, who’d want to kill forty-odd people?’

Guzmán sighed. ‘We have a pretty good idea
who
. Our Caribbean pals.’

‘But we don’t know why.’

‘The point is,’ Guzmán said, exasperated, ‘that it’s going to draw attention. Even if it’s kept out of the papers, it makes Valverde look weak and threatens his shady dealing in drugs. Makes other criminals wonder if maybe they should sell a bit of stuff – given that people are avoiding the general’s businesses for fear of dying. But worse, it makes the
Caudillo
look weak. It makes society look weak.
Our
society. Instead of fearing that knock on the door at night and having the sarge and me waiting on the mat when they open the door, they’re going to start thinking maybe another way would be better.’