The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (14 page)

‘Full name?’

‘Alicia Isabel Martinez.’

‘Age?’

‘Thirty-three.’

Guzmán looked up from writing as if needing to verify her age with his own eyes. He had thought she was nearer forty, but no matter. She was still attractive. At least attractive enough for him.

‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
Señora
Martinez asked, annoyed by Guzmán’s tone.

‘Yes I do. Stand there. I want to get a good look at you.’

He stared at her. She tried to meet his eye, wringing her hands together in discomfort. Guzmán stared back. She looked away, flushed.

‘Keep still,’ Guzmán said. She froze. ‘Well,
señora
,’ he closed the notebook, ‘let’s just have a look at what we have here.’ He sat back, never taking his hungry eyes from her. He saw her shiver. Not from the cold, he imagined.

‘Firstly, you live next door to a couple with anti-Spanish sentiments. Traitors. Possibly agents of international Freemasonry or Communism. Possibly both of those.’

She started to protest, but shrank back under the threatening weight of his look.

‘These traitors harboured a dangerous enemy of the State, a man who’s been evading the law for years. A man condemned by the courts for his crimes during the Crusade.’

She raised her hands helplessly. ‘The War ended fourteen years ago. Can’t you stop fighting it now? Why can’t you just let it all be forgotten? How can we ever have real peace if we stay locked in the past?’

Guzmán snorted. ‘We don’t forget,
señora
. There can be no forgetting because to do so would betray the great works achieved by the
Caudillo
and the people of Spain who rose up to destroy the Red menace. We don’t forget,
al contrario
, we remember. We remember everything. Everything.’ His voice was an angry growl as he got to his feet. He stepped towards her and slapped his notebook across her face. She gasped, shocked. ‘It’s all here. In files, books, ledgers, records, all manner of documents, all over Spain. The memory of what happened, who did it and when. And each time we catch another of these traitors, another obstacle to the greatness of Spain falls – like that Marxist bastard we arrested next door. We don’t forget. We won and we have to maintain the victory. Even if we have to kill all of them. I’m surprised at you,
señor
a, frankly, asking a question like that. Very surprised indeed.’

She was on the verge of tears now, afraid of Guzmán’s huge presence, his malevolent intimidation, the barely controlled violence inflecting his voice. She stepped backwards as he advanced towards her. He came closer, forcing her against the wall. She was shaking violently. He could feel it.

‘Be quiet,’ Guzmán said. ‘I have more questions.’

She nodded, her arms folded across her chest defensively.

‘I notice you don’t have a crucifix in the apartment. No sign of devotion, in fact. Not one.’

‘I can’t afford one. I can hardly make ends meet as it is.’ Her voice trembled.

‘And how often do you attend mass,
señora
?’

She stared at him, horrified, not knowing where this was going but knowing it was going very badly. ‘Not very often. I work on Saturdays and so on Sundays I—’

‘You don’t attend mass. You have no trace of our Lord or His blessed mother in your house. I’d say you lack religion.’

‘I know, I should go more often. I will go. I’ll go this week. It’s been hard.’

‘It’s hard for the ungodly, perhaps. But not for good Christians.’

‘I’m not a bad person.’ She was on the verge of tears. Guzmán was pleased.

‘No?’ His voice rose in the thick choked tone of the habitually violent. ‘What the hell is that then?’ He pointed to a small framed photograph on a shelf. A young man in uniform smiled at the camera, frozen in faded sepia on some day long gone. His hair shone with brilliantine beneath a summer sun. In the background there were blossom trees. But it was the uniform Guzmán noticed most. The Republican uniform. The enemy uniform.

‘My husband.’ She was starting to cry.

‘Where is he?’

‘Dead.’ Tears fell down her face. ‘He died in the war.’

‘No one dies in wars,’ Guzmán said sharply. ‘They’re killed. Who killed him?’

‘He was a prisoner in Andalucía,’ she wept. ‘He was shot by the soldiers of Queipo Llano.’ Her head dropped. Tears fell onto the threadbare rug.

‘General Queipo de Llano,’ Guzmán corrected her. When she didn’t respond, he poked her with his index finger between her breasts. She recoiled, flinching back against the wall. Trapped.

‘General Queipo de Llano,’ she repeated obediently. He ran his finger slowly across her breast in casual exploration. She pressed herself against the wall more tightly.

‘General Queipo de Llano. May he rest in peace,’ Guzmán persisted, his finger probing again. He felt the pounding of her heart through the coarse fabric. He rested his hand on her breast. He squeezed.

‘General Queipo de Llano.
Que en paz descanse
,’ she parroted, gasping with fear and pain. He felt the violent rhythm of her heartbeat and squeezed again, harder. She choked back a cry of pain and bit her lip.

‘You were a fool to think I wouldn’t notice that photograph. A man in Republican uniform.’ Guzmán shook his head. ‘A fool to even have it on show. God knows what else you’re hiding.’

She whimpered, unable to speak through her tears.

‘Stop crying.’

She tried unsuccessfully.

‘Listen,
señora
, this looks bad for you. The neighbours, their traitorous nephew, your ungodliness. I’ve got enough here to send you to prison.’ Guzmán’s tone softened, the largesse of the victor to the vanquished. ‘Look, even if I don’t arrest you, and believe me, I don’t want to because, frankly, I don’t have the time, but there’s still the issue of the Falange.’

She looked up, red-eyed. ‘What about them? You’re the law, surely…’

‘The law, yes. But in civil terms, the Falange keep an eye on morality, they police public probity. Ensure children are well looked after in good, Christian households.’

He saw her eyes widen with sudden apprehension.

‘Some of those people are cretins,
señora
, yet they hold positions of power. And when they consider a child isn’t being brought up in the True Faith, or there’s a history in the family of sedition, or radical politics…’

She looked at him with horror. He knew her worst fear now.

‘They’d naturally intervene, take the child away – probably to a Jesuit orphanage, away from the moral contamination of the home. Where the child’s habits can be undone and corrected. Where the rod won’t be spared. Where the priests can remind him he comes from contaminated stock, that he bears the parents’ guilt.’

‘No, please…’

‘That would be their duty, wouldn’t it,
señora
? Their godly, Christian duty?’

‘But…’

‘Their godly Christian duty. Would it not?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes what?’ He touched her again, harder this time.

‘It would be their godly Christian duty.’ She broke into tears again.

‘I have to go now,
señora
,’ Guzmán said abruptly.

She looked horrified. ‘Please, wait, please.’

‘I really must be back at work. You’ll hear in due course from the authorities.’ He made towards the door but she grabbed him by the sleeve, pulling him back.

She lowered her voice. ‘Please, I’ll do anything.
Anything
. You shot my husband. Please leave me my sister’s child. He’s all I have. He’s my life.’

‘There is one thing.’ Guzmán said.

‘Anything.’

‘Get on your knees.’

Señora
Martinez shot a despairing look at the closed door of the back room, and then sank to her knees, her shoulders shaking. Guzmán leaned down and raised her chin with his hand.

‘Listen, I’ve got a busy day today but I’ll come back here tonight. It will be quite late. Make sure the brat is in bed. And that he stays there. We’ll continue our discussion then, if you understand me. And, if you’re a good girl, and do what you’re told, then the Falange and the Church Child Care Authorities won’t put your little boy in an orphanage. That’s the price you pay for keeping him. Understood?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes,
Comandante
Guzmán,’ he instructed.

He lifted her face, his big hand cupping her reluctant chin, her red eyes spilling tears. ‘Yes,
Comandante
Guzmán,’ she whispered.

‘Until later then. And don’t think about trying to get away, we’d find you and then you’d both suffer even more.’

Guzmán let go of her chin. She slumped forwards, hands on the floor, gasping for air.

‘
Tia
Alicia?’ a reedy voice called. ‘Auntie?’

She got up and ran to the back room.

‘I’ll see myself out,’ Guzmán called, closing the door behind him.

He made his way down the stairs. Outside the truck was still waiting, its exhaust billowing dirty clouds of fumes into the freezing air. Peralta was chatting with the driver. When he saw Guzmán coming, he started to climb down from the cab.

‘All well,
Comandante
?’

Guzmán pushed him back in the cab. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He looked round at the snow-covered tenements. Here and there, a curtain twitched. Another lesson imparted, he thought.

‘Everything is very good,
Acting Teniente
.’ Guzmán’s sneering accentuation of Peralta’s rank was now habitual. ‘Everything is very good indeed.’

The sarge was standing in a nearby doorway talking to a man. Guzmán was already halfway into the truck when he noticed the
sargento
and impatiently shouted to him to hurry. They had arrested all those on their list and Guzmán saw no need for the numbers to be increased further.

MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

Peralta noted the change in the stonework as he descended the stairs to the cells below the
comisaría
. The brickwork gave way to much older stone; some of the arches were inscribed with faded ancient carvings and the low ceiling reminded him of a sewer. The doors of the cells were made of thick metal, reinforced by iron bands, clearly more recent additions to the architecture of the
comisaría
.

The cells were guarded by a few
guardia civiles
. Down the corridor, Peralta noticed the Falangists, each with a large ledger. They seemed to be comparing notes. As Peralta reached the first cell, the
Guardia
snapped to attention.

‘Where’s Mendoza?’ Peralta asked.

‘Cell twelve,
Teniente
.’

Peralta nodded and walked past the other
guardia
and Falangists towards the end of the corridor. The atmosphere was quite cheerful. Amongst those outside the cells, at any rate. The corridor grew lower as he progressed along it. By the time he reached cell twelve, Peralta was obliged to bow his head. The cold sepulchral stonework of the walls seemed like that of some ancient church. At the end of the corridor was another door, much older than any of the others, its dark wooden bulk crossed by crude metal bands, the huge antique lock set in a swarm of ornate snakes. Outside the cell, the
guardia
saluted Peralta. On the door was a rough sign scrawled in an angry hand: COMANDANTE GUZMÁN ONLY.

‘The
comandante
told me to begin Mendoza’s interrogation,’ Peralta said.

The guard pulled a set of keys from his belt. ‘
Pase, Teniente
.’

Peralta went in. It was a small windowless cell, with a low curved ceiling of ancient stone. The cell was cold and rivulets of water ran down the walls, patterning the stones with an elaborate network of green stains. In one corner, a battered bucket was the only sanitation. Against the far wall, Mendoza sprawled on a straw mattress. He looked tired. His hair was tousled and one of the lenses in his spectacles was cracked. He looked older than the faded photograph Peralta had seen a few minutes earlier in the mess room when Guzmán was splashing brandy into their mugs to celebrate the success of the raid.

‘I would stand to welcome you,’ Mendoza said calmly, ‘but as you see I’m a little inconvenienced at the moment.’

Peralta’s eyes were more accustomed to the darkness now and he saw the prisoner’s hands were cuffed behind him.

‘Stay where you are,’ Peralta said. He looked round for a chair and then felt foolish for doing so. He tried to lean on the wall but abandoned that plan as he saw how wet the stonework was.

‘Make yourself comfortable,
Teniente
.’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Peralta said stiffly. ‘I won’t be staying long.’

‘Nor, I suspect, will I,’ Mendoza said. ‘This is how they do it in the American movies, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’ Peralta was becoming more annoyed. He was the one who should impose himself on the interview and ask the questions. He was used to interviewing prisoners, but they had always been small-time crooks or black marketeers, not enemies of the State.

‘First the good policeman, then the bad one. You, then the
comandante
. It always works in those
Yanqui
films.’

‘We’re not in a film,’ Peralta snapped. ‘And I’m not sure
Comandante
Guzmán will be able to attend this interview.’ He stopped, seeing
el Profesor
smile.

‘He’ll come,’ Mendoza said. ‘He won’t be able to resist his need to gloat.’

Peralta frowned. ‘Whether the
comandante
attends or not is irrelevant. I wish to ask you some questions, before…’ He paused, recalling Guzmán’s instructions not to inform the prisoner of his impending fate. The
teniente
ground his teeth in anger at the professor’s smile.

‘No trial for me then,
Teniente
? No report of my supposed crimes in
El Alcazar
or some other Falangist rag? Will it be the garrotte or the bullet?’

Peralta was sweating. ‘The due process of law will be followed,’ he snapped. ‘Judgement will be based upon the evidence…’