The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘Waiting for a taxi, señor?’

  ‘No, I’m admiring your tyres.’ Guzmán wrenched open the door and climbed in. He sat back, noticing the driver’s sullen face staring at him from the licence photo fixed to the back of his seat. Remarkably, the photograph succeeded in making the man even uglier than he was in the flesh.

  In front of him, in a plastic dispenser, he saw various cards advertising accommodation in the city. One, El Paraíso on Calle del Carmen, seemed reasonably priced and he slipped the card into his top pocket. With a name like The Paradise, it ought to be comfortable enough. Leaning forward, he gave the address to the driver.

  The cab grew warmer, pervaded by a smell of tobacco and other people’s sweat. A familiar odour, or at least it had been once. People didn’t smell like they used to. Apart from the ones he threw in the cells. They always stank. And if they didn’t when they went in, they did when they came out.

  Guzmán watched the city pass by with a critical eye, noting familiar sights with approval, scowling whenever he detected changes in the names of shops or some big store or hotel. Some changes were more drastic: blocks of new flats and expensive-looking shops where once he remembered slums and ruined buildings shattered by the war. Maybe change was inevitable, as the politicians said. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

  The driver cut in and out of the heavy traffic, enraged by the sight of motor vehicles and pedestrians alike, muttering a litany of expletives as his anger grew. ‘Look at them wandering across the road. Fuck’s sake, get out of the way, you stupid old goats.’ He gave an emphatic blast of the horn as he sped past the two women, cursing them through the open window. ‘Fucking jaywalkers. You’ll get somebody killed.’

  Guzmán thought the man’s reaction to two nuns trying to negotiate a pedestrian crossing a little extreme. But if he complained, the driver might argue, obliging Guzmán to drag him from the cab and beat him senseless. That would make him late for his appointment and he had no intention of missing that.

  ‘Christ, look at the arse on her, will you?’ the driver spluttered, taking his hands from the wheel to gesticulate at a woman on the far pavement.

  Guzmán turned to look, though too late. Another disappointment.

  The taxi slowed as it approached the Plaza del Callao. At the far end of the square was Calle del Carmen and Guzmán told the driver to pull over. Because of the man’s tardy information about the woman on the pavement, Guzmán declined to tip him. The next time the driver saw an arse worth commenting on, he would be well advised to inform his passenger in good time.

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, PENSIÓN PARAÍSO, CALLE DEL CARMEN

  Guzmán’s humour was rapidly fading as he searched for the pensión. Finally, he came to a series of shabby buildings a couple of hundred metres from where the street opened out into the plaza. The shabbiest building in the row was narrow, with a flight of steps leading up to a dilapidated entrance that had seen better days, though none of them recently. Above the door was a sign, the painted letters faded and barely legible: PENSIÓN PARAÍSO. Never had a hotel had a less appropriate name: it looked far from paradise and even further from the photograph on the card he’d taken from the taxi.

  He hurried up the stairs into a spartan reception area with a long wooden desk by the wall. A window on the far side of the room overlooked an alley. Beside the window was a cane chair piled with magazines in various languages, though none of them Spanish. Clearly this fleapit was aimed at foreigners willing to part with their money in return for a stay in what looked like a bankrupt whorehouse. He hit the tarnished brass bell on the reception desk and waited for someone to attend him.

  As he glanced round, he saw a staircase with a sign: Habitaciones 1–4, Comedor. The cheaper rooms, he guessed, exposed to the noise of the street and the smell from the dining room. He decided to ask for something quiet on an upper floor.

  Behind the desk, he saw a doorway, covered by a curtain of coloured glass beads, through which he heard the continuous blare of a television. He brought his fist down on the bell again, harder this time. Despite that, the noise of the TV continued unabated, competing with the drone of traffic outside.

  A sudden rattle of footsteps as a young woman came hurrying down the stairs, her high heels tapping out a staccato rhythm on the worn tiles as she went behind the reception desk.

  Sixteen or seventeen, he guessed, with an unruly froth of dark red curls and bright attentive eyes. An attractive little thing, although he was troubled by the large tears in the knees of her jeans and the sleeveless basketball shirt that displayed her shoulders in a manner that would once have been thought shocking. Another sign of the times.

  ‘What can I do for you, señor?’

  ‘Can’t you guess? And don’t use tú when you speak to me. Have some manners.’

  ‘Did the gentleman get out of bed on the wrong side today?’

  ‘The gentleman got the early-morning train from Sevilla and would like a room without having to answer questions from a receptionist about his temperament.’

  ‘You want to stay here?’ She gave him an amused look. ‘Really?’

  ‘Unless I’ve wandered into a garage by mistake.’

  ‘Not at all, we do have a room available.’ The girl reached under the counter and pulled out a battered leather register. ‘I’ll need your details for the police, of course.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Guzmán took out his documento nacional de identidad and slid it across the desk. ‘What happened to the sleeves on your shirt?’

  She glanced up from her examination of his identity card, amused. ‘It’s supposed to be like this. Hasn’t the gentleman seen one before?’ Her smile carried a hint of pity for his lack of fashion sense. ‘They’re really cool.’

  ‘I hope you got a discount for the lack of sleeves,’ Guzmán muttered.

  ‘I must say, the gentleman’s very sharp. He should be careful he doesn’t cut himself.’ Turning to the board behind her, she reached for a key. ‘I’ll put you in room three, señor...’ she glanced again at his ID, ‘Ramirez.’

  ‘Actually, I’d prefer a room on one of the upper floors.’

  The corners of her mouth twitched. ‘There are no upper floors. My father could barely afford this one when he set up the pensión after the war.’

  ‘He’s a veteran?’ That was good, it meant a discount for a fellow ex-soldier.

  ‘He’s in a wheelchair. The beatings in prison damaged his spine. That’s him you can hear, watching kids’ TV. It’s all he does these days.’

  Guzmán’s voice stiffened with professional animosity. ‘He fought for the Republic?’

  ‘I take it you were on the other side, from that look you’re giving me?’

  ‘I was.’ Guzmán scowled. ‘And I’m not ashamed to say so.’

  ‘Well, the war’s long over, isn’t it? We’ve got democracy and it’s here to stay.’

  He decided to ignore that attempt at provocation. ‘Can I see the room now?’

  ‘It might be a good idea, before any money changes hands. You wouldn’t be the first to walk out once you’ve seen what’s on offer.’

  He followed her up the stairs and along a narrow corridor. At the end, he saw a small room with several small tables, each with a single place setting. On the wall, a faded poster advertised the appearance of some long-dead matador.

  ‘This is the dining room,’ the girl said. ‘If you’re staying for a while I’ll set a table aside just for you. You’ll have your own napkin, a little bottle of oil and everything.’

  ‘What about drink?’

  ‘I’ll get you a bottle of wine and draw a line on the label when you’ve finished your dinner so you know you’re not being cheated.’

  ‘No need. I don’t leave bottles half empty.’

  Guzmán waited while she opened the door to room number three. ‘This one overlooks the alley, so there’s a bit of noise, I’m afraid.’

  Noise was the least of his problems, Guzmán thought as he looked aro
und the dingy room with its scuffed wooden floor, a wardrobe that must have come from a funeral sale and a nightstand with a ragged Bible and a smeared glass. Over the bed, a cheap carving of an agonised Christ hung precariously from a nail. The bed looked rather frail, too. He doubted it would survive an encounter with an enthusiastic whore. Assuming he could afford one. Enthusiasm always came at a price.

  ‘Not very big is it?’ he grunted.

  ‘Perhaps the gentleman thought the sign outside said “The Ritz”?’

  ‘Never mind, I’ll take it.’

  She reached down and tried to lift his case onto the bed. ‘What’s in here? Bricks?’

  ‘A couple of Uzis and some ammunition,’ Guzmán said, taking the case from her.

  She laughed. ‘You’re a real joker, I must say, señor. I’m Daniela Argüello, by the way. That’s my father Alejandro behind the curtain downstairs.’ She paused by the door. ‘Welcome to the Paradise Pensión, Señor Ramirez.’

  When the door closed, Guzmán went over to the dirt-encrusted window and looked down at the alley, its pavements lined with bulging refuse sacks. Bored with the view, he cast a baleful eye over his room. He’d stayed in worse places, he was sure, though it was difficult to remember when. Near the door, a light switch hung from a ragged piece of wire. Surprisingly, the switch worked, though the single bulb barely illuminated the room with its insipid pallor. In the walls, he heard the muffled sounds of the building, the intermittent murmur of water pipes, soft indistinct voices and the ever present rumble of traffic competing with several televisions, each tuned to a different station.

  Out of habit, he searched the room, finding nothing but a few antiquated hangers in the wardrobe, dangling from a sagging wire. Sliding the chamber pot aside, he took a knife from his pocket and used it to lift a couple of the floorboards beneath the bed before transferring the oilcloth bags holding the Uzis into their new hiding place. He pressed the floorboards back carefully. No use making things easy for unwanted visitors.

  For a few minutes, he lay back on the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. With a sigh, he reached into his holdall and pulled out a bottle of Carlos Primero. He took a swig and then hid the bottle in the wardrobe. He felt a sudden urge to go out on the town and get drunk. But there was only half an hour until his meeting and he needed to be sober for that.

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, BRIGADA ESPECIAL HEADQUARTERS, CALLE DEL DOCE DE OCTUBRE

  Resentfully sober, Guzmán took a taxi to Calle del Alcalde Sáinz de Baranda. At the end of the street, he paused to admire the autumn colours in the Retiro park. His aesthetic interlude over, he turned into Doce de Octubre, a quiet, narrow street lined with apartments, warehouses and a few shops and offices. He walked slowly, checking the numbers of the buildings until he came to a large though rather bland red-brick office, with a broad flight of steps leading up to ornate double doors. A metal sign over the door: BE LTD. The Brigada Especial’s new headquarters was certainly a step up from his old comisaría in Calle Robles. Guzmán hated it at first sight.

  To his surprise, Gutiérrez himself opened the door. He looked old, his face was pallid and drawn and there were dark shadows under his eyes. It was not the look of a well man. That cheered Guzmán considerably.

  Gutiérrez started talking before Guzmán was inside the door. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Comandante. The politicians are talking about investigating our activities. Can you imagine? We knew the shit might hit the fan once Franco died, but why now, of all times? Joder just when—’

  ‘I’m very well, thanks for asking,’ Guzmán said as he took a seat in a leather armchair by the window, waiting with growing impatience for Gutiérrez to pour him a brandy. On the wall, he saw a faded photograph of Franco. ‘Time you threw that out, isn’t it? He’s been dead seven years.’

  Gutiérrez shrugged. ‘It hides the wall safe.’

  ‘At least he’s finally doing something useful.’ Guzmán took the brandy Gutiérrez offered and raised it to his lips. ‘This isn’t Carlos Primero.’ He drank it in one swallow and glared at the empty glass. ‘It’s like piss, where’s the good stuff?’

  Reluctantly, Gutiérrez opened a drawer and brought out a bottle of Carlos Primero. ‘This stuff is so expensive,’ he grumbled, half filling Guzmán’s glass. Guzmán kept the glass extended until he took the hint and filled it.

  ‘Let’s get down to business,’ Guzmán said. ‘I suggest you start by explaining why I haven’t been paid for months, or do you want me to starve to death in front of you to make the point?’

  ‘The government is auditing the Brigada Especial’s accounts, Comandante. They want to know if we give value for money.’

  ‘Value for money?’ Guzmán spluttered. ‘For fuck’s sake, they can’t do without us.’ He stared at Gutiérrez, hard. ‘Can they?’

  ‘We won’t know until they’ve done the audit.’ Unhappily, Gutiérrez watched Guzmán help himself to more drink. ‘There’s no more after that bottle’s finished. We can’t afford it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll buy my own with the money you owe me.’

  ‘Until they unfreeze the bank accounts, there is no money,’ Gutiérrez sighed.

  Guzmán glanced at the elaborate ostentation of the office. Filigreed alcoves, Regency chairs, expensive flock wallpaper and a couple of oil paintings Guzmán found despicable. All of it bought with money that by rights should have been in his bank account. ‘You could sell this furniture, it looks like something from a brothel.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that, Comandante.’

  ‘Of course, I was forgetting you’ve led a sheltered life.’ Guzmán leaned towards him, suddenly threatening. ‘There’s got to be something you can do to free up some cash?’

  ‘Like what? They’ve got accountants going over everything with a fine-tooth comb.’

  ‘I thought you always ran a tight ship as far as finances went?’

  ‘We’re a secret department, Guzmán. The money’s been hidden all over the place. When we hire someone to do a hit or steal secrets from a friendly embassy, we don’t save the receipts for the taxman. Franco understood those kind of nuances. These new politicians think differently. They’re more like grocers than statesmen.’

  Guzmán reached for the brandy and filled his glass again. ‘So we’re fucked, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘There’s still hope,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘At least they haven’t disbanded us.’

  ‘You mean they were considering it? Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?’

  An evasive shrug. ‘They talked about incorporating us into the Secret Service but then the top brass decided against it, because of the things you did. They don’t want their new Secret Service sullied by the Francoist past.’

  ‘You mean because of what we did,’ Guzmán growled. ‘You gave the orders.’ He took an angry swallow of brandy. ‘Christ, since the nineteen sixties I’ve been travelling the country knocking off foreign spies and suspected terrorists and no one in government has ever complained about my track record.’ His eyes narrowed as he sniffed his glass. ‘Did you forget to put the cork back in the bottle last time you opened this?’

  ‘For God’s sake, never mind the brandy. You know what’s going to happen later this month, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. There’s going to be an election. I’m looking forward to voting. In fact, I may vote twice to make up for lost time.’

  ‘The polls suggest we’ll end up with a Socialist government. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  ‘Isn’t it just,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘When Suarez became prime minister, I thought we’d have ten years at least before we had to worry about any of this. I never thought the bastard would sell us out overnight.’

  ‘A man who’d had almost every job in the Falange from top to bottom.’ Gutiérrez sighed. ‘We all thought he’d be a safe pair of hands.’

  ‘His parents even named him Adolfo after Hitler. And then the bastard legalised the Communist Party. Christ knows what the Socialists wi
ll do once they take power.’

  ‘There are even bigger problems than them,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘The Centinelas for one.’

  ‘Those old lunatics? A bunch of cavalry officers who formed a secret bodyguard for Franco, that’s all they were. In any case, most of them must be dead by now.’

  ‘Not all.’ Gutiérrez stifled a wheeze. ‘They brought in younger men during the sixties and seventies when they started moving into politics.’

  ‘Those bastards have worse records than mine,’ Guzmán scoffed. ‘Who’d elect them?’

  ‘The Centinelas don’t want to be elected, they want power. Everywhere you look, in government, the civil service, the armed forces and the police, even industry and commerce, there are influential people who owe their positions to the Centinelas. And all of them fiercely loyal to the men at the top who form their central council.’

  ‘What keeps them so loyal?’

  ‘Money, of course. That and the fact that anyone crossing them is liable to be killed.’

  ‘How the fuck did they get to be so powerful?’

  ‘I blame Carrero Blanco. When he became prime minister, he opened the doors to them, thinking they’d support him. But once the Centinelas had settled in, they followed their own agenda, using their resources to buy up politicians. And if the politicians didn’t honour their debts, the Centinelas could take away all the privileges of office very quickly. They’ve been expanding ever since.’

  ‘Why didn’t the spineless bastards stand up to them?’

  ‘Despite appearances to the contrary, Guzmán, politicians aren’t stupid, they know once they’ve taken the Centinelas’ money, there’s no getting out.’

  Guzmán shook his head slowly. ‘If things got tricky with them, that would be a war we couldn’t win. We haven’t got the resources. But that’s not my problem. I’m going to take my back pay and sit on a beach with all those Scandinavian girls.’

  ‘I thought you of all people would have the stomach for a fight, Comandante.’