The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  She counted the rows as she walked, the late-afternoon sun on her back. Despite walking slowly, she came to row ten much too soon. She stared at the large white stone, a mute reminder of the tragedies that had blighted her life. Not that she needed reminding. Never a week went by without someone sharing a reminiscence with her about her father, bemoaning the tragic waste of life, cursing the cruelty of terrorists who would assassinate a man in front of his daughter. We’ll never forget him, Ana María. Usually the phrase was accompanied by a tearful hug or a firm pat on her arm. Perhaps their outpouring of sorrow made them feel better. It did nothing for her.

  Not one of the people who expressed their admiration and respect for her father knew Galíndez’s secret. She had never visited the grave since Aunt Carmen died. God, she’d only just managed to attend her funeral. That had been the bad time, the time when she had been tested. And now, here she was, facing another test, though this time she would meet it head on, without falling back on the things she’d done to dull the pain after Carmen’s death.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to look at the memorial, seeing the tragic sequence of her family history, carved in stone. Her father’s name first: Made the Ultimate Sacrifice for his country, then her mother, though there were no comments, neatly avoiding any reference to her suicide. And finally Aunt Carmen, only two years ago. Dearly beloved aunt of Ana María. As if words could ever sum up her love for Aunt Carmen.

  She breathed slowly, confronting her feelings, trying to face them down. Sometimes that worked, though not often, and she waited, fists clenched, biting her lip until the pain began to pass and she felt aware of life around her once more. The rumble of traffic on the M-23. Distant voices. And, somewhere among the headstones, the sound of someone approaching. Instinctively, she reached into her jacket and drew the Glock from its holster.

  As the footsteps came closer, she got to her feet, staying hidden behind the big headstone, holding the pistol with both hands as the footsteps came nearer.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Isabel gasped, staring at the pistol aimed at her chest.

  Galíndez lowered the Glock and slipped it back into its holster. ‘I thought you were going to call me?’

  ‘I did.’ Isabel frowned. ‘But your phone’s off.’ She gestured towards the path. ‘A party of nuns said they’d seen a woman coming up here who fitted your description.’

  ‘I’m glad you came.’ As Isabel turned to read the inscriptions on the headstone, Galíndez took the opportunity to slip on her sunglasses. The last thing she needed was for Isabel to notice her eyes.

  Isabel left the headstone and came to sit with her. ‘Are you OK, Ana?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Do you visit the grave often?’

  ‘Why would I? It wouldn’t change anything.’

  ‘I only meant—’

  ‘Drop it, will you? We’re not here to visit, we’re here to get those DNA samples.’

  Isabel gave her a curious look. ‘Did you bring the tools?’

  ‘They’re in my car. I put them in a couple of bags, so it’ll look like we’re going to clean up a headstone.’ She took Isabel’s hand. ‘Sorry I snapped at you. I’m a bit stressed.’

  ‘No wonder, is there, Ana? We’re sitting in a cemetery, waiting for them to lock us in so we can break into a tomb.’

  ‘Well, at least there’s only a couple of hours to go.’

  Isabel glanced at the sun, now sinking into the horizon. ‘Quite.’

  *

  The sun was setting as they made their way to Uncle Ramiro’s family vault. The tombs and memorials here were considerably more imposing than the simple headstone on the Galíndez family plot. Isabel shook her head at the life-size statues, growing sinister in the fading light. ‘Your Uncle Ramiro’s father must really have been someone to be buried in here.’

  ‘He was a famous general. Iron Hand Ortiz, they called him.’

  Isabel pointed at a white marble memorial. ‘I don’t believe that.’

  Galíndez came up behind her and peered over her shoulder. ‘Do you speak German?’

  Isabel shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter, does it? Look, there’s a Spanish translation: “German Aviators, died for God and a Free Spain. Still Present”.’

  ‘Let’s hope they’re not,’ Galíndez said, lowering her voice.

  The sun finally slipped below the dark line of the horizon and around them, the statues and headstones melted into the shadows. Galíndez took two flashlights from her bag and handed one to Isabel. She played the light over the graves ahead. ‘This is it, Izzy,’ she said, her voice tight with excitement.

  Isabel joined her beneath the statue of General Ramiro Ortiz Senior standing guard over the marble vault of the Ortiz family. Worn by Madrid’s fierce sun and winter rains and spattered by birds who cared nothing for rank, the statue was still recognisable as the man in the oil painting hanging in Uncle Ramiro’s office at guardia HQ.

  Isabel turned as she heard the chink of metal. Galíndez was kneeling, arranging her tools on the grass. She selected one, feeling the weight as she swung it to and fro.

  ‘What’s that?’ Isabel whispered.

  ‘An ice pick. The blade should be useful for levering the side of the vault open.’

  Galíndez inserted the pick into the thin gap between the lengths of marble. Tensing, she began moving the pick from side to side, loosening the slab. Finally, with a sudden grinding of stone, the piece of marble came loose. Carefully, she pulled it away and laid it on the grass. As her flashlight shone into the opening in the side of the vault, small flurries of dust rose from below, accompanied by a cloying odour, like damp earth, though more unpleasant.

  Galíndez opened one of her bags, pulled out a white forensic overall and shook it.

  Isabel watched as Galíndez started to pull on the overall. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘My bunny suit,’ Galíndez said, as she wriggled into the overall. ‘You wouldn’t want me coming back to your place covered in bits of dead people, would you?’

  Isabel preferred not to think about that. Instead, she took the torch and shone it down on Galíndez as she eased herself into the vault and dropped down to the floor below.

  ‘Keep that light on me,’ Galíndez called as she went towards the far wall of the vault. As Isabel tracked her with the light, the coffins suddenly emerged from the darkness. Four of them in a row, furred with cobwebs, the glazed wood mildewed and cracked. Carefully, she scraped dust from the rusty plaque on the nearest coffin and read the words on the plaque: Señora Angustia Ortiz y Flor 1923–1966.

  ‘Whose coffin is that?’ Isabel called.

  ‘Ramiro Senior’s wife. She died in her forties.’

  Galíndez moved to the next coffin, once more brushing accumulated grime from the name plate. General Ramiro Ortiz Senior, 1922–1982. ‘Here’s Ramiro’s father.’

  She took a screwdriver from her case and began loosening one of the rusty screws in the coffin lid. It was hard work and sweat trickled down her forehead from under the band of the head torch, stinging her eyes. Finally, the screw began to loosen and within a few minutes the remaining screws were neatly lined up on one of the adjoining coffins. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. ‘I’m going to open the lid now, Izzy. You might not want to look.’ She took a face mask from the case and pulled it on.

  ‘I’ve seen skeletons before, Ana.’

  Galíndez inserted the blade of the ice pick under the coffin lid and pushed, hard. The lid creaked as it opened and fell to the floor.

  Galíndez backed away from the stench from the coffin. Above her, she heard Isabel retching. Using the head torch, she peered at the remains of General Ortiz Senior. There was little left of his face, she noted, as she tugged a tuft of hair from his scalp and put it into a plastic evidence bag.

  ‘What are you doing, Ana?’ Isabel called.

  ‘I’m pulling his hair out by the roots,’ Galíndez said. ‘That’s where the DNA is.’

&
nbsp; Isabel stayed quiet.

  As Isabel shone the flashlight over the coffin, Galíndez noticed something she’d overlooked. Gently, she touched the top of the skull and turned it to one side. ‘Oh shit.’

  A worried voice from above. ‘Christ, what is it?’

  ‘I just decapitated the general.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘I’m serious. His head came off.’ Galíndez bent forward, examining the corpse with new-found interest. ‘Well, well.’

  ‘Have you found something?’

  ‘Nothing important,’ Galíndez said, distracted as she examined the bulge in the breast pocket of General Ortiz’s uniform. The material disintegrated under her touch, revealing what appeared to be a plastic tobacco pouch stuffed with papers. She labelled and bagged it and then took her camera from its case. Two brief flashes of dazzling light. The rustle of plastic as she put the object into her case with the other items.

  ‘Jesus, are you nearly done? My nerves are in shreds.’

  ‘A few minutes more, then we’re through.’

  Galíndez went over to the last two coffins. One was tiny, forcing her to kneel to read the plaque: Ramiro Jnr. 1980–1981. The other was larger. Lucia Estrella Ortiz 1969–1981.

  For the first time since she’d climbed into the tomb, Galíndez felt emotion. So far, her actions had been cold and detached, informed by her training. But here she was, about to open the coffin of a child she never knew existed until recently: a child who killed herself and her infant brother, wiping out a whole chapter of family history. It was hard not to think what if? If Estrella had lived, she’d be forty-two now and baby Ramiro almost thirty. They’d have families of their own, Uncle Ramiro and Aunt Teresa would be proud grandparents and maybe Galíndez would be a godmother. An alternative family history, though one now lost for ever.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Isabel asked, suddenly aware of the silence.

  ‘I won’t be long.’ The screwdriver turned again. The same routine: the faint tinkle as the screws hit the ground, the creak of the coffin lid. She reached into the coffin, her movements slow and considered. Stupid, she knew: she wasn’t going to wake the girl. There would be no surprises here.

  Galíndez looked down at the girl’s shrivelled corpse, seeing the slack-jawed grimace of death, the dark empty sockets of her eyes. Gently, she took a sample of hair. Deep in thought, she replaced the coffin lid and went to Baby Ramiro’s coffin to get the final sample.

  Then it was over. A brief struggle as Isabel hauled her through the opening in the vault. She sat for a few moments breathing in the cool night air, clean and fresh after the dust and decay of the tomb.

  ‘What did you find?’ Isabel asked as Galíndez struggled out of her overall.

  ‘Dead people.’ Galíndez went over to the length of marble by the opening in the wall of the vault and levered it back into place.

  As they gathered the tools together, she wondered whether to mention to Isabel what she’d found down there. Later, she decided. Once she knew herself.

  CHAPTER 13

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, GUARDIA CIVIL HEADQUARTERS

  Late afternoon was merging into dusk, turning the window into a dark rectangle that reflected the glow from the lamp on the desk. Outside, vehicles came and went, troopers’ boots crunched on gravel. Guzmán’s office was quiet, though anyone listening at the door would have heard the sound of nervous voices within.

  Guzmán stared across the desk at Fuentes and Galíndez as he listened to their explanation. For a while, he listened patiently, though his eyebrows rose from time to time when he doubted he was being told the truth. For the most part, he stayed quiet, letting the two men give him the details. When they had finished, both were sweating profusely.

  ‘It went wrong,’ Guzmán said, finally.

  Neither of the men replied.

  ‘How could it go wrong?’ Guzmán’s voice dropped into a lower, more threatening register. ‘I thought you were capable of carrying out a simple job like this with your eyes closed.’ He picked up a pencil and twisted it between his fingers until it broke. ‘You incompetent bastards.’ ‘The security men came back earlier than we expected,’ Fuentes said.

  ‘That’s right.’ Galíndez nodded. ‘Nothing we could do about it.’

  ‘You shut the fuck up.’ Guzmán leaned forward, belligerently. ‘I’ll come to your part in this in a minute.’ He glared at Fuentes. ‘You had the boxes by the door and the van was waiting outside. All you had to do was load it up and drive away.’

  ‘We did load it, sir,’ Galíndez said.

  ‘But then, like the fucking goat’s prick that you are, you went back inside. Why?’

  ‘To take a last look, sir,’ Galíndez muttered. ‘Check there was no one there.’

  ‘Why? There was no need,’ Guzmán said, verging on apoplexy. ‘Why go back?’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Guzmán saw Fuentes give Galíndez a dark look. ‘I know why, Galíndez. Because you thought you’d have a chance to wave your fucking pistol about and scare two old men shitless, didn’t you?’

  ‘You can’t blame me for wanting some action, sir.’

  ‘Blame you? I’m wondering whether to court martial you.’ Guzmán struggled for words. ‘You went back looking for trouble and because of that, some old guy gets his skull fractured.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so upset, boss,’ Galíndez said. ‘Golden boy here loaded the truck and when I hit that old guy, he pulled me off before I did any real damage.’

  ‘Fuentes did well,’ Guzmán said, ‘but he made one mistake and that was not shooting you in the back for being a prick.’

  ‘That’s unfair,’ Galíndez said.

  ‘Unfair?’ Guzmán jumped up, sending his chair clattering backwards to the floor. He looked at Fuentes and pointed to the door. ‘Get out.’

  Fuentes didn’t need telling twice. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Guzmán went over to the emergency door at the side of the office and kicked it open. ‘Outside.’ He stormed out into the darkened car park. Reluctantly, Galíndez followed.

  ‘Look, boss, I had to do something. We couldn’t stand around arguing with them.’

  Guzmán’s punch hit him in the face, sending him staggering into the wall.

  ‘Know what? I reckon I should have shot that guard,’ Galíndez muttered, wiping blood from his lip. ‘I used my initiative.’

  Guzmán hit him again, in the chest, this time. ‘I didn’t tell you to use your fucking initiative. I told you how to handle it and you blew it.’ He stormed forward, seizing Galíndez by his lapels and slamming him against the wall. ‘You obey orders, understood?’

  ‘You can’t treat me like this, it’s not like the old days. The war’s over. You’ve had your day. People like me are what the guardia needs these days.’

  ‘People like you, you moron?’ Guzmán swung his fist and Galíndez went sprawling to the ground once more. ‘I’ll tell you this, disobey orders again and your career is over.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’ Galíndez unleashed a half-hearted punch that Guzmán blocked easily before jabbing his fist into the man’s belly. He heard the sudden rush of air from Galíndez’s mouth as he crumpled to the ground. Terrified, Galíndez cried out for help as Guzmán seized his lapels, intent on dragging him to his feet.

  In a blind panic, Galíndez lashed out with his foot as he tried to escape. His boot caught Guzmán in the crotch and the world burned in a sudden moment of dazzling, vertiginous pain. Guzmán sank to his knees, clutching his groin. He spat a string of bile onto the tarmac, fighting the urge to vomit.

  ‘I didn’t mean to do that, Comandante,’ Galíndez whined. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Guzmán grunted, still hunched on the ground. ‘Go on, get out of here.’

  ‘I won’t mention this to anyone,’ Galíndez said, backing away. ‘Not a soul, I swear.’

  Guzmán waited until Galíndez had slunk back into the building befo
re he threw up. The pain was considerable and he wiped sweat from his face as he waited for the immobilising spasms to pass.

  On the far side of the car park, Corporal Ochoa was sitting on a low wall, hidden in shadow. He had been having a quiet smoke when the fight started. Quickly, he stubbed out his cigarette and sat watching, invisible to both combatants. It came as a surprise when Guzmán lost the fight. Galíndez was a big brute who deserved a good beating, in Ochoa’s opinion. Still, one lucky kick wouldn’t save him from Guzmán’s wrath later, he knew.

  Ochoa stayed quiet, waiting until Guzmán finally got to his feet and staggered away. Ochoa expected him to go back into the main building but instead, he took the path to the main gate, clearly not wanting to be seen. Once he was out of sight, Ochoa got up and headed off in the opposite direction, to Café León. It was probably best to give the comandante some time to himself after such a humiliation, he decided. Not that he knew for sure: Guzmán had never lost a fight before.

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CALLE SOTOMAYOR

  It was a night like any other in Madrid, the pavements echoing as laughing groups of people headed for bars and restaurants. Guzmán walked slowly, waiting for the pain to subside. Around him, he heard the rumble of traffic, felt the air charged with a sense of things happening, people enjoying themselves. He paid no attention, unable to endure the thought of other people’s pleasure while he was still fighting an urge to spew. Even smoking didn’t help. There was nothing that would relieve this pain, he knew, because though the physical pain would inevitably diminish, the memory of losing the fight would not.

  As the pain in his groin eased a little, he tried to remember how long it had been since he’d lost a fight. A long time, for sure. So long he couldn’t remember. No matter how badly an opponent injured him, he had always come out on top. All but once of course, though Alicante had been very different.

  The traffic and the passers-by blurred as he walked, deep in thought. There was more to it than just a kick in the balls. This was another sign of things that once seemed permanent becoming transient and vulnerable. The message was clear. Men like him inevitably reached a point where their powers declined. It was the way of the world.