by P J Brooke
‘You know, Leo, some people think that football is a matter of life and death. But me, I know it’s more serious than that.’
Chapter 19
On Monday morning, Max phoned Margarita’s hospital from work.
‘Hola, guapa. How are you feeling today?’
‘A lot better, Max, but they won’t let me out yet. It’s a pain. They’re doing further tests. And I’ve got to have more X-rays.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘I don’t think so. I feel okay, actually, but my father is plaguing the specialists to get everything checked that could be checked. They’ll be testing me for leprosy next.’
‘Could be worse.’
‘I just want to go home, but Don Faustino is still insisting that I stay with him for a couple of days when I finally get out.’
‘Well …’
‘I suppose I ought to go and spend a bit of time with Blanca.’
‘Who?’
‘Sorry. She’s my stepmother. I like her, and she’s having problems with my dad.’
‘Vale. I’ve got to go to a meeting. It’s the final instructions before the demo. I’ll try to get over this evening.’
‘That would be great. Could you bring me a decent book? My flatmates left me a load of chick lit, and I’m bored already.’
‘No problem. I’ll see you tonight if all goes well.’
Max hurried to the briefing meeting. Twenty minutes later, Bonila concluded: ‘Remember. Stay calm and be restrained. Comisario Chávez is managing the demo from our side. I’m staying here to deal with the media and the politicians. Good luck, men.’
Max, Pedro and the other cops filed out of the building into the waiting police bus. Nobody spoke. A few gripped their batons tightly.
Pedro muttered, ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Max.’
‘Me too.’
The bus parked discreetly in a side street close to Plaza Nueva, near the statue of Christopher Columbus kneeling at the feet of Queen Isabel la Católica.
In Plaza Nueva, demonstrators were already assembling, fitting banners to poles, and the vendors for the radical papers were out in force. Chávez had been there for a while.
‘Ah, Max. I got your report on the accident. Useful. So you have doubts as to whether it was a genuine accident or not.’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Right. If you have time, look into it a little more, but discreetly. Keep it away from Bonila. Faustino Azul’s convinced him it was an accident, and he doesn’t want any more publicity. And Azul is a friend of the Alcalde, the Archbishop, and everyone who matters in this town.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘How’s the girl?’
‘I visited her in the hospital on Saturday, and phoned this morning.’
Chávez raised an eyebrow.
‘She’s recovering fine, but will be in hospital for a while yet.’
‘All right, Max. It could have been much worse. The press coverage has been sympathetic so far. No one is saying we should have stopped the procession.’
‘That’s good.’
‘But the leader writers are having a real go at the radical Catholics. Archbishop Doria’s making capital out of the whole thing, and those two priests will get a kicking.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
‘Me neither. Okay, Max. Keep an eye on the guys you picked out at the conference.’
‘I’ll do my best. But I don’t know where they’ll be or what they’re planning.’
‘I appreciate that. All we can do is be watchful. But that tip from your source about the Regional Council building could be useful. If there are problems, we now reckon it will be around there.’
The square was filling up, but numbers were smaller than the police had expected. Gangs of youths in balaclavas were milling around the fountain of Plaza Nueva. There were red flags, black flags, a few green flags, posters tacked to wooden poles … ‘Stop the Speculators Now’, ‘Stop the Destruction of Granada’, ‘Free Palestine’, ‘Stop the Destruction of Jesús del Valle’, ‘Women Against War in Iraq’, ‘End the Evictions’.
To a loud cheer, the demo marched off with a flurry of banners and a cacophony of sounds: whistles, drums, chants and yells. The Black Angels marched as a group, all in black with kerchiefs round their faces.
Suddenly, at the junction of Gran Vía and Calle Reyes Católicos, the back end of the demo peeled off. A bunch of young guys raced down Reyes Católicos, then swerved right towards Plaza Bib-ba-Rambla.
Max dashed after them. Still running, he phoned Chávez. ‘Sir. They’re heading for the cathedral.’
‘Mierda. There’s still a load of them heading for the Regional Council offices. And there’s a gang breaking windows at Plaza Einstein. I’ll have to stay here, but I’ll send Navarro and some other men over.’
Max and Pedro ran into Plaza Pasiegas, in front of the cathedral. It suddenly filled up with demonstrators. There was only a small group of cops from the Guardia Civil guarding the main cathedral entrance.
‘You must all disperse now. You have no permission to be in front of the cathedral,’ yelled the capitán in charge of the Guardia Civil.
‘La catedral. Storm the cathedral,’ came the reply.
Two elderly priests slowly hauled the huge cathedral doors shut. Then Francisco appeared at the top of the cathedral steps, loudspeaker in hand, his eyes shining with excitement.
‘We will occupy the cathedral until the Archbishop agrees to stop the sale of Jesús del Valle. No violence! No violencia!’ he yelled into his loudspeaker. ‘But we will occupy the cathedral. Our companions inside will open the doors.’
‘Take over the cathedral,’ the crowd yelled. ‘Ocupamos la catedral.’
And to a loud cheer, a green banner unfurled from a window in the cathedral tower: ‘STOP THE SPECULATORS NOW!’
A detachment of riot police marched in and positioned themselves in front of the cathedral, their shields up and their long batons clutched tightly. General López of the Guardia Civil arrived and took the loudspeaker from his capitán.
‘Nobody is allowed to enter the cathedral,’ shouted López. ‘Disperse, and return to the agreed route.’
‘We will occupy,’ the crowd roared.
López continued, ‘You have no permission to be here. We will not allow you to enter the cathedral. Disperse immediately or face the consequences.’
‘Ocupamos. Ocupamos,’ yelled the crowd.
Max noticed that the ultra left groups had moved to the back of the demonstration, and were pushing the crowd forward, ever closer to the riot police.
‘Mierda. Pedro, this could get out of hand. I’m going to speak to General López.’
To a loud cheer from the crowd, the doors of the cathedral swung open: groups at the back were still pushing forward. Max reached General López just as Davila arrived, panting.
‘Sir,’ said Max, ‘we must –’
But Davila interrupted. ‘General, I have a warrant here to arrest Gómez for questioning on suspicion of murder.’
‘Good work, Enrique.’ López did not seem surprised by this development.
‘Señor General, that might provoke a riot,’ said Max.
Davila gave Max a withering look, but López listened.
‘All right. We’ll wait a little longer to see what the Alcalde advises. If he agrees, we wade in.’
Teniente Grandes appeared at López’s elbow. ‘The Alcalde’s given us the green light. Do whatever’s needed.’
Squads of police began to block the side streets. Max caught a glimpse of two youths, their faces hidden by ski masks, edging forward. They stopped right behind Francisco, took rocks out of their rucksacks, and hurled them at General López. The General signalled to the riot police to attack.
‘Snatch Francisco Gómez,’ he yelled.
The riot police surged down the steps, swinging their batons viciously to beat a path towards Francisco. There were screams, shouts, cries fo
r help.
Max pushed after them. He spotted Carlos and Maite in the crowd.
‘Carlos,’ he yelled. ‘Go and tell Francisco to get the fuck out of here. The cops are going to snatch him.’
Carlos signalled to Max that he’d heard, and he and Maite began to push their way towards Francisco ahead of the riot police.
‘Francisco, Francisco. The cops are after you. Get out.’
Maite took out her mobile and began snapping photos. The cops reached Carlos, and one lashed out at him. He fell heavily to the ground. Maite bent over Carlos and screamed, ‘Ayúdame. He’s hurt.’ Then she picked up his mobile.
Francisco turned to retreat, but someone pushed him and he tripped and fell. Baton-wielding police surged forward, knocking those around Francisco to the ground. They grabbed him before he had time to get up, and dragged him to a side street where a police van waited.
A roar of anger arose from the crowd.
‘The cops have snatched Francisco,’ they yelled. ‘Get the cops.’
A Molotov cocktail hit the cathedral doors. It burst into flames. The mounted police edged forward from the side streets. But the crowd was so dense and penned in that they could hardly advance. A Black Angel threw down ball bearings, causing one of the horses to skid to the ground, pinning its rider underneath it. Demonstrators kicked the fallen cop.
Ambulance sirens screeched. Paramedics arrived, trying to reach the wounded.
Max heard Maite still screaming for help. He called out to a paramedic, ‘Go and help that man over there.’
Max pushed his way towards Pedro. ‘Help me get to General López. He must open the side streets to let the crowd disperse or there will be even more serious injuries.’
Pedro joined Max and together they shoved through the crowd towards General López. They had almost reached him when Comisario Felipe Chávez finally appeared on the top of the cathedral steps. He took one look at the disaster.
‘Right, López,’ said Chávez. ‘We have to disperse this crowd immediately. Most of them just want out. Then we can lift the hard core.’
Chávez gave the order for the police to withdraw from the side streets. The plaza began to empty as people swarmed away.
But from inside the cathedral came shouts. ‘Get inside the cathedral. Occupy. Occupy.’
There was a sudden surge forward.
‘Fire the tear gas,’ yelled Chávez. ‘Max. Pedro. Grab that lot in the cathedral and get the doors shut.’
Max ran into the cathedral, followed by a bunch of cops. They lashed out with their batons at the young men trying to hold the doors open. Max and another cop slowly hauled the doors shut. Other cops chased the demonstrators along the aisles. One demonstrator stumbled and fell at the feet of the statue of the Virgin of Santa María de la Encarnación. Two cops pounded him as the Virgin looked benignly down. Max ran forwards.
‘Stop it!’ he yelled. ‘Can’t you see the kid’s out cold already? You’ll be up on an assault charge if you’re not careful.’
One of the cops turned. It was Inspector Navarro.
‘Oh. It’s you, Max. Just defending ourselves.’
A camera flashed. Navarro turned, baton ready.
‘Don’t,’ yelled Max. ‘She’s a tourist.’
Navarro swore, but walked away. Max bent over the unconscious kid, whose dark curly hair was clotted with blood. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said, and phoned for medical help. Max stood up and looked around the cathedral. There was a knot of hysterical tourists in one corner.
Back outside, tear gas filled Plaza de las Pasiegas and Plaza de Alonso Cano. The ultras, with wet kerchiefs around their faces, were still flinging missiles at the police.
‘The cathedral’s secure,’ Max reported to Chávez.
‘Good,’ said Chávez. He turned to the riot squad. ‘Use the water cannon to knock the last ones over, and arrest as many as you can.’
Eventually all was quiet apart from the complaints of startled birds. There were pools of blood on the cathedral steps. An upturned pushchair lay abandoned. Scarves, kerchiefs, broken cameras, torn banners, banner poles, rocks, stones and ball bearings were scattered all over the plaza. As the last of the protestors were being bundled into police vans, Felipe Chávez stood on the cathedral steps and surveyed the scene of devastation.
‘Max,’ he said, ‘twenty-five years in the force, and that’s the worst bloody riot I’ve had to deal with. What the hell went wrong?’
Chapter 20
It was 5 p.m. when Max got back to his calm, quiet flat. The answerphone light flashed. The message inbox was full. Everyone needed him to phone as soon as possible. Urgently.
The tear gas had affected his stomach. He felt sick and its acrid taste lingered in his mouth. His eyes burnt and the bloody gas had barely touched him. Max stood under the shower for ten minutes, letting the cool water run over his eyes and lips, then cleaned his teeth vigorously. He stood on his terrace for a minute, letting the peace of the Albayzín and the fragrance of its gardens sink in, then started to work through the list of calls. He phoned Maite first.
‘Maite, it’s Max Romero. Any news on Carlos?’
‘It’s not good. He’s in intensive care. And he still hasn’t regained consciousness.’
‘God, that’s terrible.’
Maite started crying. ‘Sorry, Max. I have to go now. I’ll be in touch.’
Max then called Paula. Juan answered the phone.
‘Ah, Juan, it’s you. Yes, I’m okay. Yes, we arrested a lot of them … Juan, before we get into a long argument about the good old days when everyone respected law and order or else you got shot, I have to go now. It’s been one hell of a day, and I’ve got a lot of people to call. Just reassure Paula I really am okay, but I’m going out so tell her not to keep calling me.’
Then he phoned Margarita. She was in tears. ‘There’s a report on the radio. Carlos is in hospital. And Francisco’s been arrested. I have to see you. Can you come this evening?’
‘I’m on my way, Margarita. Be with you in half an hour.’
Max put Isabel’s photo in his pocket, and grabbed a cab.
Margarita was sitting in an armchair by her bed, her face still streaked with tears. Max squeezed her hand as she sobbed.
‘Will Carlos be okay?’
‘I don’t know; it’s too early to tell. But he’s a strong, healthy guy.’
‘Why did it have to be Carlos? He’s such a kind, decent man. What happened?’
‘Some guys behind Francisco started flinging rocks at the Guardia Civil. Then the cops snatched Francisco and it all went to hell. I don’t know exactly what happened to Carlos. He was near Francisco – everyone started pushing and shoving, and Carlos must have fallen.’
‘Ay díos.’
‘I sent a paramedic over to him, so they got him to hospital really quickly.’
‘Thanks. But Francisco?’
‘My boss turned up with an arrest warrant.’
‘But that’s crazy. You can’t arrest someone just for organizing a demo. Francisco would have been a calming influence. How stupid can you get?’
Max decided not to mention the murder issue.
‘But, oh Max. Your eyes are all red.’
‘I got a dose of tear gas, I’m afraid. It’s okay – they’ll calm down in a couple of hours.’
‘And you look so tired. Can I order you some coffee?’
‘Por favor. It’s been a bad day.’
A Bolivian girl brought in two coffees, and left quietly.
Margarita sipped her coffee. ‘Now I’m really worried about Francisco as well as Carlos.’
‘Don’t worry. There’s no need. I’ll find out what happened. Now, I know it’s not the best of times, but would you mind looking at a photo I’ve brought with me?’
‘That’s all right, Max.’
Max handed over the photo Isabel had taken by mistake. Margarita peered at it.
‘I could swear that’s David Costa. You remember, the guy who propose
d the amendment against non-violence at the conference. The priest I don’t know. But the man with the silver mace, that’s my dad.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sí, I’m sure. He’s El Capataz of the Brotherhood of the Bell. Can’t see his face because of the pointy hood, but that’s him.’
‘But what’s he doing with David Costa?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Costa’s a Black Angel, isn’t he?’
‘Sí. Not the sort of guy I’d expect my father to know.’
‘Any ideas?’
Margarita frowned in thought. ‘Francisco did warn us that we’d be infiltrated once we began to make an impact. That we were taking on powerful interests. Could David Costa be …?’
‘I don’t know. What do you know about him?’
‘Not much. But Maite knows Alejandro.’
‘Alejandro?’
‘You remember, the guy who summed up the amendment against non-violence. He’s her cousin.’
‘It was a good speech.’
‘It was. Alejandro will know David Costa. He’ll help. He’s a decent lad really. He went from being a good Catholic boy to a revolutionary the minute he got to university.’
‘It happens.’
‘You’d best ask Maite. Could you just pass my mobile over?’ She winced as she tried to stretch over the table. Her arm and shoulder were a mass of bruises.
‘It’s okay. I’ve got her number. Any more ideas on those two guys on your palio?’
‘You don’t think …? My dad said it had been thoroughly checked out and it was an accident.’
‘I thought I’d just check it again.’
‘I see. You’d better speak to Maite. She knows everyone.’
‘So how are you?’ said Max, trying to suppress a yawn.
‘I get nasty headaches and they’re still checking for internal damage. But so far so good. And I want to go home, but I’m running a temperature so I have to stay here a bit longer.’
‘You’re lucky. It could have been so much worse.’
‘Max, you really look exhausted.’
‘No, I’m fine. I’m just tired. I feel better now that I’ve seen you.’