by Jack Elgos
‘What? That’s a hell of a name you’ve got there sweetheart,’ said Liam and a smile formed on his lips until the feeling of tight stitches at his mouth forestalled it.
‘I am named Montserrat for the mountains here. It means Jagged Mountain,’ she explained. ‘And my family name means From the Valley of the Wolves, but you can call me Montse.’
‘That’s a relief. My name is Darren and don’t ask me what it means. I’m Irish. We just get our names given.’
‘It is good to meet you Darren,’ said Montse sweetly. ‘Now you get some rest.’
‘Thank you Montse.’
It was only as she left the room that he realised what he had said. Oh Fuck. Darren?
***
‘You look happy for once,’ Alex observed as he watched his sister in the kitchen, humming as she boiled up a huge vat of soup.
‘I think she fancies him,’ said Esteban.
‘Shut up the pair of you,’ Montse scowled as she turned to her brothers, a large wooden ladle in her hand. ‘He is a very ill man and he’s lucky to be alive, but he manages to say thank you. That’s more than you ever do.’
‘Sorry sis,’ Alex muttered as he eyed the large spoon. If she whacked him round the head with it, it wouldn’t be the first time.
***
Liam, Darren, Butch. The names rolled through his head as he slept, each one representing a different part of his life. When he woke, it was Darren that stuck with him. His real name, the one he still heard his mother whisper in his dreams.
Montse appeared later with more food and then he slept again. He had lost track of time, but it seemed to be the following morning when she told him her brothers would be looking after him for the next two days and he was immediately disappointed. Still, there was nothing he could say and, when one of them helped him to the bathroom, it was a lot less embarrassing than when Montse had provided a bedpan.
Communication with the brothers was difficult. They had very little English and their Spanish was strange as they spoke mostly in a language he now knew as Català, but they got by. When Montse reappeared after her short absence she found him sitting in a chair and beamed at the improvement in him.
For the next five days he became stronger and stronger under her ministrations, though he still could not walk unaided. She sat and talked to him for hours at a time and he learned that he was on yet another farm that wasn’t really a farm.
‘My brothers are too lazy to work the fields,’ Montse informed him. ‘They buy cigarettes and tobacco in Andorra where it is cheap and they sell them where it is not cheap.’
‘So they are smugglers then?’
‘Yes, contrabandistas. You are shocked?’
‘No, not at all. I have often considered that line of work for myself.’
‘So what is your work?’ she asked, the question he had dreaded.
‘It is difficult to explain,’ he began. ‘There are a lot of problems in the world and I work for some people in England who are trying to stop those problems.’
‘You kill people, no?’
He stared at her then and couldn’t deny it. ‘How did you know?’
‘I found your knife when I undressed you the first day. Matador. I am sure you know what that means.’
‘The Killer,’ he admitted. ‘And now I guess you would like me to leave.’
‘You are going to kill me?’ she asked with a small smile.’
‘No, of course not. I only kill people who deserve to die,’ he said hurriedly and realised how ludicrous that statement actually sounded.
‘Then you can stay and we will not talk about it again. So we shall speak of other things.’
The conversation never returned to his work. Instead he talked of his childhood in Ireland and she told him of her family and her country. He loved to listen to her soft, sweet voice. It brought him a peace that had seemed lost, but when he was alone his mood became dark. He had nearly died and what would it have been for? A few fuckin’ Arabs on a bus? They were blown to Hell and gone now so he supposed his trip had been successful, but he couldn’t help the resentment growing inside him. The Arabs meant nothing to him. It was Peter Moore that he wanted and this mission had nearly robbed him of the chance to get him. He was no use to anyone dead and he certainly couldn’t avenge his Ma’s death from the grave. He had to get strong and he had to get the bastard.
As the days of inactivity rolled on his mind went into overdrive. He hadn’t contacted Turner because he couldn’t. He hadn’t contacted anyone. News of the bus explosion would have reached England. Would Turner have known he was on it? Yes, he thought he would. Even if he didn’t know for sure, that had to be the obvious conclusion. The only people who knew he was alive were Montse and her two brothers and they weren’t about to say anything. The Butcher of Belfast had died almost two years ago and now, to all intents and purposes, so had Liam O’Neil.
As Darren McCann rose again from the ashes of his mind, the plan began to form. No more waiting for orders. No more bowing to the commands of the British, or anyone come to that. He would do this alone. He would find Moore and confront him – for he had to know why. Why had he been so important? Why had his Mam had to die? Why? What was any of it for? Only Moore could tell him and, when he had his answers, the man’s life would end – slowly, agonisingly at his hands.
***
When Montse announced she would be gone again for two days he asked her why, but she just smiled sweetly and told him she would be back. At her return she removed the stitches from his mouth and declared his new scar ‘not too bad’. Then she attended, as always, to his dressings and they agreed that his legs were recovering well as he took his first few steps alone. The next day the brothers helped him outside and he breathed in the fresh mountain air. That night he said he could put himself to bed and Montse left him to it.
As sleep was just about to take over, a small sound made him stir and then he heard the softly spoken words. ‘Are you awake?’
‘Yes,’ he answered the darkness.
‘It is uncomfortable to sleep on the sofa downstairs any longer,’ said Montse as her silhouette came into view.
‘I have taken your bed?’ He jumped up at the sudden realisation. ‘Oh God, Montse, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.’
She giggled as he felt her pull back the bedclothes. ‘You Englishmen like the word fucking, no?’
It sounded so strange on her lips that he laughed out loud, but the laugh died as he felt her climb into bed next to him, her slender body covered in a heavy nightgown.
‘Good night Mr. Darren,’ she said as she snuggled down, her back to him.
‘Good night Miss Valley of the Wolves.’ There was nothing else to say. The gesture aroused him, yet it was so innocent at the same time. He threw an arm around her and was almost instantly asleep. When he awoke the next morning she was gone, but the scent of her hair lingered on the pillow. He stretched slowly, wincing at the taught skin of his lower legs, but he felt wonderful. He had just had the most restful night’s sleep he could remember in many years and there wasn’t even a shadow of a nightmare remaining. The pattern of the following few nights was the same, but then she was gone again and he felt incredibly lonely without her as his dark dreams returned.
A couple of days later, which he thought was probably Monday though time seemed of little importance here, he was walking slowly round the garden carefully flexing his knees and ankles when he saw her through the kitchen window. By the time he made his way there she had gone. At meal times, which he now had at the large family table, she served him and her brothers, but then left. By evening he was confused, thinking he must have done something to offend her but at a loss as to what. That night he settled down in bed, staring into the darkness, and knew that sleep would not come.
A faint noise alerted him and then the light flicked on. She walked across the room, the heavy nightgown covering her from head to toe. ‘You are feeling much stronger now I think,’ she suggested.
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ She loosened the fastening of her nightgown and it fell slowly down to the floor revealing perfectly formed, firm little breasts that bounced slightly and glistened with a light sheen of sweat. As his eyes gazed down the length of her body they widened in amazement. He had never seen this before. She didn’t have any pubic hair. Nothing.
She caught his surprise and spoke shyly. ‘Most of my clients prefer it this way. Is that a problem?’
The penny dropped and everything fell into place. ‘You are a prostitute?’ he asked softly.
Her words came hurriedly in explanation. ‘I work just the weekends and it is a very good house, a very clean house. My brothers, they hunt sometimes and they sell cigarettes, but I must bring some good money, some regular money. I hope I don’t disappoint you Mr. Darren but, yes, I am a prostitute.’
‘And I am a killer.’ He smiled slowly and held out his hand to her. ‘The pleasure and the pain. What a pair we make.’
He removed his own nightclothes as she climbed into bed beside him. ‘Does it still hurt?’ she asked softly.
‘Here is not too bad,’ he smiled, indicating his stomach and she bent to kiss it tenderly. ‘And everything feels fine a little lower down,’ he assured her as her caresses followed his direction. ‘God, you have some sweet mouth on you,’ he sighed.
A few moments later Montse made her way back up the bed and he started to roll over. ‘No, you lie still,’ she told him, her shy smile giving way to an elfish grin. She moved to kneel, her legs either side of him, and then lowered herself. ‘There, does that make you feel better?’
‘Jesus Christ I fuckin’ love Spain,’ he grinned as she slowly made love to him.
The following morning he awoke to find her still lying next to him and he breathed in her sweet scent. She stretched lazily as she turned to him and cuddled into his arms. They made love again and then lay silent for a while until Montse announced, ‘I think you are very nearly recovered, Mr. Darren.’
‘I think I need a little more therapy yet,’ he laughed.
‘Yes,’ she giggled before adding more seriously, ‘but one day soon you will go.’
‘Aye, soon,’ he agreed sadly.
‘You will go back to your people in England and begin killing the bad men again?’
He propped himself up onto one arm and looked into her eyes. ‘There are some bad men I have to deal with,’ he confirmed, ‘but no, Montse, I am not going back to England. I have some friends here in Spain and I will go to them. They think I am dead so it will be a shock, but it won’t be the first time.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, that’s not important,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Montse I have been doing a lot of thinking while I’ve been here.’
‘About killing bad men?’
‘Aye, but more about my life. I need to find Darren again.’
‘I don’t...’
‘No, it is very complicated. There are some men I used to work for and then there are other men I worked for, and all the time I did what they told me to do. But I’m not going to do that anymore. Now I am going to work for myself and, when I have finished, there will be no more killing. I know you can’t understand.’
‘I think your mind is very complicated, but I understand your words. I have very good English, no?’
‘You have excellent English.’
‘It is my clients. I like Englishmen. I like you.’
‘I’ve told you before – I’m Irish.’
‘It is the same, no?’
‘Oh Miss Valley of the Wolves, you couldn’t be more wrong.’
23
Dreams of a Spanish Girl - Interrupted
May drew to a close and by early June Darren was feeling strong and his legs were supple once more. Montse’s ministrations had worked wonders and he had full movement to well below his knees. His ankles remained a little tight as the skin there had burned quite badly and left some ugly scars, but Darren already had plenty of those and wasn’t bothered by a few more. Every day Montse applied her ointment to his skin and every night she applied her balm to his soul. He knew he would be leaving her soon, heading into the mountains to find Rosa and her boys, but he would be back.
The sun shone brightly through the bedroom window and they lay together considering a few more minutes’ sleep. Darren was contentedly daydreaming about the woman at his side when they heard a loud crash downstairs followed by angry shouting.
Montse cursed her brothers. ‘I’m not taking any more of it,’ she spat. ‘They go out all night getting drunk and now they’re bringing their stupid friends back with them. I’ll kill the pair of them.’
She was out of bed and pulling on her nightgown as the sound of heavy feet came running up the stairs. ‘Don’t you dare come into my room,’ she began but was unable to finish the scolding as the door crashed open and four armed Guardia Civil officers rushed in.
‘You, get dressed,’ ordered one in a heavy Madrid accent as he trained his pistol at Darren’s head.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ asked Darren, leaping from the bed.
‘Now!’ yelled the officer, who seemed to be in charge, and Darren had no choice but to obey. The moment his clothes were on he was handcuffed and he watched as Montse was similarly restrained. ‘You are under arrest on charges of international terrorism,’ the officer continued.
Darren was momentarily struck dumb, but then the horror of the situation mobilised him. He tried to fight against his bonds in an attempt to reach Montse as her eyes shone in panic. ‘Leave her alone,’ he screamed. ‘She has nothing to do with any of this.’
There was no answer, just a gun in his back as he was forced downstairs and he heard Montse’s sobs behind him. ‘Leave her alone,’ he yelled again, but it was useless.
In the kitchen he saw Alex and Esteban also in handcuffs and he gave them a strained look of apology. They averted their eyes and then he was bundled out through the door and into a waiting Toyota, followed quickly by the senior officer and one of the guards. He looked through the window to see the remaining guards roughly pushing the two brothers and their sister into a second car and Montse’s sobs were now a gut-wrenching howl.
‘Keep that cheap wailing slut quiet,’ ordered the senior guard through the car window.
‘You fuckin’ bastard,’ Darren spat at him, but his words were lost as the Toyota was thrown into gear and sped off down the lane, dirt and gravel flying in all directions. They flew along to a junction and took a sharp right onto the main road. As Darren looked behind them he saw the second car speeding off in the opposite direction.
‘Where are you taking them?’ he cried, but the fight was leaving him as he knew it was hopeless. He threw his head back in the seat and the tears were prickling at his eyes. It was a sensation he hadn’t experienced since he found his mother’s brutally murdered body five years earlier and he felt completely useless. There was nothing he could do to help the woman he loved, for he did love her. He knew that now and he was overwhelmed by a deep, sickening despair. He hardly had the strength to consider what was happening to him and he didn’t care. He’d heard plenty from Vassi about the brutal treatment of terrorists at the hands of the Guardia Civil and he was immediately resigned to that, but Montse… He couldn’t help her and that was a fate worse than death.
The car swerved quickly off the road and threw him on his side, breaking into his distress. What the fuck? The four-wheel drive vehicle headed out into fields and Darren was quickly alert. He had expected a long ride followed by even longer questioning, but now it seemed it was to be a short drive followed by a bullet in the head. It was the only conclusion and he had to fight hard to hold back the tears. He couldn’t let these men see his weakness, but for it all to end like this was just beyond belief. All those years of fighting and it was to end in some fuckin’ farmer’s field in the middle of nowhere.
The bumpy drive continued for a few minutes more and then the car came to a sudden halt outside a larg
e hut. The senior officer was out in an instant, flinging open the back door and pulling him from the car. He landed in a heap before strong arms forced him to his knees and he felt the gun at the back of his head. So this was it then. He vaguely registered a sound in the distance but closed his ears to it as he gritted his teeth and silently prayed. He knew he didn’t deserve any grace from the Lord, but it was all he could do.
As the bullet didn’t come immediately and the sound grew louder, Darren slowly recognised the whir of a helicopter. He doubted that God had acted so quickly and sent help, but he looked to the sky to see the unmistakeable markings of an R.A.F. chopper descending.
‘On your feet,’ ordered his guard.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know who you are,’ the officer spat, ‘and I don’t like you, but we have our orders. We were instructed to put on that little show back there for those peasants you were living with.’
‘What? What will happen to them?’ Darren shouted now as the sound of the whirring blades began to drown out the conversation.
‘They will be questioned and released,’ came the yelled reply.
‘So why?’
The chopper landed then and swallowed the guard’s words, but he thought he heard him say ‘Senior Colonel’ in English, which didn’t make any sense. Why would he suddenly speak in English? Or was it – did it sound more like ‘Señor Turner’? He had no chance to consider that as he was manhandled unceremoniously towards the waiting bird and the rotors continued at full speed as rough hands reached out to haul him inside. They were airborne again within seconds and Darren didn’t have time to take in his surroundings as he fell to the floor and the helicopter soared away.
‘Mr. O’Neil,’ he finally heard above the din.
He looked up into a scarred face that seemed familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. Then the fog cleared. ‘You,’ he spat as he finally recognised the British soldier who had left him alone in Ireland after his mission to take out Mad Dog. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’