THE ENGLISH WITNESS

by John C. Bailey

  THE ENGLISH WITNESS

  by

  John C. Bailey

  Text copyright © 1995-2016 John C. Bailey

  Dedicated to my wonderful wife Kate, our children and our grandchildren.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About the Author

  John Bailey has survived careers as a linguist, international banking analyst and philosophy teacher. Now a Licensed Lay Minister, he devotes his time to family and church activities, music, cycling and travel. He and his family are based in Sussex.

  Author’s Note

  These narratives straddle a time of massive political and cultural change in Spain as a whole. The country’s rapid and peaceful progress from military dictatorship under Franco to modern parliamentary democracy has been one of the great political success stories of modern times.

  The new freedom of the Spanish regions to express their quite distinct cultural identities has led to massive change, socially and linguistically, and nowhere has this been more apparent than in the Basque Country where much of the action takes place.

  Euskara – the ancient, beautiful and utterly unique Basque language – is once again at the centre of life in the region, and its distinctive place names and spellings have replaced those formerly imposed from Madrid. The Basque cultural capital of San Sebastián now appears on many maps as Donosti; the tragic city of Guérnica, immortalised in Picasso’s famous painting, is now Gernika. Where such names occur in the text, I have used the version most appropriate to the speaker or the context.

  What follows is entirely fictional, but anyone who recognises a little of themselves in any of the characters or events will hopefully takes it as the token of enduring affection and respect that was intended. And while the action takes place in an authentic geographical and political landscape, I have taken minor liberties with some names and features—occasionally just for dramatic effect, but in most cases out of respect for the living.

  PROLOGUE

  The first sensation to worm its way into Father Goyo’s awareness – the first landmark on his fitful journey back to consciousness – was the burning cramp in his shoulders and neck. The second landmark was a dull ache that throbbed just behind his eyes. He noticed the chill in the air last of all, but as time went on the cold seemed to work its way right into his bones until it came to eclipse all the other discomforts. He tried to move, but something seemed to be holding him by the wrists and ankles. He was in total blackness, and the only sounds perceptible were his own heartbeat and the rush of blood in his ears.

  Accepting at last that he was held prisoner, and now in a growing panic, the young priest tried to shout for help. Only then did he notice that his mouth was fastened shut. And a moment later, ignoring the sickening pain in a desperate bid to attract attention, he began thumping his head rhythmically against the thinly padded metal surface beneath him.

  The silent figure in black tee-shirt and jeans who stood nearby, patiently observing as the prisoner’s strength and courage ebbed, did not look or sound like a man of violence. His scars both physical and emotional were well hidden. The soft, cultured voice tended to put people at their ease, initially at least. And in the absence of any distinctive marks or features, the face was not an easy one to remember or to describe. Only the name he insisted on using gave any clue as to his character.

  Adolfo continued to watch impassively until pain and exhaustion put an end to his prisoner’s struggles. Stripped naked, and stretched out on a wheeled hospital gurney to which he was handcuffed by his wrists and ankles, the young priest had bid farewell to any semblance of dignity or holiness. In fact, in a position of such extreme vulnerability, he looked younger than ever—little more than a boy. This was work, the man in black had to remind himself, but to him it was the sweet spot where duty, pleasure and dark obsession converged.

  Stepping forward noiselessly, he bent down and brought his mouth close to the young man’s ear. “Kaixo, my little friend Goyo,” he said softly. He saw the body tense as if in anticipation of what was coming, then go limp in despair. Gently, so gently, he eased off the black hood and gazed down into the victim’s frightened brown eyes. He knew that casual violence at this stage would be counter-productive, preparing the victim psychologically for the sustained torment that was to come. “I need your help, Father,” he crooned. “If you tell me what I need to know without delay, it will save us both so much unpleasantness.”

  Dazzled as he was by the harsh down-lighters that studded the ceiling, Father Goyo could make out almost nothing of his captor’s features, but he was reassured by the soft, kindly voice. And when the adhesive tape was ripped from the lower part of his face, he did not cry out in pain or distress. He did not plead for mercy. He simply gazed upwards into infinity, silently asking the Blessed Virgin to intercede for him as he waited to see what would be demanded of him. He was not in any frame of mind to put up a fight.

  He winced at first as he felt himself being caressed gently, intimately, inquisitively rather than lustfully. But gradually, for all the feelings of spiritual and moral outrage that such an assault provoked, he began to relax and respond. Then, without warning, excruciating pain shot through his lower body as an iron hand tightened its grip. His eyes opened wide in agony and astonishment, only to see a surgical scalpel glinting in front of his eyes. A face drew down close to his own, a face that seemed vaguely familiar. “Spare yourself,” whispered the kindly voice. “Tell me about your meeting earlier with those two nice young men. And more importantly still, tell me all you know about Gato.”

  The conversation carried on deep into the night. The young priest had already poured out all he knew, spurred on by timeless moments of exquisite pain, before realising the horrific truth: no amount of information or indeed prayer was going to purchase a quick end to his final ordeal.

  CHAPTER 1

  It was dark again in the farmhouse kitchen, and the sounds from around him had stilled some time ago. The boy was too young to put into words what had happened, but he knew a bottomless sense of hurt and loss.

  He had been brutally awoken as a stranger dragged him out of bed in a dancing beam of torchlight. He had sat in the kitchen, tied to a chair and gagged, screaming inwardly as the men did something he only dimly understood, first to his mother, then to his father. When one of the men had come towards him with a knife he had thought he was going to suffer the same, but in a sense it was worse.

  His parents had continued to struggle and cry out for some time after the men had gone. At first the boy had hung on to the hope that they would break free and come to his rescue, but he knew now that they were dead—along with a part of himself. The men who had sentenced them to die had sentenced him to live.

  There was light coming in at the window now. The start of a new day. The start of a new life. He flinched as he heard somebody knocking at the back door of the house. After two knocks they pushed open the door and walked in. There was a sharp intake of breath, followed by the sound of someone gagging, then rapidly receding footsteps.

  By the time help arrived, the bright light of mid-morning was revealing in detail the horror of what had come to pass in the night. Bu
t the pain that exceeded anything he had ever been able to imagine was still with him, eclipsing the scene of horror before his eyes.

  JACK

  (Spring, 2013)

  Jack Burlton stood on a windswept, almost deserted embankment overlooking the choppy waters of the Urumea. A few metres behind him stood San Sebastián’s main railway station, from which he had emerged just five minutes earlier. A short distance to his left stood the ornate bulk of the María Cristina bridge, carrying a steady flow of mid-morning traffic to and from the city centre that lay just across the river. The road past the station was completely clear of vehicles, however, and when he finally turned his back on the river he saw that even the normally busy forecourt was now all but deserted.

  Apart from the station entrance and the blocky skyline across the water, the bridge was the only point of familiarity in a landscape that Jack had expected to greet him like a long-lost friend. Forty years earlier, as a language student on an extended study placement, he had come to know the nooks and corners of the city as thoroughly as if he had been born there. Now, reality seemed to mock his faltering memory.

  He walked back across the road to the empty taxi rank, casting his mind back to another April morning four decades earlier: emerging from the same station onto the same forecourt under a very different sky. Not knowing then what the future had in store, his mood of eager anticipation had been heightened by a blue sky, warm sunshine and tired but high-spirited travelling companions. That vividly remembered scene was in sharp contrast to the cold, blustery weather and the sense of anti-climax that greeted him now.

  He was startled out of his weary reverie and experienced a moment of panic as a black Mercedes saloon jerked to a halt in front of him. Quickly regaining control, and assuming it to be a taxi, he had grabbed the handle of his suitcase and begun to shuffle forward before he realised that something unexpected was unfolding. Both doors on the passenger side of the plain black saloon swung open towards him and two men stepped out, one of them in police uniform. The driver, not in uniform but dressed as if for a funeral, remained in his seat gazing straight ahead. Meanwhile the man in uniform stood beside the car with his hand resting on the butt of a holstered handgun.

  The car’s other passenger, a paunchy but powerfully built man in his early forties with thinning black hair and a plain, dark-grey suit, placed a heavy hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Will you get into the car, please, Señor Burlton,” he said in heavily accented English.

  Jack froze with shock for a moment as a soft but menacing voice from the past echoed in his mind. He took an involuntary step backwards, and would have retreated further if the speaker had not kept a firm grip on his shoulder. “Why? Who are you? And what do you want?” he stammered, glancing round in vain for sympathetic witnesses. To his concern, the few people still in the area were studiously averting their eyes as they hurried past.

  The detective noticed Jack’s anxious glance. “They prefer not to see,” he commented in a condescending tone of voice. “They have seen too much already. But there is no need to be alarmed. We just need you to answer some questions—hopefully in Spanish as we understand you speak our language better than we speak yours.” Without waiting for a response he continued in his native language, “This is a police operation, and I realise this may cause you concern in the light of past events. But you’ll be quite safe with us, and afterwards we’ll take you wherever you…”

  “Look,” interrupted the Englishman, “I don’t know who the hell you are, but…”

  “My name is Miguel García Ruiz. I am roughly what you would call a detective inspector, but please just address me as Miguel.”

  “Look, Miguel, whoever you are, you’ve no right to force me into a car. I don’t know how you know my name or knew I’d be here, but this is…”

  “I’m not forcing you to do anything,” interrupted the detective. “And we’ll explain everything in due course. But if you’re wise you’ll come with us. In fact your own safety depends on it.”

  Jack felt a growing sense of dread as disturbing images flickered to life in his mind’s eye. History seemed to be repeating itself, the past sucking him back in. The detective flinched as the Englishman reached into an inside pocket, and the man in uniform had his pistol out and levelled before it became clear that the newcomer was bringing out nothing more dangerous than a mobile phone.

  Jack looked into the dark eye of the gun barrel. For a moment his mind froze as he was transported to another place on a night that seemed to have no end. Then, not without difficulty, he was able to tear his gaze away and make eye contact with the detective. “I just need to ring my friend Antonio,” he explained, his face pale with shock. “We’re going travelling together. Revisiting some old haunts.”

  “Señor Burlton, please get into the car. I didn’t want break the news to you so quickly, but I’m sorry to tell you that your friend Antonio is dead. He survived his injuries just long enough to tell us you were coming. The problem is, he’s also told others—not willingly, I must stress. Do you understand what I’m saying? I dare say you know the sort of people I’m talking about.”

  Jack turned his head swiftly from left to right to left, scanning the forecourt once again for witnesses, but the area was now deserted. A light dawned in his eyes. “We’re alone. You must have…”

  “We’ve kept people away—largely for your protection, may I add. You must come now.” He turned to his uniformed colleague. “Alonso, please put Señor Burlton’s luggage in the boot.”

  Warily, still in shock from looking down the barrel of a gun once again, and numbed at the grim revelation about his old friend, Jack slid into the back of the car. Miguel walked round the rear of the vehicle to climb in behind the driver. The man in uniform waited until both rear doors were closed before depositing Jack’s suitcase in the boot and reclaiming the front passenger seat.

  The makeshift roadblocks around the station were already being removed, and the traffic built up quickly as Julio steered the car over the river and into the city centre. Alonso spent the first few minutes of the journey twisted round in his seat and eyeing the Englishman suspiciously, his right hand never straying far from the still unclipped holster. He saw a man approaching retirement age, of medium height and stocky build with thick, silver-grey hair. The object of his rather hostile scrutiny was wearing a shapeless blue fleece over a pale green chequered shirt with slightly over-long sleeves. A cheap Swiss watch contrasted strangely with expensive rimless varifocals. The visitor looked and smelled clammy, and he was in need of a shave.

  Not an overtly threatening presence to be sure, and Alonso regretted having been so quick on the draw back at the taxi rank; it had risked making him look weak and nervous in his colleagues’ eyes. But there was something about this Englishman, to all appearances no more than a common tourist, that made him feel uneasy. Miguel had evidently felt it too, and was letting the visitor retain too much control—as if the stranger were doing them, the police, a favour by getting into the car.

  Alonso was about to make a throwaway comment at the Englishman’s expense when the driver muttered tersely, “We’ve got a problem, Chief. Coming up fast behind.”

  “Get us out of here, Julio,” snapped Miguel. A moment later, Jack was jerked back against the seat cushions as the car received a sharp jolt from behind before surging forward under its own power. They accelerated briskly for a few seconds along a broad, tree-lined boulevard. Then the driver wrenched on the wheel and tugged at the handbrake, causing the rear end of the vehicle to swing out to the right. As he released the brake and the shaken passengers rebounded in their seats, the wheels regained traction and the car shot across a short gap in the stream of oncoming traffic. There was a chorus of horns and squealing brakes, but a moment later the car disappeared unscathed into a narrow lane leading towards the Parte Vieja, the city’s old quarter. As Jack looked back, his view of the hostile vehicle was obscured by a mass of gridlocked traffic.

  “Still want hea
dquarters, Chief?” asked the driver drily.

  “Not a good idea,” answered Miguel. “They’ll assume that’s where we’re going and head us off. And they’ll have more than just the one unit deployed. We need somewhere to hole up for an hour or two while we organise a safe passage.”

  It took nearly three quarters of an hour to get to the southern edge of the city in the heavy traffic, with all four of the car’s occupants on the lookout for further trouble. They left the vehicle in a diagonal kerbside parking bay in the prosperous Anoeta district, close to the line of hills that marks the southern edge of the city proper. Then they jogged as quickly as the detective’s bulk would allow past a row of small shops and bars to a medium-rise apartment block, and took the lift up to a spacious and well-furnished penthouse unit. Julio the driver – a tall, wiry and energetic man whom Jack estimated to be in his mid-thirties – explained that he had grown up in the apartment. It belonged to his widowed mother, but he still had a key and she was staying with her daughter and son-in-law in one of the outlying villages.

  Jack was only semi-coherent at first, distracted as he was with shock and grief, but Miguel was impressed by the speed with which he pulled himself together. Then again, he was not unduly surprised at this show of resilience given what he knew or suspected about events in the Englishman’s past. Julio raided the cupboards for coffee, also bringing out a half-full bottle of the sickly ‘43’ banana liqueur, while Miguel used the telephone to report in. Then three of them began to talk in earnest while Alonso sat with a bored looked on his face.

  “Were they after me?” asked Jack, his voice still shaky and his gaze fixed on a framed art reproduction that hung from a hook on the wall facing him. He recognised it as Picasso’s “Guérnica”: a wide canvas executed entirely in shades of black, white and grey, depicting a stylised tableau of extreme violence.