As I stood there next to Steve and heard the words tumble out of his mouth, the room seemed to go dark and distant. I could hear the blood pounding in my ears. My mind raced, trying to come up with a way of changing the subject. But I needn’t have worried, because his admission had been enough to kill the conversation and the evening stone dead. Our little crowd had gone so quiet that I could hear a drunk singing in the lane outside. The local lads looked at one another nervously. For several seconds there was no movement. Then one of them, a long-standing friend named Pablo, fished in his pocket and scooped some coins onto the bar before heading towards the exit.
One by one the rest of the locals broke eye contact with us. They each put money on the bar, and one of them put out a hand to stop me when I moved to do the same. Then, suddenly it seemed, Steve and I had one end of the bar to ourselves. “That went down well,” he said.
I smiled wryly in return. “I think at least one of us might have said the wrong thing,” were my words as we left.
To my pleasant surprise, Pablo was waiting for us in the doorway of a souvenir shop fifty metres along the cobbled lane, but he looked agitated rather than pleased to see us again. “My friends,” he began, then paused as if unsure whether to continue. He looked back the way we had come towards the sound of footsteps, and suddenly took each of us by the arm and urged us along a dark alley heading away from the bar and the lights.
For several minutes Pablo and I walked briskly ahead, with Steve absorbed in misery a few feet behind us. We turned this way and that, and nothing further was said until we reached the seafront. Here we stopped a few metres away from another small group of men. A couple of them looked in our direction, but once they realised we were neither friend nor foe they ignored us. Pablo slouched for a moment with his elbows on the parapet and his eyes fixed on the sand below, while my eyes were drawn up to the brilliant stars visible over the bay now that the massive circle of floodlights had been switched off.
“Just relax,” he urged us. “Try to act like the maricones over there. And if any of them come over, just stay relaxed and chat nicely. They won’t harm you, and the police mostly leave them alone. Unlike political troublemakers.” He turned and looked at us then, and at last there was a smile on his face. “It was amazing what you did, but you mustn’t talk about it. It’s dangerous for you and for us.”
“We thought it was alright with friends,” blustered Steve, looking at me for support.
“We are friends of a sort, all the kids,” replied Pablo. “We do things together, and we don’t let our parents’ politics spoil things for us. But they’re not all Basques. And some of them, if they were to talk at home…” He left the rest unsaid.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “And Steve…”
“I know,” he interrupted miserably. “I started it, talking about the…”
“Don’t say it,” warned Pablo. “Not even here. But if you want news of…your friend, then be at Kuba tomorrow evening. And dress cool.”
We broke up, Pablo heading back into the lanes while Steve and I went south towards the ensanche. Nothing was said for the first few hundred metres, but before turning the lights out we agreed to keep the appointment with Pablo. As I lay awake listening to Steve’s usual wet snoring I started to have strong misgivings, but in the event pride and curiosity got the better of me.
Kuba stood by the roadside in splendid isolation, commanding an impressive view over the serried ranks of hills that march south and west from the nearby Pyrenees. It was the best nightclub in San Sebastián, and according to some the best in northern Spain. To be honest it offered little that I hadn’t seen in Manchester or Sheffield, but the desert island theme had been carried through with obsessive attention to detail, the lighting was extravagant and the sound system unusually large. All the same, the most noticeable and disturbing feature was that the boys were dancing together at one end of the floor and the girls at the other.
Steve and I took part enthusiastically at first, even managing to dance at arms’ length with a couple of the girls before their own peer group called them to order. But we were out of it long before we saw any sign of the people we’d come to meet. The volume had increased to the point of physical pain. The gyrations of the boys and some of the girls were more desperate, all self-consciousness blown away in the drunkenness of adrenaline and dehydration. Songs with simple choruses had become religious anthems as they chanted the words with their faces upturned in ecstasy.
I didn’t begrudge them their fun. The chance to flirt with the opposite sex from a distance, and to bond in an innocently homoerotic way with their mates, was the most exciting thing most of them had to look forward to. All the same, Steve and I drifted out of the building. We were glad to get away from the noise, and we were not alone. Even as the true worshippers poured themselves out on the dance floor, a number of agnostics were standing outside on the forecourt in various states of boredom or catatonia. And out here I noticed that the gender segregation was breaking down, with a steady trickle of couples walking in and out of the darkness. The night air was fresh and sweet, the stars brilliant and seemingly within arm's reach, and as I stood gazing up in appreciation I became aware that someone else had drifted over to join us.
I turned to see Pablo holding out his hand, and I shook it. Without uttering anything but a curt greeting, he led the two of us back into the club and up to the far end of the long bar. Once there, our heads huddled together in order to hear one another above the bone-shaking sound system, we made small talk for a couple of minutes. Then someone came over to join us whom I had never seen before. He was a friendly enough guy, about my age and build, and Pablo introduced him as Carlos. At first I assumed this to be a chance encounter, but after a couple of minutes of strained head-to-head conversation the stranger suddenly said, “So, you’re the heroes who helped Txako get away. It’s an honour to meet you.”
It is not easy to gloss over it when somebody calls you a hero. I imagine I blushed a bit. Then Carlos bought a round of drinks, and, barely able though we were to make out one another’s words, we raised our glasses in a series of toasts: to Txako, to us, to osasuna and one or two other Basque words that we didn’t recognise. It was all very cheerful, but with our new acquaintance’s next words I crossed some kind of threshold: “I’ve heard our friend is being well looked after, but if you want to know more you’ll need to speak to Gato.”
Carlos wouldn’t say any more about this Gato, but I could see no harm in accepting another drink – hopefully in a quieter setting – from someone else who thought we were heroes. I said that would be great and assumed Steve had done the same.
At the first chance, I left the heat and noise of the building behind and stood beside the dark and empty shuttle-bus. I climbed inside the moment the door was opened, and occupied an aisle seat until Steve appeared and I slid across to the window. The journey back to the city passed in a blur, but three things stand out in memory. The first is the smell of sweat and hormones that filled the vehicle as the passengers boarded; the second is the sight of Steve staring straight ahead throughout the journey as if I wasn’t there; the third and most vivid is the statue of Jesus bathed in floodlights on top of Monte Urgull—distant but clearly visible across the curve of the bay as we reached the crest of Igeldo. His arm seemed outstretched directly towards me, and I remember thinking about the symbolism as we began our final descent into the city. I couldn’t decide whether it represented a warning or a summons. Perhaps it was both. But that night nobody was listening, least of all myself.
JACK
“So there were just the two of you involved at this point,” commented Miguel, flicking back through his notes. “The girl you mentioned earlier, Gina, does she have any further involvement?”
“Not directly. Nothing that would have a bearing, I think.”
“But the guy, Steve, he was up to his neck in this business. What’s he doing now?”
“No idea. We haven’t stayed in touch. Th
ere was an atmosphere between us by this time, and we hardly said another word to each other right up to the time we graduated. I blamed him for dragging me into Txako’s affairs in the first place, and for chickening out when things started to get weird. And I imagine he blamed me for not knowing when to quit, although he can’t have any idea just how dangerous things got. The last I heard, he was a successful stand-up comedian in Manchester. Very political. Not very funny.”
“And did he have a role in the way things developed from this point?”
“No. We carried on sharing lodgings until college finished at the end of June, but as far as possible we avoided each other.”
“So at this stage the actors are you, a casual acquaintance named Pablo, and a third person named Carlos to whom Pablo introduced you in a nightclub. Then there’s a fourth man called Gato whom Carlos wants you to meet. Do any of these people take on a significant role in your story?”
“Yes and no,” answered Jack after a moment’s thought. “It’s complicated. Can I just tell it the way it happened? This was a difficult time and it was forty years ago. You can see clearly enough what you’re putting me through, and yet you keep interrupting the flow with questions that could easily wait for a natural break. If you’re not careful I’m going to lose the thread.”
JAMES
I’d taken quite a liking to Carlos during our few minutes together at Kuba, but over the next few days I was too concerned about Steve’s state of mind to give any thought to him or to the mysterious Gato. Then, as I emerged from college one afternoon, I was pleased to see my new friend waiting for me a little way along the road. He was slouching on a low wall looking more suspicious than he can possibly have imagined, with his chin tucked into his chest, his upper face obscured by mirrored sunglasses and a shapeless hat pulled low over his forehead.
Amused by his appearance, I clapped him on the back and began to ask how he was doing, but he cut me off and gave me some brief but unsettling instructions: “Don’t talk, listen,” he urged. “Wait here for two or three minutes, then follow me. Keep your distance. When you see me go into a bar, you need to walk round the block before joining me there. And if you see anyone suspicious, take off in the other direction.” He made me repeat the instructions, then his back was receding from me at a brisk pace. I wondered once again about Steve, but after waiting for exactly two and a half minutes I set off in pursuit.
I followed Carlos from a distance of about a hundred metres as he made his way down through the appropriately-named Gros district and slipped into a dingy working men’s bar. Then I spent seven or eight minutes strolling round in a circle as instructed.
On stepping into the grubby and dilapidated bar, I was ushered to a corner table behind which sat a young priest with a thin, sad face. I expected him to make the sign of the cross, but he simply stood up and stretched out his hand.
“Good morning, Father Gato,” I said as we shook hands, assuming him to be the man I’d agreed to meet. Neither of them corrected me, and the priest simply returned my greeting. We continued to chat for several minutes over coffee – about my course, my friends and my plans for the future – without him giving anything away about himself.
In the end, however, he got down to business. He lowered his voice before explaining that he was not Gato and neither would he wish to be. “I’m not even a close friend of his—just someone he trusts and thought you would trust. But he would be enchanted to meet you. Are you free tomorrow in the middle of the day?”
“Not free exactly; I should be at college until early afternoon. But yes, if I miss it they’ll just mark me down as sick.”
The priest was about to reply when Carlos suddenly leaned across and spoke to him. It was little more than a whisper, but I caught the beginning of it clearly enough: “Goyo, he’ll have to go by himself. I can’t be…”
A crash from the direction of the bar cut off the rest of his words, and then the priest was speaking. “OK. I’m sorry your friend Steve declined to meet us. It means you’ll have to go for quite a long walk by yourself. Gato would prefer not to come into the city just now. And the less time you spend in the company of his…” (there was a noticeable pause as he flicked his eyes towards Carlos) “…friends, the better. He’s a good man, but not popular with…”
The priest glanced around the almost empty bar, and I waited for him to continue, but this time he did not complete his sentence. Instead he gave me some simple directions and checked that I’d taken them in: I was to take the funicular railway to the top of Monte Igeldo at about midday, walk past the hotel and follow the track down the far side of the headland. I would find Gato among the rocks.
Within five minutes of leaving the bar, the conversation seemed unreal. I wondered what I was getting into, but pride and curiosity pushed me on. I was no lover of violence, but I’d come to love the Basque people, and the more I learned about their past the more I found myself in sympathy. The thought of being on the inside – of being able to say that I’d hobnobbed with a wanted activist – exerted a powerful draw. And what about my degree dissertation? I’d been planning to write about the Basque contribution to modern Spanish culture. What excellent field research this would be.
JACK
Jack noticed Miguel frowning at this point, and he paused with a quizzical look on his face. But Miguel ignored him and shot a glance at Alonso. “Do we have anything on a paramilitary or organised crime figure named Gato?” asked the detective.
“Not by that name, at any rate. I’m certain.”
“I didn’t have any other name for him,” said Jack. “Not at the time, anyway. But I put two and two together later on, and I have one or two other bits and pieces of information that might help you—when I get to that part of the story.”
“I think you’d better spit that information out now, my friend.”
“Look, you’re going to have to trust my judgement on this. If I just tell you what you think you want to know, you’re likely to get a distorted picture. You’ll start jumping to premature conclusions, and…”
“Hey, coño,” interrupted Alonso. “Watch who you’re talking to. You want me to loosen him up, Chief?”
Miguel held up a hand and shook his head dismissively. “No need. We can play it his way. For now.” He looked fixedly at the Englishman before adding, “I’m sure he’ll get to the interesting stuff quite quickly.” Alonso simply grunted in response.
CHAPTER 4
Joining the police had been a good move, even though it had meant abandoning the name by which he had been known since infancy. A uniform lends the face anonymity; it opens doors that would otherwise be closed; it provides a cover for dirty work and an alibi afterwards.
Best of all, policing had brought him into contact with some very useful people. And it had enabled him to draw his life passions together: his career, his very focused political vision, and that other passion. The growing one. The only thing in his life he was frightened of. The only thing that made his life bearable.
He stood at the bar now with the music pounding in his ears and a cuba libre in his hand, watching the young dancers with bitter-sweet longing. It frustrated him that neither the girls nor the boys ever seemed to split up. They even visited the restroom in twos and threes. That made his job harder, but not impossible.
“Do you have any update on the location of Red Leader or his vehicle?” Captain Gómez was a thickset man of only medium height but with a distinct military bearing. Clean-shaven, brown-eyed, hair steel-grey, he had a commanding presence and was known as a brutal disciplinarian. The displeasure with which he greeted the response to his question was thus a source of considerable distress to Seve Torres, call-sign Red Two.
Torres scarcely knew what to hope for as he clipped the radio handset back onto the dashboard of his car. He disliked the missing Serrano intensely and he feared Martí, the squad leader’s hulking partner. Just as importantly, promotion in the Legion tended to involve filling dead men’s shoes, and nothing wo
uld improve Torres’ prospects more than Serrano’s elimination. But on the other hand, the Captain had ordered him to locate the current Red Leader and failure would weigh heavily against him. He reached forward to pick up the microphone again, but before he could reach it a burst of static broke the silence. Then a voice issued from the loudspeaker suspended under the dash—a male voice, high-pitched with stress: “We’ve found Red Leader. Repeat, we’ve found Red Leader.”
Torres’ immediate reaction was disappointment that his immediate superior was still in action, but then he noticed the tension in the speaker’s voice. A follow-up transmission a moment later confirmed that his guesswork was accurate: “Red Leader is down. Repeat, Red Leader…” He ignored the rest of the transmission as he feverishly calculated how this development affected his prospects. Was he actually next in line to lead the squad? Or was Martí ahead of him in the promotion stakes. And if Serrano was dead or injured, where the hell was Martí?
Martí was lying in a rank, derelict barn trying to sleep. He was exhausted and in shock, and as he gazed up at the sagging timbers and rusty corrugated iron his heart was still beating much too rapidly in his chest.
In a grudging way, he was grateful to the middle-aged detective for turning him loose once they were up in the hills. Martí had seen the police at work often enough to grasp that something unconventional and possibly quite dark was going on here. And so he had not expected to be taken to a police cell (from which the Legion would have procured his release within the hour), and when the car stopped in the middle of nowhere he had anticipated a bullet to the head. But in the event he had simply been let out of the car on a remote hillside, still in handcuffs, and had watched as it accelerated away into the night.
And so Martí’s gratitude was real, but there was a cost: he dreaded the repercussions of allowing himself to be captured alive, and was sure the cruel and unpredictable Gómez would accuse him of buying his life with information. And the irony was that there had been no interrogation. In fact, what disturbed and humiliated him most was the condescension with which he had been treated. He had not been seen as a threat or an enemy asset, just an inconvenience to be side-lined from the action for a few hours.
THE ENGLISH WITNESS Page 5