THE ENGLISH WITNESS

by John C. Bailey

  “We’re good at preserving what’s ancient and beautiful,” mused Miguel. “As long as it’s man-made, that is. Natural beauty, in contrast… well, you can see for yourself how much respect we have for it.”

  “The price of progress,” responded Julio. “We no longer have to live on rice, beans and pork fat. And we’ve come to mean more to the rest of the world than beaches and old ruins.”

  “The voice of youth has spoken,” growled Miguel. “What do you think, Jack?”

  In the window seat, Jack Burlton sat gazing intently and silently at the seat in front of his own. Interwoven images of fire, steel and gore filled his head, punctuated with the sporadic crack of small arms fire.

  CHAPTER 9

  In front of the hotel was a broad strip of lawn bordered by a row of palm trees. While others enjoyed their siesta, Miguel sat on a wooden bench in the shade of the foliage, struggling to keep his eyes open as he thought his way into Jack’s private universe. He remained convinced that the Englishman had been here; it fitted his description of the southerly detour he had planned to take, and on one occasion he had shown clear signs of recognition.

  They had been strolling up to the Alcazaba, the Moorish castle that looms over the city’s old quarter, and at first Jack had been quite content to stroll along beside Julio taking in the sights and sounds. Then they had reached the narrow lane that climbs one side of the ridge on which the castle stands. As they gazed out over the flat roofs of the old quarter, Jack had become so agitated that they had turned back and gone to a bar.

  As the sun passed its zenith and the shadows began to lengthen, the detective wrestled with Jack’s motive for coming here. It was a long way off his planned route up to the border. He must have had a strong reason for making the detour once he knew he had been located. Miguel thought long and hard about the kind of person who could instil that kind of hope in a lonely and frightened kid. But he drew a blank.

  The second day was as fruitless as the first. Random things seemed to break through the barrier with which Jack had surrounded himself: children playing in a schoolyard, a square old SEAT saloon stalled at a busy crossroads, the city’s bullring. But whatever it was about these things that intrigued him, he could not say.

  By the third day, Miguel was getting frustrated and angry. Jack was no more communicative than when they had arrived, and with little appetite for food it was no surprise that he was beginning to look gaunt. After breakfast in their hotel, the three of them went back to Miguel’s room where the detective shook the Englishman by the shoulders and shouted questions into his face. Then he turned to Julio, who was clearly perturbed by his methods. “If you’re so smart, you tell me,” he shouted at his colleague. “How the hell would a British teenager in the nineteen-seventies know someone down here at the arse-end of Andalucía? Burlton’s obviously been here; you can see it in his eyes. But who would he have come to see?”

  Then Julio began to smile. “With respect, Chief, you should listen to yourself. You know who he must have come to see—the person this whole business is about.”

  Miguel was silent for several seconds before responding. “Oh God. It never occurred to me that they went that far back. And Burlton never said he was going to visit a friend as such, let alone García López. Anyway, I was under the impression that Antonio lived up north.”

  “Perhaps it was here that the friendship grew. I recall the British have a saying about friends in need. But we have an address for him on file; we’ve just been too busy with Burlton to follow it up. Would you like me to phone Guarinos and get the details?”

  “Great work, Julio. If it’s local, we’ll take Burlton over there later and see if he shows any sign of recognition. But can you take him downstairs for a cup of tea or something? I need to make a couple of calls.”

  Julio led Jack away, and by the time he had an address Miguel had joined them. They trooped down to the hired Ford, and Julio drove out to the address held on file for Antonio García López. It was a penthouse apartment in a sun-bleached low-rise residential zone dating from the late sixties, situated a couple of kilometres from the city centre. They parked on an expanse of cracked tarmac that was bounded on two sides by concrete garages with graffiti-strewn up-and-over doors. The third side was open onto the public road, and on the fourth side stood the five-storey apartment block.

  It was not until they were approaching the block’s external staircase that Jack’s eyes came into focus, and for the first time in several days he turned his head to look inquisitively at his surroundings. The images and sounds in his head that stood between him and reality were more cheerful now. A white stripe on a blue background. Snap. Snap. Snap. Antonio smiling. ¡Dale! ¡Estupendo! He had been following Julio around with no sign of self-determination; now he ambled slowly off towards one of the garages.

  For over a minute Jack fumbled unsuccessfully with the garage door handle. Then, without any prompting, he walked back towards the two police officers. But to their surprise he headed straight past them and up the external stairs to the top floor.

  Julio was so surprised that he took a second or two to react. But he saw no reason to hurry, and by the time he had reached the top of the stairs Jack was already knocking on one of the doors. Julio fished a key out of his pocket and handed it to Jack, who unlocked the door and walked straight in. Julio waited for Miguel, and when they entered together they found the Englishman sitting on a kitchen stool, his face and shirt already wet with tears. The driver saw the detective draw in his breath to speak. He held up a warning hand, and no more business was done that day.

  They returned to Antonio’s apartment early the following morning. The thing that disturbed Julio most was that it did not resemble the family home he had been expecting to find. The décor was stale and faded, the carpets worn. There were several prepared meals of unknown age in the freezer, but no stale milk or rotting vegetables anywhere. There was nothing feminine in the main bedroom, either on the clothes rails or in the dust-covered dressing table. And curiously, while the cupboards, television and one end of the dining table were covered with the same thick film of dust as the bedroom furniture, the other end of the table had been given a wipe more recently. Julio saw Miguel noting these things, but the detective made no comment on them.

  After two hours going through the two-bedroom apartment, during which Miguel was constantly warning Jack not to touch anything, the detective relented. He gave Julio instructions to do what he could with the ageing coffee beans they had found in a cupboard, and they sat round the kitchen table to talk. Jack was still very self-conscious and stilted in his speech, but Julio found a bottle of French cognac in the dining area and did not think Antonio would begrudge it to them.

  Jack was cautious, and tried very hard to stay in character as someone still on the edge of mental collapse. He sipped at the fine brandy without enthusiasm as he forced his still dazed brain to consider every single word before he uttered it. After forty years of denial, a single shocking realisation had forced him to confront his demons and look them in the hollow eye sockets. The experience had brought him to the brink of drowning, but now Antonio had come to the rescue once again.

  The confused and traumatised persona that the two men had come to know was certainly no act. Neither was the fugue state from which Jack was now emerging. He knew that he needed the professional help he had walked away from decades earlier, and that in his present shape he was a danger to himself and others. But in the situation that now presented itself, he equally understood the benefits of borderline insanity. He needed to keep up the appearance of a man clutching at reality, and to watch his words carefully. The last thing he needed right now was alcohol.

  As for his two present companions, how much should he tell them? How much would they care? And the biggest question of all: to whom could he safely entrust a burden like the one he was now carrying?

  JAMES

  I’d first met Antonio as a Spanish language assistant at my old school. He�
�d given everybody in our class his address and invited us to visit if we were ever in the area. Of course, I hadn’t seen him for five years, and after such a long gap I didn’t know if he’d even remember me. All the same, I had his embossed calling card and took that as a standing invitation.

  It was a Saturday morning. I was expecting to be offered a drink, probably lunch and perhaps a couple of nights’ accommodation. But I hadn’t bargained with Antonio’s ultra-conservative code of conduct.

  He didn’t recognise me at first. I’d aged five years since he’d last seen me, and lost several kilos in weight. My stubble had been growing unchecked, and the visible parts of my face were deeply tanned. Then his face broke into a broad smile. “James Burlton! Welcome! Welcome! What a pleasure," he enthused in a mixture of English and his own language.

  Antonio had grown up a lot since his days in England. Back then he’d been a lunatic, thrilled by the freedom of life in Britain. Since then he’d got married and put on as much weight as I’d lost. He proudly introduced me to his shy, very formal wife and two beautiful little boys: one of them a precocious toddler and the other just going onto solid food.

  While his wife made coffee, he led me into his study and showed me a box of souvenirs from England. There was one photo of a dozen pupils at a language fair he’d organised. One of the boys in the picture I took an instant dislike to. He was standing apart from the others and eyeballing the camera with an insolent grin. He had one thumb hooked behind the lapel of his blazer, and his first and second fingers were extended in a crafty V-sign. Then I realised with embarrassment that it was me.

  After coffee he led me down to the garage block. “Do you remember this?” he asked as he unlocked one of the doors to reveal a little blue Renault with a white stripe along each side.

  “How could I forget it?” I replied with a smile. And I never have forgotten it. It was a FASA-Renault 8TS, if that means anything, in which he’d sometimes ferried pupils to special events. He’d been a terrifying driver. Tearing down the A23 Purley Way at ninety miles an hour, wheels straddling the centre-line, throwing us around in the back with no seatbelts, he’d struck even us thrill-hungry fifteen-year-olds as high-risk.

  Antonio moved the car out and opened a canvas bag he’d brought down from his study. For a moment I thought he had a real gun and I shrank from it, but it was no more than an over-powered air pistol that he’d picked up on the black market.

  Back in the sixties in the Air Cadets – before all the good stuff got banned by the health and safety mafia – we regularly visited shooting ranges and practised manoeuvres on the local common. I was obsessed with firearms. I read every book and article I could find, and turned out for every practice available. By the time I made corporal I was already at RAF proficiency with a rifle, and in the belief that I was a careerist they began sending me to advanced courses on an army range in Surrey.

  By the time I went off to university and joined the TAVR (the army volunteer reserve) I was already more than just a good marksman. I had range experience with several different firearms and knew the strengths and weaknesses of many more. If it hadn’t been for what happened here in Spain, I’d have signed up as soon as I graduated and probably got blown to pieces in the Falklands. But with what I’d been through here, I’d lost my appetite for weaponry.

  Antonio and I stood there in the open space at the front of the garages, taking it in turns to plink at old beer cans stacked against the back wall of his unit. He was clearly impressed with my shooting, but here’s the thing that struck me as odd until I knew more about his past: he made me look like a novice.

  After an hour we headed back up to the apartment. Cut off as I was from my own family, I’d been really looking forward to an afternoon with his. But instead they packed me off to a bullfight. While Antonio and I had been talking about old times and shooting beer cans, his wife had been queuing for a ticket at the Plaza de Toros. And much as I disapproved, I didn’t feel I could refuse their hospitality.

  I’d seen several bullfights on TV in bars and restaurants, but watching on a tiny black and white screen was nothing like the real thing. By the middle of the afternoon I was sunburned and overheated in my cheap, unshaded seat. But above all I was sickened by the sight and smell of blood. I’d been invited back for dinner that evening, and I hoped that the meal would be something starchy and bland because I was on the point of becoming a vegetarian.

  When I was ushered into the family dining room l saw to my disappointment that the table had only been set for two. Once again I’d been looking forward to a family gathering, but Antonio and I were to dine together while his wife and children retired to the kitchen. I looked cautiously into the main serving dish, and saw that it contained a number of small, round lumps of meat in a light, greenish-tinged gravy. "You saw him fighting for his life this afternoon," declared Antonio. “Now you can taste him.” As I struggled to swallow the strongly flavoured meat, his wife and older child were having pasta and tomato sauce. How I envied them.

  After dinner Antonio drove me back to the youth hostel. He’d been insistent that I should stay with them, but having met his family I was concerned about the danger to them. And more selfishly, penniless as I was, I felt humiliated by their extravagant but impersonal hospitality. Perhaps that was why I’d felt able to slip back into the study and smuggle out Antonio’s air pistol together with a tin of pellets. It wasn’t going to be much use in a real fight, but a well-placed shot could incapacitate someone several metres away.

  It’s a measure of my state of mind that I felt able to betray a friend’s trust, let alone go equipped for a serious assault. As for Antonio, I didn’t expect him to be overjoyed if he found his favourite toy missing, but had he known of my predicament I sensed that he’d have put his property and even his life at risk in order to help. To that extent, I told myself, I’d done him a favour by keeping silent. But the sooner I moved on, the less chance there was of an embarrassing reunion.

  In the event, my plans for a quick getaway were foiled by circumstances beyond my control. During the night – my second at the hostel – I woke up sweating and shaking with a high fever. Pulling the rough blanket up round me, my head pounding, I tried to get back to sleep. Rest eluded me, however, and between dashes to the servicios I lay shivering for the rest of the long night.

  By the time I was fit to travel I’d lost several more kilos and definitely outstayed my welcome. In checking me out with effect from the Sunday afternoon and reporting my bed as out of order, the kindly hostel manager did me more of a favour than he ever realised. It meant that as far aspolice records were concerned, I’d stayed for just two nights and then moved on. But I was still in Almería, and time was running out. My pursuers knew where I’d spent the weekend, and I feared Antonio discovering what I’d done—not because he’d be angry, but because he’d realise that something was wrong and insist on getting involved.

  I obtained grudging agreement that I could stay one more night in order to visit the Alcazaba, and began to psych myself up for the long haul up the coast to the border.

  As I walked up the hill towards the ancient Moorish hill fort, I couldn’t get over the feeling that it was too quiet. There was none of the bustle I’d anticipated, and as I peered up at the visitor entrance I could see that it was shut. I was bitterly disappointed, and in the hope of finding a better viewpoint I walked a couple of hundred metres farther up the narrow perimeter lane. I was just retracing my steps when a black ‘124’ swept into view at the bottom of the lane and headed up the slope towards me.

  I don’t know how they managed it, but they’d known exactly where to find me, and for once they had an effective plan. With the castle ramparts to my left and a steep drop to the right, they must have counted on me turning and running up the hill. If I’d tried that, the car would have overtaken me in seconds. But after so many narrow escapes, I was always on the alert for potential escape routes.

  Taking a large, smooth stone from each side-po
cket, I hurled them one after the other at the windscreen of the approaching car. The first went off target, but the second shot was perfect. It cracked the screen right in front of the driver’s face, and as he skidded to a halt I stepped over the low parapet. Scrambling down a patch of rough scree on the far side, I threw the holdall containing my few possessions ahead of me. Then I took a deep breath and launched myself outwards and downwards towards the flat roof of an old house built up against the castle mound.

  I’d dropped below my pursuers’ line of sight, but my leap was not so daring that they’d be unable to follow. I jumped twice to adjoining buildings looking for a way down to street level. At last I found myself on a bright orange flat roof with an open door leading down into the house. I dived through the doorway and scampered down the staircase inside. A voice shouted, then another, but these were just angry householders. The front door slammed against the wall as I wrenched it open and dashed out into the street.

  Reaching a shopping street a couple of blocks away, I boarded the first bus to anywhere and slouched down in a rear seat with my chin buried in my chest. From time to time I’d look behind, keeping my face shielded with a newspaper I’d picked up from the floor, but there was no sign of pursuit.

  As the initial surge of adrenalin wore off I was just beginning to feel disorientated – I had no sense of direction and no map – when we reached the sea. For the next few kilometres the road continued eastward, more or less following the coast. Occasionally the driver would stop to let a passenger on or off, but there was no sign of a major town and my anxiety began to mount.