The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  Guzmán looked at them, expressionless. He saw a grave beneath the pines. An old man floating in a pool. A naked girl strapped in a garrotte.

  Mellado was in good spirits. ‘I bet Gutierrez is tearing his hair out, wondering how he managed to fuck everything up.’

  ‘I expect he would,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘If he had any hair.’

  Mellado roared with laughter. ‘He arrived in San Sebastián last night,’ he said, taking another careless mouthful of champagne. ‘By now he’s probably on his way back to Madrid to hand in his resignation. That means you’re out of a job.’

  Guzmán nodded, listening less to Mellado and more to the rising chorus in his head.

  Mellado took out a cigar, bit the end from it and spat it away. Faisán hurried to give him a light and the general exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke. ‘So, did you think about the job?’

  Guzmán had thought about it. It was an interesting offer, there was work to be done here. The resistance was not finished. Without doubt, there were other cells, growing slowly, patient and painstaking in their preparations. They would strike in their own time, and when they did, this region would burn. It would need men like Guzmán to stop it. Mellado would be difficult to work with, not least because he was insane. But he was easily manipulated. They could rule this land like robber kings. Guzmán would have power again, all the power he ever wanted.

  ‘For fuck’s sake make up your mind.’ Mellado blew a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘I’m not going to beg. Double your present salary and I’ll throw in an apartment.’ He looked over to where two men were carrying the limp body of a woman from one of the tents. He turned away, disinterested. ‘A sea-view apartment.’

  Behind them, the last of the vehicles were driving away back to San Sebastián. The grass was yellowing on the hillside. Patches of reluctant snow on the mountains, gleaming in the bright sun. Winter not far off. There were worse things than working here. Being poor, for one.

  Guzmán shrugged. ‘I’ll take it.’

  Mellado’s bloated face cracked into a smile. ‘Excellent. Let’s have breakfast and a few drinks to celebrate. What do you think?’

  ‘I think it sounds good,’ Guzmán said.

  Faisán climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.

  ‘By the way...’ Mellado paused, resting one foot in the car. ‘I was right about that girl you asked about, María Vidal.’

  Guzmán stopped. ‘What about her?’ His voice was heavy, pensive.

  ‘She was a member of the resistance.’ Mellado heaved himself into the back seat and fumbled with the catch on the cocktail cabinet. ‘Do you want a Bloody Mary? They’re like food. Tell you what, I’ll make us all one.’ He splashed vodka into the glasses and added tomato juice, stirring in the Tabasco and Worcester sauce with a glass stick.

  Guzmán rested his hand on the car roof, listening to the brittle clink of glass as Mellado stirred the cocktail. ‘How do you know she was in the resistance?’

  ‘We arrested one of her friends,’ Mellado said. ‘She confessed. Turns out little María Vidal killed one of my men after that charity ball.’

  Guzmán frowned. ‘Who said so?’

  The repetitive tinkle of glass on glass.

  ‘María told us everything before she went in the garrotte, didn’t she, Faisán?’

  ‘She did.’ Faisán sniggered. ‘Though it took a while.’

  Guzmán looked into the car, watching the glass stick circling in the tomato juice, chinking against the glass again and again, getting faster. ‘She didn’t kill the legionnaire.’

  Mellado looked up. ‘Of course she did. She confessed.’

  ‘People admit to anything under torture.’ Guzmán’s voice was lower now.

  Mellado stirred the cocktail. ‘You can only go on what people tell you, Guzmán.’

  Guzmán looked down at the blood-red mix in the cocktail shaker. Sunlight glinted on the thick crystal glasses. He saw the handle of the Walther at the side of the cabinet. ‘You think a young girl could slash a trained legionary’s throat with a trench knife?’

  The tinkling of glass slowed to a harsh brittle pulse. Then it stopped. ‘How do you know how he was killed, Leo? Those details were hushed up. No one knew that except the killer.’ Mellado put the cocktail shaker down. ‘More pepper. That’s what we need.’ Slowly, he reached into the cabinet.

  A single shot, deafening in the confined space. Mellado slumped forward against the front seat, a chaos of broken glass and tomato juice.

  Faisán screamed, scrabbling desperately at the door handle.

  Guzmán leaned forward and pushed the muzzle of the Colt against the back of his head.

  ‘Don’t kill me,’ Faisán shrieked. ‘I’ll give you money.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Guzmán said. When Faisán screamed again, he pulled the trigger.

  His ears ringing, Guzmán climbed from the car. A bottle of Napoleon brandy rolled from under the front seat against his foot. He opened it and doused the bodies and the inside of the car, pausing to take a swig before he emptied the rest over Mellado. He took out his lighter and held the flame to the rear seat. It ignited at once and blue fire danced over Mellado’s uniform. Within moments, the vehicle was filled with flames.

  Guzmán walked away, ignoring the pain in his ribs and the chafing wound in his arm. His head still pounded with the triumphant voices in his head. Behind him, the car burned fiercely. It was over now. He was over.

  He had been walking for an hour when a car appeared along the road, heading towards him. Guzmán saw two men inside. The man in the back seat was bald while the driver was pasty-faced, with thick round glasses. The car stopped and Guzmán peered into the interior as the rear window slid down.

  ‘We’ve been looking for you,’ Gutierrez said. ‘The corporal thought you might be at Lauburu Farm.’ Behind the wheel, Corporal Ochoa nodded. He didn’t look at Guzmán.

  ‘No need to tell me,’ Guzmán growled. ‘I’m finished.’

  ‘Finished?’ Gutierrez stared at him. ‘That’s rather modest, Comandante, since you’ve done everything I asked. Mellado was expressly forbidden by Franco to take action while the US Ambassador was nearby and he did it anyway. That’s his career finished, just as I hoped.’

  ‘You couldn’t be sure he’d do that,’ Guzmán muttered.

  ‘I knew exactly what he’d do, the moment he read the file I sent you.’

  Guzmán frowned. ‘How did he know what was in it, did Viana tell him?’

  ‘Whoever Capitán Viana really was, he wasn’t working for Mellado,’ Gutierrez said. ‘There are other people in the game now and, unfortunately, they’re not on our side.’

  ‘So who gave Mellado the information?’

  ‘Señora Olibari had been a double agent since the war. I knew she’d let Mellado know what was in the file as soon as it arrived. She had the only telephone in the village, you know.’

  Exhausted, Guzmán rested his hand on the car roof. For a moment, he saw a powder-blue silk dress across a crowded dining room, crimson lipstick on the rim of a glass.

  ‘Snap out of it,’ Gutierrez said. ‘You destroyed a resistance cell, killed its leaders and got rid of El Lobo. Not to mention removing Baron Çubiry and his repulsive offspring. We’ve even retrieved the missing five million pesetas from Mellado’s mansion.’

  Guzmán stared over the car roof at the foothills. Above the brow of the hill, a column of smoke rose into the clear sky, darkening as the petrol tank caught fire. ‘You set all this up.’

  Gutiérrez laughed. ‘Oh no, you planned it. That’s what I told Franco this morning, so it must be true.’ He noticed the column of smoke in the distance. ‘What’s burning over there?’

  Guzmán shrugged. ‘General Mellado and his assistant.’

  ‘A traffic accident? How very convenient. That saves the bother of arresting him.’

  Guzmán shook his head, trying to clear it. ‘So you’ve won.’ Behind him a flurry of black smoke and sickly flame shot in
to the sky as Mellado’s car exploded.

  ‘You mean we’ve won,’ said Gutiérrez, ‘and since the Yanquis have paid the money for the trade deal now, I can’t imagine how things could get any better.’ He pushed open the door. ‘Do you want a lift back to Madrid, or would you rather stay here with the goats?’

  Guzmán climbed into the car. As he slammed the door, Ochoa accelerated, heading to the coast to pick up the highway.

  ‘It’s beautiful here, wouldn’t you say?’ Gutiérrez said, looking out at the hills.

  Guzmán shook his head. ‘They’re all traitors here. You can’t trust any of them.’

  He slumped against the window, staring at the mountain tops, their peaks glittering as if the snows were burning. And he heard the voices of the dead, fading in the distance.

  30

  MADRID 2010, CALLE DE LOS CUCHILLEROS

  It seemed she’d been walking for ever. Moving through crowds, along busy roads, down tree-lined avenues in leafy parks, seeing none of them. She walked slowly, like a drunk. Her head ached and strange strands of light floated across her vision. That worried her. Every time it had happened before, it had ended with her blacking out.

  A sharp pain shimmered through her temples, another symptom. Got to get home, don’t want to collapse in the street. Leaning against a wall, she pushed her hair away from her eyes, hoping no one was watching, thinking she was some sad junkie desperate for a fix.

  She set off again, following narrow streets with walls covered in garish patchworks of election posters, huge pictures of politicians and terse, ambiguous slogans. The buildings around her seemed familiar and she saw the equestrian statue of Felipe Tres, felt the cobbles beneath her feet. Somehow, she had found the Plaza Mayor. She was almost home.

  She went down the stone stairs at the corner of the plaza into the Calle de los Cuchilleros. A hundred metres away, she saw the window of her flat and the small bar below. Opaque grey shapes blurred her vision and she blinked, trying to clear them away. A vicious barb of pain lanced through her head.

  ‘Holá, señorita.’

  She peered uncertainly at the man sitting on the steps of the Meson del Champiñon.

  ‘What, you don’t you recognise me? It’s me, Alberto. I must be losing my looks.’

  ‘Lo siento. I’m not feeling well,’ Galíndez said, fumbling with her key.

  ‘Did you see the election debate on TV? It’s going to be close, I reckon. Maybe the next lot will be better for business. I certainly hope so.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She nodded, forcing herself to be polite as she struggled to turn the key.

  He wasn’t done. ‘What do you think about the shooting? Terrible, isn’t it?’

  She looked at him, blank faced. ‘What shooting?’

  ‘Rosario Calderón, the minister of the interior, was shot dead this afternoon.’ He looked surprised. ‘Didn’t you hear the news?’

  Lights flashed in front of her eyes. ‘I must go, I’m ill.’

  ‘Sorry to hear it, señorita,’ Alberto said. ‘Come and have some mushrooms when you feel better. Have a go at the karaoke. With that husky voice you might win first prize.’

  Inside the lobby, she leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath. Just let me get up the stairs. Don’t want to pass out here. A large package was waiting on top of her mailbox. A heavy printed label: AMAZON.es. She took the package and went upstairs.

  By the time she had unfastened the triple locks her head was pulsing with darts of pain. She pushed the door to, deciding the locks could wait. Too much trouble.

  Leaving the package on the table, she walked unsteadily to the bedroom and tumbled face down onto the bed. She kicked off her shoes and lay still, feeling the dull pounding in her head recede a little. She wondered about calling Isabel. She was still thinking about it as she fell asleep.

  It was dark when she woke. Her mouth was dry and her feet ached from the long hours of walking, though at least the headache was gone. The clock on the table said eleven. She leaned over to her bedside table and turned on the radio.

  ‘...occurred around four o’clock when Calderón returned home. She was shot on the steps of her house by three masked men and was pronounced dead when the emergency services arrived. Police sources suspect the slaying is almost certainly linked to her husband’s recent murder when...’

  Galíndez turned off the radio and went into the living room. Opening the window, she breathed in the cool night air. Below, a chorus of voices, laughter, the chinking of glasses, the smell of frying mushrooms and garlic. People living their lives.

  She went into the kitchen and got a bottle of agua con gas from the fridge. The fizzy water was sharp and cold, taking away some of the strange taste in her mouth.

  The Amazon package lay on the table. Finally, she would be able to view the reel of film from Ochoa’s apartment. Tearing the cardboard wrapper open, she took out the 8mm projector. Her phone vibrated on the table. She picked it up and looked at the screen. UNKNOWN CALLER. A short text message:

  You Killed Her

  Galíndez put the phone down slowly. Rosario had told her she would get them both killed when they met in the Retiro. And now Rosario was dead, along with her husband and his business partner Jesper Karlsson. She realised she’d been correct when she’d suggested to the two investigators from Asuntos Externos that the killing of the men was some kind of warning. Rosario’s was too. They were a warning to Galíndez.

  There was only one person she could trust when things got tough and that was Uncle Ramiro. The best thing was to tell him everything, all the dirt on Rosario, the stolen children and GL Sanidad as well as the adoption certificate currently hidden under her carpet. Come clean about it all, before someone decided she’d had enough warnings.

  The clock said eleven thirty. Ramiro always worked into the early hours so there was plenty of time to get cleaned up and check Ochoa’s film before she made the call.

  She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the hot water pound her aching shoulders as the small bathroom filled with steam. Leaving the fan running, she padded into the bedroom, grabbed a Barcelona shirt from the wardrobe and pulled it on, impatient to see what was on Ochoa’s reel of film.

  The projector was easy to set up. An instruction sheet with a large diagram in seven languages helped her get the spool of film fixed in place. She arranged a chair alongside the table and focused the projector beam on the wall. Probably vintage pornography. She turned out the overhead light and slumped into the chair, reaching for the button to start the film. A night in, watching a movie all on my own. Been there.

  The light of the projector cut through the semi-darkness, filling a section of the wall with a blurred monochrome rectangle. Strange shapes floated across the wall, the result of dirt or dust on the film. And then the image changed as the person holding the camera adjusted the lens, bringing the picture into focus.

  A view from a car. The cameraman in the front passenger seat, pointing the camera through the window: streaks of dirt on the glass. The car slowed, passing a line of grey and ochre houses. A bakery, then a grocery by the look of it, shelves outside laden with fruit and vegetables, dried hams and pimientos hanging in the window.

  The car came to a halt and the camera moved slightly, showing more of the windscreen. Some fifty metres away were several new-looking houses, the sort they built in the seventies and pulled down in the nineties. The camera focused on the entrance of one of the houses, capturing it in all its grey detail. Galíndez felt a growing sense of unease. Her mouth was dry and her breathing grew faster as she recognised the door that now filled the flickering picture. As the door opened, a figure appeared in the doorway and her body turned to ice. Despite the fluctuating quality of the film, she knew exactly when this film had been taken, and who was about to come through the door. And as the figure came into view, she mouthed a single word. ‘Papá.’

  Her father, just as he was in photographs. Tall and muscular, his square jaw cover
ed in dark stubble. Deep-set eyes fixed in a stern frown, his guardia uniform immaculate, the gun belt gleaming. Papá. Her father as she had never known him or, at least, never remembered him: alive. Her skin was painfully cold and she squirmed in the chair, hugging herself, chilled by the sense of encroaching darkness. Knowing this would get worse.

  Papá walked out of the door and down the path. He stopped and turned back to the open door, waiting for someone. And now that someone stepped out from the dark hallway, skipping through the front door into view. A little girl, big dark eyes blinking in the light of a spring morning. Eight-year-old Ana María Galíndez, wearing the uniform of the Colegio del Niño Jesús, an oversized satchel swinging from her shoulder as she turned in the direction of the camera, unaware of its presence, cocking her head to one side as her father spoke to her, her face wreathed in a smile.

  Galíndez clenched her teeth, trying to stop them chattering, shaking as she watched these flickering images of her obliterated childhood. She blinked, feeling warm tears spill down her cheek. And then a barb of pain lanced through her head, the pain convulsing her, distorting her vision. Her hands tightened on the chair arms.

  Little Ana María skipped to the kerb. The camera panned back, revealing a line of parked cars between her and the camera, shielding the unknown observer from view. Papá bent low for a goodbye kiss then pointed to the house. The little girl nodded, walking obediently to the door. A sudden recollection: Mamá used to walk me to school.

  Ana María standing by the door, waving. The camera panned back slowly, showing Miguel Galíndez as he crossed the road, car keys in his hand, behind him the blurred shape of the little girl, out of focus. The camera zoomed out as Papá opened the car door, throwing his shiny leather tricorne onto the passenger seat before turning to wave goodbye to his daughter. He looked towards the camera, the image shifting as the camera moved to one side to avoid him seeing it, the driver’s arm raised towards the windscreen, the hand open in brief greeting. Papá waved back in casual acknowledgement. And then the camera zoomed in again as Teniente Miguel Galíndez climbed into his car on that spring day in 1992. Just as he did every day, though today was special. It was the last day of his life.