‘You won’t be going home,’ Slapping Man snarled, confirming her worst fear. ‘Ever.’ He poked her with his boot, trying to push the hem of her slip higher up her thigh. ‘Know what we’ve got outside the door for you?’
‘No.’
‘Castor oil,’ he gloated. ‘Litre bottles of it.’
Señora Martinez continued to cry, her shoulders heaving with the exertion.
‘When you’ve drunk one of those,’ the man said, ‘you’ll have this cell awash with shit in ten minutes. And then we’ll give you another. Before that though, puta, I think we’d better have your bragas off.’ He reached down and lifted the hem of her slip, reaching up to grasp the waistband of her pants.
‘No, don’t. Please.’ Her voice was incoherent with fear, as if she no longer possessed an adequate vocabulary of protest. In any case she now knew they would take no notice of what she said until she confessed. And maybe not even then.
‘And we’ve got the bucket.’ Slapping Man was still struggling to pull off her pants. Alicia Martinez doubled up on the cell floor, desperately clutching her underwear with both hands. ‘The bucket,’ Slapping Man said, pulling again, dragging her a metre along the cell floor, while she vainly struggled to keep her pants on. But he was stronger than her and he finally wrestled her pants down and dragged them over her resisting legs, throwing them towards the door. ‘We call it the baño. Not because it’s a real bath, but because it’s full of water. We’ll hold your head under, you bitch, and you’ll tell us anything we want to know. Anything. You’ll see. I’ll hold your head and this gentleman will hold your feet. They say it’s like dying. Only worse.’
Señora Martinez was approaching hysteria, shaking her head uncontrollably, trying to make them see, to understand her innocence but her powers of communication had broken down in the face of this last onslaught.
‘We’ll have that off as well.’ Slapping Man tried to slide the strap of her slip down. She flinched, huddling into the corner, trying to press herself into the cold stone. He reached forward and flicked the strap from her shoulder. She hunched, arms clutching her chest to hold the material in place, whimpering.
Slapping Man was panting now. ‘Take it off or I’ll do it for you.’ He reached out again, reaching for the strap, engrossed in his work. So engrossed that he was unaware of Guzmán in the doorway, pushing Peralta aside and striding into the cell. By the time the sarge looked round, Guzmán’s fist was already swinging towards him. There was a sharp crack and the sarge’s head snapped back as he fell, hitting the wall before sliding unconscious to the floor.
‘What the hell is going on here, Teniente?’ Guzmán shouted, rounding on Peralta, eyes blazing. ‘I’ll have you both arrested for this.’
‘They will be severely punished, Señora,’ Guzmán repeated in his most conciliatory voice. He was sitting next to Alicia Martinez, as she shivered by the stove in his office. Consoling people was not the strong point of a man whose usual professional vocabulary was one of pain and death. On a personal level, consolation had never really been required of him and he had never needed to offer it. Until now.
He was pleased. Pleased because she was grateful. Guzmán had saved her. She had said so. There were a lot of tears and when he offered her his handkerchief, she took it gratefully. Her eyes were puffed up – but only from tears: the sargento had been careful not to land too many blows on her face.
‘No need to cry now,’ Guzmán said. ‘They won’t hurt you any more. I promise you.’
‘I can’t help it,’ she sniffed, ‘they, he…’ Her voice broke in an anguished sob of pain. ‘He would have…’ She was unable to finish. Luckily for her, she had only a vague grasp of what the sargento might have done had he been given the word.
‘A disgrace,’ Guzmán said. ‘Spanish men behaving like that. Incredible.’ Lying was much more his forte. Lies could be presented much more easily than the truth. And usually to better effect.
She turned to him, her eyes flashing angrily. ‘How could they have thought I had done anything wrong, Comandante?’
‘These are hard men, señora,’ Guzmán said. ‘Their jobs coarsen them. They treat decent people as if they were criminals. It’s all the same to them: guilty until proven innocent.’
‘But what they did…’ Her voice faltered. ‘They wouldn’t even believe me when I told them the truth.’
Of course not, Guzmán thought. It was only when a person was riddled with fear that truth could be properly ascertained. Only when you looked into their eyes and saw whether or not they were lying, whether they needed to be taken down another level into the nightmare world of pain Guzmán and his men routinely introduced their prisoners to. Luckily for Señora Martinez, it had not been necessary to take her very far down that route.
‘I assure you they’ll be punished,’ he said.
‘I don’t care about that,’ Alicia Martinez said. She was still shaking. ‘It’s that they did this to me without even giving me a chance to answer their questions.’ She looked up at him. ‘Did you know they were going to arrest me?’
It had taken her a while to think of that, Guzmán thought. ‘Of course not. I swear on the Blessed Virgin, señora. Those two were supposed to be investigating your neighbours, the ones we arrested the other day. They decided to interrogate you without consulting me. If I’d been here when they brought you in I could have prevented it. I’ll tell you this,’ he raised his voice angrily, ‘I will never let them forget how low their actions have been. Never. And I’ll make sure they spend the rest of their careers sitting at a desk, not molesting innocent women.’
‘Well, they deserve that,’ Señora Martinez said, somewhat placated. ‘What’s so awful is how they planned it – drugging me like that. So calculated.’
‘They’re the sort of people we have in this job,’ Guzmán said. ‘I’m afraid we aren’t picked for our etiquette or table manners, señora.’
She smiled for the first time since he had helped her dress in the cell, waiting while Peralta dragged the semi-conscious sargento down the corridor. Guzmán would not forget that moment, when Señora Martinez had placed her arm around his waist for support and hidden her face against his chest.
‘I can’t look at them.’ Her voice quavered.
Guzmán had guided her from the cell, shielding her from the sight of Peralta as he knelt over the sarge, trying to rouse him. It had been a strange feeling for Guzmán, his big arm around her narrow shoulders, her tears soaking into his shirt. For a moment he had wondered whether he should attack Peralta, to further demonstrate his outrage to Señora Martinez but decided against it.
‘I’ll take you home,’ Guzmán said. ‘Then I’ll deal with those two.’
‘You’ve been very kind, Comandante. I just feel so… ashamed.’
‘You did nothing wrong, señora.’
‘It’s what they might have done to me. I feel dirty.’
‘Listen,’ Guzmán said, ‘I’ll arrange a car. I’ll drive you myself. And I’ll make sure those two are out of the way until we’ve left the building. You won’t have to see them again.’
She looked at him gratefully and reached out her hand and placed it on his. Guzmán sat motionless and tense, looking down at her pale flesh contrasted with his hairy fist, as surprised by this moment of intimacy as he was confused.
‘Thank you,’ Alicia Martinez said.
Peralta slumped at a table in the mess, watching detachedly while the sarge applied a damp cloth to the swelling above his eye.
‘Mierda, that was some punch he gave me,’ the sarge said.
‘You’re lucky he didn’t kill you. Or both of us, he was so angry,’ Peralta muttered.
‘Vaya. He’s not angry. We was only doing what he ordered.’
Guzmán entered.
Peralta jumped to his feet. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he shouted. ‘We interrogate that woman and then you come in and punch the sarge and shove me out of the way screaming what bastards we are.’
‘Well you are,’ Guzmán said. ‘Doing that to a woman. Luckily she doesn’t want to make a complaint.’
‘Complaint?’ Peralta’s voice rose in disbelief.
‘Calm down, Teniente.’ The sarge exposed his rotting teeth in a broad grin. ‘We did the dirty work and the comandante comes out smelling of roses. He had to make it right with the lady.’
‘That’s the size of it,’ Guzmán said, peeling off several banknotes from the roll in his hand. ‘Here.’ He threw them on the table towards the sarge. ‘That should pay for the slight discomfort. Although to be honest I can’t imagine it would make much difference. You’d still be crazy.’
The sarge grabbed the money and shoved it into his pocket. ‘Gracias, jefe. If you need us to work on her some more…’
‘Don’t push it,’ Guzmán growled. ‘Teniente, you managed that job quite well.’
‘It made me feel dirty.’ Peralta was choked with anger. ‘I’m ashamed.’
‘The sarge did it carefully,’ Guzmán said. ‘You were just the straight man and you did fine. And the important thing is that she’s off the hook. So now everyone’s happy.’
‘Especially me,’ the sarge added.
Guzmán smiled. ‘Mind you, she thinks you were the bad bastard, Teniente. All that silent watching. A bit creepy, she said.’
‘It was wrong,’ Peralta said, glowering at the sarge’s obvious relish of the situation.
‘Bueno, I’m going to drive her home,’ Guzmán said. ‘I need a car. What have we got tonight?’
‘There’s the black SEAT out the back,’ Peralta said.
‘The one you used to pick her up?’
‘That’s the one, sir.’
‘The one that will stink of the chloroform you used on her?’ Guzmán snorted. ‘Puta madre, Teniente, I thought you were the sensitive type?’
‘There’s the Buick. That’s a nice car.’
‘You’re right, Sarge. Go and get me the keys. And Sargento?’
‘Jefe?’
‘Don’t go in my office,’ Guzmán said in a low voice.
‘A sus ordenes.’
The sarge ambled out of the door. Peralta sat at the table, not looking at Guzmán.
‘What’s your problem now, Teniente?’ Guzmán asked, without interest.
‘We could have questioned her without any of this,’ Peralta said, angrily. ‘You said you had feelings for her and you allowed that maniac to strip her and made me join in. You disgust me. You’re—’
Guzmán moved far more quickly than the teniente expected and seized him by the throat, propelling him backwards off the chair. Peralta tried to breathe but all he could manage was a laboured rasp as Guzmán pinned him against the wall.
‘Speak to me like that again and I’ll kill you. Me entiendes, Teniente?’
Guzmán released his grip and Peralta slid to the floor, spluttering for air.
‘I understand perfectly,’ he croaked.
‘No you don’t,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘You don’t fucking understand anything. You did the job. You obeyed orders. And now she isn’t a suspect, I don’t have to worry about her. This is the way these things are done, Teniente. If you wanted to join the Boy Scouts you should have said so. You’re with the grown-ups, now, Peralta. Remember that. And here,’ Guzmán pulled a few dollar bills from his pocket and threw them on the table, ‘now you know what it’s really like in this squad, you get the same perks as the others.’
The sarge returned with the car keys. Guzmán snatched them from him and went back to his office.
‘What’s that?’ The sarge pointed to the crumpled notes on the table.
Peralta shrugged. ‘The comandante left it. I don’t want it.’
The sarge grabbed the cash and tucked it away. ‘My lucky day today, Teniente.’
‘Good for you.’ Peralta clutched his stomach as he felt a sudden barb of pain.
MADRID 1953, CALLE DE LA TRIBULETE
Guzmán walked with Señora Martinez to the doorway of her building. She had been quiet during the drive. Not surprising, Guzmán thought, she was probably exhausted after the workout the sarge had given her. Even so, she had talked with him about the boy and her hopes for his future. She was a bright woman. Aware of the constraints of her own life and content to try to improve the chances for her nephew whilst resigned to the tedium of her own marginal existence. Guzmán approved of such realism.
She paused at the door. ‘Thank you for the lift, Comandante. Would you like a drink?’
That was a surprise. He thought she would want to get into her flat and lock the door.
‘We have a job on tonight,’ he said, looking at his watch. He hoped he saw a look of disappointment in her eyes. ‘I have to be at the comisaría by midnight. But a drink would be much appreciated, señora. Thank you.’
The stairs were dark. There was a faint smell of damp. Overtones of chorizo, garlic and onions. Guzmán waited as Señora Martinez unlocked the door. Entering the small apartment, he felt clumsy and awkward. He rarely made social visits. On official duties, it was different: he was in charge. Here, he was like a bull outside its own pasture: defensive and wary.
‘Tinto, Comandante?’
He nodded. Señora Martinez poured the red wine into cheap glasses.
‘If you want to pick up the boy,’ Guzmán said, ‘I’d be happy to drive you.’
‘It’s only round the corner. There’s no need. But thank you. In fact, Comandante,’ she looked at him, her pale eyes luminous in the weak light, ‘thank you for everything. For saving me from those men.’
Guzmán could handle polite conversation when he had to, he could handle social niceties and even small talk if necessary. He could conduct himself in the detached, formal manner polite company demanded. Which was why it seemed so strange when, as Señora Martinez came nearer to him, he reached out his hand to stroke her face, tracing the sharp line of her cheekbones and then following the soft curve of her mouth. She didn’t flinch as he had feared. Instead, her eyes closed and she stood while his hand moved over her face, across the arc of her eyebrows, along her hairline. His fingers brushed through her hair. He felt her relaxing. Trusting. She placed a hand against his chest. He could feel the heat of her palm pressing gently against him.
And then the moment broke. He broke it. His hand moved from her cheek, glided down her throat and settled on her breast. Her eyes flickered open. She pressed her hand against his chest, pushing him away. ‘Not now. Not after what happened today.’
For a moment, he felt stirrings of rage. If he wanted, he could have her now and no one in this world would stop him. Just as he could have allowed the sarge to work on her all night, until by morning she would have been ready to do anything he wanted. But those were just possibilities. The truth was, Guzmán liked allowing her this control. Liked her to think she could draw the line, could tell him when he was going too far. It was a game, a gift from him to her. It was also her gift to him. She thought if she drew the line, he would respond. Would behave like a decent man. And he could – if he chose. He had observed how others did it. He had learned things that way before.
‘I’m sorry, señora.’ He took his hand away. The air was strangely thick around him. He was excited.
‘I didn’t mean to give you the impression…’ she began.
‘You gave no impression, señora,’ Guzmán said. ‘I behaved badly and I apologise.’ He moved towards the door and put on his hat. He lingered in the doorway for a moment.
‘You must think me ungrateful,’ Señora Martinez said. ‘After what you did for me. But I can’t…’
‘Not at all,’ Guzmán said, ‘you’ve nothing to be grateful to me for.’
She stood at the door and watched him go.
At the top of the stairs he turned. ‘When you’re feeling better, do you think we might still go out somewhere?’
Alicia Martinez smiled. It was the first time she had smiled since Guzmán’s men dragged her into the car. ‘That would be nice, Coma
ndante. Of course.’
MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES
‘You’ll be wanting to know about tonight, I imagine, Teniente.’
Peralta looked up, annoyed at Guzmán’s tone. ‘I await your orders, mi Comandante.’
Guzmán nodded approvingly. ‘As you should, Teniente. I hope I can count on you if there’s any trouble?’
‘Absolutamente, mi Comandante.’
‘I hope so,’ Guzmán said. ‘It could turn rough down there.’
‘I won’t let you down, sir.’
Guzmán nodded. ‘Good. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Anyway, a bit of action will toughen you up. You need to be hard in the Special Brigade. Especially up here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Although it also helps if you can punch as well. And that’s true, Teniente, whether you’re arresting them or getting information out of them.’
‘There are other ways to get information without brutality,’ Peralta protested.
‘But they’re not reliable. Sometimes you have to be a bit rough. The main thing is to get to the truth.’
‘Like with Señora Martinez?’
Guzmán scowled. ‘Joder, coño. Don’t start. We’ve discussed that. She’s in the clear. And don’t take that tone of voice with me, Teniente. What we do, we’re doing for Spain.’
‘For Franco, you mean.’
‘For Franco,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘He is the State. And running the State depends on things being predictable as I’ve told you already.’
‘But things aren’t predictable, are they?’ Peralta said. ‘We couldn’t have predicted someone poisoning a consignment of heroin, could we?’
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 40