The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  Guzmán nodded. ‘Of course you do. Because otherwise your brains will be all over this cell – it wouldn’t be the first time.’

  Mamacita moved as if in a trance, guided by the Browning now pressed against the nape of his neck. It was a powerful incentive and he walked obediently towards the big door that led down to the vaults. At the threshold of the doorway, he bridled, seeing only darkness beyond and feeling the cold dank air coming from below. Guzmán increased the pressure of the pistol and pushed Mamacita through the ancient doorway, to the long flight of worn steps. Mamacita slipped and fell, gibbering in fear. Guzmán slammed the thick door shut and then, seizing Mamacita’s ankle, dragged him down the stone stairs. Pausing at the bottom, Guzmán turned on one of the feeble electric lights.

  Mamacita was whimpering, half stunned and unable to breathe properly. Guzmán knelt and handcuffed the man’s hands behind his back before pulling him to his feet.

  ‘I won’t tell.’ Mamacita was almost incoherent. Guzmán took hold of the handcuffs and hoisted his hands up his back until he squealed. Bending, head down, he staggered forward, propelled by Guzmán’s hold on the handcuffs. Mamacita raised his face upwards, seeing in terror the low arched roof, the strange obscure recesses with their ghastly carvings picked out in the sickly pale glow of the erratic electric lights. From somewhere in the darkness came the sound of fast running water.

  ‘Where the hell is this place?’ he groaned.

  ‘Hell?’ Guzmán said. ‘This isn’t hell. Purgatory maybe, not hell.’ He pulled Mamacita’s wrists higher, producing another shriek before continuing into the darkness. ‘Hell comes later.’

  They reached the end of the passageway and after that there were no more lights. Guzmán reached into a recess and brought out a torch. The beam was blinding and Mamacita looked away from it, seeing sudden illuminated glimpses of ancient brick and stone walls and the curved low ceiling above them. Guzmán yanked the handcuffs and with a groan Mamacita continued down the dark tunnel. The sound of running water grew louder. Guzmán stopped and let go of the handcuffs and Mamacita tried to stretch a little to ease the pain, muttering under his breath. Guzmán shone the light upwards.

  ‘Look.’

  Mamacita looked up. The arched door lintel of the passageway was covered in carvings. Grotesque, obscenely ugly carvings depicting the slaughter and savagery of some hellish massacre. Some of the figures were clearly human, both male and female, others merely infernal ciphers, improbable monsters whose role seemed to be to dismember and devour their human victims using an insane taxonomy of violence. Even Mamacita could see the antiquity of these malevolent runes, the stone so worn by time it seemed almost transparent in the beam of the flashlight. Above the carvings were words, carved in a pattern that followed the curve of the lintel.

  VERITAS PER POENA

  ‘What does it say? Mamacita whispered.

  ‘The truth through pain,’ Guzmán said, pushing him forwards again. The noise of water was much louder now, and it seemed to Mamacita that it came from below them. Filled with a sudden terrified vertigo, he leaned back against Guzmán for support. Guzmán twisted away in disgust and Mamacita fell, screaming, thinking he was falling into the torrent. Instead, he felt only unyielding stone. Guzmán switched off the flashlight and Mamacita shrieked at the sudden darkness.

  ‘I’ll talk. Mamacita tell you everything. Don’t push me in. I’ll do whatever you say. I won’t say nothing about that Juan.’

  ‘It’s quite safe,’ Guzmán said, putting the flashlight back on, ‘look.’

  Mamacita looked. Behind him was a high rock face, a solid, reassuring presence. In front, an ancient low stone wall. He crawled forward on his knees to the wall, leaning against it while Guzmán shone the light downwards. Twelve metres below, a fast-moving river flowed noisily from a jagged entrance in the rocks to their right, disappearing again some way to their left into a rocky chasm. The noise of the water was loud and powerful, constantly echoed by the cavern walls.

  ‘Where does it go?’ Mamacita asked, afraid of the answer.

  ‘No idea.’ Guzmán shrugged. ‘At first I looked for it on maps and plans of the sewers but there was no trace of it. The files of the Inquisition don’t mention it, yet they must have known it was here. I’ll tell you something else. They never come back.’

  Mamacita didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Who don’t?’

  ‘The ones who go into it,’ Guzmán said. ‘I used to think they’d surface somewhere, perhaps eventually turn up in the sea. But they don’t. They just disappear.’

  Mamacita began to wail. ‘I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘Of course,’ Guzmán agreed, hauling him to his feet. Mamacita howled in useless protest, his shrill voice echoing above the incessant roar of the rushing water.

  Guzmán continued to push the reluctant Mamacita along the pathway until they turned away from the river and into a small cave-like chamber carved into the rock. The chamber resembled a roughly hewn chapel, like those in country monasteries. Guzmán struck a match and a candle flickered into life, followed by others until there was one burning in every corner. He continued lighting candles until the small space was flooded with irregular, shimmering light. He sat on a packing case. From the writing on the side Mamacita could see it once held tins of tomatoes. Not everything here was ancient then. The thought was strangely comforting.

  ‘Now,’ Guzmán said, ‘we need to talk.’

  Mamacita was breathing heavily, and sweat made his make-up run down over his stubble. Blood trickled from his nose. ‘Don’t hit me, Señor Oficial. I swear I’ll tell the truth.’

  ‘Vaya. That’s a good start. Because, as far as I can see, señor, you’ve been working side by side with those Dominican gentlemen. In my book that makes you an accomplice. And any accomplice gets what I’m going to give them when I find them, entiendes? Unless, of course, that accomplice is helpful.’ Guzmán’s tone was measured and even, making him even more intimidating. ‘Tell me what you know about them.’

  ‘They buy my place,’ Mamacita babbled. ‘I came over from the Old Country ten years ago. Mi tio gave me money for a ticket. I had to leave, see – some trouble in a bar where I worked. Lot of the people, they don’t like my type and they very violent.’

  ‘Sounds my sort of place,’ Guzmán said.

  ‘So I come to Spain,’ Mamacita continued, ‘Barcelona. Singing in bars, turning tricks. Save my money. Got my heart broke so many times but I always careful with my money.’

  Guzmán snorted. ‘Go easy with the details, I’ve led a sheltered life.’

  ‘When I get to Madrid, at first I rent the Bar Dominicana from two guys. I hired out rooms to the whores, put on music, the place was real popular.’

  ‘And degenerate,’ Guzmán grunted.

  ‘It was home for those who liked it,’ Mamacita said defensively. ‘You could get a plate of three coloured beans, just like you got back home, the colours of our flag. You could get any sort of drink. You could get a woman, or a man. Whatever.’

  ‘And the owners gave you protection?’

  ‘Si, señor. For a year or two. Then they go to jail. They didn’t pay whoever they needed to pay – some soldier or civil servant: that how it works, no? One of them been in the war on the other side, got found out: he still inside now. Other guy got injured in a fight and died in prison. So Mamacita buy the place from his wife. She don’t want to stay around in Madrid after that.’

  ‘Intelligent woman.’ Guzmán took out a cigarette and lit it with one of the candles.

  ‘Mamacita really like a smoke, Señor Oficial.’

  ‘You sound like my teniente,’ Guzmán said. ‘Just keep talking.’

  ‘I buy the Bar Dominicana and then everyone pay Mamacita. Until this year.’

  ‘What did you do with the money?’

  Mamacita blinked in the flickering light. ‘Tucked away, Señor Oficial. Banco Hispano Americano. Savings account. Someone who help Mamacita, she be very grateful to
them. Mamacita always pay good money to those who help her. We could go get it now. I could change it for dollars, if you want.’

  Guzmán was used to people offering him bribes. He was used to taking them as well, but money wasn’t what he wanted right now. ‘We’ll see. Maybe we’ll make an arrangement later. You said you bought the bar. What happened after that?’

  Mamacita swallowed. ‘This year, men come to see me. Men from the Old Country.’

  ‘Goldtooth?’

  ‘Yes, Don Enrique. Very nice man, strong man.’

  ‘Less detail, coño, do you want me to get angry?’

  ‘He make good offer to Mamacita. He buy Bar Dominicana. He be the boss but Mamacita run the place for him and he pay Mamacita a salary. Like a job – see?’

  ‘Yes, I understand how it works.’

  ‘Perdóneme, Señor Oficial. He buy the place and use upstairs for him and his friends. The whores, they stay and Mamacita still make money from them. All Don Enrique want is sell a little dope, play some cards.’

  ‘Clearly the man’s a saint,’ Guzmán said. ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Don Enrique start asking Mamacita for information. He start using the place to meet people to buy property. Bars and cafés. Rough places, places where you do business and the law don’t bother you. And they got a place in the centre where they keep their supplies, a warehouse on Calle Maestro del Victoria. I bet you never knew that, Señor Oficial?’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘A warehouse. That where they keep all their dope. And they got a big sign that says “Pharmaceutical Products of Spain”.’

  ‘And Don Enrique bought all these places, did he?’

  ‘He buy these places, but you know what?’ Mamacita paused. ‘It not him who pay for them. It a man. Another man, an important man. Big boss. He got plenty dinero. And he like to spend it.’

  ‘So he bought these properties through your Dominican pals?’

  ‘He keep his name out of the deals. Far as Mamacita see, he tell them what he want to buy, and then they send round some respectable guy to put in the offer. They use about four different guys.’

  ‘Let me guess. These respectable types, did they use assumed names?’

  ‘Absolutamente, señor. You real smart. They get these guys from Don Bartolomé’s place. Le conoce usted?’

  ‘No, I don’t. What’s his place called?’

  ‘Café Almeja. Nice place. Lots of young guys. They have rooms. Young guys needing money, they negotiate a price, go upstairs. Don Bartolomé get a cut. Real nice place.’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ Guzmán growled. ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘It’s in La Latina. Calle de la Ribera de Curtidores. Bottom of the hill. You know it?’

  ‘Do I look like a taxi driver?’ Guzmán snapped. ‘Anyway, who was this important man putting up the money to buy these properties?’

  ‘They never say his name when I’m around. Not like I can just say hey, señores, sorry to interrupt but please tell me who you all talking about. I can’t say that now, can I?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know his name?’

  Mamacita shook his head emphatically. ‘Never know it. And they always go and meet with him someplace else. They keep it very quiet. I don’t know who he is, I swear.’

  ‘Never mind, you’re being helpful. So what else can you tell me?’

  ‘All these bars they buy,’ Mamacita said, ‘they sell their dope through them. Then one day they get a delivery, a couple of sackfuls. They take it upstairs. And one guy goes out, says he going shopping. He come back later and let me tell you, it was some weird shit he bought.’

  ‘He showed you his shopping list?’

  ‘I see the packaging afterwards. What you think he buy? I tell you. Bags of flour and rat poison. What you think of that?’

  Guzmán lit another cigarette. ‘What did he do with that stuff?’

  Mamacita brightened. ‘Next day, the junkies start turning up dead. They’d cut the dope. Put too much shit in it. Rat poison – hombre, that stuff dangerous.’

  ‘You don’t say. Why did they do it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mamacita not going to ask questions like that. After that, we get raided by you and your boys. All that shooting. And now, poor Mamacita in jail and never done nothing.’

  Guzmán stood up. ‘That was quite useful.’

  ‘I did say Mamacita help you, Señor Oficial.’

  ‘You’ve been a great help.’ Guzmán took off his jacket and placed it carefully on a ledge. He loosened his tie and removed it before starting to unbutton his shirt.

  ‘Que pasa?’ Mamacita asked uncertainly.

  ‘I’m getting undressed.’ Guzmán placed his shirt carefully on his jacket.

  ‘That fine with Mamacita, Señor Oficial, I give you good time. I give you all the information you want and now we have some fun, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Guzmán took off his shoes and unbuckled his belt.

  ‘You a big man,’ Mamacita said approvingly. ‘Powerful man. Big muscles.’ He watched Guzmán carefully fold his trousers and place them on the ledge. ‘I give you real good time, Señor Oficial. Real good.’

  ‘Yes you will,’ Guzmán agreed, pulling his shoes back on.

  Mamacita looked at Guzmán uncertainly. ‘Don’t stop now, baby.’

  Guzmán took off his watch and placed it next to his clothes. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ he grunted. He moved towards Mamacita, the candlelight flickering on his heavy body. ‘That’s a new suit,’ he said.

  ‘New suit?’ Mamacita’s streaked clown face looked up at him, uncertainly.

  Guzmán nodded. ‘It cost a lot, and I don’t want to spoil it.’

  Mamacita still didn’t understand. She gaped as he came nearer. ‘What gonna spoil your suit?’

  ‘The blood,’ Guzmán said. ‘I don’t want to get your blood on it.’

  MADRID 1953, CALLE MESÓN DE PAREDES

  Guzmán took a taxi to Puerta del Sol and walked the short distance home, stopping frequently to see if he was being followed. Even on the stairs of his building he was careful, keeping the Browning in his hand, listening for the Judas sound that would betray someone hiding on one of the landings.

  He opened the array of locks on his door and entered the apartment. Pulling back the carpet in the living room, he lifted the loose floorboards. The documents of those he had killed, their money and identification, all went into the hiding place alongside his other treasures. Everything was in order. He replaced the floorboard and pulled the carpet back into position. Then he washed and put on clean clothes, before going into the kitchen in search of food.

  He poured a brandy and found a chorizo which he ate in great angry mouthfuls. He checked the Browning, ensuring the action of the big semi-automatic worked smoothly, listening to its metallic cadences as he squeezed the trigger on the empty chamber. How he loved this weapon, its destructive power, the fear it provoked. He could spend hours taking it to pieces, cleaning and oiling it, ensuring it functioned perfectly. It was the possession he loved the most in this world.

  Love. It was not a word Guzmán used often. It made him think of Alicia Martinez. The first woman in years who’d interested him. Normally a selection of whores kept him happy when the need took him, like any Spanish man. But Alicia Martinez was respectable and she had responded to Guzmán with politeness. A respectable woman: he tried to imagine it for a moment, them as a couple, Comandante and Señora Guzmán. Such things were not impossible. These were things people did. Other people, in other lives. It was unlikely, he knew. Given his work, how could he return home to a wife and make small talk with the blood of his victims still on him?

  Guzmán still didn’t understand what he felt about her. Couldn’t understand. Normally, he took what he wanted. Yet with Señora Martinez, he hadn’t even used her first name. She’d stood up to him, afraid but defiant. And he let her. He thought so much of her he’d had her tortured – within limits, of course – to ensure she’d kept noth
ing back about the letter from Guzmán’s mother. He could trust her. And she had softened to him – or was it the other way round? He could still feel the touch of her hand on his. But could he exempt anyone from the premise which made him so good at his job and kept him alive? Suspect everyone and no one can betray you. The trouble was, Señora Martinez was different. He never thought someone like her could come into his world. And now she had, he wasn’t sure how to handle it. He needed to spend more time with her. Learn her ways. Perhaps there would be time when this was over – if he survived. But, as ever, work came first. Now, he had to find this Don Bartolomé at the Bar Almeja. If Guzmán could find out who the Dominicans had used as intermediaries in their property-buying, that would at least be a start. There was just one more thing to do before he left. He telephoned the comisaría and asked the sarge to check the name of the owner of the pharmaceutical warehouse on Calle Maestro del Victoria.

  MADRID 1953, BAR ALMEJA, CALLE DE LA RIBERA DE CURTIDORES

  The taxi slowed as it came down the steep cobbled hill. Bar Almeja. The sign was illuminated, but only just. From inside came a faint sound of voices and music. Guzmán got out of the taxi, taking care not to tip the driver who leaned out of his window as the car pulled away: ‘I hope your boyfriend’s waiting, maricón.’

  Guzmán pushed open the door to the bar, stepping into a warm fug of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. It was crowded and heads turned towards the door as he came in. His menacing build and hostile stare indicated he was not there to find company and he noticed how the men’s eyes quickly lowered, how they turned away and attempted to resume conversations or suddenly developed an interest in their newspapers. His presence cowed the room, voices turning to whispers, hands moving away from the hands of others, a sudden desire to maintain distance where previously there had been clandestine proximity. Even the music stopped.

  Guzmán made his way to the bar, the crowd of drinkers opening before him. He placed his foot on the bar rail and leaned forward.

  ‘Señor?’ the barman asked, uncertainly.