Blood Med

by Jason Webster

  He rode into a shaded, covered section and stopped. His heart beat like artillery, his lungs stretched to the limit. He looked up: the planks of wood had fallen in behind him and lay half smashed on the staircase. The fencing was damaged, but had sprung back, not quite to its original position, but from outside it was not obvious that someone had just ridden a motorbike over it.

  He listened. Sirens were still screeching along the street. It was impossible to tell if they were still coming or heading off. He had to move before they found him.

  Picking his phone out of his pocket, he checked the time. Alicia had been held for a couple of hours.

  A red light shone at him from the screen: there was a message. Hitting the button, he read:

  Maldo onto you – order to arrest on sight. Azcárraga.

  He turned the bike to head down the next flight into the tunnel itself.

  Above he heard the pinging of metal as police officers checked the fencing around the hole.

  He made a silent prayer.

  And opened the throttle.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THE MOTORBIKE HEADLIGHT had broken, but enough light ricocheted from the hole above for him to see. He was at the start of the platform, which stretched ahead for another hundred metres or so. Beyond it the tunnel – a black archway set against the shady gloom of the station – beckoned, heading out in the direction of the sea. The tunnel behind him, curling back towards the city centre, barely registered. If his guess was right he needed to carry on straight: that was where he would find them.

  He paused for a second. The tunnel would be dark, almost pitch black, and he had no lights. Yet he would have to move fast. The sound of the engine would be heard ahead of him, warning of his approach. His only hope would be that he would arrive so quickly and unexpectedly that his opponents would be caught off guard.

  There were no rails laid down yet – the surface was smooth. Yet the jump was going to test the shocks on the Kawasaki to the limit. It had already taken a beating. Now he needed it to perform more wonders.

  The engine had slowed to a gentle purr as he geared himself to push on. From above he could make out the sound of voices – policemen in pursuit.

  He took a deep breath, clenched his teeth and twisted the throttle hard. The bike sped down the platform, leaving tyre marks on the concrete surface. Halfway down, before he had picked up too much speed, he swerved to the side and leapt down into the well of the train line. Ahead, the black tunnel opened its jaws to receive him.

  He lowered his head over the handlebars, supporting his weight on his feet in case he should have to throw himself off. There was an inch of water on the ground and the ripples ahead just caught the last photons of light and reflected back, giving him the barest of indications of where he was going. If he could make it far enough to see the next station without crashing into the side walls it would act as a beacon and help him find his way.

  Maps of the new metro line had sprung up around the neighbourhood when it was being built – a few years back, before the money had run out. And he remembered that there was a sharp bend just ahead of where he was now riding. People had commented at the time that it might be a hazard for future trains. No one had imagined motorbikes speeding through the tunnel, but the danger was the same. He slowed down, stretching his left hand out to see if he could feel the walls curling round. It had suddenly become totally dark – a patch with no light. He pulled off his helmet and threw it down – he needed all his senses operating fully to get through this.

  A rough stone edge took the skin off the end of his middle finger and he pulled his hand back, leaning to the right as his eyes strained at the ground below. If he swung too far over he was in danger of crashing into the other side. He slowed the bike down even more, inching along. He could hear the tyres slicing through the water. If he could make it around the bend, he seemed to remember that there would be a long straight ahead.

  Quien busca, halla, he thought. Hilario’s voice seemed to sound in his ears: He who seeks, finds.

  The full darkness continued, metre after metre. He had not expected to find anyone at the station he had just left: it was too open, too exposed. A secret underground hideaway – a ‘bunker’ – would be in a more discreet location. Not too far out – that would make it close to where the line rose overground. But not too central either. There were three stations where he thought he had a chance of finding it. The first was not far away, just around this interminable bend. Yet if they were there, by slowing down so much he had almost certainly lost his advantage: the sound of the motorbike had been echoing for several minutes by this point.

  The faintest of glimmers on the water ahead was followed by another and then another. Gently, he turned the throttle and pushed forwards. The final curve of the bend came into sight and ahead lay a bright ribbon of shimmering water pointing straight towards the next station, and the pool of half-light glowing over its platform.

  The bike growled as he fired the engine and sped on.

  He stood up as he cruised past. There was no sign of life at the station: no litter, no tread marks in the cement dust, no disturbance in what looked exactly like an abandoned building site. No one was here: he would press on.

  Ahead, the light of the next station was the palest of blotches at the end of a long black hole. The path was straight: nothing could slow him down. Tears squeezed at the corners of his eyes as he pushed the bike as fast as it could go.

  He saw movement ahead: figures bobbing in the shadows. Up at the next platform he had been heard and people there were looking to see what the noise was, what was approaching them out of the darkness.

  His guess was correct – they were down here: he knew it in his blood. But if they had heard him, then so had Alicia – if she was still alive. He hoped that the sound of him coming might give her strength.

  The platform sped quickly into view, growing larger by the second, and the tiny shadows became people with arms and legs. Some were starting to run, others stayed where they were, waiting to be sure of what was coming towards them. As he drew closer, most of them pulled away until only one remained. Something about his silhouette, about the shape of his head, was familiar. Pascual had mentioned his bald scalp, the narrowing towards the top. The same man Cámara had seen that night outside the chemist’s.

  It was Julio.

  It was not smooth, nor did it reach the bottom of the tunnel floor, but there was a ramp leading up to the platform. Above it, still trying to make out who or what was coming towards him from the dark, Julio stood, holding on to a metal bar set in the wall and leaning out to get a better look. Cámara sped towards the ramp, then opened out the throttle as far as it would go and threw his weight back, trying to pull up the front wheel. But he was already going too fast. The bike caught on the bottom lip of the ramp and somersaulted over him with the momentum. He let go of the handlebars and as his body was hurled off the machine he curled himself into a ball, pulling his arms over his chest as tightly as he could.

  The breath was kicked out of him as he crashed into something. It was hard, but he was lucky: whatever it was bent and crumbled under his weight and velocity, absorbing his fall. He had the impression of blacking out for a second – an empty gap like a missing frame from a film reel. Then he opened his eyes, catching his breath, trying to steady himself as bright star-like flashes clouded his vision. Still lying on the ground, he felt his limbs, bending and stretching them. Miraculously, everything worked.

  He lifted his head and remembered what had happened, where he was. The bike had landed on the platform several metres ahead of him, skidding along until it crashed into a wall, where the engine had died.

  Lying next to him, however, was the figure of a man lying prostrate, practically unconscious. And he realised what had broken his fall so efficiently: Julio.

  He leapt over and crouched over him. Julio was still alive but was badly winded. His eyes bulged as he struggled for breath. Cámara looked across and saw the tatto
o on his forearm – a shield in the Spanish colours with a black double-headed axe.

  With one hand he gripped Julio’s throat, reaching with the other for his pistol and placing it at his temple.

  ‘Where’s Alicia?’ he asked. ‘The journalist. Tell me now.’

  Julio’s eyes rolled as he coughed back to wakefulness. He stared at Cámara, breathing hard, the veins around his temples bulging.

  And he gave nothing away, no quick look to the side, no smile as he realised what was about to happen.

  The punch struck Cámara at the back of his head, just behind his ear. He was unconscious before his body fell on top of Julio’s.

  ‘Get this cunt off me,’ Julio told his rescuers.

  ‘And tie him up. We’ll finish him off after we’ve done with her.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  THE MUFFLED SOUND of a generator rumbling from somewhere nearby stirred him. He groaned, rolling his head and forcing his eyes open as he tried to shake himself fully awake. His hands were tied behind his back and the cord was attached to a drainpipe running down the wall. A heavy pulse beat at the backs of his eyes. One. Two. One. Two.

  He felt an urge to be sick, and swallowed hard to keep it down, but the convulsions in his stomach were too strong. He jerked to the side and the vomit landed with a thick splatter on the floor beside him. He licked his lips clean and tried to clear the stinging acid from the back of his throat. After a couple of moments he felt lighter, stronger.

  It was a small room, some kind of storage area. A pale bulb hung from the ceiling casting a cold blue light. Beside him, just within reach of his feet, was a tower of metal shelving supporting cardboard boxes. Wooden crates were stacked high against a far wall while in the centre of the room stood an island of filing cabinets back to back.

  Above his head hung a Spanish flag. He glanced up and saw that it bore the Francoist black eagle at the centre. Over the doorway in the far left corner hung a picture of the Caudillo in full military uniform.

  The LOP had also discovered the secret underground world of the unused metro line, as he had guessed. This was the ‘bunker’, but it was no refuge for the homeless and hungry.

  It was clean and felt overly regimented. Behind the stench of his vomit there was a heavy odour of bleach – the same smell that had struck him at the gym.

  His thoughts were cut short by the sound of groaning from behind the door. Alicia’s voice was dulled by pain: with a cold, leaden certainty he knew that she had been suffering for a long time already.

  He swallowed again and pulled hard at his bonds. But the cord held tight: the piping was firmly cemented into the wall. Brute force was not going to get him out of there.

  He had got Alicia into this; he had asked her to get involved, to see what she could discover about Amy. And he had placed her at risk. It was clear that Julio and his thugs had been keeping tabs on Amy; it was only to be expected that they would latch on to anyone coming after them. And what they had done to their earlier victims, now they were about to do to Alicia, and perhaps others.

  Except that he was there. He was securely tied up, but he had to do something – anything – to throw things off their present course. By the faintness of her screams he knew that Alicia had already been suffering for a long time.

  And then he realised that whoever was in there in the next room with her was not talking to her; no questions were being asked. This was not torture designed to extract information: the pain being inflicted on her was being done purely for pleasure. Another victim, another woman, on whom to carry out their fantasies.

  He bit his tongue hard as he forced himself not to call out. And the taste of blood filled his mouth.

  These men would not act alone, needing the sadism of the group to carry them forward. Listening more carefully, struggling to ignore Alicia for a moment, he could make out the sound of footsteps and laughter. There were at least two, possibly three men in there. If he could just take out one of them. But how?

  He stretched out: his right foot fitted neatly around the nearest leg of the metal shelves. He pushed hard and they scraped along the floor, making a deafening sound. From the next room came male voices: they had heard.

  With another flick, he pushed at the shelves even harder, trying to flip them over. They started to rock. Stretching his leg as far as it would go, he gave it a final shove and it came crashing to the floor.

  The response was almost immediate. The handle was pulled from the other side and the door was flung open.

  ‘I told you to tie him up properly,’ came a voice. Julio stayed in the next room, but one of his thugs came bursting in. Through the doorway Cámara could see smoke and the lower part of Alicia’s legs, tied with black straps to a table. Small red circular marks dotted her skin – and he knew immediately that they had been using her to put out their cigarettes.

  The man now walking towards Cámara wore a tight white T-shirt, showing off inflated upper-body muscles. He was perhaps one of the foursome who had been present at the chemist’s that night; Cámara could not be certain. But underneath the cladding was a young man with a small frame. And the concentration on building upper-body strength meant that he was top heavy.

  Cámara flicked his legs round as the man stepped towards him, and with a similar flipping motion to before, brought his hulking weight down. Surprised and unbalanced, the man fell on top of him. Cámara pulled him closer to his face by hauling him up with his knees and before the man could react he had clenched his jaws over his throat, squeezing hard at his windpipe like a big cat choking the life out of his prey.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  Julio came running in, tripping over the scattered boxes. Cámara eyed him, his teeth sinking deeper into the thug’s neck. The young man was flailing about, trying to struggle free, but Cámara was ignoring his punches and kicks, refusing to let go.

  ‘I should have shot you straight away,’ Julio said.

  He pulled out a pistol from the small of his back.

  ‘Wait!’

  A deeper voice called from inside the other room.

  ‘Not now, Julio.’

  The thug trapped by Cámara’s mouth was beginning to squeal.

  ‘Free José Antonio and bring them both in here,’ the voice said. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  After Julio’s third punch against the side of his head, Cámara’s jaws loosened their grip and José Antonio pulled away. The young man’s neck was bleeding where the skin was broken and he struggled to breathe for a few moments.

  ‘Fucker.’ Julio spat at him.

  José Antonio launched a frustrated foot at Cámara, connecting hard with his lower ribs.

  ‘Enough,’ Julio said. ‘Help me untie him. You fucked this up, now sort it out.’

  After fumbling behind Cámara’s back, José Antonio gave up on the knot and pulled out a knife to cut the cord to the pipe. Cámara’s hands were still secured as he was lifted on to his feet and led into the next room.

  It was larger than the storeroom. Cámara guessed that they were in the ticket area of the station – a passageway led off in the direction of the main tunnel. The walls and floor were painted in glossy, thick white paint, reflecting the light of half a dozen bulbs suspended from the low ceiling.

  In the centre, lying on what looked like an operating table, was Alicia. Except for a pair of knickers and the straps holding down her arms and legs, she was naked. So many tears had dried around her eyes that a salty residue clung around her eyelashes. He dared not count the burn marks on her skin.

  ‘Max?’

  She managed to lift her head enough to catch sight of him as they dragged him in and threw him against the opposite wall. His legs gave way and he slumped to the floor, just keeping his back upright.

  She called his name again.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’ll be all right.’

  He heard sniggering. Julio and José Antonio were standing over him, poised to strike lest he should try something. José Anto
nio was still clutching at his neck, trying to stem the bleeding. But behind Alicia stood two other men: one, from his appearance, was another of Julio’s henchmen, wearing the uniform stretch T-shirt and expression of mindless anger. Next to him, however, was someone who Cámara had seen only two days before on television – at Pepe’s bar round the corner from the Jefatura.

  ‘I wanted you to see this,’ Francisco Soler said, nodding at Alicia’s tortured body in front of him.

  ‘So far the loudest screams come from the ones on her inner thighs, near the top. We’re about to open a new packet of cigarettes and work our way to more sensitive areas.’

  He coughed to the side, his hand rising to his mouth with a touch of theatricality.

  ‘I hate the smoke, and the ventilation down here isn’t what you would want.’

  ‘What do you—?’

  Cámara’s attempt to speak was cut short by José Antonio’s foot smashing into his face.

  ‘You don’t interrupt the leader!’ José Antonio screamed.

  Two streams of warm blood cascaded from Cámara’s nostrils, over his lips, and dripped on to his chest from the point of his chin.

  José Antonio prepared to kick him again.

  ‘That’s enough.’

  On Soler’s command he stopped and lowered his foot.

  ‘The chief inspector’s arrival has changed things,’ Soler said. ‘Oh, yes,’ he added, ‘we know exactly who you are.’

  Alicia had started crying again, tears falling down her temples and into the matting of her hair.

  ‘Spare her the soft words,’ said Soler. ‘Everything is not all right. Nor will it be.’

  He walked round from the other side of the table and peered down at Cámara.

  ‘I shall look away,’ he said. ‘The sight of death revolts me. But I want to seal this image in my mind for ever, like a photograph.’

  He turned to the second thug behind the table.

  ‘Gonzalo. Unstrap her,’ he said.

  Julio looked at him.