‘Look at this.’ Sandy switched on the little light above the figure of the man sprawled over the distorted horse, limping across the desert.
‘I think it’s a Dalí,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’
‘Disturbing,’ Harry said. Most of the objects displayed in the room had an unsettling quality: a woman’s hand in a lace sleeve exquisitely sculpted in silver; a Japanese vase showing a bloody battle scene, the colours extraordinary.
‘You can pick up the most astonishing things in the Rastro,’ Sandy said. ‘Stuff the Reds looted from rich people’s houses during the war. Here, this is what I want to show you.’ He opened a drawer in the desk and lifted out a tray. It was full of fossils, stones with the bones of strange creatures embedded inside.
‘My collection. The best bits, anyway.’ He pointed to a dark stone. ‘Remember that?’
‘God, yes. The ammonite.’
‘I used to enjoy our fossil hunts – like I said the other day, they’re the only good thing I remember about Rookwood.’ He smiled awkwardly. Harry felt oddly touched, suddenly guilty for what he was doing.
‘Now,’ Sandy said. ‘Have a look at this.’ He knelt and lifted the lid from a long, flat wooden box that lay by his desk. Inside was a large, flat white stone.
‘Found that down towards Extremadura a few months ago.’
Embedded in the stone were the bones of a long foot, the three toes ending in curved claws. One claw was much bigger than the other two, the length of a man’s hand.
‘Beautiful, isn’t he? Early Cretaceous, over a hundred million years old.’ His face was alight with genuine wonder; for a moment he looked like a schoolboy again.
‘What species is it?’
‘That’s the interesting bit. I think it may be something new. I’m going to take it to the Natural History Museum when I go home. If it’s still there.’
Sandy looked down at the fossil. ‘By the way, another thing when you see Barbara. I’ve told her I wasn’t friendly with Piper, but I didn’t tell her we didn’t get on at all. Thought it better not to.’
‘I understand.’
‘Thanks.’ Sandy gave an awkward smile. ‘I hated that school so much.’
‘I know. You’ve done OK now, though.’ Harry laughed. ‘Do you remember when you left, you told me you thought you were fated always to be the bad lad, the loser?’
Sandy laughed. ‘Yes. I was letting the bastards get me down. I got a better education on the racetracks. I learned there you can make your own future, be what you want to be.’
‘I sometimes wonder myself.’
‘What?’
‘Oh – whether Rookwood did give you a distorted picture of the world. A complacent one.’
Sandy nodded. ‘Like I said in the cafe, the future belongs to people who can reach out and seize life. We should never let the past hold us back. And there’s no such thing as fate.’
He looked at Harry intently. Harry looked down at the dinosaur’s limb. He noticed the claws were curled, as though the creature had been about to strike when it died.
Chapter Fifteen
HARRY WAS DEBRIEFED by Hillgarth the next morning. He was delighted with his progress. He told him to see Sandy again as soon as possible, try to lead him on to talk about the gold, and push Barbara for information too when he met her.
It was almost lunchtime when he returned to his office. He had been translating a new speech from the governor of Barcelona but found that it had been taken from his desk. He went to see Weaver.
‘Had to give it to Carne,’ Weaver said languidly. ‘Didn’t know how long you’d be with the sneaky beakies, and it needed to be done.’ He sighed. ‘You might as well take the rest of the day off now.’
Harry left the building and walked home. The two other translators, he knew, were annoyed that he kept leaving his work, a frostiness was growing up between them. Blow them, Harry thought. They were affected foreign-office types and he couldn’t be bothered with them. He was becoming more and more conscious, though, of loneliness; apart from Tolhurst, he had no friends at the embassy.
At home he ate a cold lunch and then, not wanting to stay in the flat on his own all afternoon, changed into casual clothes and went out for a walk. The weather was still cold and dank, a faint mist obscuring the end of the street. He stood in the square, wondering where to go, then turned down the street that led into La Latina, with Carabanchel beyond, what Tolhurst had called a bad area that first afternoon. He remembered Bernie’s friends, the Meras. He wondered if they might still be down there somewhere.
As he walked through La Latina he thought about Barbara. He didn’t relish the task before him, asking prying questions about Sandy’s work without seeming too obvious. She had changed out of all recognition. But she wasn’t happy, he could see. He had told Hillgarth that, then felt guilty.
He walked down to the Puerta de Toledo. Beyond lay Carabanchel. He hesitated for a few moments, then crossed the bridge and walked into the warren of tall tenements.
On this damp cold afternoon, the barrio was almost deserted, only a few people walking by. He thought, how Bernie and I must have stood out here in ’31, pale and English in our white shirts. Some of the houses looked about to fall down and were supported by wooden beams; the streets were full of potholes and broken slabs and there was the occasional bombsite, half-demolished walls standing among piles of rubble like broken teeth. Harry flinched as a large rat ran from a bombed house and streaked along the gutter ahead of him.
Then he heard steady footsteps behind. He swore quietly. His spy again, he must have been waiting near the flat. In his preoccupation he had forgotten to watch out for him; bad tradecraft. He backed into the doorway of the nearest tenement. The door was closed and he reached for the handle, slipping into a dark hallway. Water dripped somewhere and there was a strong smell of urine. He pushed the door to, leaving just a crack to peer round.
He saw the pale young man plod past, hunched into his coat. Harry waited a few minutes, then emerged and turned down a side street. The area seemed familiar. A little group of middle-aged men eyed him coldly as he passed the corner where they stood talking. He remembered with a stab of sadness how welcoming the people had been nine years before.
He turned into a square. Two sides had been shelled into rubble, all the houses down, a chaos of broken walls rising from a sea of shattered bricks and sodden rags of bedding. Weeds had grown up between the stones, tall scabrous dark-green things. Square holes in the ground half filled with green scummy water marked where cellars had stood. The square was deserted and the houses that had been left standing looked derelict, their windows all broken.
Harry had never seen destruction on such a scale; the bombsites in London were small by comparison. He stepped closer, looking over the devastation. The square must have been intensively shelled. Every day there was news of more raids on England – did London look like this now?
Then he saw a sign on a corner, Plaza General Blanco, and felt a dreadful lurch in his stomach. This was the square where the Mera family had lived. He looked round again, trying to fix his bearings, and realized that the tenement block where the family had lived was gone, rubble. He stood there, his mouth falling open.
There was a flash of movement and Harry started as a dog jumped on to the remains of a wall and stood looking at him. It was a little tan mongrel with a curly tail; once it had been someone’s pet but now it was half starved, ribs showing through a coat half eaten away by mange.
It barked twice, sharply, and a dozen shapes slipped from behind walls and through the weeds, thin mangy dogs of all shapes and sizes. Some were no bigger than the mongrel, but there were three or four large ones including an Alsatian. They gathered together, watching him. Harry stepped back, remembering what Tolhurst had said on his first day about feral dogs, rabies. He looked round frantically but apart from the dogs there was no sign of life in the misty shattered square. His heart began thumping and a hissing noise sounded in his bad ea
r.
The dogs padded over the rubble towards him, fanning out slowly and carefully, unnervingly quiet. The Alsatian, evidently the leader, stepped ahead and bared its teeth. How easily that lift of the lip could transform a dog into a wild animal.
You mustn’t show fear. That was what they said about dogs. ‘¡Vete!’ he shouted. ‘Go away!’ To his relief they paused, stopping ten yards from him. The Alsatian bared its teeth again.
Harry stepped back, keeping his eyes on them. He almost stumbled on a half brick and flailed his arms to keep his balance. Staring into the Alsatian’s eyes, he bent and picked the half brick up. The dogs tensed.
He hurled it at the Alsatian with a shout. It caught the animal on a scabby haunch and it yelped, twisting away. ‘¡Vete!’ Harry yelled again. For a second the dogs hesitated, then they turned and ran after their leader.
The pack stopped just out of range and stood watching him. Harry’s legs were shaking. He picked up another piece of brick, then slowly retreated. The dogs stayed where they were. He stopped at the far side of the square, his back pressed against a wall. A tattered Republican poster still hung from it, steel-helmeted soldiers leaping into gunfire.
He retraced his steps slowly, keeping against the walls, watching for movement from the bombsite. The dogs had disappeared among the rubbish but he felt their eyes on him and did not turn his back till he was in the street that led to the square. He leaned against a wall, taking deep breaths.
Then he heard the scream, a yell of pure terror. Another followed, even louder. Harry hesitated a moment, then ran back.
The spy was standing at the edge of the bombsite. The dogs had him surrounded, jumping up at him. A big mongrel had him by the shin, worrying it, trying to bring him down as he screamed again. His trouser leg and the dog’s muzzle were red with blood. As Harry watched one of the smaller dogs leapt up and seized the man’s arm, making him stumble. He went down on the ground with another yell. The Alsatian leaped for his neck. The man managed to throw his arm across his throat but the Alsatian seized the arm. The dogs gave low growls of excitement as he almost disappeared under them.
Harry picked up another piece of brick and threw it. It landed among the dogs and they jumped back, baring their teeth and snarling. He ran across the square in a half crouch, picking up stones and pieces of rubble and hurling them with both hands, yelling at the dogs. Again he aimed mostly for the leader, the Alsatian. The dogs hesitated and Harry thought they were about to go for him too but the Alsatian jumped back and ran off. It was limping; the brick he had thrown earlier must have done some damage. The others followed, disappearing once more among the weeds.
The man lay spreadeagled on the broken cobbles, holding his arm over his throat. He stared at Harry open-mouthed, breathing in loud gasps. His trouser leg was torn and covered with blood.
‘Can you get up?’ Harry asked. The man stared up at him, his eyes wide with shock. ‘We’ve got to get away,’ Harry said gently. ‘They could come back, they’ve tasted blood now. Come on, I’ll help you.’
He took the man under the arms and helped him to his feet. He was light, no more than skin and bone. He stood on one leg, put the other to the ground then lifted it again, wincing. The Alsatian reappeared, watching them from the top of a pile of rubble. Harry shouted and it retreated again. He helped the man from the square, glancing back every few seconds. Once they were a couple of streets away he lowered him to the front step of a tenement. A woman looked out of a window at them, then closed her shutters.
‘Thank you,’ the spy said breathlessly. ‘Thank you, señor.’ His leg was still bleeding, there was blood on Harry’s trousers. He thought of rabies – if the dogs had it, the spy would die.
‘I thought I’d shaken you off,’ Harry said.
The spy looked terrified. ‘You know?’ His eyes widened. He was even younger than Harry had thought, little more than a boy. His pale face was quite white now, from shock and fear.
‘I’ve known for a while. I thought I’d got rid of you.’
The man looked at him sadly. ‘I am always losing you. I lost you when you went out this morning. Then later I saw you near your flat, but I lost you again before the square.’ He gave Harry a weak grin. ‘You are better at this than me.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Enrique. Enrique Roque Casas. You speak good Spanish, señor.’
‘I’m a translator. But you know that, I expect.’
He looked shamefaced. ‘You have saved my life. Believe me, señor, I did not want this job, but we need the money. Now I am ashamed.’ He laid his hand on his leg and drew it away covered in blood. His teeth began to chatter.
‘Come on, I’ll help you home. Where do you live?’ The reply was a mumble Harry couldn’t catch, there was a faint hissing in his bad ear. He bent his good ear towards him and asked again.
‘Only a few streets away, near the river. Madre de Dios – I had heard about those dogs, but I forgot. I did not want to have to report I had lost you again. They are not happy with me as it is.’ Enrique was shivering now, shock setting in.
‘Come on,’ Harry said. ‘Take my coat.’ He took it off and wrapped it round the thin shoulders. Supporting him, Harry followed Enrique’s directions through the narrow streets, ignoring the stares of passersby. He thought, this is ridiculous, but he couldn’t just leave the wretched man; he was in shock and that leg needed seeing to.
‘So who do you work for?’ he asked brusquely.
‘The Foreign Ministry, señor. Our block leader got me the job. They said they wanted me to follow a British diplomat, tell them everywhere you went.’
‘I see.’
‘All the diplomats are followed, except the Germans. Even the Italians. They said you were a translator, señor, you would probably only go to the embassy and the good restaurants in town, but I was to record it all.’
‘And they might get something useful. If I went to a brothel, say, I could be blackmailed.’
Enrique nodded. ‘You know how the business works, señor.’
Only too well, Harry thought.
They stopped before a broken-down tenement. ‘This house, señor,’ Enrique said.
Harry pushed the door open and entered a dank gloomy hall. ‘We are on the first floor,’ Enrique said. ‘If you could help me.’
Harry helped him up a flight of stairs. Enrique produced a key and opened a door with a shaking hand. It led into a small, gloomy hall. There was a close, fusty smell. Enrique opened another door and limped into a small salón. Harry followed, taking off his hat. A brasero burned under a table but the room was still chilly. A couple of scuffed wooden chairs were drawn up to a table where a small thin boy of about eight sat, scrawling dark shapes over and over again with a crayon on a copy of Arriba. At the sight of Harry he jumped up and ran to a sagging single bed in one corner. Curtains had been rigged round it but they were open. An old woman lay there, propped up against pillows, thin grey hair spilling round a wrinkled face that had one side twisted into a leering grimace, the eye half shut. The boy jumped on to the bed, wriggling against the old woman’s side. Harry was shocked by the fear and anger in his look.
The old woman heaved herself up on one arm. ‘Enrique, what has happened, who is this?’ She spoke slowly, her voice slurred, and Harry realized that she had had a stroke.
Enrique seemed to regain control of himself. He went over and kissed her cheek, patting the boy’s head. ‘It is all right, Mama. An accident, some dogs, this man helped me home. Please, señor.’ He pulled out one of the rickety wooden chairs and Harry sat down. It creaked under his weight. Enrique limped back to the old woman. He sat on the bed and took her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Mama, it’s all right. Where’s Sofia?’
‘Gone to the shops.’ The old woman leaned over to pat the boy. He had burrowed against her left arm, which was white and shrivelled. He sat up and pointed at Enrique’s leg.
‘¡Sangre!’ he shouted shrilly. ‘¡Sangre!’ Blood!
‘It’s all right, Paquito, it’s only a cut, it’s nothing,’ Enrique said reassuringly. The old woman stroked the child’s head. ‘No es nada, niño. It’s all right, it’s nothing.
She looked at Harry. ‘Foreigner?’ she said in a loud whisper to her son. ‘Is he German?’
‘I’m English, señora.’ She looked at him anxiously, and Harry guessed she knew what her son did for a living. He looked at Enrique’s tattered, blood-spotted trousers.
‘You should get that leg washed.’
The old woman nodded. ‘Water, Enrique, get water.’
‘Sí, Mama.’ Enrique nodded and limped to the door. Harry rose to help but Enrique waved him back.
‘No. No, stay here, señor, please. You have done enough.’ He picked up a bucket from the corner and went out, leaving Harry standing awkwardly. He supposed he could leave but he didn’t want to be rude. He remembered the Alsatian tearing at the spy’s arm, trying to reach his throat, and shivered.
The pair on the bed stared at him. It was hard to read any expression on the old woman’s face, but the boy’s was angry and afraid. Harry smiled awkwardly. He looked round the room. It was clean. If the old woman was here all the time it was probably impossible to avoid that fusty smell. There were dried flowers in vases and cheap pictures of country scenes on the walls, an effort had been made to make the room look cheerful, but Harry saw that the wall under the window was covered with black streaks of fungus where water dripped from a rotten windowsill on to a folded blanket. He looked away. There were photographs too, he saw, pinned to the wall. The old woman pointed at one of them. ‘My wedding,’ she croaked. ‘With my brother.’
Harry nodded politely and got up to look, the child tensing as he crossed the room. The photograph showed a young couple standing in the doorway of a church, a smiling young priest next to them. From the clothes it seemed to have been taken around the same time as his parents’ wedding. The woman smiled with the half of her face that could still move. ‘Dias mas felices,’ she whispered. Happier days.