Winter in Madrid

Slowly, checking in the mirror that she was unobserved, she grasped the key in the ignition. It all depended on the engine catching first time but it was a good car; it had started that morning after a whole night outside. If she reversed fast then Bernie and Harry, leaning against the side of the car, would be pushed away; the officers would be hit, and if the civil with the machine gun gave her time she could swerve and get him too. She looked at the civil. His eyes were fixed on Harry and Bernie, his face still hard and expressionless.

She took a deep breath and quietly turned the key. The engine roared into life and she threw the car into reverse. She felt Bernie and Harry fall away, Bernie shouting ‘No!’ The older officer, the one who had taunted Harry, managed to jump aside but fell over backwards. For a split second, in the mirror, she saw an expression of outraged surprise on the face of the other officer, the colonel from the camp. Then he fell beneath the car; she heard a scream and felt a crunch as the wheels went over him.

The civil stood with an astonished look on his face, then he turned, raising the heavy machine gun to point at the car. But those seconds gave Barbara time to slew round; the rear corner hit the man hard and the sub-machine gun flew into the air, bouncing off the car roof with a bang as the man went down. Barbara hauled the handbrake up and jumped out, pulling the gun from her coat pocket. The engine was still ru

Harry and Bernie were picking themselves up from the grass. Harry looked stu

The civil was pulling himself groggily to his feet, reaching for his pistol. Barbara didn’t stop to think, she just pulled the Mauser up and fired. There was a roar and a flash and a spout of blood from the man’s chest. He pitched over backwards and lay still. She stood, shocked by what she had done. She turned to where Aranda lay under the car. He too was dead; his eyes stared unbelievingly upwards, his mouth open, white teeth bared in a final snarl of rage. A sliver of blood trickled down his chin.

‘Oh God,’ she said.

Maestre sat up groggily; he looked stu

Barbara felt Bernie take her arm, pull the gun from her hand.

He pointed it at Maestre. ‘Get in the car,’ he said urgently over his

shoulder to Barbara. ‘Get Harry in. Can you drive?’

‘Yes.’

‘We haven’t much time,’ he said, ‘the other one will be back.’

Maestre was lying on his back on the grass, supporting himself on his elbows. Barbara watched as Bernie walked slowly towards him, aiming the gun at his head. The general blinked snow out of his eyes. It was coming down faster, settling on his uniform. Near him Sofia’s body was a white mound now.

Barbara couldn’t face hearing another shot, seeing someone else die. ‘Bernie,’ she said. ‘Bernie, don’t kill him.’

Bernie turned to her and she saw Maestre’s hand move to his pocket, quick as a striking snake. ‘Look out!’ she called as the general pulled out a gun. Bernie turned and fired at the same time as Maestre. The general and Bernie each jerked backwards. Barbara saw the side of Maestre’s head fly off, blood and brains spurting out as Bernie tottered and slumped against the side of the car. She heard a wild animal scream and realized it was her own voice.

‘Bernie!’

‘Hell!’ he shouted. ‘Barbara, get me in the car.’ He gritted his teeth with pain. He grasped his thigh. Blood welled through his fingers.

Harry had stood staring at the scene, a confused expression on his face, but now he seemed to come back to life. He looked at Bernie. ‘Oh Christ, no,’ he groaned.

‘Help me get him in,’ Barbara said to him. Harry stepped forward and the two of them managed to manoeuvre Bernie into the back seat.

‘Harry, please drive,’ Barbara said. ‘I need to help him. We have to get away now, before the other civil comes back. Harry, can you do it?’

Harry looked past her, at Sofia. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she? There’s nothing we can do for her.’

‘Yes. Harry, can you do it?’ She took his head between her hands and stared into his eyes. She was terrified the engine would stop again.

He took a deep breath, focused on her. ‘Yes. Yes. I’ll do it.’

BERNIE FELT a heavy throbbing pain in his thigh. He couldn’t move his leg and he could feel blood welling up through his fingers, a lot of blood. Barbara had taken off her coat and was ripping out the heavy lining. In front of him he could see the back of Harry’s head and his hands, steady on the wheel. In the headlights the snow was whirling relentlessly down.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘Back to Madrid, the embassy’s our only hope.’

‘Won’t they put calls out when that civil gets back, try to stop us?’

‘We have to try for Madrid. Don’t talk, darling.’ She was calling him darling, just like the old days. Bernie smiled up at her, then winced as she took a pair of nail scissors and cut his trouser leg open.

‘It’s smashed your leg, Bernie. I think the bullet’s lodged in the bone. I’m going to bandage you up. We’ll get you to a doctor in Madrid. Try to sit up now.’ She began winding the strips of lining round his body with cool, practised hands.

When she had finished he fell back against the seat. He found it hard not to close his eyes. He felt for her hand and squeezed it. He passed out for a while; when he came to Barbara was still holding his hand. The snow was still whirling in the headlights. His leg felt numb. Barbara smiled at him.

‘Remember something for me, Barbara,’ he said. ‘Will you remember something?’

‘You’ll be all right. I promise.’

‘If I’m not. Remember something.’

‘Anything.’

‘The people, the ordinary people, it looks like they’ve lost but one day, one day people won’t be manipulated and hounded by bosses and priests and soldiers any more; one day they will free themselves, live with freedom and dignity as people were meant to.’

‘You’re going to be all right.’

‘Please.’

‘I will. Yes. I will.’

He closed his eyes and slept again.

Chapter Forty-Nine

HARRY DROVE FAST and steadily, like an automaton. He tried to concentrate only on the patch of light created by the car’s headlights. Everything beyond their white glow was pitch black. After a while the snow stopped but it was still difficult, driving along the uneven road in the dark. And all the time there was a feeling like a terrible dark hole in his stomach, as though he had been shot as well. The picture of Sofia’s body raked by bullets would stab into his brain and make him want to cry out but he forced himself to push it aside, concentrate on the road, the road, the road. In the mirror he could see Barbara’s anxious face as she leaned over Bernie. He was asleep or unconscious, but at least the sound of his breathing, heavy and laboured, meant he was still alive.

At every village or town he feared the civiles would appear and flag the car down, but they saw hardly a soul on the whole journey. A little after eleven they reached the outskirts of Madrid and Harry slowed down as he headed through the still white streets towards the embassy.

‘How is he?’ he asked Barbara.

‘Still unconscious,’ she replied quietly. ‘I was worried. He was in a weak condition anyway, and he’s lost a lot of blood.’ She lifted a blood-smeared hand and looked at her watch. ‘You’ve made good time.’

‘Why haven’t we been stopped?’ he asked anxiously.

‘I don’t know. Maybe that civil took a long time to get back.’