Blood Wedding (23 page)

‘Chicos, chicos.
I’m exhausted. I have to go to bed. You two can carry on if you want.’

Max looked at his watch.
‘Dios!
Is it that late? No, I have to go. A lot to do tomorrow.’ He stood up, his legs a little wobbly.

‘I’ll get some strong black coffee,’ said Juan. ‘Still seeing that bird you went to the flamenco with the other night?’

‘Oh, that. No, came to nothing.’

‘If you want any advice, come to me.’

‘You’d be the last person I’d ask,’ said Max laughing, and punched Juan gently in the ribs. Soon they were scuffling round the kitchen.

‘Boys, boys,’ yelled Paula from the landing. ‘Grow up. You’ll knock something over. Max, I’ll get you the envelope.’

Juan raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘Nothing to do with this Antonio nonsense, I hope?’

‘No. Nothing like that. Just a little errand Max has promised to do for me in Granada.’

‘Yah, boo.
Abuela’s
little favourite,’ grinned Juan. ‘Here. Have a mint, Max. Clean your mouth.’ Juan reached into his pocket, and gave Max a mint, wrapped in a silver paper.

‘Gracias,’
said Max, and put it in his pocket. ‘Must go now.’

A drop of rain fell in the night, not enough for the parched earth, but enough to create the illusion of a sparkling, fresh morning. The bougainvillea glistened with dew and the few raindrops. Max awoke with a slight headache. He took a paracetamol, and made some filter coffee. There was no bread in the
cortijo,
but he had some oatcakes and a jar of Paula’s home-made jam. He felt anxious to get back to Granada, so best start early. González was already in his office when he arrived.

‘Hola,
Max. You’re early. The lawyer phoned. Won’t be here until noon. I’ve called a review meeting for five. Hope that’s okay with you?’

So . . . a conspiracy to keep him away from Granada.

‘I’ll go and have some breakfast, then. If you need me I’ll be at Pepe’s having a coffee. Oh – do you have a scanner here?’

‘Sure. In the secretary’s office.’

Max called in at the newsagent’s, full of magazines and porno DVDs, but with all the English papers, more even than in Granada, reflecting the flood of English incomers, looking for who knew what in Diva. Diva was not exactly a picture postcard village. Max looked at the headlines, and decided to buy the
Indie.
Bit didactic, but it took a firm antiwar stance. More than you could say for the
Guardian.
The
Independent
had a little piece on the terrorist plot in Granada. Even they were reporting the ‘official leaks’ as if they were proven facts.

After a lengthy breakfast, Max returned to the police station. He scanned the two photos, saved them on the computer and emailed them to Paula. She had been a pretty girl. That done, he walked along the corridor to Anita Guevarra’s office, knocked and waited.

‘Come in,’ she called out in a low and pleasant voice. She smiled as Max entered. ‘You seem to be having lots of adventures. Is it all true, what the press are saying?’

‘We don’t know yet. Could be,’ was his non-committal reply.

Anita had nothing new to report on the Leila case. ‘There seems to be a lot of jealousy among the women in the community, hints of this and that, but no real leads,’ she said.

Max smiled at her as he left. Should he invite her out? No rumours of any boyfriend, so she might be available. Another time maybe.

The lawyer arrived at twelve. He had come up from the coast. Max was surprised a scruff like Jim could afford him. Rich relatives somewhere in the background. He was proved right the minute Jim opened his mouth – public school, an expensive one. After two hours, Max was convinced Jim was as baffled about Leila’s death as he was. No, he hadn’t screwed her. Offered to, but she had refused. He had seen her around, and fancied her of course. What guy didn’t? That evening was the first time he had talked to her. She was easy to talk to, clearly needed cheering up, seemed a bit down at first, but then really livened up. They had talked about this and that: the war, her thesis, her dad, his music. Then the next day he had driven her back to Diva, dropped her off, saw friends at Figorrones, then went along the coast road to Almeria and on to the beaches at El Cabo del Gato to chill out. Just like that.

Nice life, thought Max. Take off when you feel like it. Just disappear for days when you feel like it, stretch out in a cove and watch the waves break over the rocks. Beach almost to yourself, naked nymphs dancing in the waves. Lucky sod.

‘Any evidence to prove where you were?’ he finally asked.

‘Shedloads. As I told that charmingly polite police officer, González, from about three to five – I was with Nick and Emily in Figorrones and we had a few beers in the Bar Río Tinto. There’s a whole bar that can vouch for that. I stopped at the Cadiar petrol station to fill up at about seven – and I paid by credit card there. Then I drove down to Cabo, and stayed around there in the van. I managed to get the phone number of this chick from Barcelona. Always useful to have a floor to crash out on – and with luck even a bed.’

‘Did González check up on this?’

‘Yes. I gave him my friends’ details so he could get statements. Never heard any more about it.’

‘How did Leila’s mobile end up in your van?’

‘She must have dropped it. She slept the night in the van – alone – and then I gave her a lift back into Diva. It had fallen between the seat and the door so I never saw it. To be honest, given the state of the van I wouldn’t see anything in it.’

‘Hmm. Anything else you can remember about Leila?’

‘Not really. The only strange thing,’ Jim replied, ‘was she pointed out a hollow olive tree as I drove her back to Diva. Said that was where El Gato was shot in 1947. Something to do with her thesis, I think.’

‘El Gato?’

Max pushed the drug link. Familiar tale. Jim would drive over now and again to Morocco, spend a week or two in the Rif Mountains, and then drive back. Okay . . . just small-time smuggling. And with a good lawyer, Jim would get away with a fine and an admonishment. Case closed.

‘Well, what do you think?’ said González when the Diva team reassembled at five.

‘Did you check up on his alibi?’ asked Max.

‘We did. Seems to be as he claims.’

‘Then probably nothing to do with him,’ snapped Max. ‘Probably didn’t even screw her.’

They went through the evidence carefully.

‘Okay,’ concluded González. ‘Must be the Paki kid then. But we’ll press for drugs charges on the hippy. Get his daddy to pay the fine, and let him cool his heels in prison for a few days. Spoilt brat. If I had my way I’d make him do five years’ hard labour. Probably never worked in his fucking life.’

‘Was there anything on Leila’s mobile – the one found in his van?’

‘León went through it. He made a note of the numbers she had phoned. But nobody and nothing important.’

It was exactly ten at night when Max got back to his flat in Granada. A sliver of pale moon hung over the Alhambra. It was exactly ten at night when the police dragged Hassan Khan into the cellblock. Moonlight filtered into his cell.

Yo era.
Yo fui.
Pero no soy.
Yo era . . .

I was.
I had been.
But not I am.
I was . . .

Frederico García Lorca,
Lunes, miercoles viernes

(
Monday, Wednesday, Friday
)

Hassan shivered. He felt the panic begin to crush him like a boa constrictor. The panic rose, subsided, rose, subsided. Sleep, above all sleep. For almost two days they had pounded him: voices harsh, relentless, accusing, merciless.

‘What are you planning? Where are you putting the bomb? Were you going to blow yourself up? Where did you meet your ETA contacts? Give me names.’

The questions ebbed and flowed, but never ended. Whenever his eyelids began to shut they threw buckets of cold water over him. And the questions began again.

Hassan remembered one man in particular: tall, swarthy, a pencil moustache, his big belly protruding over his belt. He reminded Hassan of a butcher back in Leeds. It was this man who kept referring to his mother.

‘Do you know where she is? I can help you contact her. Would you like me to contact her? All you need to do, Hassan, is tell me what was planned. Just whisper it to me if you want. Your friends will never know. You love your mother, don’t you? You can see her again soon if you just tell me what you were planning. You love your mother, don’t you? Soon she could be hugging you, just like she did when you were a child. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

Hassan stammered, ‘I don’t know what you’re t—talking about. I really don’t know. There’s no b—bomb. Nothing is p—planned. I don’t know what you’re t—talking about. Why am I being p—punished?’

The butcher’s tone would then change.

‘Your mother is nothing but a whore. She left for another man. She’s never made contact since because she doesn’t give a fuck about you. Just tell me what you were planning, then you can sleep.’

Then back again to the questions. On and on went the questions. When they left the cell, the lights were turned on full, Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born in the USA’, playing at full blast. Hassan eventually fell to the floor in sheer exhaustion. Then the butcher returned, kicking him on his cracked rib, laughing.

‘Nobody will know. Just some problems with its healing, that’s all.’

A couple of times Hassan passed out with the pain. More cold water. And then again the questions, again and again.

Eventually there was a pause. Nobody came. The lights were turned off. The music stopped. Nothing. The silence was as bad as the endless questions. He sat in the empty cell, waiting, fearful. Nothing happened. It was so quiet. He could hear the beating of his heart. The silence became more and more oppressive. The waves of silence echoed in his head. It was then that he began to panic again. Hour after hour he could feel the panic. The silence grew louder.

‘Allah be praised. Allah the merciful. What have I done to deserve this?’

Hassan crawled to the corner of the room, and curled, foetus-like, into a ball. Finally they came. The butcher entered first, alone.

‘This is your last chance, Hassan. Tell me what was planned, and you can go and wash. You want to wash, don’t you? There’s a bed waiting. You want to sleep, don’t you? You can phone your mother. You want to speak to her, don’t you? Just tell me. Whisper it to the walls. Allah will understand.’

Hassan cried, ‘I don’t know.’

‘If you don’t whisper it now, I can no longer protect you. You will go somewhere where Allah can’t protect you. You will wish you had never been born. Do you know what that means, Hassan? Just whisper the truth to the walls, Hassan. Then this can all be over. Just whisper, Hassan. Just whisper.’

‘B—but there’s nothing t—to whisper. Nothing.’

‘Then nothing you will be.’

The butcher left, and returned with three men. The butcher stood over the cowering Hassan. He kicked him in the ribs again.

‘To make sure you don’t forget me.’

Two of the men lifted Hassan to his feet, and the third snapped handcuffs over his wrists. They dragged him out of the cell, and along the corridor to a car park, and into a waiting car. It was dark outside with a pale sliver of moon hovering over the heated darkness. Panic rose, subsided, rose, subsided. Welts swelled up under the cuffs. The car stopped. Hassan was dragged out, through a door, along a corridor, down steps, and into a bright, flickering light. Figures in uniform appeared. Hassan shuffled after them. Unable to focus, all he could see was the uniform. He needed to wash, wash away all the dirt, all these hands.

‘Allah. Allah,’ he intoned.

Then the uniform suddenly stopped.

‘This is your cell, pretty boy. We’ll see how a pretty boy like you gets on here. A pretty boy like this should get on just fine, shouldn’t he, Jesús?’

‘Just fine,’ laughed Jesús.

The laugh pierced Hassan’s eyes. He hardly noticed when they took off the handcuffs. He hardly felt being pushed into the cell.

Jesús laughed again.

‘No need to lock the cell door here, you know. You’re going nowhere. The Qur’an won’t help you in here. Nobody can help you in here. Call if you want to confess.’

Hassan started to sob. He needed to wash away the hands. All those hands constantly touching him. He crawled to the corner, drew his knees up to his chin, and tried to melt into the wall.

‘Just whisper it to the wall, Hassan. Whisper it to the wall.’

There was no light in the cell, only a flicker of the pale moon. All around him were noises: rough voices, loud farts, shouts, moaning.

‘Check the cells,’ a loud voice commanded. Batons rang against steel along the corridor.

‘You have a new guest, a real pretty Muslim boy. He’ll need a proper welcome. You should introduce yourselves. We’ve no need to lock his door. He’s going nowhere. You have my permission to give him a welcome worthy of a king.’

Again the harsh laugh.

For the first time Hassan noticed the smell of urine, sweet and pungent. His eyes began to focus. The bucket in the corner, the wooden bed, the dark grey blanket, the Formica-top table. The shivering wouldn’t stop. Cold. Cold. Wash. Wash. Pray. Pray.

‘Only Allah can save me from the infidels. I must pray.’

His mother’s face appeared. ‘Hassan, I have to leave you now. Always remember, I always loved you, and always will.’

‘Just whisper it to the wall, Hassan. Whisper it to the wall.’

There was silence. Then a voice called out.

‘Hey. Pretty boy. I bet you’ve got a nice little arse. You a
maricón?
No matter. That little arse of yours needs a real welcome. Doesn’t it, lads.’

There was laughter. ‘A real welcome,’ echoed round the corridor.

Hassan, whisper it to the wall. Melt into the wall. Hassan curled into the wall. Exhaustion. Sleep.

At exactly two in the morning they came. There was no noise. They entered the cell silently. Dark presences. Breathing.

Hassan woke. They lifted him to his feet. They dragged him to the bed. They stripped him naked. Hassan screamed with the first penetration. Whisper it to the wall, Hassan.