Killing Widows
Copyright © 2018 Clive Birch
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: books@troubador.co.uk
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks
ISBN 9781789019032
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Original artwork by the author
For my grandchildren; may they never witness such horrors.
Contents
The Sniper
The Beach
The Wedding in Burgos
The Schoolmaster
The Lecture
Salamanca
The Road to Béjar
Mateo Díaz
Pastora and Sebastián
Sebastián Brings Bad News
The Troops Muster
The Watchers
The Attack
The Soldier and the Priest
The End of Innocence
Francisca
Fall from Grace
Juana and Rodrigo
In the Church
Republican Militia
The Ambush
Care Home
The Venta
The Lorry
Whispers in the Dark
Francisca Taken
Abandoned by God
Journey with No Return
The End
Mano’s Remorse
Jorge goes Home
Burial Ground
Farewell Béjar
Amending
Acknowledgements
1
The Sniper
Spring 1937
His friend slipped away already a ghost and Miguel hid his eyes conceding that all he held dear was lost. It was taken in the bitterness of the last few days and worse, that sweet girl who loved him never would be found amongst the tumbled stones of her burning village. Now the implacable Rodrigo without a word and with barely a backward glance slipped away mute in the chaos of surging emotions. But the unspoken exchange rearmed the other powerfully; they had work to do.
He dropped to his knees, lowered himself cautiously onto the uncompromising stony surface and by pressing his elbows into the dew-dampened ground formed a stable base from which to support the heavy rifle. He lifted his upper chest and shoulders to look forwards towards the distant road. In the process of settling himself, in preparation for the action to come, he scuffed the toes of his old army boots making indentations in the hard earth to further secure his firing position. It was then that he picked up the almost imperceptible sound of the still distant advancing enemy as it drifted in on the light wind. He smiled a bittersweet smile. Incongruous as it seemed, considering the circumstances, he looked in wonder at the pure beauty of his surroundings; there was a strange unreality to this place of pastoral innocence as the sun filtered through the morning mist. Soft green undulating meadows gave way to deciduous forest as it climbed the steepening hillsides. It was rich in a variety of the finest trees, integrated and interdependent displaying differences by shape, colour, light and shade with enviable harmony. Yet, as did Eris who lurked in the Olympian shadows waiting to spoil the day, the Peña de Francia hunched malevolently within the obscured distance.
His mind drifted back to just a few moments ago as they parted; a touching separation of ways underlined by an undeniable sense of finality. It was awkward and more emotional than on other occasions both knowing chances of survival were slim. He watched with sad stillness as Rodrigo scuttled down the exposed hillside moving from rock to rock with a skill they had developed over the months they had been brothers in arms.
He could still hear the children wailing, a haunting and depressing sound for which he could do nothing to help. He willed Rodrigo to send them on their way with undeniable need for urgency and God’s guidance to a place of safety before the battle started. Miguel laughed bitterly; some battle this will be! Me against the hundreds carried in stolen lorries, the variety of which a witness to livelihoods destroyed and many an owner lying cold and yet undiscovered in some distant ditch. Anger iced his blood and cleared his mind of everything except the need to kill.
The Moroccan mercenaries aided cruelly by Spanish Legionnaires had cut through the ranks of the Republicans with contemptuous ease and carried with them a justifiable air of invincibility. Onward they continued unconcerned that the midge might bite again. It would be nothing more than an inconvenient, irritating pause; an incident to be swatted away as they made their way north to steal from the impoverished, spill the blood of the brave and claim rape as their reward. He watched with growing agitation as the convoy trundled slowly along still some distance away, travelling as it did at an incautious, idling pace.
Miguel was thankful for the extra time awarded to Rodrigo as he would need every minute, comforting and advising the distressed refugees on the best action to keep them and their children safe, yet the soldier in him was annoyed with the apparently dawdling convoy. There should be greater caution especially as they escorted senior officers into the next theatre of war. Where are the outriders? he asked himself. Even men on the small Patria motorbikes would do, emulating their supporting Fascist mentors as they do on BMWs according to the manual of best practice, “Motorised Patrols subsection, defensive action”. Miguel chuckled to himself over his ridiculous thoughts; a parody of Nazi German behaviour. But here, at this very moment, there should be at the very least well-armed Spanish Nationalist soldiers in light-armoured vehicles. However, their mistake was to his advantage; maybe God was on his side after all. Miguel cast that vain hope aside as the Nationalists had already declared they were fighting for a Christian Spain. Odd how they get their centuries-old enemies, Moroccan Muslims, to do the work of our Christian God.
The women were now quiet, sent by Rodrigo on their way he assumed. His mind switched back to the job in hand as the lead car approached the first marker. Not far ahead of the advancing convoy was the second marker, with the distance from the firing position calculated earlier by Miguel. This was a good marker easily picked out under pressure, a combination of a distinctly rounded boulder and a solitary olive tree known now to be 200 metres from the ambush position and the sights on the rifle had been set to match the distance.
He kissed the stock of his Remington M1871, an old long-barrelled, bolt-actioned, single-shot rifle; ancient it might be, but it had a great reputation for accuracy. He had used his sergeant’s rank when in the army to lay claim to it, much to the objection of the then present owner and it had never left Miguel’s side to this day. It was not the reputation as a sniper’s rifle that attracted Sergeant Miguel but the beautiful replacement walnut stock skilfully crafted by some caring technician. It was so different from the crudely formed stocks of many of the repaired rifles thrust upon the mainland Republican soldiers o
f lowly rank. Miguel’s acquisition had received special treatment with the butt being formed from some Walnut burr rich in swirling patterns of chestnut brown against the paler, more closely grained wood. It was the pattern of expensive bedroom furniture found only in the houses of the bourgeoisie and Miguel cherished it as would the lady in silk. He caressed it once again as if it was that lady and chuckled to himself.
He pulled the butt comfortably into his shoulder and with his cheek against the stock he nestled into his old friend checking the alignment of the sights onto the rounded boulder.
He watched them close in on the prearranged position and timed his breathing perfectly. In, now out slowly, in again and hold. Everything was rock solid as he squeezed the trigger. His concentration was so intense he did not register the sharp sound of the shot; he was far too busy reloading and, in his imagination, tracing the fall of the bullet. He knew he had struck his target as the windscreen distorted. The big car turned sharply left, leaped the drainage ditch and with no perceptible loss of speed ploughed up the adjacent bank towards the trees violently throwing the occupants about, leaving the driver broken against the steering wheel. Aware that the troop-carrying lorries were taking evasive action he did not allow his concentration to waver; he would not be distracted from the task in hand. Smoke billowed up from beneath the bonnet and Miguel caught the first flickerings of flames as the right-hand front door opened cautiously. A lanky young officer emerged keeping as much of the door as possible as cover against the sniper’s art. He leant across to open the rear door then bravely used his body to give cover to the senior officer now being forced from his place of safety by the denser billowing smoke. Miguel shot the young man between the shoulder blades; the impact threw him against the opening door and with arms outstretched as if expecting an embrace, he twisted away and fell, exposing the older man who turned and foolishly tried to re-enter the burning car. He was driven back by the scorching heat and forced to turn again to hobble away as Moroccan mercenaries rapidly fired towards the sniper’s position. Miguel felt, more than heard, the bullets hiss and buzz about him too close for comfort but he would not move until the job was done. The old man hunched within his greatcoat and holding firmly onto his braided hat shuffled away to find shelter. Miguel fired, and the round struck the officer high on the shoulder turning him so that he peered in grotesque surprise up the hill towards his assassin; the final shot slapped him in the throat and with blood-swamped hands hopelessly holding what little remained, the old man folded towards the ground.
Miguel knew he had been hit by at least one if not two rounds; glancing blows he vainly hoped, knowing the crushing hammer blows told a different tale leaving parts of his body thankfully numb. Now he must defend himself with as much vigour as possible to keep the beasts at bay. Rodrigo would still need time and certainly the women and children did as they strove to find a place to hide. Miguel hoped that his friend would stay where he was and not try to return to the hill. This was no place for an unarmed man.
Putting all personal discomfort out of mind he watched with soldiers’ eyes the mercenaries approaching on two fronts; unsurprised, he gave credit to the advancing rebels. Very sensible, he thought. It made it difficult for him, constantly having to change his direction of fire, which would become more demanding as he felt the effects of his wounds. The dulling numbness gave way to mind-searing pain; his wounds were worse than he had at first hoped.
The advancing soldiers knew they had no effective opposition; the enemy was outnumbered so they were not going to take unnecessary risks despite their bellyaching officers shouting at them from the rear. They still wanted their squad to be the first to over-run the enemy because you never knew what little treasures there would be for the taking.
Unknown to Miguel a third group was advancing from the rear and although faced with a difficult climb, they may well have had the best chance of reaching him first. Their eager colleagues to the front knew this so they made haste with caution.
Miguel fired as quickly as possible switching from the section on his right to those on the left as they sprinted forwards a few more metres under the covering fire of their colleagues. They were eating up the ground and as he swung his rifle to the left once more, a bullet struck the treasured Walnut stock splintering it and driving the fragments into Miguel’s cheekbone; he saw stars, was stunned and seemed to lose his presence of mind as he pushed himself up from his prone position. In that microsecond, he felt his only hope lay in escape by launching himself over the sheer rocky drop to his rear. Within that same second a bullet struck his knee collapsing him awkwardly to the ground. Oh God, he thought, I’m done for. The Moroccans advanced rapidly with knives drawn only to pull up in surprise. The helpless, heavily wounded enemy was a solitary being, a brave man no doubt and such courage gives greater value to trophies to be taken. They smiled dark smiles. Know you how treasured are the bits cut from the fiercest bull in the ring?
Miguel did not register his head being pulled forwards as sharp knives removed his ears, but the bayonet pressed through his nose with such callousness was all too much.
He was lifted awkwardly. Shards of pain like spear thrusts coursed through the limped flesh as dark hands moved to discharge his mortality into the space beyond the rock. Airborne his soul slipped its Earthly ties and with fleeting care was carried by the breeze; spirited away like spiralling dust on a still warm day but with certainty his soul would seek the girl with laughing eyes. The power of this final thought was undeniable. Estrella would be waiting in the enveloping mist that was the final dream. God help us, why did this begin?
2
The Beach
August 2009
The day started much as any other day when on holiday in the Landes, the sun already creeping towards its zenith and Natascha late for breakfast. She had been coming here ever since she was born and over twenty years later here she was again. It was almost a ritual but more probably the result of an assumption that this is where the extended family would join up and share with each other the events of their year. It was a place where they would eat, drink, make merry, play games, compete, and generally annoy each other. As usual there was the scramble for accommodation, some claiming rooms in the house, others having to make do with the caravan or tents they brought for themselves. Natascha quite enjoyed camping on the grass under the great pine trees relishing most of all the peace found when tucked away in her own compartment reading or just listening to music. The shortcomings were few but being disturbed by the noise generated by her brothers in the adjacent compartment was one, and secondly being called by Mama to carry out tedious tasks. These were regular, aggravating occurrences but she still loved it and most of all going down to the beach at Cap de L’Homy. The beach was magnificent, stretching as far as the eye could see in both directions; even at the height of the summer you could always find a place to picnic, lie out in the sun and doze. Throughout her young life she found the sea irresistible. It was the best part of the day by far. Enormous waves generated hundreds of miles out into the Atlantic Ocean travelled unchallenged across the Bay of Biscay to expend unequalled energy on the beaches of western France. Black-suited surfers bobbed distantly upon the surging seas as they waited with undue patience for the right wave, whereas Natascha and family threw themselves into the boiling surf with a skill that easily outstripped their recklessness.
Today was to be different. Everybody agreed that nostalgia was to be the order of the day and instead of the easily reached Cap de L’Homy they would venture off course to seek out the remote beach of Yons. In the early days infants were hauled upon shoulders as the family crocodile navigated the disintegrating cycle track that led to the steep, soft dunes that divided land from sea. Now, in the later years, the steepness and the shifting of sand under foot made the climb most difficult for the once invincible few and carrying the lightest bag was enough to make the final obstacle a task close to impossible. These were the same peop
le who only three decades ago could jog up the impossible hill carrying beer bottles and a barbeque stove, let alone a bonny daughter shoulder-riding and gripping Father’s hair to secure her seat. To repeat the venture was to refresh the memory, recalling visions of stepping through the comforting shade of deeply scented pines and into the surprising heat of the midday sun and then to squint through darkened lenses seeking out the coolest track through sun-baked sands. The climb was always hard but soon forgotten when the comforting breeze lifted by the upward-sloping dune cooled tortured lungs.
The leggy, impossibly energetic child had changed. Now it was a tall, elegant and introspective young woman who took to the forest track. The brightness of her personality still sparkled, but those who knew her well perceived shadows of concern. Natascha had changed and it was nothing to do with the brilliant recovery that rescued her academic career. There was something else, an incident perhaps, maybe an unpleasant one; whatever it was it happened between the third and final year at university. On several occasions Natascha had talked to her mother about her social life and the absence of a decent boyfriend. When asked about her time spent in Spain she spoke with enthusiasm expressing her love of Salamanca and day trips into the surrounding countryside but when the discussion turned to the time spent in Béjar her comments were short on detail. If she was to be believed, it was all rather dull.
The path beneath the pines was clearly marked. Feet had reserved areas from the encroaching heather and bracken and the remnants of the “piste cyclable” were easier to walk upon than the shifting sand. Without awareness Natascha had gained some distance from the family group who chattered and laughed at often heard tales of the discomfort of others. She would have been the centre of such happy nonsense not so long ago, but since Spain other tales less amusing had wormed their way into her chest of reminiscences. Beyond the laughter, corrupting images dissolved the source of joy, projecting the mood from light-hearted silliness to irrational sadness in less than a moment. It was happening again. It came like a thief; nothing seen, and nothing felt until the damage was done.