‘. . . Communists, socialists, anarchists, Republican democrats . . .’

‘She’s amazing,’ Marina said, jerking her head towards the government building, hoping the woman hadn’t noticed.

The woman looked at her. ‘Yes. I have seen her before, last month.’

‘Really?’ Her excitement and admiration was genuine. ‘Did you meet her?’

‘Not yet. But I intend to.’ The woman looked ahead again, her chin raised determinedly. ‘I want to learn from her.’

Marina followed suit. Me too, she thought, feeling a sense of belonging begin to claim her in this crowd. Though she had not been born into their world, still she shared their concerns.

‘. . . the soldiers and services loyal to the Republic have inflicted the first defeats on the insurgents, who drag through the quagmire of treason the military honour they have boasted about so much . . .’

‘Want some?’

Marina looked back to see the woman looking at her, holding out her cigarette between her fingers. She hesitated, then reached for it. ‘Thanks.’ She had never smoked a cigarette before and she felt the cough roil in her throat as she struggled to hold it down. The woman was smiling at her, as though somehow knowing this was her first, that she was an impostor here. Did she sense that Marina was one of the very people this million-strong crowd wanted to see wiped out?

‘Where are you from?’ Her eyes narrowed interestedly.

‘Seville,’ Marina managed to reply, keeping it vague as she handed back the cigarette. ‘You?’

‘Badajoz.’

‘What brought you here?’

The woman tilted her head slightly as though what she had to say tipped her off balance and weighted her down. ‘My husband was mayor of our town, a place where the landowners refused to give work to anyone unless they ripped up their union cards . . .’

Marina knew from Santi, all those years ago, that the union cards protected the rights of the workers – entitling them to paid overtime, regulated hours and guaranteed jobs to locals. She also remembered Juan Esperanza’s pleas for those very things, for fairness and human dignity, on the steps of her father’s foreman’s office.

‘They were literally starving the workers to death, refusing to give them work. So my husband used municipal money to buy them food.’ Her expression changed. ‘And for that he was found guilty of “misuse of funds”, and murdered.’

Marina’s jaw dropped down. ‘I’m so sorry.’

The woman gave a shrug but the movement was raw and brittle. ‘And you?’

‘Me?’

‘What made you come here?’

She thought of Juan Esperanza, staggering to stay on his feet, eyes wide as the bullet tore through him. She thought of Indigo, slain in his stable – an eye for an eye, the instrument of Santi’s revenge – and felt the tears rush up. ‘Similar,’ she whispered.

The woman lip-read her mouth, seeing the pain still fresh in her face, and she understood. ‘Have you been in Madrid long?’

‘I arrived this morning.’