Epilogue

Madrid, 12 March 1937

They were using rams now, the ancient iron bolt groaning in its casing as the doors bowed and heaved. The two men looked at each other. There wasn’t much time. A few more runs and the soldiers would break through. And what would they see?

His own gun by a pillar, too far to reach. The bodies on the floor – the American stretched out and staring unseeingly at the vaulted ceiling where angels were dancing above his head. A woman. Marina. His breath tore at the sight of her. She was here. She was alive. It was still too much to comprehend.

She was beginning to come round, her hand beginning to close up protectively, soft groans coming from her splayed form. He could see the cut on her scalp where the door had hit her, dark almost-black blood matting her short hair. But it was a graze, possible concussion. If they could get her out of here, she would be fine. He had to get her out of here.

He looked back at Santi. ‘Give yourself up,’ he implored him. ‘I will speak to them. We can come to some arrangement. They want information from you – tell them what you know.’

Santi shook his head, the gun trembling in his hand. ‘I can’t.’

‘Yes, you have to. It is the only way. She needs you to survive. You’re her husband now.’

‘And if I do survive – what does that mean for her? She’s a red, like me. You know what they would do to her. We both do.’

A white-hot spear of fury trammelled through him at the thought. ‘No! I would tell them.’

‘You are a lieutenant,’ Santi said scornfully. ‘Who will listen to you? You think they’ll believe she is your sister?’

‘I will make them!’

‘How? How can you explain that she is your sister when she is here with me? That she is my wife?’

He had no reply. There was no way to explain it. She was as guilty as Santi and they would treat her as such, his friends, his brothers in arms.

There was another ram, the doors bowing again, wood beginning to splinter and creak. He could hear their shouts, the bloodlust high. Many times he had been on the other side of that door with them.

Santi stepped forward and held out his gun, his eyes blazing. ‘Do it.’

‘What?’ He stared at it in horror. ‘No!’

‘Yes, it is the only way.’ Santi walked up to him and thrust the gun into his hand, forcing his fingers to close around it, pointing it back out towards him. He took three paces back and jabbed his chest, above the heart. ‘Right there.’

‘Santi, no!’ He stared down at the gun in his hand, which was shaking violently now, just as it had the first time he had ever held one, Vale coaxing him, urging him to take the shot.

Santi stared at him with calm, cold eyes. ‘You came here to kill me, Arlo. Kill me.’