BARBARA CURSED HERSELF inwardly as she walked away. She hadn’t meant to spill everything out like that. It had been seeing them sitting together; they looked so domestic, so safe somehow.

She had been afraid for a while, after overhearing that telephone call, that Harry was involved in whatever awful things Sandy was mixed up in. But watching him later, she had realized he couldn’t be; he was being used as some sort of pawn. Thank God the deal was off, whatever it had been. She felt guilty every time she saw Harry because he still thought Bernie was dead. Her appointment was with Luis; today she hoped to discuss the actual plans for Bernie’s escape. Agustín, she knew, was back from his leave. She had suggested meeting Harry in the Café Gijón because now the possibility of seeing Bernie was so close, Barbara wanted to revisit all the places they had been together, places she had avoided for so long. Three years in prison camps, she thought. What will he be like? How will he react to me? She told herself she mustn’t hope for anything, they would both have changed beyond recognition. She must just hope to get him out.

The snow was still coming down heavily, covering cars and the coats of the people moving through the storm like white wraiths. It was melting through her headscarf; she should have brought a hat. The wind blew it against her glasses and she had to wipe them with her gloved hands.

She passed two civiles on guard outside a government office; with their heavy capes and bicorn hats covered in snow they looked like snowmen with grim masks painted on. It was the first time the sight of a civil had made her want to laugh.

She knew she was often close to hysteria these days; it was getting harder to keep everything inside. But it might only be a short time now before she could leave. Ever since the night two weeks ago when she overheard the telephone conversation she had been trying to analyse his words. ‘Those old Moroccan sweats are tough? He still says his name is Gomez?’ She had tried a dozen different interpretations but always came back to the same thing: someone was being tortured. And she had begun to think: if he found out what I’m doing I could be in danger too.

When he had come down from the study after that call she had given him the bag the old Jew had left, but he hadn’t seemed much interested. He put it on the floor by his chair and sat staring into the fire, ignoring Barbara. He looked more worried than she had ever seen him: sweat was glistening on his black moustache. Since that night he had been increasingly withdrawn. He hardly seemed to notice her now; not that she minded. If only she could get through till they had got Bernie out, then escape to England. Perhaps Sandy would never find out what she had done.

Two nights ago he had come home late. Though he drank a lot, Sandy hardly ever got drunk. He had remarkable control. That night, though, he was staggering a little as he entered the salón, looking round blearily as though seeing it for the first time.

‘What you starin’ at?’ he asked Barbara in a thick voice.

Her heart began to pound. ‘Nothing, darling. Are you all right?’ Still the peacemaker, her instinctive gambit. She put down her knitting. She spent most evenings knitting now, the regular movements soothed her.

‘You’re like an old woman, always bloody knitting,’ he said. ‘Where’s Pilar?’

‘It’s her evening off, remember?’ He probably wanted to go to her; that’d be nice for Pilar, having him paw her in this state.

‘Oh, yes, so it is.’ He smiled lubriciously then went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky. He sat opposite her and took a long swig of his drink. ‘Bloody cold again tonight.’

‘The frost’s killed off a lot of plants in the garden.’

‘Plants,’ he repeated in a mocking tone. ‘Plants. I’ve had a bloody awful day. Something big I had on, it’s up the spout, finished.’ He turned to her and gave his old, wide grin. ‘Fancy being poor, Barbara?’

‘Things aren’t that bad, are they?’

‘Not that bad? Poor Barbara.’ He laughed to himself. ‘Poor Barbara, that’s how I used to think of you when we first met.’

Her smile trembled. If only he would fall asleep. If only he would fall into the fire. He looked at her again, his face serious now. ‘We won’t be poor,’ he said. ‘I won’t allow that to happen. Understand?’

‘All right, Sandy.’

‘I’ll bounce back. I always do. We’ll stay in this house. You and me and Pilar.’ A glint came into his eyes. ‘Come to bed. Come on, I’ll show you what I’m still made of.’

She took a deep breath. She remembered her plan to confront him with the relationship with Pilar to keep him off but she was too frightened.

‘Sandy, you’ve had a lot to drink.’

‘That doesn’t stop me. C’mon.’ He got up, lurched over to her and planted a wet beery kiss on her mouth. She suppressed her instinct to shrink away and allowed him to lift her up, put his arm round her, lead her up the stairs. When they got to the bedroom she hoped he would collapse on the bed but he seemed more in control of himself now. He began undressing, and she took off her dress feeling sick inside. His shirt came off, exposing the heavy muscular body that had excited her once but now made her think of some strong vicious animal. Somehow she managed to control her shrinking as he took her, making strange little grunts of what sounded like desperation. Afterwards he rolled off her and a minute later began to snore. Barbara wondered how she had managed it, managed not to cry out and beat him off. Fear, she supposed. Fear can crush you but it can give you strength and control as well. She padded quietly to the bathroom, closed the door and was violently, heavingly sick.

THE LITTLE CAFE was full of people who had come in to escape the snow; every seat was taken and people stood two deep at the bar. There was a wet musty smell. The old woman ran between the counter and the coffee urn with cups of coffee. The windows were steamed up; even Franco’s portrait had a wet film on it. Barbara’s glasses steamed over at once. She rubbed them on her coat sleeve and looked around for Luis. Their usual table was taken but she could make him out in the far corner where he had squeezed behind a table for two, his coat draped over the other chair. He was sitting staring into his coffee cup, a weary, tired look on his face. He looked up and changed his expression to a smile as Barbara made her way through the crowd to join him. She sat and took off her sopping headscarf, running a hand over her wet hair.

‘This snow is terrible,’ she said.

Luis leaned across the table. ‘Do you mind not having a coffee? There is such a crush at the bar.’

‘Could we go somewhere else? Somewhere quieter?’

‘Everywhere will be the same today.’ There was an unaccustomed sharpness in his manner.

‘What’s wrong?’ she whispered anxiously.

‘Nothing is wrong. All these people make me nervous.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Everything is ready. Have you brought the money?’

‘Yes. Seven hundred pesetas when you tell me when and where. The rest after he’s out.’

He nodded, looking relieved. She took out her cigarettes and offered him a Gold Flake.

‘Thank you. Now, please listen carefully.’ He leaned close to her, his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘I have just come back from Cuenca. I saw Agustín yesterday. He has told your friend about the escape. He has told him it is you that is arranging it.’

‘How did he react?’ Barbara asked eagerly. ‘What did he say?’

Luis nodded seriously. ‘He was very pleased, senõra. Very glad.’

Barbara hesitated. ‘Does he know I’m – I’m with someone else?’

‘Agustín did not say.’

She bit her lip. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘The escape will take place on December the fourteenth. A Saturday.’