‘Señora, I am sorry, desculpeme. I have been moving to new lodgings.’

‘Never mind. Have you any news?’

He nodded and leaned forward, his face eager. ‘Yes. We have made progress. Agustín has already got himself on the quarry rota as a guard. At the right time, he will arrange with your friend that he will ask to go to the toilet, say he has’ – he coughed, embarrassed – ‘diarrhoea. Then he will hit Agustín on the head, steal the key to his shackles, and run off.’

‘They wear shackles?’ It was one of the horrors she had imagined.

‘He would be shackled to go to the toilet, yes.’

Barbara thought a few moments, then nodded. ‘All right.’ She lit another cigarette and passed him the packet. ‘When? The longer we wait the riskier it is. Not just the political situation. I can’t stand much more of this, my – husband – has noticed I’m not myself.’

Luis shifted in his seat. ‘That is a problem, I am afraid. Agustín is due three weeks’ leave, starting next week. He will not be back until early December. It will have to wait until then.’

‘But that’s a month away! Can’t he change his leave?’

‘Señora, please speak quietly. Think how suspicious it would be if Agustín suddenly cancelled the leave he booked months ago, and then he was on duty when there was an escape.’

‘This is bad. What if Spain comes into the war, what if I have to leave?’

‘They have been saying we will come in since June and nothing has happened, even after the Caudillo’s meeting with Hitler. It will be done, señora, I promise, as soon as possible after Agustín gets back. And it will be easier when the days are shorter – the darkness will help your friend get away.’

‘His name’s Bernie – Bernie. Why can’t you use his name?’

‘Of course, Bernie, yes.’

She thought carefully. ‘How will he get from the camp to Cuenca? He’ll be in prison clothes.’

‘It is all rough country till the gorge at Cuenca, plenty of cover. And there is a place in Cuenca where you can meet him. Agustín will arrange it all.’

‘How far is the camp from Cuenca?’

‘About eight kilometres. Señora, your Bernie is as strong as anyone in the camp. They are used to hard work and long walks in the winter. He will make it.’

‘What does Bernie know? Does – does he know I’m trying to help him?’

‘Nothing yet. It is safer that way. Agustín has told him only that there may be better times ahead for him. He keeps an eye on him.’

‘He won’t be able to keep an eye on him in Sevilla.’

‘That is unavoidable. I am sorry, but we can do nothing.’

‘All right.’ She sighed and ran her hand over her face. How could she get through the next weeks?

‘It is arranged now, señora.’ Luis looked at her meaningfully. ‘We agreed I would have half when it was arranged.’

Barbara shook her head. ‘Not quite, Luis. I said I’d pay you half when we had a plan in place. That means, when I know how and when it will happen.’

She saw a glint of anger in his eyes. ‘My brother will have to be struck hard on the head by your friend for them to believe his story. Then he will have to stay out in the Tierra Muerta, perhaps for hours, to give him a chance to escape. There is already snow on the tops of the sierras.’

Barbara stared him down. ‘When I have a date, Luis. A date.’

‘But—’

He broke off. Two civiles had entered the cafe, their bicorn hats and short capes glistening like insect carapaces. Guns were visible in the yellow holsters at their belts. They walked over to the bar.

‘¡Mierda!’ Luis muttered. He began to get up, but Barbara put a hand on his arm.

‘Sit down. What will they think if we run off as soon as they appear?’

He sat down again. The old woman served the civiles, remarking how cold the weather was.

‘Too cold to go straight home after duty, señora.’ They took their coffees and sat down. One looked curiously at Barbara, then muttered something to his colleague. They laughed.

‘Come on, señora, let us go now.’ Luis was twitching with anxiety.

‘All right. But slowly.’ They rose and went out. Both exhaled with relief as the door shut behind them.

‘I am disappointed about the money, señora,’ Luis said sulkily. ‘Some things are outside my control.’

Has he moved lodgings on the strength of the money, she wondered. Too bad. ‘When I have a date, you’ll have the money.’

Luis shrugged angrily. ‘I will go to Cuenca again this weekend, see Agustín before he goes to Sevilla. We can meet again a week today.’ Then to her surprise he shook her hand again with that stiff formality of his before turning and disappearing into the grey afternoon. Weeks more, Barbara thought, weeks more of this. She clenched her hands. As she walked away she avoided looking at the civiles through the window, but she saw the old couple looking down at their coffee cups, giving the civiles frightened glances. They were afraid of them, too; they weren’t watchers.

ALREADY THE FIRST SNOW had fallen on the peaks of the Sierra Valdemeca far to the north-east. That morning for the first time there was a white crust of frost in the camp yard, a skin of ice on the little puddles. The early sun turned the snow on the distant mountains a gentle pink and Bernie thought it was beautiful even as he shivered in his thin boiler suit on the parade ground, waiting for Aranda to take the morning roll.

Beside him Vicente blew his nose on his sleeve, wincing as he looked at a streak of bright yellow snot. There was something wrong with his nose now; he had agonizing pains in his head and this ugly discharge that would not stop.

Aranda appeared from his hut in greatcoat and gloves. He strode towards the platform. He removed his gloves and blew on his hands, glaring at the prisoners. An icy breeze blew down from the sierras, ruffling the prisoners’ hair with harsh fingers as Aranda called out the names in his ringing voice. There were half a dozen new men: Republicans who had fled to France when Franco won and been sent back by the Nazis. They surveyed their new prison without interest. One of them had said the Catalan leader, Companys, had been sent back to Madrid and shot.

At breakfast in the dining hut Bernie took a seat with some of the Communists. Pablo the ex-miner from Asturias moved along the bench for him. ‘Buenos días, compañero. ¿Hoy hace frío, no?’

‘Very cold. It’s come early this winter.’

Bernie spooned up the thin chickpea gruel. Down the table, Establo glanced at him. His scabies was getting worse, his face pitted with red streaks where he had been scratching. A patch of hard red skin on his wrist showed the disease was reaching the crusted stage, alive with eggs and mites underneath.

‘Compadre Piper, you have decided to join us today.’

‘You know I like to move around, compadre, you get more news that way.’

Establo fixed him with keen, hard grey eyes. ‘And what news have you been gathering?’

‘One of the guards told Guillermo the stone from the quarry is for a monument Franco’s started in the Guadarrama. Apparently it’s going to be his tomb; it’ll take twenty years to build.’

‘If it’s in the Guadarrama,’ Establo grunted, ‘why do they want limestone from here?’

‘Suitable for the monumental fittings, Guillermo said.’

Establo grunted. ‘Sounds like propaganda to me. The guards sow these stories to make us believe Franco will be there for ever. You should analyse what you hear, compadre.’

‘I always do, compadre Establo.’ Bernie looked back at him steadily. With his domed bald head and the thin wattles on his neck, Establo reminded him of the lizards you saw in summer, scuttling over the rocks. Establo smiled coldly.

‘I hope you analyse particularly what the bourgeois Vicente tells you.’