‘You remember you told me how the other English prisoners have gone home; you thought your embassy were not troubling themselves with you because you are a Communist?’

‘Yes.’

‘That is not the reason. I had a look at your dossier today. The English think you are dead.’

Bernie was astonished. ‘What?’

‘When you were captured on the Jarama, what happened exactly?’

Bernie frowned. ‘I was unconscious for a while. Then I was taken by a Fascist patrol.’

‘They asked you the usual things? Name, nationality, political affiliation?’

‘Yes, the sergeant who captured me took some notes. He was a bastard. He was going to shoot me but his corporal persuaded him not to, he said there could be trouble since I was a foreigner.’

Vicente nodded slowly. ‘I think he was more of a bastard than you realized. Embassies of foreign prisoners of war should always be informed of their capture. But according to your dossier, you were put down as a Spaniard. You were given a twenty-five-year sentence by a military court under that Spanish name, with a batch of others. The authorities didn’t find out the error till later; they decided to leave things as they were.’

Bernie stared into the distance. ‘Then my parents think I’m dead?’

‘You would have been reported as missing believed killed by your own side. I would guess the sergeant who captured you gave false details precisely so your embassy wouldn’t be told you had been captured. Out of malice.’

‘Why was it never put right?’

Vicente spread his hands. ‘Probably just bureaucratic inertia. The longer it was left before they were notified, the more fuss your embassy might make. I suspect you became a nuisance, an anomaly. So they have buried you away here.’

‘What if I said something now?’

Vicente shook his head. ‘It would do no good.’ He looked at him seriously. ‘They might shoot you to get rid of the anomaly. We have no rights here, we are nothing.’

VICENTE SLEPT for the rest of the day, occasionally waking and asking for water. Then, that evening, Father Eduardo came. Bernie saw him crossing the yard through the wind and rain, clutching his heavy black cloak around him. He entered the hut, dripping water on to the bare boards.

Father Jaime would have crossed straight to the bed of the sick man, ignoring the others, but Father Eduardo always sought to make contact with the prisoners. He looked round the hut with a nervous smile. ‘Ay, what a storm,’ he said. Some men stared at him coldly, others went back to their reading or sewing. Then the priest walked towards Vicente’s pallet. Bernie got up and stood barring his way.

‘He does not want to see you, father,’ he said quietly.

‘I have to talk to him. It is my duty.’ The priest leaned closer. ‘Listen, Piper. Father Jaime wanted to come but I said I felt this man was my responsibility. Would you rather I fetched him? I do not want to but if you bar my way I must report it, he is the senior priest.’

Wordlessly Bernie stepped aside. He wondered if it might be better to have Father Jaime here, that brutal man might be easier for Vicente to resist.

The noise had woken the lawyer. He stared up as the priest leaned over him. Drops of water fell from the priest’s cloak on to the sackcloth sheet.

‘Is that the holy water, father?’

‘How are you?’

‘Not dead yet. Bernardo, amigo, will you give me more water?’

Bernie dipped the cup in the pail and passed it to Vicente. He drank greedily. The priest glanced at the piss-pail with distaste. ‘Señor, you are very ill,’ he said. ‘You should make confession.’

There was complete silence in the hut. All the prisoners were watching and listening, their faces dim white circles in the weak candlelight. Everyone knew Vicente hated the priests, had known this moment was coming.

‘No.’ Vicente managed to raise himself a little. The light glinted on the grey stubble on his cheeks and his weary, angry eyes. ‘No.’

‘If you die unconfessed, your soul will go to Hell.’ Father Eduardo was uneasy, twisting a button on his sotana. His spectacles reflected the candlelight, turning his sad eyes into two little fires.

Vicente ran his tongue over dry lips. ‘No hell,’ he gasped. ‘Only – silence.’ He coughed, then began to make a gurgling noise in his throat. He lay back, exhausted. Father Eduardo sighed and turned away. He whispered to Bernie, bending close. He gave off a faint smell of incense and oil.

‘I think this man has only a day or two. I will again come tomorrow. But listen, is that piss-pail all you have to give him water?’

‘I cleaned it out.’

‘All the same, to have to use that. And where did you get the water?’

‘It’s rainwater.’

‘The rain won’t go on for ever. Listen, I have a tap in the church, and a bucket. Come tomorrow and I’ll give you some water.’

‘You won’t worm your way into his confidence that way.’

‘I do not want to see him suffer more than he should!’ Father Eduardo said with sudden anger. ‘Come or not as you please, but there is water if you want it.’ He turned on his heel and marched out of the hut, back into the storm. Bernie turned back to Vicente.

‘He’s gone.’

The lawyer smiled bitterly. ‘I was strong, Bernardo, wasn’t I?’

‘Yes, yes you were. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him.’

‘You helped distract him. I know there is only nothingness ahead. I embrace it.’ Vicente took a gasping breath. ‘I was trying to work up enough phlegm to spit at him. If he comes again I shall.’

THAT NIGHT the wind veered round to the east and it snowed again. The following morning was bitterly cold. The wind had dropped; the snow lay thick and noises in the camp were muffled, the men’s feet making a creaking sound as they lined up for roll-call. Aranda didn’t like the cold weather; he went round muffled in a balaclava helmet that looked odd with his immaculate uniform.

It was Sunday and there was no labour detail. After roll-call some of the prisoners were set clearing the snow from the yard, sweeping it into great piles against the huts. Vicente had woken with a raging thirst. Bernie had set the pail outside before going to bed and it was full of snow. He looked at it. It would take ages to melt in the cold hut and even then it would only be a quarter full. He stood a moment, shivering in the icy morning, the old wounds in his shoulder and thigh aching. He looked across to the hut housing the church, a cross painted on its side. He hesitated, then walked towards it.

Aranda stood in the doorway of his hut, watching the snow-clearing detail. He stared at Bernie as he passed. Bernie walked through the church and knocked at the office door. Inside a large stove was burning, the warm air was like a balm. Father Jaime stood beside it warming his hands while Father Eduardo worked at the desk. The older priest looked at Bernie suspiciously.

‘What do you want?’

‘This man and I are having some discussions,’ Father Eduardo said. Father Jaime raised his bushy eyebrows.

‘This one? He’s a Communist. Has he taken confession?’

‘Not yet.’

Father Jaime wrinkled his nose with distaste. ‘I left my missal in my room. I must fetch it. The air in here is not what it was.’ He rustled past, closing the door with a snap. Bernie looked at Father Eduardo with raised eyebrows.

‘Telling a lie to your superior, isn’t that a venial sin or something?’

‘It was not a lie. We have talked, haven’t we?’ Father Eduardo sighed. ‘You’re quite implacable, Piper, aren’t you?’

‘I’ve come for the water.’

‘Over there.’ The priest nodded to a tap in the corner. A clean steel bucket lay underneath. Bernie filled it, then turned back to Father Eduardo.

‘I wouldn’t put it past you to have put a drop of holy water in the bottom of the bucket this morning and then blessed it.’

Father Eduardo shook his head. ‘You know so little of what we believe. You know how to fashion shafts that bite, but one does not need to see deeply to do that.’