‘At least I don’t plague people’s last hours, father. Adíos.’ Bernie turned and left.

The yard was almost clear of snow now; the men were piling their shovels against the wall of the comandante’s hut. Halfway across Bernie heard a shout.

‘You there! ¡Inglés!’

Aranda descended the steps of his hut and walked towards him. Bernie put down the bucket and stood to attention. The comandante halted in front of him, frowning angrily.

‘What is in that bucket?’

‘Water, señor comandante. There is a man ill in my hut. Father Eduardo said I could take some water from the church tap.’

‘That stupid pansy. The sooner the abogado dies the better.’

Bernie sensed Aranda was bored and trying to provoke a reaction. He looked at the ground.

‘I do not believe in softness.’ Aranda kicked the bucket over with his booted foot, the water splashing out over the earth. He smiled. ‘I say, ¡Viva la Muerte! Take that pail back to the pansy priest. I will have a word with Father Jaime about this. Go on!’

Bernie picked up the bucket and walked slowly back to the hut. He felt anger but also relief. He had got off lightly. Aranda was in a mood to persecute someone.

He told the priest what Aranda had said. ‘He says he’s going to report you to Father Jaime.’

‘He is a hard man.’ Father Eduardo shrugged.

Bernie turned to go. ‘Wait,’ the priest said. He was still looking out of the window. ‘He is going back inside his hut.’ He turned to Bernie. ‘Listen, I know him, he will go and warm himself at the stove now. It is at the back of his hut. Fill the bucket again and go quickly, he won’t see you.’

Bernie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘I saw your friend desperate for water and I wanted to help. That is all.’

‘Then leave him in peace. Don’t trouble his last hours for the million to one chance he’ll repent.’

The priest did not reply. Bernie refilled the bucket and left the hut without another word. His heart pounded as he crossed the yard. He and the priest were both mad. If Aranda saw he’d been disobeyed he’d go berserk.

He reached the hut safely, shutting the door behind him. He went up to Vicente’s bed. ‘Water, amigo,’ he said. ‘Courtesy of the church.’

THE PRIEST came again that afternoon. Most of the men who were fit, tired of being cooped up, had gone outside and were playing a desultory game of football in the yard. Vicente was delirious, he seemed to imagine himself back in his office in Madrid, and kept muttering to someone to bring him a file and open the window, he was too hot. He was covered in sweat although the hut was freezing cold. Bernie sat beside him, wiping his face now and then with a corner of the sheet. On the bed opposite Establo lay smoking, watching them. He seldom went outside now.

Bernie heard a rustle at his elbow and turned. Father Eduardo was there; he must have come in quietly.

‘He’s in a dream, father,’ Bernie whispered. ‘Leave him, he’s far away from this place.’

The priest put a box on the bed, a box of oils Bernie supposed. His heart thumped; the moment had come. Father Eduardo leaned over and touched Vicente’s brow. The lawyer grimaced and flinched away, then slowly opened his eyes. He took a deep rattling breath.

‘Mierda. You again.’

Father Eduardo took a deep breath. ‘I think your hour is close. You have been slipping into dreams and next time you may not return. Even now, Señor Vicente, God will receive you into eternal life.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Bernie said.

Vicente gave a ghastly rictus of a smile, exposing pale gums. ‘Don’t worry, compadre. Give me some water.’

Bernie helped Vicente to drink. He took long slow sips, his eyes never leaving the priest, then lay back gasping.

‘Please.’ There was a pleading note in Father Eduardo’s voice. ‘You have a chance of eternal life. Don’t throw it away.’

Vicente began to make a gurgling noise in his throat. The priest spoke again.

‘If you do not take this last chance, you must go to Hell. That is what is written.’

Vicente’s throat was working, he gurgled and spluttered. Bernie knew what he was trying to do. The priest leaned forward and Vicente took a deep breath but the phlegm he had been working slipped down his throat. He coughed, then started choking, gasping frantically for breath. He sat up, his face red, heaving for air. Bernie reached over and slapped him on the back. Vicente’s eyes bulged as he gagged and retched. Then a spasm ran through his wasted body and he fell back on the pallet. A long gurgling sigh came from his throat, a sound of terrible weariness. Bernie saw the expression leach out of his eyes. He was dead. The priest sank to his knees and began to pray.

Bernie sat on the bed. His legs were shaking. After a minute Father Eduardo rose and crossed himself. Bernie looked at him coldly.

‘He was trying to spit at you, father, did you realize?’

The priest shook his head.

‘You threatened him with Hell and he tried to spit at you and choked on it. You gave him his death.’

The priest looked at Vicente’s body then shook his head and turned away, walking down the hut. Bernie shouted after him.

‘Don’t worry, father, he’s not in Hell. He’s out of it!’

VICENTE WAS buried the next day. As he had not received the last rites there could be no church ceremony. Vicente would have been pleased. Bernie trudged through the snow behind the digging detail that carried the body, sewn into an old sheet, to the hillside where the graves were. He watched as it was lowered into a shallow grave that had been dug that morning. ‘Adíos, compadre,’ he muttered quietly. He felt very alone.

The guard accompanying them crossed himself and signalled with his rifle for Bernie to return to the camp. The digging detail began filling in the grave, struggling with the frozen earth. It began to snow again, white heavy flakes. Bernie thought, Father Eduardo will be thinking you’re in the eternal fire, but really you’re going to be encased in ice. The joke would have amused Vicente.

THAT AFTERNOON Bernie was leaning against the wall of the hut, smoking a cigarette one of the digging party had given him out of kindness, when Pablo came up to him. He looked uncomfortable.

‘I’ve been detailed to speak to you, on behalf of the party cell,’ he said.

Because you were my friend, Bernie thought, to show me Establo’s brought everyone into line.

‘You have been found guilty of incorrigible bourgeois individualism and resistance to authority,’ Pablo said woodenly. ‘You are expelled from the party, and warned if you make any attempts to sabotage our cell, measures will be taken.’ Bernie knew what that meant; a knife thrust in the dark; it had happened before among the prisoners.

‘I’m a loyal Communist and I always have been,’ he said. ‘I don’t accept Establo’s authority to lead us. One day I shall take my case to the Central Committee.’

Pablo lowered his voice. ‘Why do you make trouble? Why be so obstinate? You are obstinate, Bernardo. People say you only became friends with the lawyer to annoy us.’

Bernie smiled bitterly. ‘Vicente was an honest man. I admired him.’

‘What was the point of making all that trouble with the priest? These things cause trouble. There’s no point arguing with the priests. Establo’s right, it’s just bourgeois individualism.’

‘Then what do we do? How do we resist?’

‘We keep strong, united. One day fascism will fall.’ Pablo winced and scratched at his wrist. Perhaps he had scabies – that was a risk if you were round Establo too much.

‘One thing more, Establo wants you out of the hut. He wants you to apply for a transfer, say being in the hut is hard after your friend’s death.’

Bernie shrugged. ‘They may not let me move.’

‘Establo said you must.’