‘Be careful,’ Bernie whispered. ‘They’ll be angry if they find out.’ Prison life, Bernie knew, was made more bearable by tiny victories against their captors, but such victories could be costly.

AT LEAST in winter the days at the quarry were short. The whistle blew at half past four, as dusk began to fall. It had been another clear cold day. A big red sun that gave no heat was sinking to the horizon, casting a pink glow over the distant mountains. The pile of rubble was almost gone, leaving a jagged gap in the hillside. As the lorry sent to fetch the load of stone lurched away down a mountain road, the men handed in their tools and began the weary trudge back to camp.

You couldn’t see Cuenca today; there was too much haze. They had been able to see it most mornings recently. Bernie wondered if the guards stopped the column to rest there deliberately, to torment the men with a glimpse of freedom. Sometimes he thought about the hanging houses. What must it be like to live in one of them, have a view across the gorge from your window? Did it give you a sense of vertigo? With so few people to talk to his mind seemed to turn more and more to fantasy these days. Even the non-Communists were avoiding him; Bernie guessed Establo had told them he was an informer.

In the yard the men stepped wearily into line for roll-call. The sun was almost touching the horizon, casting a red glow over the yard, the huts and watchtowers. Aranda stepped on to the dais and began calling names.

Halfway through Bernie heard a sudden ‘chink’ from the row in front of him, as something hit the ground. He saw Pablo clap a hand to his trousers and look down. The piece of stone had worked through the frayed old material and lay on the earth. One of the guards walked swiftly over to him. Aranda, on his dais, looked up sharply.

‘What’s happening there?’

The guard bent and picked up the stone. He looked at it, stared at Pablo, then marched up to the dais. He and Aranda bent their heads over the stone. Pablo watched them, his face white.

At a nod from Aranda the guard jumped down. He and another guard pulled Pablo out of line, jerking his arms behind his back. Aranda held up the stone.

‘We have a souvenir collector amongst us!’ he shouted. ‘This man has found a fragment from those blasphemous paintings at the quarry and brought it back. Has anyone else brought any nice little paintings for their hut?’ He looked out across the silent rows of prisoners. ‘No?’ Well, you will all be searched tonight, as will the huts.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Why will you not learn to do as we tell you? I shall have to make an example of this man. Put him in solitary confinement for tonight. You’ll all see him again tomorrow.’

The guards frogmarched Pablo away. ‘That means the cross,’ someone muttered.

Aranda went back to the roll, calling out the names in his clear harsh voice.

THAT EVENING in the hut, after the search, Establo came up to Bernie’s bed. He was flanked by four of the other Communists. He sat on Pablo’s empty pallet. Establo crossed his hands on the top of his cane. You could see the tendons working over the bones beneath the dry skin.

‘I’m told you were talking to Pablo at the quarry today. Did you tell the guards he had that piece of stone? ¿Eh, hombre?’

Bernie sat up, looked Establo in the eye. ‘You know I didn’t, Establo. Everyone saw what happened – it fell out of his pocket.’

‘What were you saying to him? He is forbidden to talk to you.’

‘He showed me the piece of stone he’d found. I told him to be careful. Ask him yourself.’

‘I think you informed on him.’

‘It fell from his pocket,’ Miguel the old tramworker said. ‘Come, compadre, we all saw.’

Establo gave Miguel an evil look. Bernie laughed. ‘See, people are coming to see you for what you are, hijo de puta. A man who would make capital out of what is to be done to Pablo.’

‘Leave him, Establo,’ Miguel said. The old man turned and walked away. Hesitantly, the other three followed. Bernie smiled at Establo.

‘As your body withers, Establo, your heart shows through.’

Establo rose painfully to his feet, clutching his stick. ‘I will finish you, cabrón,’ he whispered.

‘If you don’t die first,’ Bernie called after him as he limped away.

NEXT MORNING after roll-call the prisoners were ordered to remain standing in their rows. Bernie noticed Agustín was back on duty. He looked cold standing there – this would be a change after Sevilla. The man met his eyes for a moment and looked away; he seemed to be studying him. Bernie wondered again if he was after his arse, if that was why he had helped him, that morning on the hill. ‘Better times,’ Agustín had said. Bernie almost laughed aloud.

Two guards brought Pablo from the solitary hut and manhandled him over to the cross that stood beside the mess hut. Bernie saw Agustín sigh, as though with weariness. They stood Pablo beside the thing, their breath making a fog in the air. Aranda marched towards them, tapping his riding crop against his thigh. Father Jaime and Father Eduardo were with him, huddled inside their heavy black cloaks. They had stood with Aranda on the dais during roll-call: Father Jaime cold and grim, Father Eduardo with bowed head. They stopped in front of Pablo. Aranda turned and addressed the prisoners.

‘Your comrade Pablo Jimenez is to have a day on the cross as punishment for his piece of smuggling. First, though, you should see this.’ The comandante took the piece of painted stone from his pocket and laid it on the ground. Father Jaime stepped forward. He took a little hammer from his pocket, bent down and smashed it on the piece of stone. It shattered, chips flying in all directions. Father Jaime nodded to Father Eduardo and he picked up the pieces. Father Jaime pocketed the hammer and looked over the men, satisfaction on his grim face.

‘This is how the Church Militant has dealt with paganism since its earliest days,’ he called out. ‘With hammer blows! Remember that – if anything can penetrate your thick irreligious skulls.’ He marched off, Father Eduardo following with the pieces of stone cupped in his hands.

The guards took Pablo’s arms and tied them to the crosspiece with ropes. They tied him so only the tips of his feet touched the ground, then stepped back. Pablo sagged for a second then lifted himself up by his toes. The torture of the cross depended on a man’s inability to breathe with his arms stretched out above him unless he could lift himself up. After a few hours in that position every movement was an agony, but it was the only way to breathe: pulling agonizingly up and down, up and down.

Aranda studied Pablo’s position and nodded with satisfaction. He smiled grimly at the prisoners, then called ‘Dismiss’ and marched back to his hut. The guards ordered the men into their labour gangs. Agustín was on Bernie’s detail. As they marched through the gate he stepped close.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he whispered. ‘It is important. Leave your hut tonight after supper, as though you were going to piss. I will be waiting at the back.’

‘What do you want?’ Bernie whispered fiercely. From the anxious expression on his face it didn’t look like the man wanted to fuck him.

‘Later. I have something to tell you.’ Agustín stepped away.

IN THE LATE afternoon it began to snow heavily and the guards ordered the men to stop work early. On the walk back Agustín stayed at the other end of the crocodile, avoiding Bernie’s eye. Back at the camp Pablo was still tied to the cross, snow whirling round his head. ‘Mierda,’ the man next to Bernie muttered. ‘He’s still there.’ Pablo was pale and still and for a moment Bernie thought he was dead but then he lifted himself up, his toes pressing into the ground. He took a deep breath and expelled it with a long rattling moan. The guards locked the gates and walked away, leaving the prisoners to make their way to their huts. Bernie and some of the others went over to Pablo.