Furnace (19 page)

Arizkun? she shouted over the din.

He nodded and called something out to her in rapid Basque, then turned back to his work.

Ahead of her, between two large, red-tiled houses, she could see what looked like the village square. A church steeple rose above the rooftops there and she followed an alleyway towards it. Away
from the clamour of the shed the village was wrapped in a deserted, drowsy hush.

A priest in his long black cassock cycled slowly past and turned into the shadowy cloisters of the church dominating the far side of the square. She heard him brake and dismount somewhere in the
shade of the arches; a creaking door opened and slammed shut heavily after him. Behind a nearby slatted gate, tall and whitewashed, hens clucked and fussed. The afternoon air was very warm and
still. She trudged on through the empty square towards the edge of the village where a wooden sign announced in both languages the road to Eratzu.

Walking the actual stretch of road at last, after weeks of imagining it, she realized she’d been assuming all along that the exact place of the crash would somehow be
obvious to her. Vaguely, she had imagined a broken dry-stone wall, scarred trees or scribbles of tyre marks on tarmac. Now, looking about her at untidy hedgerows and wire fences she understood with
a feeling almost of alarm that by this time there may be no sign left at all. The thought of having to ask about the crash at one of the farmhouses along the way, or even in Eratzu itself,
unsettled her but she knew she’d go through with it if need be. She’d come too far now.

Gradually the road was climbing and the landscape opening out. On her right hand was a fringe of scrub trees but beyond them were gently climbing fields of pasture and finally, in the distance,
high, heather-topped hills. In between the hills ran narrow green folds of spate valleys with here and there isolated farmhouses dotted on their slopes. To the left, a rough expanse of meadow fell
steeply down to a line of pine trees a few hundred yards below. She supposed the Baztan was there, glittering behind them, but couldn’t be sure. Near the pines a few cows were grazing,
model-like in the distance, their bells tolling with a faint, saucepan clatter. A magpie rose up from a nearby fence post, startling her. It glided down towards the cows and disappeared behind the
dark screen of pines. At intervals she passed bales of hay skinned with tight black polythene and despite their wrappings she thought that she could just catch the faint sweet stench of grass
fermenting in the glossy drums.

She’d been told that the accident had happened on a dangerous bend but so far the road was running either straight or in gentle, sweeping curves. It was easy, peaceful walking: there was
very little traffic to force her up onto the embankment and for long stretches she could put the purpose of the trek out of her mind and almost imagine she was strolling at home again in the
Perthshire hills. After almost an hour she came to a sudden dip, the road falling sharply and bottoming out briefly at a narrow stone bridge before climbing just as steeply into a tight bend that
vanished left into thick woods. Two farmhouses stood facing each other on either side of the hollow. Now, she thought, she was getting close. The road was changing – becoming less predictable
– and she felt her senses sharpen with a mixture of excitement and dread. Slowly, studying carefully the low stone walls on either side of her, she made her way down to the bridge and then up
the other side, but there was nothing. At the second farmhouse a baying dog flung itself at the tall palings, making her flinch and hurry on. She passed three neat, chest-high woodpiles and then
the road plunged her into a tunnel of trees where the tarmac gave way to a sun-dappled surface of hard-packed, gravelly dirt. A fine white dust billowed up into choking clouds whenever the
occasional car or camper van sped past and each careering vehicle made her heart lurch as she stepped back into the brush and made way for it.

She found the place almost within sight of Eratzu. At the foot of a high, ancient oak tree a fresh wreath and the remains of older, dried out bouquets lay amongst the massive tangle of roots.
Above them a dusty framed photograph the size of a sideboard portrait was fixed to the trunk. She studied it for a while, light headed suddenly, then backed away and sat down heavily on a shelf of
grass and bracken, still staring across the road. The girl in the photograph, dressed in what looked like some kind of school or church uniform of white blouse and dark blazer, was smiling
brilliantly. A pin on her lapel, picked out by the camera flash, glittered against the sombre cloth. Only when a sudden car swept past, its radio blaring, was Laura jolted from the smiling image of
the girl and back to herself. Her breathing had become so shallow she was dizzy. Through the trees she could hear the bells of the village church ringing out the hour. She counted three chimes.
Still sitting, she eased the backpack from her wet shoulders and fumbled for her bottled water. With some surprise, she realized she was very hungry, though it was more a feeling of sudden, empty
weakness than a real appetite for food. The warm water made her feel sick but she forced most of it down before packing it away again and struggling to her feet. She would need to eat or the vigil
she’d planned would be impossible.

Just beyond the bend with the oak tree she found herself emerging onto a clear rise overlooking Eratzu. To the left of the road a neat graveyard lay ahead, fenced off by
spindly iron railings. Opposite the gates, three blocky stone crosses stood waist-high, tilted and half smothered by bracken, on the side of the track. They looked very old, their edges rounded by
weathering. Maybe something to do with the pilgrim way, she guessed. Underfoot, between the ridges left by tyre tracks, the dust was thick enough to cushion her sandals and sift hot between her
toes.

At the heart of the village a triple-arched bridge straddled the Baztan. On its far side the bell tower of the church rose up to a tiled witch’s hat whilst at the near side a heavy plank
door led Laura down into a cool, dim cellar bar. A knot of locals and the tall young bartender were clustered together, staring and muttering at a soundless television mounted high in the corner.
Laura glanced up in time to see footage of some kind of police operation with dog handlers and vans, then the screen cut to a newsreader’s bland, mouthing face. The bartender detached himself
from the group and moved along the counter to face her. He was irritated by something, she could see, and could hardly bring himself to listen to her. She ordered a small beer and four of the stale
looking
pintxos
almost hidden in the shadows behind the bar. As soon as hed served her he returned to the huddle of men beneath the screen. Some of them were bickering quietly now in Basque.
Others darted sidelong, unreadable glances at her. The slices of chorizo were curled and tough as bark on the dry bread but with the help of the beer she steadily chewed each portion down.

As soon as she was done she paid and quickly climbed the staircase back into the sunshine. Walking the few steps onto the bridge she looked down at the Baztan. The water was low but dazzlingly
swift and clear. Some evenings at the apartment, passing the time while Nerea was tutoring, she had stood on the balcony to watch the river at Elizondo. Sometimes Mikel had joined her and
wordlessly flicked pieces of crust down for the ducks and trout. The water was much slower and darker down the valley at the weir pool. This didn’t seem the same river at all. She turned away
and crossed the empty street, heading back the way she’d come.

The graveyard gate was unlocked, just a heavy iron latch keeping it shut. Inside, she picked her way around the small family crypts that stood here and there amongst the graves like
gardeners’ huts of stone and marble. There were no caskets to be seen beyond the barred entrances but each tiny house contained a low altar at the back with a brightly painted, doll-sized
plaster Christ crucified above it. On her way back to the gate she realized that almost all the graves, however simple, had stone panels at their feet and brass handles as if the tombs could slide
open like drawers. She crouched to examine one of them, trying the handles, but the approaching rumble of a car leaving the village made her spring upright again, embarrassed at herself. Once the
car had passed she hurried back out to the road, dropping the iron latch with a bell-like clang behind her.

There was space to sit comfortably on the embankment opposite the oak but not for her to sleep, as she’d planned. Instead, she pushed a little deeper into the bracken and
found a clear patch long and wide enough to unroll her groundsheet. Returning to the side of the road she managed to collect an untidy fistful of wildflowers, intending to leave them alongside the
wreaths already there. But when she brought them to the small heap of offerings and had to face the photograph again she suddenly lost heart. In the picture, the girl’s dark, uncomplicated
hair fell smoothly to her shoulders. Above the white teeth the wide-awake eyes were deep brown and warm, though the skin around them hadn’t creased in keeping with the broad, confident smile.
Shyness? Laura wondered. Or some other kind of falseness? Anyway, she was beautiful. Taking the flowers back into the undergrowth she scattered them furtively, filled with a strange sense of
indecency and clumsiness. The half-thought of both Calum and the girl watching her movements from some other place, some other reality, teased at her imagination and she found herself having to
thrust it fiercely away before it led her into terror.

As soon as it grew dark she crawled into her sleeping bag, feeling foolish and almost unbearably alone. There’d been no point in her vigil, she saw that clearly now. There was no more
connection to be found with him here than anywhere else; she’d been crazy to think there might be. What was there to connect to? She felt sadness, almost overwhelmingly, but knew that it was
much more for her own confusion than for Calum’s death. Then, slowly and despite herself, she found her imagination turning to the girl, to the mild brown eyes she knew were fixed through the
dark on her sleeping place. She turned her body away from the road and listened as an owl called from somewhere deep in the dry oak woods. Feeling tears welling up she wrenched herself onto her
back, resisting them, gasping deep, fierce breaths.

The night was perfectly clear and finally, staring upwards at layer beyond layer of sharp, bright stars she found herself growing calmer and remembering the last time her mother had been in
love. It had been at least ten years ago – just after the divorce, when she was still willing to date and Laura was still young enough to be sent to bed early. He’d been a married man,
and all Laura could recall of the relationship now were the awful days of her mother’s deflation and loneliness following the occasional late nights he spent at the house. She wasn’t
sure if they’d ever been lovers, though for years in her early teens she’d burned with curiosity about it, and sometimes found herself secretly ashamed of her occasional eavesdropping
and imaginings. Now she couldn’t even remember his name, nor his face or voice, though he’d always been kind and natural with her. What had happened to end it? Did her mother ever think
of him now? She saw an image of her mother suddenly, not with a man and not ten years ago but poring over her map of Spain, its place-names and symbols, tracing where Laura had been and was
supposed to be. Then, for a time, she succeeded in clearing her mind of everything except the small sounds of the night around her and the stars and the brilliant white disc of the moon rising over
the black hills. But sleep was impossible and as her mind grew tired it seemed to slide beyond her control, betraying her with image after image of Calum, happy and triumphant, driving the radiant
girl in the picture. Maybe he’d been driving the way he’d once driven with her, Laura, when he took her out of Granada high up into the cold, snow-capped Sierra: one hand lazily on the
wheel, the other toying with the wet tangles of hair between her legs… And then she was lost – spasmed into a foetal curl, biting on the flesh of her arm to stifle the sobs and howls
that surged like storm waves through her body.

She woke at dawn, exhausted and paralysed with cold, and it took her almost twice as long to walk back as it had to climb up through the valley. There was no reply when she
rang the apartment bell though she knew both Nerea and Mikel were normally awake and smoking by now – it was nearly eleven. Suddenly angry, she shrugged off her heavy pack and trudged stiffly
round the back to shout up at the balcony.

Eventually one of the other apartment doors burst open and Laura recognised Nerea’s neighbour, a stocky, sullen old widow who was also the caretaker of the block, glaring down at her over
the balcony rail. Wait! she commanded and disappeared back inside. Soon she bustled through the side gate into the garden. Gone, she announced before Laura had time to speak. Both gone.

Laura stared stupidly at the widow’s broad, faintly triumphant face, almost too weary to reply. Where? she managed at last.

Mikel – Guardia. Nerea, who knows? She shrugged her big, rounded shoulders.

Guardia? Why? She thought instantly of the hash and felt a wave of relief at having escaped.

Again the caretaker shrugged. They question him. Very often. Always they release him. She raised her dark eyebrows and sniffed. They are pigs and fools. She regarded Laura intently, rolling her
tongue around her gums. He is Batasuna, she added, as if as an afterthought, and snorted.
La política,
she said then, slowly and carefully, as if teaching a child.

Oh, Laura heard herself say, wrong-footed again. She recovered herself slowly, conscious of the old woman’s heavy, impassive scrutiny. Will they let him go today? She felt dizzy and longed
to sit down safely on the grass.

Today, tomorrow, two days – who can tell?

I have some things in the flat, Laura croaked, close to desperation. Some clothes and money. I’m very tired. Could you let me in for the night, or until Mikel comes back? We are good
friends. He would trust me.