The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

9

The storm pounded over the city. Fermín held a cup of coffee in his hands while Brians, standing by the open window, watched the rain

lash the roofs of the Ensanche district and recounted Isabella’s last days.

‘She fell ill suddenly, without any explanation. If you’d known her … Isabella was young, full of life. She had an iron constitution and had survived the hardships of war. It all happened overnight. The night you managed to escape from the castle, Isabella came home late. When her husband found her, she was kneeling down in the bathroom, sweating and with palpitations. She said she wasn’t feeling well. They called the doctor, but before he arrived she started having convulsions and throwing up blood. The doctor said it was food poisoning and told her to follow a strict diet for a few days, but by the morning she was worse. Señor Sempere wrapped her up in blankets and a neighbour who was a taxi driver drove them to the Hospital del Mar. She’d broken out in dark blotches, like ulcers, and her hair was coming out in handfuls. In the hospital they waited a couple of hours but in the end the doctors refused to see her because someone in the waiting room, a patient who hadn’t been seen yet, said he knew Sempere and accused him of being a communist or some such nonsense. I suppose he did it to jump the queue. A nurse gave them a syrup which, she said, would help Isabella clean out her stomach, but Isabella couldn’t swallow anything. Sempere didn’t know what to do. He took her home and started to call one doctor after another. Nobody knew what was wrong with her. A medical assistant who was a regular customer at the bookshop knew someone who worked at the Hospital Clínico. Sempere took Isabella there.’

‘In the Clínico Sempere was told it might be cholera and he must take her home, because there was an outbreak and the hospital was overflowing. A number of people in the area had already died. Every day Isabella was worse. She was delirious. Her husband did everything he could. He moved heaven and earth, but after a few days she was so weak he couldn’t even take her to the hospital. She died a week after falling ill, in the flat on Calle Santa Ana, above the bookshop …’

A long silence reigned between them, punctuated only by the splattering rain and the echo of thunder moving away as the wind abated.

‘It wasn’t until a month later that I heard she’d been seen one night in the Café de la Ópera, opposite the Liceo. She was sitting with Mauricio Valls. Ignoring my advice, Isabella had threatened him with exposing his plan to use Martín to rewrite some crap of his with which he expected to become famous and be showered with medals. I went there to find out more. The waiter remembered that Valls had arrived before her in a car and that he’d asked for two camomile teas and honey.’

Fermín weighed up the young lawyer’s words.

‘And you believe Valls poisoned her?’

‘I can’t prove it, but the more I think about it, the more obvious it seems to me. It had to be Valls.’

Fermín stared at the floor.

‘Does Señor Martín know?’

Brians shook his head.

‘No. After your escape, Valls ordered Martín to be held in a solitary confinement cell in one of the towers.’

‘What about Doctor Sanahuja? Didn’t they put them together?’

Brians gave a dejected sigh.

‘Sanahuja was court-martialled for treason shortly after your escape. He was shot a week later.’

Another long silence flooded the room. Fermín stood up and began to walk around in circles, looking agitated.

‘And why has nobody looked for me? After all, I’m the cause of all this …’

‘You don’t exist. To avoid loss of face before his superiors and the end of a promising career working for the regime, Valls summoned the patrol he’d sent out to search for you and made them swear that they’d gunned you down while you were trying to escape along the slopes of Montjuïc, and they’d flung your body into the common grave.’

Fermín tasted the anger on his lips.

‘Well, look here, I’ve half a mind to go up to the offices of the Military Government right now and invite them to kiss my resurrected arse. I’d like to see how Valls explains my return from the grave.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense. You wouldn’t solve anything by doing that. You’d simply be taken up to Carretera de las Aguas and shot in the back of the head. That worm isn’t worth it.’

Fermín nodded in assent, but the feelings of shame and guilt were gnawing at his insides.

‘What about Martín? What will happen to him?’

Brians shrugged.

‘What I know is confidential. It can’t go beyond these four walls. There’s a jailer in the castle, a guy called Bebo, who owes me more than a couple of favours. They were going to kill a brother of his but I managed to get his sentence commuted to ten years in a Valencia prison. Bebo is a decent guy and tells me everything he sees and hears in the castle. Valls won’t allow me to see Martín, but through Bebo I’ve found out that he’s alive and that Valls keeps him locked up in the tower and watched round the clock. He’s given him pen and paper. Bebo says Martín is writing.’

‘Writing what?’

‘Goodness knows. Valls believes, or so Bebo tells me, that Martín is working on the book he asked him to write, based on his notes. But Martín, who, as you and I know, is not quite in his right mind, seems to be writing something else. Sometimes he reads out loud what he’s written, or he stands up and starts walking round the cell, reciting bits of dialogue or whole sentences. Bebo does the night shift by his cell and whenever he can he slips him cigarettes and sugar lumps, which is all he eats. Did Martín ever talk to you about something called The Angel’s Game?’

Fermín shook his head.