I know what’s coming.
The freezing hosed water blitzes against my stomach and is then sprayed wildly in a narrow jet by the smaller of the two men. When I try to swallow it, to follow the liquid with my mouth, to taste the sublime fresh water, he shouts at me, ‘Not for drinking. Clean yourself,’ and I begin to wash my crotch, my arse and feet, then slowly under my arms, taking off the soiled cotton shorts because I long ago stopped caring about the embarrassment of nakedness. I have not slept in days but these first moments are quite clear, the water tasting of rain and waking me up. A small pink bar of soap has been thrown onto the ground and I can smell the shit and the puke and the shame sluicing off me as I use it. The woman, who is thin and wears cheap leather boots and light blue jeans, has sat down in a metal chair in the centre of the barn. The third man has slid the door shut and stands beside it holding a handgun. He too is wearing jeans, with a pair of white trainers, and is almost certainly the one who threw coffee in my face. All three of them have black, motionless eyes. There is straw and dried mud on the floor and a stale smell of manure, but it would appear that the farm has not been worked for years. Stained blue tarpaulins cover various rusted objects near the far wall, at least twenty metres away from where I am standing. A single bright bulb is suspended from the ceiling, but slits and spots of light are still visible through the roof and the walls.
As soon as the hose is switched off I am shoved wet and naked into a small wooden chair to which my hands and feet are bound tightly by lines of electric flex. I do not struggle or complain. My body is covered in welts and bites and they start to itch now with the water. Then a hessian sack is jammed over my head and tied across my shoulders with what feels like a very narrow piece of string. When they bundled me into the boot, they knocked my left shoulder on the car and it is into this bruise that the string now bites like a cheese wire.
‘What is your real name?’
The woman has spoken. She is clearly the leader. I hear the man who bound me moving back towards the door.
‘My name is Alec Milius.’
I can see nothing inside the sack, which is already very hot, yet these first moments are oddly calm. I know that my body is weak and pale, that my nakedness is emasculating, but somehow the intense tiredness and hunger I feel actually help me.
‘Who do you work for?’
‘I’m a private banker. I work for a bank. Endiom.’ It takes me a long time, perhaps too long, to spell out the letters. ‘E. N. D. I. O. M. It’s a British company with an office in Madrid.’
A fist tears into my stomach, doubling me over. I did not hear him there. The breath is ripped out of me, leaving a vacuum into which I choke and cough. There are particles of fine earth in the lining of the sack which catch in my throat. I cannot breathe. I try to speak but I cannot breathe. The woman says, ‘Stop lying. Who do you work for?’ but I am unable to respond. The flex binding my hands is too tight and it feels as if all of my weight is being supported on my torn wrists.
Again: ‘Who do you work for?’
When I give the same response – the single word ‘Endiom’ – I am punched a second time, and my assailant has to catch the weight of my head as I pitch forward. His hand covers my mouth through the sack and I want to bite at it, to return the pain. The woman says something in Basque which I do not understand. Then a great wave of nausea swells in me and I think that I might be sick. Again she asks the question, and when I do not reply I hear the grunt of the man beside me, as if he is readying himself for yet another strike. I try to tense my stomach muscles, to prepare for him, but I have lost all physical control over the lower part of my body. Then the click of a cigarette lighter just beside my ear. Oh Jesus, is he going to set fire to the sack? Summoning a desperate strength, I scream, ‘For Christ’s sake, I’m not a fucking spy. You said that I was a spy. When he brought the food three days ago. When he kept me awake.’
The lighter clicks off. I manage to scrape the chair away from the sound of it. There is silence. At the door the guard who threw the coffee clears his throat. I think that I hear him move towards me but I cannot trust my senses now. I am coughing again on the dust. I choke in the terrible darkness of the sack and shake my head, utterly disorientated.
‘How long have you been a spy?’ the woman asks.
This is the crazy, chopped logic of interrogation. Whatever I say, I say nothing.
‘I told you, I’m not a spy. You are keeping the wrong man. I am not a spy. Please don’t hit me when I tell you the truth. My name is Alec Milius. I am a British citizen. I came to Madrid six years ago. I work for a British company. You think that I’m a spy because of my link to Mikel Arenaza, but I had nothing to do with his death. I want to find his killer as much as you do. I think I know…’
But what I am saying is overhauled by the terrible screech of a heavy object being dragged across the ground. It is coming from the direction of the blue tarpaulins near the far wall. It sounds like a fridge, a chest, something large and cumbersome, the awful slide of fingernails being dragged along a blackboard. The woman was not interested in what I had to say. They were moving the object while I was talking.
‘What is that?’
‘Alec?’
Her voice is suddenly very soft and directly in front of me, just a few inches from my face. I could kick her if my legs were free. We could kiss. Even in this nightmare state, the thought arises that one should never strike a woman. I can hear the two men breathing hard as they come to a halt.
‘Yes?’
‘Have you listened to that?’
‘Listened to what? To the noise? Yes, of course.’
‘And do you understand what I have told you?’
‘What have you told me? You’ve told me nothing. I know that you’re ETA. I am not a spy…’
Another suffocating punch into my stomach. Who did that? Was that the woman? I scream something at her, aware that my private vow never to do so, never to grant them the satisfaction of hearing their punishment rewarded, has been easily broken. Then suddenly there is silence, long and quiet enough to hear a bird flap its wings in the rafters of the barn, until eventually the woman speaks again.
‘Let me make things clear,’ she says. ‘There is a gas stove in front of you. This is what we have taken from the other side of the barn. Now I want you to listen to me very carefully.’
Again, the awful static click of the cigarette lighter. One of the men is standing beside me. Someone turns what sounds like the dial on a cooker. I hear the hiss of gas escaping into nothing, followed by a hollow roar as it is lit. Oh, please God, no.
‘If you refuse to co-operate with us, we will put you on this stove. We will burn you and you will be left to die. None of us cares about this. We have done it before and we can choose to do it again. So I want you to consider very carefully when you answer us.’
I begin to weep. I cannot any longer hide my fear from them. My freezing body shakes with terror and cold and I feel a sort of madness welling up beneath the black horror of the sack. Let them do to me what they want. I have no more fight.
‘Do it then,’ I scream. ‘Venga. No soy un mentiroso. Fuck you, you fucking animals. I am not who you think I am. I am not a spy. Fucking do it.’
A wild slash across my head, the back of a hand, then something slamming into my knees, like a wooden stave or a pole. My neck twists as tears cut across my eyes. I scream at them again.
‘You are animals. You betray your cause.’ Where is this strength coming from? An extraordinary defiance has erupted within me and asserted control. ‘You do not know what is happening. There is another GAL. I know about the GAL. You kill me and burn me and you will all be finished.’