The jailer shook his head with exasperation.
‘Fucking hell. Now what?’
‘Bring the sack.’
The jailer cursed his bad luck.
‘If you like, I’ll put him in, boss,’ Fermín offered.
The jailer nodded with just a hint of gratitude.
‘If you bring the sack now, you can go and notify them while I put him in. That way they’ll come and collect him before mi
dnight,’ Fermín added.
The jailer nodded again and went off in search of the canvas sack. Fermín stood by the door of his cell. On the other side of the corridor, Martín and Sanahuja watched him in silence.
Ten minutes later, the jailer returned holding the sack by one end, unable to hide the nausea caused by the stench of rotten flesh it gave off. Fermín moved away to the far end of the cell without waiting to be told. The jailer opened the cell door and threw the sack inside.
‘Let them know now, boss. That way they’ll take the bacon away before midnight – or we’ll have to keep him here until tomorrow night.’
‘Are you sure you can manage to put him in on your own?’
‘Don’t worry, boss, I’ve had plenty of practice.’
The jailer nodded again, not entirely convinced.
‘Let’s hope we’re in luck and it works out, because his stump is starting to ooze and I can’t begin to tell you what that’s going to smell like …’
‘Shit,’ said the jailer, scuttling off.
As soon as he heard him reach the end of the corridor, Fermín began to undress Salgado. Then he removed his own clothes and got into the thief’s stinking rags. Finally, Fermín put his own clothes on Salgado and placed him on the bed, lying on his side with his face to the wall, and pulled the blanket over him, so that it half-covered his face. Then he grabbed the canvas sack and got inside it. He was about to close it when he remembered something.
Hurriedly, he got out again and went over to the wall. With his nails, he scratched the space between two stones where he’d seen Salgado hide the key, until the tip began to show. He tried to pull it out with his fingers, but the key kept slipping and remained stuck between the stones.
‘Hurry up,’ Martín hissed from the other side of the corridor.
Fermín gripped the key with his nails and pulled hard. The nail of his ring finger was ripped off and for a few seconds he was blinded with pain. Fermín muffled a scream and sucked his finger. The taste of his own blood, salty and metallic, filled his mouth. When he opened his eyes again he noticed that about a centimetre of the key was protruding from the wall. This time he was able to pull it out easily.
He slipped into the sack again and tied the knot from the inside, as best he could, leaving an opening of about a hand’s breadth. Holding back the retching he felt rising up his throat, he lay on the floor and tightened the strings until only a small gap was left, the size of a fist. He held his nose shut with his fingers. It was preferable to breathe in his own filth than to smell that rotting stench. Now, all that remained for him to do was wait, he told himself.
20
The streets of Pueblo Nuevo were buried in a thick, humid fog that slithered up from the citadel of shacks on the Somorrostro beach. The governor’s Studebaker advanced slowly through veils of mist, past shadowy canyons formed by factories, warehouses and dark, crumbling outbuildings. In front of them, the car’s headlights carved out two tunnels of light. Soon the silhouette of the old Vilardell textile mill peered through the fog. Chimneys and crests of abandoned pavilions and workshops were outlined at the far end of the street. The large entrance was guarded by a spiked gate; behind it, just visible, was a spread of tangled undergrowth out of which rose the skeletons of burned lorries and wrecked wagons. The chauffeur stopped in front of the entrance to the old factory.
‘Leave the engine running,’ ordered the governor.
The beams from the headlights pierced the blackness beyond the gate, revealing the ruinous state of the plant, bombed during the war and abandoned like so many other buildings all over the city.
On one side, a few huts were boarded up with wooden planks. Next to these, facing a garage that looked as if it had gone up in flames, stood what Valls supposed must be the former home of the security guards. The reddish glow of a candle, or an oil lamp, licked the edges of one of the closed windows. The governor took in the scene unhurriedly from the back seat of the car. After a few minutes’ wait, he leaned forward and spoke to the chauffeur.
‘Jaime, do you see that house on the left-hand side, opposite the garage?’
It was the first time the governor had addressed him by his first name. Something in that sudden warm and polite tone made the driver prefer his usual cold treatment.
‘The lodge, you mean?’
‘Exactly. I want you to walk over there and knock on the door.’