Moments of Truth

Conchita stood alone where the sun dissected the bullring into sol and sombra. The air was still and the heat oppressive. With a dry screech, the peeling green doors of the ’gate of death’ swung open and the crowd roared in anticipation. A huge black bull burst angrily into the bright sunshine and then stood snorting with fury as it cast about for something or someone to fight. It worked its way quickly around the perimeter of the ring, moving in swift rushes punctuated by snorting pauses, its curving horns raised to challenge any threat to its new domain. When it had covered two thirds of the distance Conchita knew it had seen her.

The bull moved in quickly, long shiny horns on a level with her chest. She knew she could not outrun it and reach the safety of the barrera. A cold fear froze her mind for perilous moments of inaction as she stared at the black nemesis across the ring. Then fear pumped fiery adrenaline into her body. The roar of the crowd became distant and muted and the bull’s charge changed into slow motion.

But what should she do? The bull was terrifyingly fast. She could hear its angry breath. The pounding of its hooves overpowered the sound of her blood as it roared through her veins. Then suddenly her head cleared, and she had the bull’s rhythm. She knew exactly on which stride it would reach her. Instinctively she noted the way it carried its left horn slightly lower, favouring that side for its strike. Imperceptibly she tilted forward on her toes like a wrestler and waited for the moment of truth.

“Madra de Dios!” It burst from her lips more like a savage gasp than a prayer and then the beast was there, its horns dipped low to strike her unprotected torso. As she felt the tip of the left horn pluck at her clothes she spun like a ballerina and slipped away to her right. But the bull was fast. Very fast. It was a prime fighting bull. A toro! Bred for speed and aggression. Made angry by its confinement in the dark passage from the corral. She had no fluttering pink cape to distract its attention from her body, so she had to move and the bull followed the movement seeking a target for its attack. While Conchita was still off balance from her spin, the toro wheeled in a choking cloud of yellow sand and caught her right leg just above the knee. With a contemptuous flick of its great neck it flipped her in a violent somersault over its back.

Now the pain. Hot and sharp in her torn leg. Dull and heavy where she had landed on her back. Like burning magnesium in her brain as the panic hit her again. Pain or no pain, she had to get out of there. She rolled over onto her stomach and squinted into the shadowed half of the ring. The bull was there, halfway back in the shaded hemisphere, its arrogant stance declaiming its superiority. The epitome of machismo. Watching. Waiting for the movement that would mean it had not yet driven its enemy from its ground. Waiting to show its dominance again.

Conchita knew that the bull would see any movement as a threat, but no one came to help her, to distract the beast long enough for rescuers to drag her to safety. She was facing towards the bull, her body in line with it. If she could just creep backwards keeping herself in the bull’s blind spot then maybe, just maybe she could escape. But with the pain in her leg, could she leap the barrera? No way. Her leg felt as if someone was using a blow-torch on it. The only other option was for her to reach the temporary refuge offered by the burladero. It was only a simple wooden wall set a couple of feet inside the barrera and open at both ends. But it might buy her some time. It was just a few yards away to her right, but to get there she would have to move across the bull’s line of vision. Slowly, she edged backwards, never taking her eyes away from the waiting beast. Every effort sent searing pain through her bleeding leg. Every slight movement of the bull caused stabs of panic that immobilised her momentarily. But slowly, carefully, she increased the distance between her and the bull. Was it losing interest in her? Had it lost sight of her? There was only one way to find out.

Wincing at the surge of extra pain, she hauled herself to her knees then to her feet. A wave of vertigo made her stagger on to her right leg and she cried out as she regained her balance. Quickly she glanced at the bull. Her heart missed a beat as the beast started to run towards her then stopped as if unsure. Now she thought. Now or never and she shuffled unevenly towards the burladero, her right leg dragging a shallow furrow in the sand. Over her shoulder she could see the bull turning towards her, gathering speed, head lowering for the kill. She was sobbing now, calling for her Mama like a small child. It was part fear, part relief as she neared the barrera. And then her right leg gave out and she tumbled to the ground again.

The Mexican obscenities that burst from her filled her with a fierce anger. For a moment she was a little girl again, her Grandfather’s ranch hands laughing at her efforts to rope a young steer. The steer had broken away, but she had learned other things from the men and had screamed a torrent of foul language at them. That had only made them laugh more and she had stormed off to the hacienda fighting back tears of humiliation. Her Grandfather had punished her severely for ‘her unladylike behaviour’ but she had refused to cry. She had held on to her anger as a protection against the unfairness of being a small girl in a macho environment. She had blotted out the pain of her punishment by recalling all the perceived injustices of her short life. The loss of her Father. Being a poor Mexican in California. The way her Mother always gave in to her Grandfather and expected her to do the same. She had driven out the positives in her life and used her resentment to feed the anger. Somehow it had given her the strength to survive the humiliation. And now the same anger was helping her to ignore the pain as she scrambled across the hot sand to safety.

Only a yard or so now. But she was fading, her vision blurring in and out of focus as tides of pain-filled terror washed over her. She gasped out, “Por favor “, to no one in particular, or was it to herself, a desperate entreaty to fight for survival? In her head she was screaming at herself to keep going. To fight. To be angry enough to fight. Think of the bull as an enemy rather than an oppressor. Don’t let it beat you! Her head bumped into something solid and she found herself at the barrera. Where was the burladero? To her left. She was almost there. But so was the enemy and now she was trapped against a wall of solid planks where the bull could gore her at will. Suddenly she had no more fight left. A dizzying nausea swept over her and she could feel herself slipping away towards the false haven of unconsciousness. The blackness of the bull was enveloping her mind. Snuffing out the light of her awareness. Except for one thing. The sound of a horse whinnying. Not a fearful whinny but an angry one. Getting louder. Nearer. Somehow familiar. Yes familiar.

The black mist was receding, the sound of the horse very close now and she did know it. Salamander! It was Salamander. She would know that sound anywhere. He had come to save her, but how? Wasn’t he…..? She shut out the thought and darkness threatened again, but this time it was not benign, not a sanctuary. It was the very nightmare she was trying to escape, so she fought it as if it was a solid, tangible entity and then forced open her eyes to see his adorable silhouette above her, etched against the whiteness of the Spanish sun. The stallion was rearing, directly between her and the bull. The bull had pulled up and backed off, surprised at the ferocity of Salamander’s onslaught. Good old Salamander. As fearless as ever. And so beautiful; handsome head thrust forward, baring his teeth aggressively between his flailing hooves; glistening chestnut coat showing the rippling power of a thoroughbred stallion; his magnificent undocked black tail flying elegantly through the clouds of sand raised by his challenge to the bull. Conchita smiled lopsidedly, her pleasure tinged with the continuing pain in her leg.

While the bull was occupied she heaved herself into a sitting position against the barrera and then rolled carefully on to her knees. The pain of crawling was excruciating but she knew she was going to reach safety and she sobbed softly with relief at her reprieve. Behind the shelter of the burladero she paused for some deep breaths then gripped the edge of the structure to drag herself upright. Beyond the burladero Salamander’s frenzied whinnying told her that the battle of wills was continuing. Her dear brave Salamander was out there with a treacherous killer, cunning and fast enough to have out-thought and out-manoeuvred her. Salamander had done all that was needed. Now he should back off and take care of himself.

She squinted out anxiously from the comparative shade of the burladero. Salamander was still locked in his face-off with the bull, but the bull had not retreated. Instead, it was tossing its great black head, its nostrils flared by fierce short snorts, mauling the sand with an impatient hoof. Conchita could see that the horse was tiring. His rearing was not as vigorous as at the beginning. Each time he reared it was a little less defiant, his wind-milling hooves slower, coming back to ground sooner. She had to stop him but at the right moment, otherwise she might just distract him enough to relax his guard and allow the bull to attack. Her free hand moved up to her mouth in a stifling gesture but failed to stop a savage oath escaping as the toro suddenly lunged forward just as the horse landed on its four feet again. But fear can lend wings. With a contemptuous flick of his tail, Salamander side-stepped, then twisted and galloped away across the sand.

“Oh, good boy Salamander!” In her relief, Conchita forgot how near the bull was and shouted encouragement to the horse. It was enough to attract the toro’s attention to her. With a nimbleness unthinkable in such a heavy beast, the bull turned away from Salamander and hurled itself against the boards of the burladero. The force was enough to catapult Conchita into the barrera behind her and while she lay there winded she could hear the bull crashing repeatedly into the burladero. The entire structure was shaking, some of the boards splintering under the assault of the bull’s horns. What if it destroyed the burladero or found its way around the end of the boards? The burladero was only intended as a temporary refuge for hard-pressed matadors, a screen behind which they could shelter while their assistants lured the bull away with their capes. Sometimes they were chased out from behind the boards and had to resort to an ignominious leap over the barrera. But that was not an option for her.

As she struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on the barrera, the burladero shuddered under another shattering offensive. One of the bull’s long horns broke through the boards just above her head and she screamed. Immediately there was an answering scream but not of terror. It was Salamander again, throwing down the gauntlet to the bull. Conchita was battling to find a grip on the smooth boards of the barrera, to help her stand and see what was happening. No longer concerned with her own escape. Her only anxiety now was for Salamander, her dearest friend. She could hear his frantic whinnying coming closer. Coming bravely to rescue her. And it was working. The bull had stopped its ferocious attack on her frail shelter. It must be going after Salamander.

Then the horse was there, next to the burladero, the sound of frenzied hooves implying that a close-quarters struggle was taking place. Salamander was fighting for her but all she wanted was for him to run. To escape those wickedly pointed horns. “Leave him alone you bastard!” Again, her anger reinforced her will and she lurched to her feet and hobbled out from the security of the burladero. She staggered as needles of pain rippled up her leg and as she fell she heard Salamander scream. Then the burladero caved in as the bull impaled the horse against it. “Salamander!” Conchita’s cry was an agonising shriek of pain and guilt. And frustration too as she tried to get up and go to the dying horse, but she was being held down by strong hands. Gently but firmly she was being restrained while her beautiful Salamander was writhing against the savage pain of his injuries and the bull was walking away, satisfied that it had re-established its mastery of the ring.

“No! Let me go,” she yelled at the kindly faces leaning over her.

”Take it easy honey.” The big middle-aged American looked puzzled and concerned as he released the arm he had been holding and tentatively patted her tightly clenched fist. “You were just having a dream about something, but it’s all OK now.” Relief showed on the face of the stewardess who was crouched beside her in the aisle, still holding her other arm. Behind her Conchita could see the passengers across the aisle turning away, back to their books and magazines. She felt embarrassed.

“I’m so sorry,” she said feebly.“ Just a bad dream.”

The stewardess smiled. White teeth and warm brown eyes. “No problem Miss. You just sit quietly for a few minutes and I’ll get you some water. You’ll feel better in a moment.”

But Conchita knew that she would not feel better. Not in a moment. Maybe not in a lifetime. The dream had been pure fantasy, but there was no escaping the fact that Salamander was dead and that it had been her fault that he had died. Nothing could change that unpalatable truth or take away the regretful ache that had driven her to escape from the insistent and unhelpful sympathy of her friends. It seemed that even in Spain she was to be haunted by the realisation that her reckless ambition had destroyed the most precious friend she had ever known.

The airport at Madrid, Conchita decided, was altogether too much like the one she had left eleven hours previously in LA. Huge functional concrete halls with shiny floors, tediously long passenger walkways and that indefinable air of permanent impermanence that pervades places of transit.

She waited impatiently in the baggage-clearing hall, still embarrassed by her behaviour on the flight. To avoid further discomfort she sat on the end of a five-seat row, well away from the conveyor belt that the computer display said would eventually regurgitate the baggage of Flight 549. There was no way she could cope with any more kindness, accompanied as it inevitably was by concerned looks of such intensity that she wanted to burst into tears. Even though their sympathy was indiscriminate - non-specific to her circumstances - the very fact that they seemed to care made her feel an intense longing for absolution. Absolution and forgiveness. Forgiveness and peace.

But would there be any peace in Spain? Was there any point in running away only to end up somewhere exactly like the place she had come from? And her first impression was that she had flown half a day to arrive at the same place with a different language. But as she waited the contrasts became gradually more apparent. The PA announcements were made first in Spanish and then in English, not the other way around as in LA. There were even more people with dark, Hispanic good looks than in immigrant-swamped Southern California. But whereas in California they were mostly poor folk, doing menial jobs that Caucasian Americans would not consider, here there were Spanish people who were obviously comfortably off; more smartly attired than typical jean-clad Americans; sober-faced travellers, intent on reaching some important destination. She wondered if they ever smiled. Her own experience of Hispanic people was so different - happy-go-lucky Mexicans who laughed even in adversity.

As the minutes passed she became edgily aware of yet another difference. Her friends in LA had warned her that service in Europe was not what she would normally expect in the US and it did seem to be taking an eternity for their baggage to appear on the conveyor, though maybe that was just a perception heightened by her impatience to escape well-meaning fellow passengers. Watching the airport workers, she got the impression that whatever duties they were supposed to be fulfilling were things that could quite happily be postponed until another day if necessary. The mañana syndrome. She knew it well from her time in Mexico. Yet this was somehow different. In Mexico the lack of commitment to work would have been more exuberant, the so-called workers diverted from duty by animated conversations and laughter. But here it was more serious, more restrained, as if they were gripped by a sullen resentment of the need to earn a living in a place so un-Spanish, so tainted with the antiseptic conformity of international air travel.

God! What had she come to? Was her time in Spain going to be a sombre travelogue, a religious procession of ancient cathedrals, proud castles and dry, mountainous terrain? Where was the legendary Hispanic fire, the vigorous energy of flamenco, the riotous colour of the fiesta? Or was that a mythical image of Spain conjured up by travel company spin-doctors? Or perhaps she was simply seeing things from a jaded perspective, a side effect of her depressive state of mind. She was after all still in the airport, hardly a place to pass judgement on a race that had colonised most of the Americas. But the waiting went on and the impression lingered.

At last the conveyor belt lurched into action - not that Conchita could see it, but she did notice the sudden animation of the weary passengers clustered around the conveyor and figured that finally, their bags were on their way. She moved towards the conveyor, being careful to avoid any of the passengers she recognised as those who were near her when she had been dreaming. She just wanted to be left alone. She was tired and not simply from the long flight. Her mind was exhausted from coping with guilt and a sense of uselessness. She wanted nothing more than to escape to her hotel, where nobody would know anything about her and she could shelter in a haze of anonymity from well-meaning compassion.

As she peered over the shoulder of a fat woman in a tent-like T-shirt, her first suitcase emerged through the hanging rubber strips that stopped passengers seeing the irritating lack of activity among the baggage handlers. “Thank God,” she breathed. And then the other case hove into view like a lifeboat rising above stormy waves and she pushed her way to the front. It was then she realised that in her determination to avoid passengers who had witnessed her embarrassment, she had forgotten to fetch a luggage trolley. Shit! Get the bags off the conveyor first, she thought and grabbing the first she heaved it on to the floor beside her. But the second was close behind and she couldn’t get back in time for it. Shit again! As she turned back for the second bag she saw her it being swung from the conveyor and a moment later, being placed neatly beside the other.

“This is also yours I think?” The man spoke in Spanish, but not Mexican Spanish. Softer and more sibilant. More sophisticated.

“Si. Muchas gracias, Señor.” Conchita smiled her appreciation and took in the appearance of her helper. He was obviously Spanish though taller than average. A businessman in a dark suit.

“De nada. It’s nothing,” he said politely. A perfect gentleman. But his eyes were interesting, full of something she could not define. “There are never enough trolleys,” he said with a rueful smile. “Here.Take this one. I only have a small bag to carry. Yours are heavy.”

“No, I couldn’t……” Conchita felt uncomfortable, somehow inadequate.

“It’s not a problem,” he said, “but if it bothers you we could share the trolley.”

She looked around to see if there were any more trolleys but there were none to be seen, just a stampede of travellers pushing over-laden trolleys towards Customs. “OK,” she said, slipping into American.

“OK?” His eyes were smiling now with quiet amusement and he spoke in English. “You are American?”

Conchita shrugged and nodded. “Yeah,” she said, moving her mouth as if she was chewing gum and then with an exaggerated Southern states accent, “Sure thaing. Allow me tuh intradoose ma self. Ah aim Mary Lou Carlton from Georgiah. One of the Atlantah Carltons. Mah great Grandpappy wus a colonel with the Confederates in the civil war and we have plantations in Sarth Carolinah and Georgiah.”

For a moment the Spaniard was taken aback. He looked her up and down quite openly, taking in her long dark hair, brown eyes and olive skin. Then with a twinkle in his eyes he realised she was making a joke at his expense.

“You are very beautiful,” he said “but perhaps not a typical Scarlet O’Hara. I am sorry if I offended you, but you spoke such perfect Spanish that I thought….” He paused. “And then you sounded so American.”

Conchita spread her hands and shrugged again. “My Mother is Mexican, and my Father was from the States.”

“Ah, I see,” he said in Spanish. “A dangerous cocktail.”

Conchita was about to produce one of the devastating retorts for which she had been notorious among the more chauvinist male students at UCLA, but the man had turned away to rescue his small but expensive suitcase from the conveyor. He swung it down beside her two much larger cases and then loaded all three on to the trolley. What the hell she thought. If he wants to be my porter, then let him. There were times when men had their uses.

“So,” he said, looking just a little too pleased with himself. “Shall we go Señorita?”

“Sure,” she said, adopting a provocatively American style. “Why not? It’s the only way I’m gonna see this little country of yours.” But if she expected a reaction to her jibe, she was disappointed because the man simply smiled, turned on his heels and pushed the trolley towards the exit. Conchita felt vaguely annoyed at his behaviour, yet at the same time found him to be something of a challenge. He certainly was not like some of the gutless males she had met at UCLA. It had been all too easy for the members of The Sisterhood to control them in the atmosphere of political correctness that had pervaded the university and they had taken a savage delight in exercising their power. But this man was different. Confident but not patronising. Reluctantly she admitted to herself that she was actually enjoying the verbal sparring. However, she was not about to hand him any kind of moral advantage so she increased her stride, caught him up and kept pace with him all the way through customs and out into the arrivals concourse.

It was heaving with people. Some of them were clearly there to meet returning relatives, others trying to locate business visitors who they did not know, holding hastily scrawled cards with the name of the traveller they were hoping to meet. Most of the names were not Spanish but were all preceded by Señor or Señora. Obviously a very polite and rather formal race Conchita decided. Like the man beside her, propelling her bags through the crowd. And yet there was certainly more to him than a courteous businessman. Hopefully there was more to the Spanish people once you got to know them properly.

Once they were through the jostling crowd, the man stopped and lifted his bag from the trolley. “So Señorita Carlton,” he said, “Your exploration of my little country starts here I think. I must go this way,” he pointed to the left. “My driver will be waiting for me. And you must find your hotel. If you wish we could take you there. The taxi drivers in Madrid are all rogues who will cheat you if they know you are a foreigner.”

She hesitated. If he really did have a driver she would at least feel safer, but she figured that if he had a driver he was probably being taken to a good hotel and she did not want him to see the kind of hotel where she was staying. She had no intention of allowing him to feel superior. “No gracias Señor,” she said. “I have transport arranged.” She took hold of the trolley. “You have been very kind. Thank you.”

The man smiled. “It has been a pleasure,” he said. “I hope you will have a pleasant time in Spain.” A moment later he was gone, striding through the crowds of apparently aimless people towards one of the exits. Conchita watched him until he disappeared. Unaccountably she felt lost and alone. She had come to Spain to be on her own, but once she left the familiar territory of the airport she knew it would all be so different, so foreign to her, so unlike the States or even Mexico that perhaps knowing someone local would have been a good idea.

She suddenly felt tired. The journey had been tedious and long. What she needed now she decided was a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow she had the whole of Madrid to explore. That would keep her busy and occupy her mind. She had read up on the city and was particularly looking forward to the art galleries. Picasso was a favourite of hers and nowhere else were so many of his famous paintings on display. She surprised herself by thinking the cliché that ‘everything would look different in the morning’ and set off towards the exit where the airport sign indicated she would find the bus to the centre of Madrid.

Sometime between two and four in the morning, David crossed the border into Spain. Around 2.15 he had panicked about staying on the road, just in case there was a border post. He knew it was unlikely on a minor pass through the Pyrenees, after all, Spain was a member of the European Community and the Schengen Agreement had led to open borders between member countries.

He had been on a relatively straight stretch of road, climbing steadily through a barren landscape to the top of the pass. It was quieter than Grantham on a Sunday night and there had been no vehicles since he had left his daytime hiding place near Fabian, but the vague possibility gnawed at his brain and he decided to go cross-country for a while. He had no intention of being caught after evading the authorities for so long. He had struck out to the southeast from the road and worked his way up a steep, rock strewn slope. Far above him, a limestone rock face thrust almost vertically from the slopes below, its crazily tilted strata pale and ghostly in the intermittent moonlight. It was hard going, and the roughness of the terrain provided little grip for his scrambling feet. Though his long trek from England had hardened his muscles, his legs were soon trembling from the effort and his rapid breathing sucked in painful gasps of the freezing mountain air.

After twenty minutes he was exhausted. He knew he should press on but he just had to rest, to ease his aching lungs and shaking legs. He slumped to the ground gasping for breath. Beneath him the ground was hard and uneven. Sharp rocks dug pitilessly into his flesh, but the relief of stopping was overwhelming. Perversely, he enjoyed the sheer pleasure of not having to force his tired body up the mountainside, not needing to fight for every foothold on a precipitous slope that could sweep him back to the road below if just once he chose the wrong place to put his foot.

When he had rested a while he sat up and looked around him. The hillside below him was darker now, more difficult to make out, but he could just see the white painted stones that edged the road wherever it hung above a sheer drop. He had climbed well above the road, out of the range of the headlights of any vehicles that he irrationally thought might come up the pass at nearly three in the morning. But his judgement was that of a desperate man, a man on the run who believed that everyone must know his face and the history of what he had done. He was alone and frightened, with only a sketchy idea of where he was and none at all of what lay ahead. He just had to keep on going, believing that somewhere ahead of him was a place where he could once again feel secure. Begin to lead a normal life again, meet friends to laugh and talk. Walk down a street again without wondering if he was being watched, without feeling that unnerving desire to escape, to draw fatal attention to himself by running.

God what a mess! It was all Beagle’s fault, the bastard. Why had he told the Police that story? He must have known it wouldn’t get him off the hook. And what had happened to the idea of being in the thing together? They had all known the risks, hadn’t they? No, probably not. That was the trouble with idealists. They all thought that they could fight their particular battle without being touched by the consequences of their actions. They were so obsessed by the justice of their cause that they convinced themselves no harm could possibly come to them. And if they ever considered the possibility of being caught and tried, they conveniently packaged the likely outcome in a cloak of martyrdom that made it all seem somehow glamorous and noble - quite devoid of any threat of suffering.

But he now knew better. He had been the one whose actions had resulted in tragedy and he would never be able to dress that up as a noble act. He was the one who had to live with the horror of what he had done, the one who had been so terrified of the repercussions that he had run rather than face up to them. He should have used the opportunity to put over the ideals that he thought were so important, but instead he had run. And this was no heroic escape from the evil of Nazism or the oppression of a tyrant. He was running because he was afraid. For close on two months he had been living as a fugitive, avoiding contact with people and living by his wits like a criminal in an all-consuming quest for survival.

And he had survived. In a private place away from his feelings of guilt, he felt proud of the way he had coped. Evading those who were looking for him, finding his way across France by night. Building his stamina so that he could leave the roads and take the safer option of going cross-country. At first the weather had been piercingly cold, so he had often staggered through the daylight hours just to keep his circulation going. Finally, he had been so exhausted that he had collapsed where he was and slept like a dormouse despite the temperature and the risk of discovery. What little food he had eaten he had stolen and eaten hastily in secret places. He was permanently hungry and longed for the comfort of a bath and clean clothes. On two occasions he almost gave himself up to Gendarmes that he saw, but it was too late for that. Nobody would believe his side of the story now. He knew he would rather be cold and hungry than go back and so his fear drove him on.

The white stones on the roadside were barely discernible now. The fluffy clouds that had periodically blotted out the moonlight were thickening. A chilling little breeze was blowing from the west. If the weather was going to worsen, this was no place to be. He knew he had made the wrong decision. He should have stayed on the road. He twisted round to peer at the rock wall above him. Even in the deepening gloom he could see that it was impassable. He would have to stay on the rocky slope and try to work his way around to a point where he could re-join the road. Although he had climbed a long way above the road, he could see that it was also climbing though more steadily to the head of the pass. Maybe it would eventually cross the slope he was on and he would not have to chance a risky scramble down a treacherous hillside in the dark.

His breathing was back to normal now, but he could feel the cold gnawing at him. If he stayed here much longer he might not be able to move at all. “Time to go David”, he said aloud. “It can’t be much further to the top. And then it’s all downhill to Spain!” In the long nights travelling through France he had convinced himself that he would be safe if he could reach Spain. It was far enough from England for news of a fugitive from British justice to be relegated to the foreign news pages. The ordinary people would see him as just another foreign tourist and he could hide from the police in the crowds at one of the busier resorts. Hopefully he would find some casual work and then gradually work his way south to the Med. Once there he was sure he could find a boat to take him to North Africa, out of the immediate reach of his pursuers. All he had to do was get through another night and things would start to get better.

He rolled on to his knees and stood up, leaning into the slope. Then he angled across the hillside, edging gradually up towards the base of the rock face. The moonlight had gone completely now, and the massive tower of grey rock was no more than an ominous shadow to his left. If he had thought that the more gradual angle of his climb would make the going easier, he soon discovered that he was mistaken. With the increasing breeze came a cold, driving rain that made the rocky surface slippery and treacherous. There was no moonlight to help him pick his way across the hillside and cutting across the slope meant that he was constantly off balance, his left leg higher and his right leg scrabbling for grip. But steadily he worked his way forward, head bent stubbornly against the wind and rain. Finally, he reached a ridge that stretched out to the south-west from the base of the giant rock wall.

“Where now David?” He spoke the words out loud. It was a habit he had developed during his solitary journey because he found it strangely comforting. It created the illusion that he was not really alone, that there was someone with him to encourage him when things were especially tough. Every day he had faced difficult decisions. Which way to go? Where to hide during the daylight hours? Was he hungry enough to risk going into the nearest town? Was he desperate enough to steal food from a market stall? He found that it helped to talk through the problem, to outline the situation and review the options. And somehow, by speaking aloud to himself, it seemed as if the problem was being shared. Now, as he stood peering into the black well of the downward slope, he knew he had to make a better decision than he had when he had left the road two hours earlier.

While the wet weather had taken off the edge of the bitingly cold mountain air, the combination of dampness and the wind chill factor had been eating into his reserves of strength for the past hour. He had good outdoor clothes, a fleece-lined parka and excellent walking boots. But the lack of proper food meant that he had started his climb to the pass with his energy levels already at a dangerously low ebb. His hands and face felt stiff with cold and his legs were heavy. He desperately wanted to rest but the rain was getting heavier all the time and there was no shelter on the ridge. Nearby was a boulder with a shallow depression on one side that gave it the appearance of an armchair. He almost gave in and sat on it. “No David!” He tried to shake the fuzziness out of his head. ”Don’t be an idiot. If you sit down, you’ll never get going again”. God he was tired. He could feel himself swaying as another squall of rain tried to scour him from the bleak landscape.

“Come on. Pull yourself together. Make a bloody decision before you fall over and freeze to death!” Had he not been so dog-tired it would have been an obvious decision, but coping with his physical discomforts had been steadily sapping his mental capacity, slowing his brain processes to a laboured crawl. Another blast of rain hit him, the wind-driven drops stinging his exposed flesh and injecting a sense of urgency into his weary brain. “OK. OK. Just give me a minute, will you?” A surge of resentment cut through his inertia and he yelled at the tormenting wind. “Bloody weather! Bloody awful bloody place! I thought Spain was supposed to be warm and sunny. So why pick on me? Well I’m not beaten yet you bastards. I’m going to get off of this sodding mountain if it kills me!” Suddenly he realised what he had said, and he chuckled. “Silly bugger. Well it won’t kill you if you get your arse into gear. So, what are the options?”

He held one hand beside his face to ward off the worst of the rain and squinted into the darkness of the south-facing slope. It seemed to drop away very quickly but he couldn’t be sure. It was the direction he needed to go, but it would be all too easy to slip on the wet rocks and end up lying in a gully with a broken leg or worse. Visibility down the ridge itself was not much better. What he could see was a much gentler descent to the south-west. It would still be hard going, but it would be less of a risk and eventually it should bring him back to the road. Further down from the head of the pass there should be peaks and bluffs to the west and in their lee, he might be able to find some shelter. He opted for the ridge.

The trek down it was unpleasant but uneventful. The wind continued blowing hard and the rain turned from squally showers into a full-blown deluge. It was miserable but at least it was all downhill. Downhill towards Spain. Spain and warm sunshine. But that was some distance away. First of all, he had to find somewhere out of the worst of the weather to rest and the thought of that comparative luxury helped him to press doggedly on towards the road. After almost an hour of tramping through the rain he was sure that the eastern sky was lightening with the first suggestion of dawn. Shortly after that he came to a steeper part of the ridge that dropped down to where he hoped to find the road, but the watery light behind him only served to throw an even deeper shadow over the area below.

The road had to be down there somewhere nearby. And even if it wasn’t, he had no alternative but to continue his descent. Whatever he found in the gloom beneath him, he knew he could no more climb another hill than he could go back to England. For a moment he considered waiting for the light to improve before attempting the steep slope. Then his fear of capture got the better of him and he started to move gingerly down the hill. The hillside was bare and barren. There was little for him to use as handholds to steady himself, so he had to lean back into the hill, almost sitting on the wet ground. Stretching his quivering legs down the slope, he eased himself forwards, digging his heels into the loose gravel and taking the smallest steps he could. Every few minutes he stopped where his probing feet came up against a larger rock and he leaned back gratefully into the slope for a rest. If anything, this was the most strenuous part of the night’s exertions and he was acutely aware that he was operating on pure adrenaline.

Surely he must be near the bottom of the slope by now? In the improving light he could make out the vague shapes of higher ground on the other side of the valley. Below him, the continuing slope remained dark and unknown. He realised he had started to breathe heavily again though this was less to do with physical effort and more because he was afraid. What if he lost his precarious grip on the hillside? What if the slope ended in another rock wall like the one he had skirted earlier that night? He would know nothing about it until his feet ran out of ground and he was suddenly falling through the blackness, terrified at his fate but unable to stop himself from falling.

There was no doubt now that the dawn light was creeping across the damp landscape. Above him to the east he could see heavy grey clouds scudding across the sky. Across the valley, rocky bluffs were emerging from the gloom. There was still no sign of the road, but he was close now. He knew he was close. He could afford to rest a little longer and wait until the dawn showed him the safest way to get down to the floor of the valley.” Just a few minutes,” he told himself. “ Just until the light improves and then you can find some shelter from this bloody rain.” He leaned back into the slope again. Rivulets of rainwater were pouring round him and under him, rushing down the slope that he feared. He could imagine the rainwater racing to join a crystal-clear stream, then a bright, wide river flowing between green tree-lined banks. It was a beautiful place. Reflections of the warm sun danced gently on the surface, a glittering promise of the glory they would achieve when the river left the land behind and merged with the sunlit sea. And there under the shade of softly shimmering leaves, David pictured himself warm and contented, safe and relaxed……and then he was deeply asleep, a small bedraggled patch of dark on the steadily lightening paleness of the hillside.