A Silent Death Peter May (i read book TXT) 📖

current. Up ahead he saw the Plaza de Juan Bazán, a calm eddy in the circulation of people, fountains glittering in the last of the sunshine that slanted across the roof of Ana’s house. Was it really only yesterday that he and Cristina had visited her? So much had changed in that short time. So many lives ruined.

A familiar face in the crowd caught his eye, and it took him a moment to realize that it was Ana herself, tiny and swamped by the people around her. Like a piece of flotsam carried on turbulent water she vanished, appeared, then vanished again in all too fleeting glimpses. Swept away from him towards the Calle Portada. He called her name at the top of his voice, before remembering with embarrassment that she could not hear him.

And then his heart stopped. Another face caught in the fading sunlight. Then gone. At first he couldn’t be sure, then there it was again. Cleland! And he was with Ana. He bellowed her name again, this time for Cleland’s benefit. It turned the man’s head sharply around, and for the most transient of moments their eyes met. Fifty metres apart. But the electricity between them passed at the speed of light. And then he was gone again. Ana, too.

Mackenzie started ploughing his way through the bodies ahead of him to a chorus of protests and cursing.

*

Ana is hopelessly confused. She has lost control of everything. Her whole physical being, it seems, swept along on a sea of turbulent noisome humanity. All she can feel with any certainty is the iron grip of Cleland’s fingers around her arm. Pulling, dragging her through the tempest. She feels elbows in her ribs, a shoulder in her back. Someone’s foul breath in her face. She blenches, then panics, realizing suddenly that she has lost hold of Sandro’s harness. Gone is his warmth against her legs, his gentle navigation through troubled waters. She calls out his name, but feels only a tightening of Cleland’s grip.

They are almost running now. She is breathless and fighting to keep her feet. The ground is sloping beneath them. Fewer people here, she thinks, but Cleland is relentless in forcing them on. Down, down. Another wave of bodies parting to let them past. Something is terribly wrong. She has no idea what, but she can feel Cleland’s anxiety.

Then suddenly she collides with something unyielding and Cleland’s grip on her arm is broken. Her only security in this nightmare. She feels herself falling, as if through space. An age goes by, it seems, before she hits the ground. Hard, unforgiving asphalt that knocks all the breath from her lungs. Pain shoots through her shoulder. When she gasps for air it is the smell of deep, dark fear that she inhales. The stink of sweating horses. Manure. She can feel the clatter of hooves on cobbles all around her, and realizes with terror that she is in danger of being trampled to death.

Then strong hands close around her arms and she feels herself lifted bodily from the ground and propelled forward. Her face brushes the secreting flank of a horse, the smell of it for a moment overwhelming all her other senses.

*

Perspiration almost blinded Cleland as he steered the helpless Ana through this maelstrom of neighing, rearing horses. Images dazzling him as he turned this way and that, avoiding flanks and hooves. Flat-brimmed Cordobés riding hats, red button-up tunics, ladies riding side-saddle in black and white flamenco skirts, heels scratching at his face. Horsemen screamed at him in a fury, a chorus of angry shouts rising from the crowd as one rider was almost unseated. But like the Red Sea, the passage he had cleaved through the procession closed again behind them. Straw-roofed floats drawn by tractors following on, a brass band belting out its discordant refrain, drums banging, cymbals crashing. A cacophony of horns and klaxons blasting into the hot air of the early evening.

Only as he cleared the crowd lining the route did he dare to look back. There was no sign of Mackenzie. And the procession, in full flood, cut off his path of pursuit. Had the Scots copper made it through the procession, then Cleland might have been forced to abandon Ana to her fate. Which would have meant relinquishing his power over Cristina. But worse, he realized, it would have meant losing Ana herself. And for some reason beyond his understanding he did not want to do that. In any circumstance. In taking the life of Sergio he had somehow made himself responsible for her. Whether he liked it or not. It was the strangest feeling, being beholden to someone else.

*

A burly uniformed Guardia blocked Mackenzie’s path, stepping in his way to stop him from trying to break through the procession. Mackenzie saw Ana’s guide dog wandering bewildered among a forest of legs. Sheaves of hay passed before his eyes, children in white shirts riding on tractors, Policía Local in black uniforms and white helmets revving the motors of their Suzuki motorcycles. Sunlight angling between the rooftops reflected on their visors. All these cops within touching distance of Cleland and no way for Mackenzie to explain. No point in even trying.

He shoved his way back through the crowds lining the procession, and started running along the narrow Calle Silva which followed a parallel course. With luck he would find a crossing point further along. This street was almost deserted, everyone pushing into the Calle Papuecas, one block north, to glimpse the procession. Toddlers hoisted on parental shoulders, children stretching on tiptoes.

Two junctions further along, Mackenzie managed to cross the path of the parade before the horses arrived. He ran the length of another block, then cut back towards the street where Cleland and Ana had forced their way through. He found himself standing in a semi-deserted calle. The sounds of the feria carried to him from a block further over. He could see the throng pressing along the route of the cavalcade.