all this so they could escape? What kind of black and cruel comedy was this? As he looked away, he spotted the pistol, fallen from Miguel’s grasp.
‘My hands. Amy.’
Amy was already there, untying him. As soon as his smarting wrists were unbound, David leaned and picked up the gun; then checked Enoka was nowhere to be seen.
He had a chance to shoot the terrorist. Shoot the wolf. David looked at the sleeping head of his tormentor.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t kill a sleeping man, he couldn’t kill a man. He was a lawyer, not a killer, the whole thing was absurd, evil but absurd; and besides, even if he killed him, he couldn’t defeat him. The graffiti would still be scrawled on the walls of Basque villages. Otsoko. The Wolf. And the image of what he’d just witnessed would never quit.
Amy was imploring him. ‘Please!’
He surrendered to her urgency. They crept down the rockshelf, out of the cave, beyond the clearing. They were going to make it. David felt the thrill of escape even as his mind reeled at the harrowing scene he had been forced to observe; Amy was running ahead now, up a pathway, between trees and bushes.
‘Zara. She’ll be there – any minute.’
They raced to the end of the path, and then the path became a lane, and then the lane became a misty village road. The spire of Zugarramurdi church loomed across a desolate square.
‘There!’
Amy was sprinting towards a car parked up by the church. She flung open the door and David opened the other door; Zara was inside asking questions in frantic Spanish, but Amy just said: ‘Go!’
The car sped out of the square, out of Zugarramurdi, down another mountain road.
David looked across the passenger seat.
Amy was silent, but crying.
12
Zara drove them speedily to the road where they had left the hire car; it took a bare few minutes to drive what had taken them an hour to crawl. Amy was silent the entire way; she dried her tears and said nothing, despite Zara’s repeated and insistent queries.
The Spanish journalist gave them a puzzled glare as they eventually stepped out into the rain. Zara was quite obviously needled by the mystery and the ensuing silence. With a wordless pout Zara handed Amy her bag: the bag she had collected, as instructed, from Amy’s flat using the spare key.
Then Zara gave her friend one last searching and bewildered glance before starting up her car and driving off.
Still swathed in silence, they walked quickly up the sodden path, and climbed into David’s mudded rental.
It was like they were behaving automatically. Robotically. The mist drifted between the trees. David sat at the wheel, turned on the motor, and slid the car to the edge of the road. They were at the dead and darkling heart of the forest.
He took the gun from his pocket, contemplated it for a moment, then he hurled it from the car with vigorous resolution; he pressed the throttle, and they turned a swift right, speeding away, towards France. Away from Spain, away from Miguel, away from the killer. Away from the witch’s cave of Zugarramurdi.
Amy said nothing. David said: ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’ She was staring levelly out of the window, staring at the fleeing ranks of trees. ‘I’m OK.’
A car rumbled into view ahead – David fought the surge of fear: but it was a farmer in a blue and mud-smeared van. They overtook the van, and he watched it disappear into the fog behind them.
Whole minutes passed. Amy gazed expectantly across the gearwell.
‘We’re going to France?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK…That’s good.’
They were ascending again. After ten kilometres, they attained a grey rocky crest, a balding spot in the woods, watched over by soaring eagles with imperial wings, and then they were over the imperceptible frontier and inside France, driving past deserted old passport booths, and descending from the peaks.
David enjoyed a fraction of relief. At least they were out of Spain, where he and Amy had nearly been killed. Where Amy had been…raped. Was it rape? What had just happened?
For the fifteenth time in thirty minutes, he clocked the rearview mirror. Just to check, to see if there were any cars following. Any red cars.
They were alone on the road; he massaged the tension from his neck muscles. As they curved the mountain roads, he found himself thinking of the witch burnings. Of Zugarramurdi.
He could imagine the scenes of terror: a young woman being pulled, by her hair, across that dismal cobbled square; he saw