A Touch of Kindness

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/25085626.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Relationship: Raquel Murillo/Professor | Sergio Marquina
Character: Raquel Murillo, Professor | Sergio Marquina, Alicia Sierra, Marseille (La
casa de papel), Paula Vicuña, Mariví Fuentes, Ángel Rubio, Colonel
Additional Tags: Tamayo, Alberto Vicuña
Torture, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon
Stats: Divergence
Published: 2020-07-05 Completed: 2020-09-18 Chapters: 16/16 Words:
51246

A Touch of Kindness
by MellowMild

Summary

Sergio Marquina is no longer certain how long he has been in this cell. He has no
hope left, nothing to look forward to but more torture and eventual death. But
sometimes salvation can come from the most unexpected of places; perhaps even
from someone he regards as an enemy.

When Inspector Raquel Murillo is approached by the Intelligence Service with a most
unusual request – to try and get the location of the gold stolen by the infamous
Professor and his gang from a man that has been tortured to within an inch of his life,
she agrees, more out of a desire to spare him more torture than a willingness to do
their bidding. But is she too late? Is there anything worth salvaging? And if there is,
will she be able to win his trust without becoming too personally involved?
 Silence

He felt as though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous world
where he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past was dead, the future was
unimaginable. What certainty had he that a single human creature now living was on his side?
George Orwell, 1984

Secret government facility

Guadelajara, Spain
He is in Palawan, on the beach. It is dark because it is night, eternal night, the sun does not shine
here anymore. Or maybe it is dark because he is underwater, so deep that the sun’s rays don’t
reach here. Yes, he decides, that’s better. More rational, less apocalyptic. How long has he been
down here? He doesn’t know. The concept of time dissolved long ago, on that day when he was
arrested in front of the Bank of Spain. So. Underwater, deep in the ocean. But how does he
breathe, then? He has an airtank, perhaps, one with an inexhaustible supply that will allow him to
remain here forever, until the world no longer exists. He sways and his back brushes against the
wall, bringing with it a stinging sensation. In those early days he recognised it as pain, caused by
the use of a shambok, but no longer. He has been stung by a Portuguese man o’ war, that’s all, it
is nothing more serious than that. Count to fifty and wait for it to subside. Pain is relative, anyway;
if everything hurts, no particular sensation stands out above the others. But he is in the water,
weightless, so nothing hurts. Ignore any stimulus that says differently.

There is a loud bang right in front of his face – one of the guards hitting the bars with an iron, but
he does not startle. He has no energy left to do so; his muscles no longer react to messages from
his brain. No. It is because he is underwater, and movement is automatically slowed down by the
resistance of the liquid that surrounds him. Nothing else. He wonders when the Portuguese man
o’ war stung him. He can’t remember it happening anymore. They say you should urinate on the
location where it stung you to dull the pain; maybe he has done that because it has subsided.
When was the last time he pissed himself? He can’t remember that either, but he has a feeling it
has been a while – too long. No. He has done it, he just can’t feel the wetness because he is
immersed in water. It is not a sign of his body beginning to shut down.

Far off he hears a baby cry and fear floods him. No, no. It’s not her, it’s not the Red Witch coming
for him once more. There must be people on the beach, far above him. He wonders if the sun is
shining for them. But the illusion is shattered; he hears footsteps approach and can smell the Red
Witch stare at him through the bars. “Good morning, Professor,” she says, “shall we get started?”
And as they open the door and drag him out, he thinks, over and over, you are underwater. If you
open your mouth to speak, it will rush in and you will drown. Do. Not. Speak.

-0-

Madrid
Mid-morning
Inspector Raquel Murillo flexes her shoulders, trying to get rid of the tension. Her partner, sub-
Inspector Angel Rubio, glances at her and for a moment she fears he is about to offer her a massage,
but thankfully he keeps his mouth shut. It would be singularly inappropriate for him to do so; for one
thing, he is married, and secondly, they are in the middle of a hostage crisis, sitting inside the police
tent, and she is talking to the man inside the store. The thief was cornered by the Police during a
robbery and has taken three female customers hostage, and she is doing her best to get everyone out
of there unharmed. They have been at it for four hours, and she can sense that she is close. He is
wavering; and she is increasingly confident that she will talk him into surrendering
soon. Whether she will get the time she needs is another question, though. For some reason
Intelligence is here in the tent, in the form of Colonel Tamayo. She was given no explanation
for his presence, and when she dared to ask she was told in no uncertain terms that it is none
of her business. Well, fuck him. She will ignore him and concentrate on the job at hand. She
will get those women out safely. But once she is done, she will demand an explanation from
the Commissioner. For now, however, she blocks his presence from her mind and talks to the
robber. She placates, she pleads, and she reasons and cajoles in the gentlest of voices, all
the while listening carefully to each inflection in the robber’s voice. She doesn’t make any
promise she won’t be able to keep, and she never lies, and finally, after another thirty minutes
of gentle persuasion, he walks out, hands in the air.

A wave of euphoria sweeps through the tent and applause breaks out, but Raquel does
not join in. She buries her face in her hands and concentrates on her breathing,
endlessly relieved. All she wants is to go home and hug her daughter, and to relax with
a glass of wine. The emotional toll of these negotiations is significant, and even though
she loves her job, loves saving the lives of the innocent, she still feels its impact on days
like today. A heavy hand falls on her shoulder and squeezes, before it withdraws with
the hint of a caress and she grits her teeth. Angel. Will he fucking never give up?
“Well done,” he says close to her ear. “How about a drink to celebrate?”
Christ. If she had a Euro for every time he has asked her out for a drink, or lunch, or
even dinner, she could retire early. But she is not in the mood to placate his ego today,
she just wants to go home. She lifts her head. “Thanks Angel, but I really need to-“ She
cuts herself off as she sees the Intelligence man approach over her partner’s shoulder.
“Colonel Tamayo,” she says instead, and Angel spins round, resentful of the intrusion.
“Inspector Murillo,” the Colonel responds, ignoring the sub-Inspector completely, “that was impressive
– a job well done.” She stares at him in surprise, not expecting the praise, but before she can say
anything he adds, “Can I have a word? In private?” Then he turns and walks out of the tent, expecting
her to follow, and on another day she may have been stubborn and refused to do so, but today she is
thankful for the excuse to get away from Angel and the hopeful look in his eyes.

When she steps outside she finds the Colonel standing next to his car, the door open.
“Shall we talk inside?”
She eyes him suspiciously. What the hell is this? A thought comes to her and her heart almost
stops. Is this about the case of abuse she filed against her ex-husband? Is he using his contacts
to try and intimidate her? Tamayo sees her hesitance. “It’s a matter of national importance,” he
adds, “and I’d rather not discuss it out in the open, where people can overhear.”
She is so relieved that this is not about Alberto that she steps into the car without further
argument, and he settles in the seat next to her. “So. What’s this about?” she asks, and
he turns to look at her. “I need you to accompany me to Guadelajara.”

Her head whips round to him, stunned. She knows what’s in Guadelajara – the secret
government facility where they torture prisoners. Anger pushes up in her chest. Fucking
bastard. “No,” she says immediately, “no, I will most certainly not accompany you there. I will
not be party to the unconscionable, shady acts that the government is perpetrating there.”
To her annoyance Tamayo smirks. “I am well aware of your position on our methods of
persuasion, Inspector,” he reveals, and pulls a folder from the briefcase at his feet. “I dare
say everybody in government does, since you were stupid enough to distribute a position
paper on the subject to your bosses.” He waves the sheaf of papers at her. “’The
immorality and ineffectiveness of torture,’” he intones, “by Raquel Murillo.” He looks
sideways at her. “You were suspended for this, weren’t you?”
She glares at him. “Yes I was. But it was worth it.”
He pages through the document until he gets to a section that has been highlighted in yellow.
“’Torture is singularly ineffective against subjects that hold a deep moral belief in what they are
doing,’” he reads. “’Information obtained from such subjects, if any at all, is untrustworthy; they
will give the torturer false information to make the pain stop, but they will not reveal the truth as
they believe it to be.’” He looks up at her. “It turns out you may be right about that,” he says,
and she tilts her head, curious in spite of her revulsion towards the subject.
“I know I’m right,” she retorts reflexively. “Look, I’m tired and I want to go home – what
is this about?”
The Colonel looks out the window at the people bustling by. “Do you remember the Bank
of Spain heist that happened four months ago?”
“Of course,” she responds, surprised. She was disappointed not to have been assigned the
case, but once it came out that Anibal Cortez had been tortured, she understood why.

But one cannot look at that heist in isolation; it is inexorably linked to the first heist perpetrated by
the Professor and his band of thieves at the Royal Mint. That first heist took place during her
suspension for the very document the Colonel now has in his hands, and she remembers following
it closely on the news. The thieves got away with over a billion Euros, but worse than that, they
humiliated the Security Forces in the process. It is little wonder, then, that the authorities promptly
threw the rule-book out the window once they captured one of the thieves, and that led to the
second heist, as the Professor and his gang took over the Bank of Spain in order to force the
government to free their companion. And this time they got away with the country’s gold reserves,
and in doing so cemented their hero status amongst the common folk. The repercussions are still
reverberating through the corridors of power and on social media, and Raquel’s interest is now
well and truly piqued. “Wait,” she says, understanding beginning to dawn, “have you captured one
of them?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
He hesitates, before he turns to her. “Inspector, what I’m about to tell you is a state
secret. If you repeat it to anyone else you will not only lose your job, but you will surely
go to jail. Do you understand?”
Shit. This escalated fast, and the unease begins to churn Raquel’s stomach. What the
fuck is going on? “I understand,” she confirms, and he nods in satisfaction.
Then he says, unable to hide his pride as he does so, “We captured one of them during
the conclusion of the heist, and it happens to be the biggest prize of all. We captured
Sergio Marquina - the Professor.”

Holy shit. She takes her time to process his bombshell, and a couple of thoughts spring to mind.
Firstly, she is amazed that they have managed to keep this quiet, that it has not leaked out
somehow. Secondly, she realises with a sickening feeling, they have had this poor man at their
mercy for four months. If they’ve tortured him for the duration, he is probably a vegetable by now.
White-hot anger pushes up in her chest at the injustice of it, the callousness and disregard for
human rights, and she can barely get the words out. “You’ve been torturing him for four months?”
she spits, and at least Tamayo has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable.
“I don’t know the exact details of what they’re doing to him, but yes, I assume you would
classify some of the activities as torture.”
She shakes her head in disbelief, stunned at his attempt to distance himself from the
disgrace. “So what, now that you’ve got what you wanted, you need me to turn him into a
human being again before you parade him in front of the world?” She makes no attempt to
hide her disgust, and he pulls at his collar, beginning to squirm under her scorn.
“Well, that’s the thing. We haven’t got what we wanted,” he admits finally. “He
hasn’t said anything.”
“Good for him,” she retorts. The man may be a criminal, but he doesn’t deserve to be
tortured. “I’m glad he didn’t give you the information you wanted.”
The Colonel blinks and sighs. “No. You don’t understand. He didn’t just not give us
anything – he has not said a single word in four months.”

Raquel can’t hide her surprise. She stares at him as she thinks about what she’s been told. A
man, under torture, has not uttered a single word in four months. The amount of self-control that
must have taken boggles her mind. How has he done it? Or is there something wrong with him?
But no, she has listened to the recordings of his interactions with the Police during those heists,
and she knows that he is a man of above average intelligence; articulate and certainly not lost
for words. “Not even in the first few days?” she checks – maybe they damaged the speech
centre of his brain during torture, she’s thinking – but Tamayo shakes his head.
“No. From the beginning, nothing. He hasn’t asked to use the loo, or for water, or even to
plead for mercy. He has not said a single word.”
Jesus. She can’t help but be fascinated. “So what do you want from me?” she asks
at last, and Tamayo shrugs.
“We’ve tried the heavy-handed approach and got nowhere, why not try the soft approach instead?”

She laughs in his face. It is the only appropriate response to the ridiculous
suggestion he’s just made. “Are you kidding me?! After four months of torture? I think
it’s a bit late for that – the damage is probably irreparable by now.”
Tamayo takes a breath. “Look. All we want to know is where the gold is. This country is fucked
economically, and we need those reserves to keep afloat. I don’t give a fuck where the rest of his
gang are – I’m not interested in arresting them. In fact, I hope to never see any of them ever
again. All I want is the gold. And frankly, you’re my last hope to find that out.” He holds up her
position statement once more. “Show me you’re right about this. Show me there’s another way
to get the information, and you’ll have my cooperation to put an end to state-sponsored torture.”
She stares at him for a long time, thinking it through, and despite a multitude of
misgivings she finds herself nodding her agreement. “Alright. But it has to be on my
terms and without interference from you lot, or I won’t do it.”
He mulls that over, then nods and sticks out his hand. “Agreed. On condition you sign
this Official Secrets Act agreement.”

As they drive to the facility Raquel pointedly ignores the Colonel, lets her head fall back against the
headrest and closes her eyes. She’s not sure it was a smart decision, to agree to this and to sign that
agreement, but the trained psychologist in her is intrigued by this case. She has studied both heists,
working through all the reports and listening to the recordings, because they are exceptional cases
and she believed there was a lot to be learnt from them as a negotiator. Her overarching impression
after doing so was concern at the flagrant abuses of power and the disregard for police procedures on
the part of the authorities, and a grudging respect for the intelligence behind the plans. Even after they
managed to identify the Professor as Sergio Marquina, they could find out little about him. He is a
ghost, drifting through life without leaving any trace of roots or family. She wonders what that must be
like – to be in the world and yet not exist in any official capacity. But then, just because there are no
records doesn’t mean that something does not exist: he could have a wife and four kids somewhere,
and the authorities will be none the wiser. She doubts that, somehow, perhaps because of this new
information she has received - that he has not said a single word for four months. That, to her, shows
a tremendous capacity for self-isolation, for turning inward, for the control of feelings through
conscious thought, and she doubts whether someone with that capacity would be able to open himself
up sufficiently to fall in love.

They arrive at the facility and she steels herself, taking in the high electrified fence, the cheerless
buildings, the lack of any open space or external stimuli. And when Tamayo leads her inside and
escorts her through a maze of murky corridors to the wing where the Professor is being held, she
jumps when a blood-curdling scream erupts nearby. Christ. How can anyone do this to another
human being? Tamayo stops in front of a steel door and swipes his access card against an
electronic reader mounted on the wall, and she follows him inside when the door swings open. It
is oppressively hot, and she crinkles her nose at the smell. It is the stench of unwashed bodies,
of old sweat and fresh blood, the sour tang of vomit, and the rancid odour of piss and shit all
rolled into one, and she has to swallow against her gag-reflex. She is not surprised in the least to
find her old colleague, Alicia Sierra, lounging against the table, waiting for them, for she knows
Inspector Sierra was also involved in the torture of Anibal Cortez. Alicia, however, is obviously
surprised to see Raquel, for her eyebrows lift and she looks to Tamayo for an explanation.
“Any luck?” Tamayo enquires brusquely instead, but Alicia shakes her head as she
looks Raquel over.
“Still not a peep,” she says, before adding, “Raquel Murillo. What on earth are you doing
here?” “Hello, Alicia. It’s been a while,” Raquel responds, before her gaze goes to the
door in the corner, solid steel apart from a barred opening at eye-level. She ignores
everyone else and walks over hesitantly, curious to see him. But when she glances into
the cell she almost instantly recoils, shocked to the core. Surely the wretched being inside
can’t be a man, her brain screams, refusing to make sense of the haggard face, the
untamed beard and hair, the tattered clothes hanging on a mere skeleton.

She swings round, tears welling in her eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ, what have you done

to him?!” tbc
 Voices

She would not accept it as a law of nature that the individual is always defeated. George
Orwell, 1984

Secret government facility

Guadelajara, Spain
“Jesus fucking Christ, what have you done to him?!” Raquel stares at the other two
people in the room as though they are total strangers; she cannot comprehend that
people she knows can do something so monstrous.
“Oh well,” Alicia responds blithely, “everything we could think of really-“
Her words are cut off as Raquel slaps her across the face, her self-control obliterated by blind fury.
Alicia staggers back and clasps a hand to her stinging cheek, too stunned to react.
“I want him out of there, now,” Raquel demands, breathing hard, and Alicia looks to
Tamayo in astonishment.
“What makes her think she can give orders in here?” she taunts, but to her surprise the
Intelligence officer does not back her up.
Instead he informs her coldly, “Inspector Murillo is taking over the interrogation, Alicia. As
of this moment you are stood down.”
The redhead gapes at him. “What?!”
“You have had four months, Inspector Sierra, and you have been unable to get so much
as a ‘hello’ out of the subject. It’s time to give someone else a chance.”
“Ha, and you think this goody-two-shoes will do any better?” she sneers, and Raquel is
tempted to slap her again.
“We are going to try a different approach,” Tamayo says shortly, quickly losing
interest in the debate, and Alicia’s eyes stay on Raquel as she responds. “Oh yes?
Like what?”
It is Raquel that answers. “Like a touch of kindness, of humanity. You should try it
some time,” she adds, “you might be surprised how much better it will feel.”

The two women stare each other down, and Alicia’s lips pull back in a grimace that exposes
her teeth, like an animal snarling in anger, and Raquel steels herself for the reprisal she is
sure is about to come. Her own anger has subsided, to be replaced by numbing shock, and
perhaps it is because Alicia can see that in her eyes that she does nothing, says nothing in
response. Raquel’s voice sounds sad as she asks, “What happened to you, Alicia? How can
you justify what you’re doing here? You used to be a decent person – what changed?”
To Raquel’s surprise the other woman’s eyes unexpectedly flood with tears, but she does not
respond. She simply turns her back on them and walks away. Raquel frowns, before she turns
her attention to Tamayo. “And as for you, Colonel, you can tell yourself all you want that your
hands are clean, but you know it isn’t true. You’re a coward,” she adds scornfully, before she
repeats, modulating each word precisely. “I want that poor man out of that cell right now.”

-0-

Today the Red Witch is almost disinterested. They make him watch while they prepare the
props for the waterboarding, and she asks him again, “Where is the gold, Professor?”
How he hates her voice, all the different versions of it – the wheedling one, the angry
one, the condescending one. But most of all he hates the one she uses when she’s
trying to sound sincere. He does not respond, mesmerised by the cloth sack, the pail of
water. I am underwater; I will feel nothing.
She taps one long red nail on the table to get his attention, but he ignores it. “Tell me and this
stops right now. Don’t you want it to stop, hmm?”
She did not say the words, he tells himself, there is no offer on the table. The only option
is to stay here, under the water, to endure. I am alone, I have always been alone, and
no-one will help me. Not the Red Witch, not the men pinning him to the floor so that she
can put the sack over his head, and once his mouth opens to try and get enough oxygen
in, not the hand that pours the water over the sack and into his mouth, smothering and
drowning him at the same time. I am underwater, it does not matter, I cannot drown.

Although he has no concept of time anymore, he still gets the feeling he’s back in his hole
somewhat quicker than on other days. He is grateful, for the light out there hurts his eyes, and
in here it is easier to disappear into his own mind. It is interesting, he thinks, the importance
sound takes on when there is only darkness to see. If you can only hear, the imagination takes
over the role of the eyes; you can make people believe anything by messing around with
sounds. While everything in his body is slowly wasting away, he is aware that his hearing is
becoming increasingly attuned to the sounds around him. For instance, he can identify the
voice of every person that enters this area, and he can tell from the timbre what they are feeling
without seeing the expression on their faces. He hears Tamayo’s voice, and it sounds weary
and… uneasy, he decides. Like someone who has to convey bad news. The Red Witch
responds, still sounding disinterested, but then her voice changes. She is curious, now, and he
understands why when he hears a new voice, one he has never heard before. A woman’s.

He likes the pitch of it; it is a soothing voice, one of those you would like to read a story to you,
to lull you to sleep. He hears footsteps approach – high-heeled boots, he decides, but they stop
abruptly and he hears the scrape as she presumably spins around. And now that voice is not
soothing anymore; it is filled with anger and revulsion, and at first he feels shame because he
thinks it is aimed at him, but then he realises, no. It is directed at the others, at the Red Witch and
Tamayo, and it is punctuated with a sound that he knows exceedingly well by now. It is the sound
of flesh connecting with flesh with considerable force; a punch, or a slap. The revulsion in the
voice turns to disillusionment and scorn, and he is somehow grateful that it is not directed at him.
After a while the voices disappear, and he is strangely disappointed. He would have liked to listen
to the new one for a little bit longer, but then the door opens and he is dragged out once more. I
am underwater. I feel nothing. I think nothing. I know nothing.

-0-

Any doubts Raquel may have had about accepting this assignment disappears as soon as she
lays eyes on the Professor. Even though she severely doubts that she will be able to get
anything out of him, after having seen what they have done to him, what they have reduced him
to, she can’t do anything else but accept. For that is the only option she has to make it stop. She
wonders, as Tamayo leads her back to the administrative block, how many other poor wretches
are in here, slowly being driven mad by the constant pain they have to endure. She can do
nothing for the others, and that breaks her heart, but she can at least save this one man. She
can get him out of here, show him that there is still some compassion left in the world. For
Tamayo agreed that this will be done on her terms, and she has some ideas, all of which will
necessitate removing the Professor from the authorities’ clutches and into her control. Now it
remains to be seen whether Tamayo will keep his word, will let her do this her way.

Once they are ensconced in a soulless office, she begins. “First of all, I want him to
have a full medical examination by a doctor of my choosing.”
Tamayo protests immediately. “I can’t allow you to bring in anyone else. The circle of
those who know we have the Professor must be kept as small as possible.”
She dismisses his objection with a flick of the head. “No-one will be able to recognise that poor
wretch as the Professor,” she says icily, staring him down, and Tamayo looks uncomfortable.
“Fine,” he capitulates, and she feels a small thrill of triumph. He really must be
desperate, and she will use that knowledge to push for as much leeway as she can.
“I need to remove him from this facility and into a much more pleasing environment, like a
normal house.”
“A house?” the Colonel splutters, and she thrusts out her chin.
“In fact, I have just the place in mind.” He watches her unhappily as he waits for the
next bombshell. “The house next to mine is for hire, and I want to move him there as
soon-“ “That is absolutely out of the fucking question!” He rears to his feet, looking
down on her to reiterate his point, but she calmly looks up at him from her chair.
“If you’ll let me finish,” she says evenly, and he reins in his temper with some difficulty and sits
down again. “It has two levels, and the top floor is separated from the downstairs one by a
sturdy steel gate. There are burglar bars in front of all the windows upstairs – he will be quite
secure there. The proximity to my own house will allow me to spend a lot more time with him
than I otherwise can, because I do have a family to look after, as you well know.”

Her heart thuds against her ribs; what she is asking goes against every regulation, but if she
can convince him to agree to this, that poor man will at least be somewhere comfortable,
where he will be able to see trees out the window or even walk on the grass in the backyard.
Tamayo continues to hesitate, and she leans forward. “Colonel, after what has been done to
him, the only way to possibly reach him and win his cooperation is to return him to a
semblance of a normal life. What better way to do so than to place him in a residential
neighbourhood, surrounded by other people, families, going about their day-to-day lives?”
Tamayo rubs his forehead. “They’ll hate this upstairs,” he mumbles, but she is unmoved.
“I am telling you now it’s the only strategy that will have a chance of working,” she
persists, and he capitulates with a groan.
“Ugh, fine,” he snaps, and she doesn’t show her elation.
“Good. I want you to give him a bath and some clean clothes, then transport him over
tonight.” “Tonight?!”
“I will go back now, start to get the place ready and organise for the doctor to be on
standby. I’m sure you can sort out the lease in the hour it’ll take me to get there.” She
gives him a challenging look and he throws up his hands in surrender.
“Anything else?” he asks snippily and she smiles at him sweetly.
“No, that’ll do for a start.”
He leans back in his chair, suddenly looking extremely weary, almost defeated, and despite
everything she can’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. “How long do you think you’ll need?”
She sighs. “I honestly have no idea. He may be too damaged already; if his brain function
has been compromised we may never get anything.” That is not the answer he is hoping for,
so she adds, “You gave Alicia four months – you can give me the same, can’t you?”

-0-

They drag him past the table where the formalities normally begin and he wonders whether it is time
to be buried again. They have tried that twice now, leaving him in a hole in the ground for what he
assumes were days rather than hours, and it was perhaps more frightening than anything else they
have done to him. They went to the effort of putting him in a rough wooden box, and he could hear
the clods of earth fall on the lid as they closed up the hole, and all that kept him sane, kept him from
screaming and scrabbling his nails to stubs against the lid, was the knowledge that they can’t kill him
– that they need him to find out where the gold is, so they have to be monitoring him somehow and
will take him out before he dies. But even so he really does not want to go back in that box, back in
that grave, and he tries to struggle, but his muscles are no longer obeying the instructions from his
brain. He presumes that this is what it must feel like to be in a coma – and then he begins to wonder
whether he actually might be. In a coma, that is. There have been spells,
of late, where he will find himself in a certain position without remembering how he got there,
where thought is simply blank, so maybe he has finally slid into that nothingness for good.

But they do not take him outside. They drag him to the showers, and once there they cut the rags
from his body and shove him under the water, none too gently. He can smell the disinfectant that
comes mixed in with the water, and he wonders whether there has been another outbreak of lice.
He doesn’t care; he is grateful for the shower and lifts his face to the spray as they scrub his
body, opening up some barely healed welts on his back in the process. When the disinfectant
runs over these it stings, but it is nothing compared to the pain when they gave him those welts in
the first place, and he doesn’t even moan. When they are done they dry him off and dress him in
a fresh jumpsuit, and that’s when he begins to suspect that this is the end. This is their final cruel
act, to give his morale a boost with the shower, only to execute him afterwards. Yes. That is the
only explanation that makes sense – he is about to be executed, and they need him to look
respectable for it. Perhaps there will be eyewitnesses, important people, and he thinks, I have
won. I have given them nothing, and this is all that is left to them. When they come for him, two
men dressed in paramedic uniforms, he tries to stand, to hold his head high and leave this place
with dignity, but his body betrays him. His legs will not hold his weight, and they catch him when
he topples over and loads him onto a stretcher. They strap him down securely, and then they
wheel him down the corridor and out through the loading dock, and into the back of an
ambulance. He scrunches his eyes shut when the natural light outside stabs painfully into them,
and the last thing he hears is the baby crying, one final time.

-0-

By the time the car drops Raquel off at home, a courier is waiting with an envelope that contains the
keys for the house next door. She quickly greets her mother and daughter, then enlists their help to
get the other house ready. She merely tells them that they are bringing a man here that is badly hurt
and traumatised, who she needs to protect until he can testify, and leaves it at that. The house has
stood empty for a while and when she opens the door they are hit with a musty smell, and they throw
open every window to let in some fresh air. They remove the dust-covers from the furniture and
Raquel goes upstairs to inspect the security measures, and is relieved to find it as strong as she
remembers. As long as they don’t forget to lock the gate at the top of the stairs, there is no way the
Professor will be able to get out. The main bedroom is in the corner that faces her own house, but it
also has a view over the backyard and the greenery there, and it is light and airy. She decides it will
do nicely. Marivi and Paula help her to dust and hoover the room and the bathroom up here and to put
down fresh bedding. She moves one of the comfortable loungers into the bedroom and positions it
next to the bed, because she knows she will be spending a lot of time watching over the prisoner in
the first few days, until she has a better idea of his condition. Then she goes over the room once
more, this time with the eye of a police officer, and carefully removes all sharp and heavy objects,
anything that can be used as a weapon. She does the same in the bathroom and by the time she is
done, dusk is falling and the doctor arrives. She sends Marivi and Paula home, and as they wait for
the ambulance she tells the doctor only what he needs to know. He is an old friend from her student
days and he doesn’t ask questions; she has called on him once or twice before when discretion was
needed, especially during the dark days after her husband became violent. When the ambulance pulls
up before the house she draws in a breath, steeling herself, and wonders once more how one human
being can do such terrible things to another.

-0-

He is out of his cell, out of the darkness that enveloped him there, and he is struggling to hold on to the
reality he was able to create for himself – that he is underwater, he can breathe, he is alone, there is
nothing to fear. What makes it worse is that he is on his back and strapped down, and the memories
come back unbidden of what happened to him previously when he was in this position.
Waterboarding. Being buried alive. He tries to fight it, but it is a losing battle, and the panic
envelops him. His breathing and heart-rate speeds up and he is vaguely aware of urgent beeping,
of concerned voices, and then a prick in his arm, like stepping on a sharp piece of coral.
Whatever they injected him with courses through his veins in a matter of seconds and his
spasming muscles relax, allows him to breathe better, more efficiently. Yes, that’s it. In. Out. In.
Out. A little deeper each time, trying to fill his lungs with the air around him, air that is not stale
and infused with the stench of his own urine, his own faeces. He wonders where they are taking
him for the execution. His eyes won’t focus properly, too sensitive to the light that surrounds him,
and besides, he doesn’t have his glasses, so the world is blurry at the best of times. As the drugs
do their work he slowly sinks back into his own reality, the one that’s saved him from going mad: I
am underwater, I feel nothing, think nothing, know nothing. I am safe here. He wonders idly who
that new voice he heard belongs to – the soothing one that made him wish he could listen to it for
longer. Maybe, if they grant him a last wish, he can ask that the voice reads him a story. And then
he’ll ask for it to be Tolstoy’s War and Peace, he thinks irreverently; that book is so thick that it will
buy him another three months of life, and he would have laughed if he could still remember how.

They stop, and he is wheeled out and indoors once more, and he can hear children laughing
(no, it’s not the baby, don’t panic) and up some stairs and into a light and airy room, and there are
windows, lots of windows, and he is released and lifted onto a comfortable mattress, and he
smells clean linen, washed in detergent with a pleasingly fresh odour, and then sure, competent
hands begin to probe and prod him. He hears a male voice, cataloguing a long list of things wrong
with him, and he wonders whether he should be concerned about that. But before he can decide,
there is another prick, another rush of drugs into his system, and the last thing he feels is a cool,
gentle hand on his forehead, and then he hears that soothing voice once more, and it says, ‘just
rest now’, and he sinks into nothingness, strangely at peace.

tbc
 Birdsong

Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside
you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or
curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and
then we shall fill you with ourselves.
George Orwell, 1984

Once the Professor is under sedation Raquel leaves the doctor to it. She goes downstairs and
takes a seat at the dining table, her elbows on the wooden top and her chin resting on her folded
hands. This is how the doctor finds her when he comes down half an hour later, lost in thought.
He pulls out the chair opposite her and sits down, and she can tell that he is angry.
“Whoever is responsible should be prosecuted for crimes against humanity,” he
states, and she looks over at him.
“Yes.” She sighs. “I’m sorry, Luiz, for putting you in this position. I know that you swore an
oath, that it is your duty to report cases of torture. But in this instance you really can’t.”
He stares at her and she knows he has deduced that the man upstairs has been tortured by the state.
“Tell me you weren’t involved in this, Raquel,” he demands, and she straightens, offended.
“Of course not! I abhor torture.”
After a few seconds he nods, satisfied. “Good. Who are you protecting, then?”
Her eyes lift towards the ceiling. “Him. I’m protecting him, Luiz.” The anguish underlying the
words is very real and the doctor relaxes.
“Fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Raquel smiles at him gratefully. “So… how bad is it?”

He pulls his notes from his pocket. “It’s beyond bad. I’ve done some rudimentary
tests, and I suspect that his body is in the process of shutting down.” She frowns.
“What does that mean?”
“It means without intervention you will begin to see organ failure in the next few days,” he says
bluntly, and she pales. “The kidneys and liver first, then the lungs and heart. I’ve read about
cases like this – when a body is submitted to prolonged physical abuse, coupled with insufficient
sustenance and movement, it eventually shuts itself down as a sort of protection mechanism.”
“Can the process be reversed?” she asks, half-afraid of the answer, but to her relief he nods.
“Yes, with timely intervention.” She looks at him worriedly and he answers her unspoken
question. “I can’t say at this point whether our intervention is timely or not. I should have a
better idea in 24 hours.”
She runs a hand through her hair. “Alright. So what should I do?”
The doctor consults his notes once more. “He’s severely dehydrated and undernourished,
and his muscles are spasming continuously, I suspect due to being kept in one position for
prolonged periods. There are multiple scars from old wounds, and some newer ones which
I’ve cleaned and dressed. An infection in his current state will most likely be a death
sentence.” He turns a page. “His heartbeat is irregular and will need to be monitored –
hopefully that is a temporary problem that will disappear if we can get his other systems
going again.” He looks up at her. “The next 24 hours will be crucial. If we can keep him calm
and get him rehydrated, then there is a chance. I’ve put him on a drip, and I’ve given him a
cocktail of muscle relaxants and painkillers. But in the end, it’s going to come down to how
much he wants to live. If they’ve destroyed his mind to such an extent that he is wishing for
death, then nothing we do will help.” Raquel swallows. “Right. Okay, thanks.”
But Luiz is not done. “You’re going to need help with this – he needs 24 hour care and
unless you want to end up in a hospital bed yourself, you need someone to share the load.”
She sighs. “I can’t do that-“
“You have to,” he insists, “or you will collapse in a few days’ time. And what good will you be
to him then, huh?” She looks down and he lowers his voice. “Look. My partner is a trained
nurse, and he’s not working at the moment. You can trust him – let me call him, hmm?”
After a slight hesitation she capitulates, acutely aware that she still has a responsibility
towards her own family, and Luiz pulls out his phone and makes the call.

-0-

The nurse is a big, cheerful man named Antonio, and he arrives twenty minutes later with a small
duffel bag. Raquel instinctively likes him, and as she shows Luiz out she thanks him profusely.
On the doorstep he turns to look at her. “You look exhausted. He’ll sleep through the night with
what I’ve given him, so go home, get some rest while you can. Antonio will take good care of
him.” She nods, but he’s not done. He reaches out to touch her arm. “You do understand that the
physical aspect of his recovery is the least of your worries, don’t you? The mental impact is
incalculable; who knows what damage they’ve caused there? Your biggest challenge will be to
convince him there is something worth living for, after all that he’s suffered.”
Raquel looks after him as he departs, mulling over his last words, before she heads over
to her house and the boxes of documents and photos that have been delivered there in
the meantime. It contains all the evidence gathered during and after the two heists, and
not only those from the police archives. She insisted on the classified material from
Intelligence as well, and Tamayo grudgingly granted her request. Maybe, somewhere in
there, she can find something that the Professor will want to live for.

-0-

He is seven years old again, lying in his hospital bed, afraid. He is smart enough to understand
that there is little they can do for him; can see it in the resigned expressions of the doctors and
nurses, and in the anger and sadness in his father’s eyes. Everything hurts and he is struggling
to breathe sometimes, but he tries not to cry or complain, because he doesn’t want his father to
feel even worse. He tells only his favourite nurse, the one that reminds him of his mother, even
though he can remember little about her. The nurse smiles and puts her cool hand on his
forehead, before ruffling his hair. “You are a very brave little boy,” she tells him, and it makes him
feel a few centimetres taller. Then her eye falls on the book his father brought him that morning;
a picture book about the oceans, and she smiles. “Have you ever gone completely under the
water?” she asks him. “Like, when you are in the bath and you lie down so that even your head is
underwater?” He nods. “Well, you know how you feel that you weigh almost nothing when you do
that? And how the water deadens the sounds outside – like you’re in a warm and comfortable
cocoon?” He nods again, and she caresses his cheek. “If you feel really bad, why don’t you
pretend you’re under the water, and you can see all those colourful fish that are in your book?”
So that is what he does when they come to tell him his father is dead; he clutches the book to his
chest, closes his eyes and pretends he is under the water, looking at the pretty fish. He stays
there until Andres comes for him and takes him to Russia for experimental treatment.

Thirty-five years later he does the same when they arrest him outside the Bank of Spain. He knows,
when they jerk a hood over his head as soon as they have him, that they don’t intend to follow
procedure. So he begins to condition his mind once more, to take refuge underwater, in that place
where all sensation is deadened, and by the time he is shackled to a table and the hood removed, his
consciousness has retreated to where they can’t reach it. Inspector Sierra talks to him, for hours on
end; first making promises he knows she won’t keep, and when she gets no response she moves to
threats. She describes the pain they will subject him to and she tells him, smugly, that she will break
him. That everybody breaks, eventually. It is a question of when, not if. “The sooner you tell me where
the gold is, the less damage there will be to that brain you like to impress everyone
with so much. But if you persist in defying me, I will keep going until there is nothing left of you
– you’ll never again be able to experience normal emotion, or make elaborate plans, or have
the intellectual capacity to even play chess,” she informs him matter-of-factly. “And physically
you’ll never be a man again. You won’t be able to fuck – yet another sad victim of erectile
dysfunction. In short, you will not be you anymore, once I’m done with you; you will be what I
choose to shape you into.” And when even that does not garner any response from him, the
torture starts. They keep him awake for days, they force him to inhale gas that makes him
hallucinate and throw up, they bury him alive. But he says nothing through it all, for he is
underwater, and to open his mouth to speak will be to drown. Never forget that, he reminds
himself every time it becomes unbearable; the pain means you are still alive. Every day you
stay alive is a day that you have defied them, defied their corrupt and unfair system. A victory
for the Resistance. So don’t open your mouth and drown, don’t let them win.

But something is different now. As he gradually floats back to consciousness, out of total blackness,
nothingness, into a black tinged with grey, he is aware that his circumstances are different. He can
sense that he is not in a cell only large enough for him to stand. He is in a different position, one that
does not strain every muscle in his body. And the air he breathes, so sweet and clean. No, something
is very different. He struggles with the significance of this knowledge. He feels no pain, and that makes
him wonder whether he is still alive. Maybe he has slipped away, over that unseen boundary between
life and death, without noticing. But he can hear his heart beat in his ears, though, can feel it struggle
to keep this waning organism that is his body going, and he wonders why it bothers. Why doesn’t it just
give up? As he drifts ever closer to the surface, he senses another presence in the room with him, and
that is certainly different from before. Before, he was alone, always alone, and when he wasn’t he
wished that he were, for those were the times when they hurt him – the Red Witch and her minions. He
does not fear the presence he can feel now, though, for some yet to be understood reason. It calms
him, it reassures him, and it is only when he finally breaks through the surface and recognises the
voice, that he understands why. It is her, the owner of the soothing voice. He can’t yet get his muscles
to obey any instructions, to let her know he is aware, so he lies there, unmoving, and lets her voice
wash over him.

-0-

Raquel sits in the chair next to the bed and watches his chest rise and fall with every
laborious breath. So this is the infamous Professor, the man who led not only the Police, but
also the Intelligence Service a merry dance on more than one occasion. It is hard to believe
that this wretched being before her could have pulled that off, and her gaze wanders once
more over the unkempt hair and beard, the bruised torso, the ribs prominent under the skin.
She is filled with hate towards those who did this to him, to a man whose intellect she felt
admiration for without even having met him. Her gaze goes back to his face and she can’t
help but wonder: how much damage have they done to the superior brain inside that skull? Is
there anything left that will make it worthwhile to save him?

She sighs. She spent most of the night going through every detail of Sergio Marquina’s file, hoping to
find something that will motivate him to fight for life. But all she found was one sad occurrence after
another: a sick child, spending most of his childhood in hospital. A mother that died of a genetic illness
when the boy was barely two. A father shot dead during a bank robbery, trying to steal money to take
his sick son to America for treatment. And a half-brother, killed during the first heist. It is a depressing
list, and she came away with a growing sense of empathy and understanding for him. Everyone has
their demons, things in their past that shape their futures, that influence their decisions in life. She
remembers something from the interrogation of the one robber they managed to catch during the first
heist, Silene Oliveira, who told the authorities that the heist was Marquina’s father’s idea. She can
picture it as though it is happening right in front of her – the father so desperate to get the money to
save his son, telling the boy stories of his adventures, and of
his one great wish; to be able to print as much money as he needed inside the Royal
Mint. Only to be shot dead by the Police. She can see the boy internalising that story,
that wish, and being consumed by guilt that his father died to try and save him. That first
heist, she understands with sudden clarity, must have been an homage to his father.

None of this, however, brings her any closer to finding a motivation, something that he may want
to live for. All she can think to do is to speak from the heart, to draw from her own experience. “I
don’t know if you can hear me, but that doesn’t matter. We haven’t met,” she begins, “so I’ll
introduce myself first. My name is Raquel Murillo – Inspector Raquel Murillo.” She hesitates. “I
am ashamed to admit that I am a part of the Security Forces, a colleague of the people who did
this to you. But I am horrified by what they did – I abhor torture. Hell, I even wrote a position
paper on it once and got suspended for my trouble.” A wry smile flickers across her face. “I found
out about you yesterday, when they informed me they want to try a different approach. That
presented me with an opportunity to get you out of that hell-hole, so here we are.” She looks at
him. “I’ve been told that you haven’t said a single word in four months, and I can hardly
comprehend it,” she marvels. “The amount of self-control that must have taken… it boggles my
mind.” She takes a moment to order her thoughts. “The doctor that examined you yesterday said
that I have to convince you that there is something worth living for, and I’d love to do that by
using something – or someone – close to your heart, but the problem is that I don’t know you. I
have no idea what is close to your heart. So I’m going to tell you something about myself, my
own experience, and I sincerely hope that it can be of some value to you.”

Raquel’s gaze turns towards the window, towards her own house next door. “I have experienced
pain, too – nothing on the scale of what you have suffered, of course,” she hastens to add, “but at
the time it felt to me like something huge and unendurable.” Once again she hesitates; she still
finds it difficult to say the words, even after all this time. “My ex-husband physically abused me,
you see.” Tears well up as she tries to smile to take the sting out of the words. “Slapped me
around for about two years before I plucked up the courage to leave him.” Her voice wavers with
emotion and she knuckles away a stray tear. “Like I said, it was nothing compared to what you
have endured, but it destroyed me all the same. For years I lived in abject fear, not only of him,
but of everything and everyone.” She looks down at her hands. “It’s difficult to describe the impact
of domestic abuse to anyone who hasn’t experienced it, I’ve found,” she muses, “because how do
you explain why someone like me – a high ranking police officer and an otherwise confident and
accomplished woman – puts up with being slapped around for years, before doing anything about
it? Well, the answer is I don’t know, other than to say it breaks down your confidence and self-
worth, razes it to the ground, until there is nothing left.” She runs a hand through her hair. “You
begin to doubt every decision you make, including the one to leave the bastard.”

Raquel falls silent, momentarily lost in those traumatic memories, before she pulls herself together. “At
first I tried to motivate myself to leave him by thinking of other people – my daughter, my mother. That
I have to protect them. But in the end they were the biggest obstacles in doing so, because they didn’t
know, you see. I hid the abuse from them, from everyone, because I was ashamed to admit it. And
when I finally told them they didn’t believe me, because by then I’d left him and he started dating my
sister. I ended up looking like a pathologically jealous woman who was making up lies to destroy their
relationship.” She is rambling, she realises, and tries to get back on course. “What I’m trying to say,
not very articulately, is that our motivation to go on living needs to come from within ourselves. It is
noble to do so for another person, like a child, say, but it is also fraught with danger, because you
never know when you may lose that person.” She reaches out and takes hold of his hand. “No, the
most important lesson I learnt during those dark days is that I have to want to continue for me. Do you
understand? You have to believe that you yourself is worth fighting for. For me it came one morning,
when I was lying in bed, filled with despair, unable to get up and go to work. I hit rock-bottom, and all I
wished was for the pain to be over. I
lay in bed and I wished for death. I thought: I’ll close my eyes and simply will my heart to stop
beating.” She squeezes his hand. “But as I lay there with my eyes closed, I suddenly began to
hear the sounds around me. Cars in the street. The neighbours’ television. Children playing. The
birds singing in the tree outside my window. Life, Sergio. I was listening to life going on around
me. Why should I let one son of a bitch take that away from me?” She falls quiet, before her
thumb rubs absently over the back of his hand. “So I hope you’ll think about that each time you
hear the birds sing as you lie here – that you are listening to life. And that it is worth fighting for,
for your own sake, not for anyone else’s. Because you are worthy of being part of that life, and
you shouldn’t let those bastards take it from you.”

She falls silent, but she keeps hold of his hand, hoping that the touch of another human
being may break through to him, hoping that it is enough proof that there is life out there,
and that it is worth fighting for. A turtle dove calls from the tree outside, as if it wants to
emphasise everything she’s said and her eyes are drawn to the window, and because of
that she misses the brief flutter of his eyelids, before they still once more.

tbc
 Touch
Chapter Notes

Goodness, thank you for the kind reviews and kudos. Now I'm nervous about
living up to the expectations...

To hang on from day to day and from week to week, spinning out a present that
had no future, seemed an unconquerable instinct, just as one’s lungs will always
draw the next breath so long as there is air available.
George Orwell, 1984

How curious, he reflects, that he can hear the birdsong under the water. A turtle dove, singing merrily,
seemingly out of sheer joy. He can hear other birds, too, and children playing, and it fills him with
warmth. So much life out there. Nature, finding a way to continue on despite the abuses the human
race subjects the planet to. People, finding happiness with each other despite the unfair systems they
are living under. Women, finding it within themselves to treat others with compassion even when the
men in their lives trample all over them. And now he finally knows who the lovely voice belongs to:
Raquel Murillo. The Inspector he thought would be assigned to the Royal Mint heist, but then she got
herself suspended. He is touched by the raw honesty in her words. He can hear her breathe, and it is
calmer now that she has apparently said her piece. Her fingers are wrapped gently around his, and it
is as though he can feel the warmth of her touch spread gradually up his arm, as if one cell after
another is awakened by that warmth and transmitting it to its neighbours. She has asked him to fight
for life, not for the sake of anyone else, but for his own. Because he is worthy of it. He can’t help but
notice that it is the direct opposite of what Inspector Sierra tried to make him believe – that his only
worth is in the information he can give her. But Raquel Murillo tells him, instead, that he is worthy to
live on in and of himself.

He is still underwater, but for a little while he feels himself close to the surface, close to returning
to the world he left the day they arrested him. He struggles to stay there, to listen to her some
more, to hear the birds sing. But he is so tired. He has fought for so long to defy them, and
hasn’t he won, really? He has forced them to change their strategy, to stop the torture, and is
that not a victory in itself? Yes, his exhausted body tells him, yes it is. You have won, it is time to
rest now. It is time to sink to the bottom, where the darkness is total, where there is no more pain
and suffering. Let go, be at peace. Maybe, if there is an afterlife, he will see Andres and his
father again, and be part of something bigger than himself once more. He will belong
somewhere, once more, rather than be just a ghost drifting through life, unconnected and
solitary. Besides, he has achieved his life’s ambition. He has pulled off the Royal Mint heist his
father always dreamt of; what more is there to do? Yes, he can rest now. He feels himself sink
down, the grey gradually turning to black once more, the sound of the birds drifting further and
further away. But he can’t sink to the bottom completely, for there is something holding him
back. Warmth, spreading gradually up his arm; a touch, tugging him towards life; a presence,
calming and compassionate, willing him not to give up.

-0-
When Antonio takes over from her after lunch, Raquel goes downstairs and into the make-shift office
she has put together in the lounge. Her eye falls on a box of CDs and she takes a breath, steeling
herself. According to the labels they are the recordings of the daily interrogations of the Professor, but
what she does not yet know is how complete they are. Do they also contain the torture sessions, or
did they stop the recordings once the heavy stuff began? She’s not sure what she prefers: to have a
total record of what was done to him, or to be spared the more graphic violence of the torture
sessions. But can she truly understand what he’s been through if she doesn’t get at least some idea of
the torture methods they employed? She takes another breath before she reaches for the first CD, but
still her hand trembles when she inserts it into the computer. She plugs in earphones and settles
down, then hesitates for a second more before she presses Play.

The date on the cover is the day after the explosive conclusion of the heist at the Bank of Spain,
when the authorities attacked it with everything they had. If he was arrested during that operation,
as Tamayo claimed, it means that they let him stew overnight before starting with the
interrogation. She can’t fault that – it’s what she herself would have done. The first image she
sees is a bare table with shackles, and she recognises the room as the one she was in yesterday.
So they took him directly to the secret facility, and by the time she first sees him she knows he
has already spent one night in that coffin-like cell, forced to stand upright the whole time. When he
appears on camera, led to the table by two burly men, she freezes the image and stares at his
face intently. This is the closest she’ll ever come to observing him as he once was, before the
torture, and she takes her time. She studies his expression, and she rewinds a few times and
observes his body language as he is brought to the table and shackled down. His expression is
disinterested, almost remote, and his movements speak of someone who has resigned himself to
his fate. It is obvious to her, as she watches him sit there, barely blinking, that he has already
retreated into himself, that he used the night of isolation to construct the barriers in his mind to fall
back behind. She makes a note of that observation and it gives her some hope – maybe, if he
managed to do that, he is still in there somewhere, hunkered down behind his protective shield.
And perhaps that might just have limited the damage to his intellect and his psyche, and with the
appropriate care and assistance he may be able to overcome this experience.

She lets the recording run on this time and hears Alicia’s voice from off-screen, kind and falsely
sweet at first, but the Professor’s gaze is fixed in the distance. He never even looks at her or
anyone else in that room, and Raquel makes a note of that, too. He is avoiding all human
interaction, including eye contact. Yes, she concludes, he has definitely already cut himself off
from reality. She sits back and lets the recording play on, but he remains as physically still as a
sphinx. At one stage Alicia gets up and moves round the table, talking into his ear, but his
expression stays exactly the same – remote, absent. He is not in that room, and she wonders
where he went. She hopes she can find out one day; she is thoroughly fascinated by a mind that
can cut itself off so completely. Usually when that is the case, there is an element of madness to
it – an inability to distinguish between that chosen isolation and reality, and it will be interesting to
find out whether the Professor has managed to maintain that distinction.

On the third day they waterboard him for the first time, and it is captured on camera in all its horrid
glory. Other torture victims have described it as one of the most terrifying experiences, and she
grits her teeth as she watches him splutter and fight for air. Jesus. An inhuman sound escapes
him, the first she has heard from him on all the recordings. It is not identifiable as a word, more an
unintelligible roar of primal fear, and she has to swallow against the tears that threaten. That poor
man. She can only imagine what it must feel like, to suffocate and drown at the same time, and
when they yank the cloth sack from his head at the end of it his eyes are wild and filled with terror.
Alicia looms over him, urging him to tell her where the gold is or they will do it again, but once
again his gaze never focuses on her. After a few seconds of spluttering and heavy breathing, he
visibly relaxes and his gaze turns glassy, and she knows he has returned to his safe place, the
fortress he has built in his mind. When they put the sack back over his head and repeats the whole
process, he does not utter so much as a groan. All that can be heard is his struggling attempts to
breathe. She pulls the earphones from her head and gets up to walk a circle of the room, shocked to
the core. It takes everything she has not to send the video to the European Court of Human Rights
and the International Court for Justice right on the spot. She reminds herself that she has signed a
non-disclosure agreement and if she breaks it now, she will lose any chance of helping him.

After a while she sits down again and reluctantly inserts the next CD. You only have to watch
it happen, she reminds herself, the man upstairs experienced it first-hand. You owe it to him
to watch these, in order to understand what you’re dealing with. It gets progressively worse.
They let him inhale some sort of gas, and she presses a hand over her mouth when it makes
him vomit repeatedly, until it looks as though he is trying to get rid of his stomach itself. He is
left curled into a ball on the floor at the end of it, shaking violently, at which point Alicia walks
over and prods him with the toe of her boot and asks, sounding almost bored, “Where’s the
gold, Professor?” When she gets no answer, and sighs and orders, “Again,” with a flick of the
hand, Raquel wishes she’d slapped her harder yesterday.

When she is interrupted by the arrival of the doctor in the early evening, she leaves the CDs and
their foul contents with a sense of relief and follows him upstairs. Antonio greets his partner with
a warm kiss before standing aside so that Luiz can proceed with the examination. When the
Professor’s arm twitches at the sensation of the cold stethoscope being pressed against his
chest, it is Raquel that steps forward and takes his hand in hers once more, running her thumb
over his skin in a gesture of comfort. Luiz glances up at her as she does so, a slight frown
between his eyes, but shakes his head quickly when she makes to withdraw. “Don’t. It soothes
him,” he tells her, so she stays where she is until the examination is complete. They retire
downstairs once more where she pours them each a glass of water before they sit down.
“Well,” he begins after taking a sip, “he’s still alive, which is a minor miracle in itself.”
Raquel watches him, not interrupting, and he continues. “There’s no urine in the
catheter bag yet, which is a concern. His kidneys should have kicked into action by now
with the amount of fluid I’ve pumped into him.”
She drops her gaze to the table, expecting the worst, until he adds, “But.” Her head
snaps up, her eyes filled with hope, and he smiles at her. “His heartbeat is stronger;
more regular than it was yesterday, and his breathing is less shallow.”
“So he’s going to pull through?” she asks eagerly, and he holds up a cautionary
hand. “Still too early to tell. It worries me that he hasn’t woken up yet – the
sedatives should have cleared his system by now. He should have opened his
eyes - shown awareness of what’s happening around him.”
She digests this. “What if he’s choosing to stay under, to protect himself?” she asks,
mindful of what she’s learnt from those awful recordings, and Luiz cocks an eyebrow.
“If that’s the case you have to persuade him to let himself wake up. If we don’t get him up on his
feet and moving soon, we won’t be able to shock his circulation system into full function.”
Raquel rubs a weary hand across her brow. “Alright. Why don’t you and Antonio go for dinner, I’ll
stay until he’s back?” she offers, and the doctor accepts gratefully.

Once she is alone in the house with the Professor once more, she meanders back to his room, leans
her shoulder against the doorjamb and watches him breathe for a bit. Images of the terrible things they
have done to him flash before her eyes as she does so, and she can’t stop the tears that well up. She
stumbles forward, wiping at her cheeks as she falls into the chair and clutches his hand once more.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasps, “so, so sorry.” She gulps in air in an attempt to calm down. “I’ve been
watching recordings of your sessions, and I don’t know what to say. There is nothing I can say
– this country has failed you horribly. I have failed you horribly. I should have done more than just
circulate a fucking memo, I should have-“ She sniffs, heartbroken. “Ah, fuck. I don’t know what I
should have done. I’m so sorry…” She falls quiet, looking at his face, at his closed eyes, and
takes a breath. “But you mustn’t let them win. You hear me, Sergio? Don’t let them win. If
you’re still in there, in the safe place in your mind, you have to come out now. Please. I give
you my word that it’s safe. I won’t let them hurt you again, even if I have to fight them off with
my bare hands. But you have to wake up, you have to help us get your systems going again.
Please,” she repeats and stares at him hopefully, but there is nothing. No movement, no
flicker of his eyelids, nothing. She sighs morosely, before digging in the bag she left next to
the chair earlier in the day. “Whenever you’re ready,” she says softly, and then louder, “I’m
going to read to you for a bit, until Antonio comes back, so you know you’re not alone. I don’t
really know what kind of books you like, but I’d guess you’re a man for the classics, so I went
for this one.” She holds up the book, even though she knows he can’t see it. “Moby Dick, by
Herman Melville.” She settles into the chair and begins to read.

“‘Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in
my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and
see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the
circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly
November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and
bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an
upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately
stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time
to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical
flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising
in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly
the same feelings towards the ocean with me.’”

-0-

How strange, he thinks, that he can feel something wet on his fingers when he is underwater,
when he is wet all over. She is back, Raquel Murillo with the lovely voice, but her voice sounds
different; strained, filled with anguish and self-reproach. She’s crying, he realises, and it makes
him sad to think of her crying. That must have been the wetness he felt – her tears on the fingers
now wrapped around his, and his heart constricts. He wonders what happened to upset her as he
drifts upwards once more, out of the blackness and into the grey, just beneath the surface, and
that is when he registers her words. I’m sorry, she says, and that she has failed him, and he
begins to understand that she feels responsible for what they’ve done to him. Unlike all those
others, who were there and actually perpetrated the torture, she doesn’t hide behind excuses like
‘I was only following orders,’ or ‘I didn’t know what they were doing’. It surprises him. She is a
police officer, and yet she has integrity. How refreshing, he thinks. And then she pleads with him
to wake up, to come out from under the water, but he is afraid. He’s been here so long – what if
he can no longer breathe out there? What if he needs the water around him to survive? I will
protect you, she vows, it’s safe. He wants to believe her, but he’s not sure he even knows how to
exist out there anymore. She begins to read to him, and it’s one of his favourites; Moby Dick. It is
about a man who seeks refuge out on the ocean when life begins to overwhelm him, and if he
could still remember how to smile he would have done it, because he can’t help but think how
fitting it is that she should choose this particular book to read to him, to coax him out of the water.
Maybe it is because he has the sense that she gets him on some level, that she somehow knows
he has been hiding underwater all this time, that gives him the courage he needs. Or maybe it is
simply time. He will never know, but he finds himself thinking, yes. It is time to leave the water. He
drags in a ragged breath, steels himself, and forces his eyes open.

tbc
 Smile

He seemed to have lost the power of intellectual effort, now that the stimulus of pain had
been removed. He was not bored; he had no desire for conversation or distraction. Merely
to be alone, not to be beaten or questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be clean all
over, was completely satisfying.
George Orwell, 1984

He is above the water, in the open air, and he takes the first few breaths cautiously, still
worried that he no longer knows how to survive out here. What if his lungs collapse? What if
he chokes? He is alone and there will be no-one to help him- His thoughts are interrupted by
a loud thud next to him and he blinks involuntarily as he belatedly remembers that he is not
alone. She is here with him, Raquel Murillo with the lovely voice. She must have dropped the
book. He doesn’t look at her; one step at a time, he cautions himself. First test the water
(excuse the pun), figure out what this new situation means for him, what Raquel Murillo with
the lovely voice wants from him. For now, just be grateful that you are alive, that you are in a
comfortable bed, that there is no pain, no interrogation.

“‘If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly
the same feelings towards the ocean with me,’” Raquel reads and smiles. “I know I certainly
do – I love the ocean,” she confides, glancing up at his face as she does so, and promptly
drops the book with a soft exclamation. He is awake; his eyes are open and fixed on the
ceiling, and when the book hits the floor with a thud he blinks involuntarily. “Oh my God,
you’re awake,” she breathes, unexpectedly overcome. And when she hears the front door
open and close she rushes to the stairs and calls down, “He’s awake!”

There is no pain, he repeats slowly, wondering if he should trust this observation. He begins a
systematic catalogue of his body, focussing on each region for a few breaths, deciding whether that
particular limb or part is truly without pain before moving on to the next. And just as he suspected, he
does still have pain somewhere – in his bladder. He feels somehow vindicated – I knew I can’t trust
anyone, she also deceived me – until he belatedly realises what he is feeling is the sensation of a full
bladder, of having to pee desperately. He gave up being embarrassed about pissing himself a long
time ago, but now the situation is different. He really doesn’t want to wet this nice bed they’ve put him
in – what if they take it away in retaliation? That’s what the Red Witch would do, he thinks, trying not to
squirm with the discomfort. Give with one hand and take with the other.

Or maybe you don’t want to do it in front of her, an inner voice says unexpectedly, and he blinks.
Where did that come from? Why does it matter – she is just another police officer? But then she
rushes out of the room and he can’t hold out any longer, and he lets it go, squeezing his eyes shut at
the relief of it. He waits for the wetness against his skin, for the stink of urine to fill the air, but neither of
those things happen. Instead he hears water running nearby, as though someone has opened a tap,
and he realises that they must have put in a catheter. Thank God. Despite everything, it still feels like a
small victory; to be spared from one more humiliation. She is different from the Red Witch, that inner
voice pipes up once more, but he swiftly smothers it. It is too early to tell. When he tunes in to what is
going on around him, he realises there are three people around his bed, and that she is talking to him.
She is telling him that they are happy that he has woken up.

Feet pound up and Luiz and Antonio burst in, similar expressions of joy on their faces. They stand
around the bed, beaming at each other and at the patient, even though he isn’t looking at any of
them, until Antonio points towards the catheter bag and exclaims gleefully, “Look!” It is
filled with a decent amount of yellow liquid and Raquel absurdly feels like high-fiving the
others in the room, until she realises how ridiculous that will be.
They must look like onlookers gathered around a cage in a zoo, cheering the monkeys for doing
something that comes naturally, and she clears her throat. “Hello there,” she begins, “I’m- that is,
we’re so happy to see you are awake.” She watches his face carefully, but there is no reaction,
just a slow blink every now and then, and her joy decreases a notch or two. He is still distancing
himself, avoiding human interaction, and she supposes that is understandable. If you had to
protect yourself like this for four months, through some of the most abominable acts perpetrated
against you, it is unlikely that you will abandon that approach at the first kind word or
compassionate gesture. No, she will have to work hard to get past the last of his barriers, and
she realises that she is actually looking forward to the challenge. It is her responsibility to win his
trust, just like when she negotiates with hostage takers, and she knows she is good at it. It will
take patience and dedication, but she is undaunted by the enormity of the task before her. She
has trained for this her entire working life; she has the skills required, and she is determined to
bring him out of himself if it’s the last thing she does.
“Let me introduce everyone to you,” she continues, as though this is a normal conversation,
as though he is not vacantly staring at a point above her right shoulder the whole time. “My
name is Raquel Murillo, and these are my friends Luiz and Antonio, a doctor and nurse
respectively, who has graciously agreed to help me look after you until you feel better.”

Raquel Murillo, he notes, unable to tamp down his distrust, not Inspector Raquel
Murillo. She is trying to trick him, to make him think she is his friend. He smirks
inwardly – you’ll have to try harder than that, lady.

She nods at the two men, and they take their cue and leave the room. There are more things that
need to be said, things they don’t need to know, and she waits until she hears them go down the stairs
before she speaks again. Since watching those tapes of the interrogations, she has become
convinced that the only way to do this is to go for full disclosure. She knows, instinctively, that once he
catches her in a single lie, no matter how small or insignificant, she will never get through to him,
never win his trust. “There are a few things I would like to tell you upfront. First of all, you should know
that I am an Inspector with the National Police. I am a trained hostage negotiator and they want me to
find out from you where you have taken the gold stolen from the Bank of Spain.”

Huh. That is unexpected. She has just upended his assumptions of what she is trying to
do, and for once he is wrongfooted, unsure what is happening.

“You are in a house in Madrid at the moment, but you are still a prisoner. That hasn’t
changed.” She tries, but does not quite succeed in keeping the regret out of her voice.
“For as long as you are here, you will have the freedom of this whole floor, but you won’t
be able to leave the house without supervision. Later, when you’re feeling better, you
may be able to walk in the garden every now and then, see the sky above you.”

She sounds like she very much wants to make that happen, and he wonders what type of game
she is playing. He listens carefully to the inflection of her voice; with the Red Witch he could
always tell when she was deceiving him, but with this Inspector he is not sure. He can’t pick up
any indication in her voice that she is being duplicitous, but maybe she’s just a better liar than the
Red Witch was. He will have to be careful. She is not his friend, she is not on his side. She is on
the side of the Red Witch, of the unfair state, of those who killed his father and brother. She is not
to be trusted, no matter how kind she is to him. It is simply a strategy, a different psychological
approach, but it is not real. She does not truly care for him, it is a role she must play to get him to
talk. He forces down the disappointment that comes with this realisation. The kindness will
disappear as soon as she gets what she wants, never forget that, he tells himself.
“But all of that can wait. The most important thing is that you get better. For tonight you just rest, and
tomorrow Antonio will start with your rehabilitation, get you back on your feet and moving. The sooner
you can start using your muscles again, the better. I’m sure it will do a lot for your mood.” She moves
over to the bag next to the chair and takes out a notepad and pencil, which she places on the bedside
table. “I know you don’t want to talk, and that’s okay. I respect that. But if there’s something you need,
you can write it down on this pad, and I’ll see what I can do. Alright?”

He is aware that she stares at him expectantly, but he does not give any indication that
he understands. It is a slippery slope - interaction. Even the smallest gesture from him
may cause the dam to break, and he has spent too long building it to give it up so easily.
If she is disappointed she hides it well, though.

“Okay. Antonio will look after you tonight. I hope that you sleep well.” She reaches out a
hand to move the hair that has fallen over his eyes but catches herself in time, unsure
whether the gesture will be welcome. “Goodnight, then, Professor,” she says softly,
before she turns and walks out of the room.

That night he stares at the dark ceiling for a long time, trying to make sense of things. He has
so many questions, most of them centring around Raquel Murillo. What is real, and what is
simply part of the role she is playing to get his cooperation? He remembers her anger back in
that torture chamber, her scorn towards her colleagues. Was she playing a role even then?
Or was that real? And then there was her anguish earlier, her tears, and the apology for what
has been done to him. Did she fake that? But why, when he wasn’t conscious at the time, at
least as far as she knew? There are no answers in the darkness, and when his eyelids grow
heavy and he begins to sink into sleep, his last thought is of her, Raquel. She is a puzzle to
him, and for some reason he finds himself looking forward to try and solve it.

-0-

Week one
They settle into a sort of rhythm in the days that follow. Inspector Murillo (for he has decided it is
safer to think of her like that, like the police officer she is) is as good as her word and leaves him
to concentrate all his energy on getting better. With Antonio’s help he begins to move around – at
first they simply walk to the window and back, his arm slung across the burly nurse’s shoulders,
and even that is excruciatingly painful and exhausting. They have installed a chair in the shower
and the nurse takes him there and helps him wash, every single day, and he feels like he is in
heaven. To be clean, and cool, and to walk; he is grateful for every little thing he once took for
granted. There are no interrogation sessions, no questions, and he doesn’t need to think about
anything other than these tiny pleasures he can now enjoy. Raq-, no, Inspector Murillo continues
to read to him from Moby Dick, and those hours quickly become his favourite in the day, when he
gets to close his eyes and simply listen to her voice.

The drip is removed and Inspector Murillo begins to bring him soup, and smoothies, and all
kinds of soft food – made by her mother, she tells him proudly. He’s not sure at first whether
that is true, but when he overhears Antonio tell her to thank her mother for the nice lunch one
day, he feels bad about his cynicism. The first time he tries to eat his stomach convulses
violently, and it takes all his self-control not to vomit it back up immediately. They try giving
him a mouthful every hour or so, and that seems to do the trick, and after a few days he
begins to look forward to the food, instead of to dread the stomach cramps that it will bring.
They gradually increase the quantity as he gets used to it, and the improved sustenance
boosts his energy levels and helps him to cope better with the physical exercise.

By the fourth day his muscles seem to begin to remember what they’re supposed to do, and
movement gradually becomes easier and less painful. Antonio is a strict but jovial task-
master, and he does not let his patient get away with any attempt to shirk the scheduled
exercise. On the fifth day he says cheerfully, “Now, I think you’re ready to try leaving the
room – what do you say? You want to try and go down the corridor?”
Even though he never says a word, never makes eye contact, both Inspector Murillo and Antonio
talk to him as though they are having a normal conversation. Antonio helps him sit up and he
slings his arm around the nurse’s shoulders, and they move towards the door. He’s getting better
each day, more sure of his movements, and they make it through the door and into the corridor
without mishap. He is inordinately proud that he needs to lean on the other man less and less –
maybe next week he can try to walk without the assistance. He is so caught up in his
accomplishment that he barely notices when they turn into the room next to his, but when he
looks up he gets quite a shock. There is a towel spread on the floor, with a chair on it, and he
pulls up sharply, his heart beginning to thud uncontrollably. No. Oh God, no. It is going to start
again, he thinks, looking around wildly. He has been lulled into a false sense of security and now
he is going to pay. He is unprepared this time, and once they start he will crumble, they will
destroy him. A chair, a towel to catch the blood – oh, Christ, what are they going to do to him?!

Raquel looks up as the two men enter the room, smiling broadly. “Now, in the interests of full
disclosure,” she begins, “I have to warn you that the last time I cut hair I was eight years old
and it was my doll’s, but I’ll-“ She finally registers that something is amiss when a look of
sheer terror crosses the Professor’s face and she stops talking, confused. He stares at the
chair, petrified, and in a flash she realises what this must look like to a torture victim. Oh,
Jesus. “Antonio, have you told him what I’m going to do?” she demands urgently, rushing
forward, and Antonio shakes his head as he tries to keep the trembling man upright.
“No. I thought it’d be a nice surprise,” he says, flummoxed by the reaction the scene
has elicited, but then Raquel is in front of them and takes the patient’s hand.
“Professor. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I should’ve realised what this could
look like to you – God, I’m so sorry. But you need to listen to me now, okay? Nothing is
going to happen to you. I promise you. The towel is only there for the hair – I’m going to
trim your hair and your beard, okay? That’s all.”
His eyes remain glued to the chair, but the trembling gradually subsides and after a few seconds
he closes his eyes in relief. She looks at Antonio and he nudges the Professor forward.
“Let’s sit down, hey Professor?” He coaxes him into the room gently as he talks. “Won’t it
be nice to have a haircut and a trim of that beard, hmm? You’re going to feel so much
better after that,” and finally gets him onto the chair.

Christ. He concentrates on his breathing, on the room, on the scissors and clipper lined up neatly on
the dresser. On the laptop open next to it, where he can see that she has googled ‘how to trim hair and
beard’, and he would have smiled if he weren’t still in shock. She moves up to him, talking reassuringly
as she moistens his hair with some water and picks up the scissors. He can see the two of them
reflected in the mirror, although the image remains blurry without his glasses, and he gradually relaxes
as the feeling of her fingers in his hair, on his scalp, begins to soothe him. “Now, like I said, I’m no
hairdresser, so I apologise in advance if I accidentally clip you.” Then she bends over him, taking some
hair between her fingers and carefully cutting it, and he watches the image in the mirror, feeling the
heat of her body close to his back. She smells nice. She is totally engrossed in her task, and he
notices her own hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and that she pokes her tongue out between her lips
when she concentrates hard. It is adorable and he looks away with some difficulty, trying to remember
his mantra: she is Inspector Murillo, she has a job to do, and you cannot trust her. She takes great
care not to hurt him, and despite his best intentions he feels safe in her hands, and he decides to
simply enjoy it. He closes his eyes and follows her instructions when she gently turns his head this way
and that, or tilts up his chin so she can use the clipper to trim the hair on his throat, and when she is
finally done and stands back to observe her handiwork,
he feels strangely bereft. And then, unexpectedly, she bursts out laughing. It is an infectious,
warm, bubbling laugh and it takes all his self-control not to join in. “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, but I
did a terrible job,” she manages between peals of laughter, “you look – well, you look like a
convict!” She doubles over and he uses the opportunity to look at himself in the mirror, and
yes, it’s a bit shorter than he would like and rather uneven but it’s not terrible, and he feels a
strange lightness in his chest as he surreptitiously watches her straighten up and wipe the
tears from her eyes. “I should definitely not quit my day-job,” she quips, her voice still filled
with merriment, before she calls Antonio to take him back to his room.

That night, once he lies alone in his bed, enveloped by the dark, he dares to lift his hands to
his face and runs his fingers over his trimmed beard. As he does so he remembers her
laugh, lets it fill his head, and he smiles for the first time in four and a half months.

tbc
 Gesture

If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face – for ever.
George Orwell, 1984

Week Two
Raquel goes to Police headquarters once a week to meet with Colonel Tamayo and to report on her
progress. During these visits she tries desperately to avoid running into her ex-husband, for the mere
sight of him still has the power to shake her to the core, to let the adrenaline spike in her bloodstream,
to make her feel for her gun, to reassure herself it is there and she has the means to protect herself.
She feels ridiculous at the thought of it – now that she has seen what true physical suffering looks like,
surely she should be able to put what happened to her in context? She should be able to understand
the paltriness of it – the small scale, and she should not let the sight of him paralyse her with fear? And
yet she cannot. He was her husband, the father of their child, he professed to love her and she
believed that she loved him, and yet he turned on her, became violent. And in the process he totally
destroyed her confidence – in herself, her judgement, and her trust in the people around her. He made
her afraid of everything, and for that she can never forgive him.

She can’t help but think that there are similarities between her situation and the Professor’s – it is
simply the scale that differs. Her world has been destroyed on a personal level, whilst his has
been destroyed on a much larger scale. But in essence it is the same – a person or an institution
in which one put your trust turns on you and grinds that trust into the dust, like a boot grinding out
a cigarette. For as citizens of a particular state, do we not trust that it will have our best interest at
heart? That it will treat everyone equally, no matter whether we are rich or poor, male or female,
black or white, heterosexual or any other sexual orientation? But when that state does not do so;
when it favours the rich, for instance, and when it flagrantly flouts its own laws – the ones it
expects its citizens to abide by – when it submits you to torture, how can you ever trust it again?
What option remains other than to rebel against it, to fight back like the Professor has done? And
on her more personal scale, what other option is there than to make sure Alberto is exposed for
what he is, and to try to learn to trust other people again?

“Raquel!” a familiar voice calls behind her, and she blinks wearily before plastering a
smile on her face and turning around.
“Angel, how are you?” His gaze flickers over her face hungrily, like it always does, but
for some reason it irks her today. “How’s Marie Carmen?” she asks and he freezes at
the mention of his wife.
“Uh, she’s well, thanks,” he responds, deflated, and she feels a little bad. They are friends, after all
– maybe that was uncalled for. “How’s the mysterious case going?” he probes, and she
shrugs. “Slow.” He tilts his head at her uncharacteristic shortness, but she has no
intention of giving him more than that. They stand in the corridor, looking at each other
awkwardly, until she gestures over her shoulder. “I should, uhm…”
“Oh. Yes. Well, let me know if you need any help,” he offers lamely, and she smiles
again before she turns and goes into the office where she is to meet Tamayo. She can
feel his eyes on her until she is out of sight.

She reports on the Professor’s physical progress but can sense that Tamayo is not really
interested. She doesn’t care; she wants it on record, so that he can’t later turn around
and claim that she has done anything she hasn’t.
“When will you start interrogating him?” he asks impatiently once she finishes her report, and she
regards him with a hint of scorn.
“When I have won his trust. When he starts to respond to human interaction. Surely
you can see there is no point in doing so before that happens?”
“And how long is that going to take?!” he snaps irritably, and she bites back her annoyance.
“I don’t know. The damage you have done to him is extensive – it could take months to
undo it.” She gives him a challenging look; this is your fault, you and Alicia and your
goons, and the state that allowed you to do these awful things to one of its own citizens,
and he can’t hold her gaze. “But there is something you can help me with – I want access
to all the objects you confiscated from the warehouse he used as a base during the Royal
Mint heist. If I can get hold of some items which are familiar to him, which may have
sentimental value, that could help.” “Yes, alright. Same time next week?”

-0-

One day in the second week he gets out of bed by himself, walks to the window and back without
assistance, and everyone celebrates as though he has completed a marathon. Antonio whoops and
dances a jig, and Inspector Murillo smiles with what appears to be genuine joy. He gets stronger by
the day, and he begins to move around as much as his body can take, for he finds that he also sleeps
better at night as a result. There are fewer hours lying awake and staring into the darkness, trying to
suppress memories of the Red Witch and what she’s done to him. He can now shower by himself, and
take himself to the loo whenever needed, and these small things boost his self-worth a hundredfold.
The next day Inspector Murillo brings him his glasses. “I’ve only now gone through the possessions
you had with you the day you were arrested and found these. I’m sorry, I should have remembered
sooner that you wear glasses. Here you go, I’ve cleaned them and they seem to be in good shape –
no scratches.” She leaves them on the bedside table, on the notepad he has never used, and walks
from the room. As soon as she’s gone he snatches them up and puts them on, and for the first time in
four months the world jumps into focus once more.

He begins to spend time by the window now that he can see properly, looking out at the trees in
the backyard and over the neighbouring house, and revels in the small details now revealed to
him – the individual leaves on the trees, the birds in the branches, and even the people that live
next-door. He can see into their backyard and has so far noticed an older woman and a young
girl. He likes to watch the girl play outside in the afternoons, after school, enjoys her energy and
the faint sounds of her laughter that drifts up to him. It is yet another sign of life that surrounds
him, and he cherishes it. And that is how he discovers that he is in the house next to Inspector
Murillo’s, for one afternoon he sees her come into the backyard and pick up the girl, swinging her
around and kissing her. It comes back to him, then, what he learnt about her before his first heist,
when he thought she would be the Inspector in charge. She is divorced and has a young
daughter. Back then he found the contrast between her stellar police record and her messy
personal life of interest, and he recalls the details now - the divorce, the case of abuse lodged
against her ex-husband, the suspicions that she was making up false charges.

He turns away and sits down in the chair, remembering how he thought these troubles would make
her vulnerable to his approach. That he could pretend to be a sympathetic ear and win her trust. He
wasn’t sure, back then, whether she was lying about the abuse, but he remembers thinking that it
didn’t fit her profile, to make up something like that. And now that he’s learnt more about her, he is
even more sure of it. She talked about the abuse, he recalls, on that first night when she begged him
to fight for life, and the rawness in her voice when she did so was certainly real. And he planned to
exploit that for his own ends, he suddenly realises, and feels a flash of remorse. After what he has
suffered, and after hearing the pain in her voice when she talked about it, he knows it would have
been a particularly callous act on his part. Only now that he himself has been treated as a mere
object, a means to an end, does he understand that what he planned to do to her was morally wrong.
But maybe she deserved it, for being part of the machinery that upholds an unfair state,
that institutionalises inequality, that makes sure the rich get richer and the poor get
poorer, the stubborn part of him argues. You don’t know her at all, he reminds himself,
she may be just as unscrupulous as Alicia Sierra. And yet, after spending almost two
weeks in her presence, he finds that increasingly difficult to believe.

The next day she enters his room with a suppressed air of excitement, a cardboard box in her hands.
He has become adept at sensing her mood, even though he still refuses to make eye contact, and he
can tell she is pleased about something. “Good morning, Professor,” she greets him, and like a child
that can’t wait to share her news, she blurts, “I’ve found a few things they confiscated from the
warehouse – the one you used as your base during the first heist.” She plonks the box down on the
dresser. “I thought you might like to have some of these back.” Then she begins to take objects from it
and holding it up for him to see, once again ignoring the fact that he’s not looking. “A basket filled with
small implements – tweezers, scissors, things like that, which I think you used to make your models. A
batch of high-quality red paper. A chess set. And,” she stuck both hands into the box and triumphantly
lifts out a bigger object, “a turn-table!” She puts it down carefully on the dresser. “I couldn’t find any
records, though, but I’ll have a look at home tonight. I’m sure I still have some old ones gathering dust
in a box somewhere.” Then she grins deprecatingly. “Although I don’t know if they will be to your taste
– I get the feeling you’re more of a classical music man, while mine runs more to rock and jazz. But I’ll
bring them anyway, it might be nice for you to play some music in the evenings.” She turns to look at
him, and he can sense her enthusiasm wane as she still gets no reaction from him, and he has to fight
the urge to smile at her, to let her know somehow how grateful he is. But he can’t – that is what she
wants; that is what this whole charade is about. “Uhm, anyway,” she continues, “there are two more
things I brought, and they are in the other room. But I’ll leave you to discover those for yourself.” Her
phone rings and she excuses herself, but he can hear her voice rise with panic as she goes down the
stairs. “Mama, what do you mean Alberto took her?! I have a restraining order against him!”

He frowns and goes to the window, and sees her hurry to her house next door. The older woman
opens the front door as she approaches, and just then a flashy car pulls up and the little girl jumps
from the passenger seat, a big teddy bear in her arms. A man gets out on the driver’s side and follows
the girl to where the two women are standing, and as soon as she sees him Inspector Murillo’s whole
demeanour changes. She greets the girl and sends her inside with the older woman, but once they are
out of sight there is nothing but naked fear on her face when she looks at the man and he knows, this
must be the ex-husband, the abuser. Even from up here he can sense her agitation and his hands ball
into fists, overcome with anger. How can anyone hurt her? There is an argument and he guesses she
is telling him he is violating his restraining order, for she takes out her handcuffs and attempts to put
them on her ex-husband, and he can’t help but feel admiration. Despite her terror, she is trying to
stand up for herself. Alberto’s face contorts with anger and for a second he fears the man is going to
strike out at her, but when she reaches for her gun he merely shoves her out of the way and goes
back to his car, before driving off with squealing tyres.

He is breathing fast now, internalising her obvious distress as she sinks down on the front step and
buries her head in her hands, and even from up here he can see how much they are shaking. She sits
there for a long time, gulping in breaths, before she gets up and goes inside. He turns away,
thoughtful, and just to have something to do he goes to the other room to see what else she brought
from the warehouse. He stops in the door, staring in disbelief at the punching bag and exercise bench
installed there, and that decides him. He goes back to his room and sits down at the dresser, taking
up one of the red papers as his thoughts return to the scene he observed. That is what you planned to
exploit, he reprimands himself, and he has to sit quietly for a while before he can begin work on the
origami figure, because his fingers are shaking too much for the delicate task. He is caught unawares
by the force of the emotions the altercation he’s witnessed has awakened in him. Anger, potent and
all-consuming, towards the man who abused Raq- Inspector Murillo. If he could
have, he would have gone downstairs and punched him in the face, and he has never
been a man that condoned violence. But he knows that this time he would have enjoyed
it. And besides that, he feels an overwhelming desire to comfort her. To help her. To
show her that there are decent men in the world.

For the first time he wonders what it must be like – to be a woman caught in an abusive
relationship. Inspector Murillo is intelligent, brave and confident, and yet she ended up being
a victim. He always believed that it could only happen to meek, maybe even weak women,
but those are the last words one would use to describe the Inspector. No, he has clearly
been living under a misconception about domestic abuse and its victims, and after what he
has just witnessed, he also realises that he severely underestimated the impact it could have
on these victims. She was already divorced by the time he implemented that first heist, so it
must be at least three years since the abuse happened, and yet it reduced her to a shivering
wreck to be confronted by the man responsible. Alberto is to the Inspector what the Red
Witch is to me, he decides; the source of all evil. It doesn’t matter what the scale of the
abuse is, the impact is the same – it destroys your reality as you know it and leaves an
empty, gaping hole in your soul. He wonders whether she has anyone to seek solace from,
who can hold her when it becomes bad and assure her that there is some good left in this
world. Someone to restore her faith in humanity, as she is slowly doing for him-
The realisation hits him like a hammer-blow, and he stares out of the window, stunned.
Oh shit, he is in trouble…

-0-

When Raquel goes back to the Professor in the late afternoon, she is still unsettled by the
confrontation with Alberto. Maybe it is time for an early end to the day; maybe she should
forget about work for a few hours and take her family out to dinner. She can’t face another
couple of hours of the Professor’s studious indifference, of being pointedly ignored, not on
top of what happened this afternoon. It is not the Professor’s fault and she doesn’t blame him
for the way he acts towards her, but she needs some human interaction right now to soothe
her frayed nerves, and she won’t get that here, from a man who must despise her and
everything she represents. She stops at the foot of the stairs and takes a deep breath,
steeling herself before she slowly treads upstairs. Even so she doesn’t have it in her to fake
a good mood, and she can almost see the cloud of depression and gloom she brings into the
room with her. As per usual her entrance elicits no reaction and she thinks, fuck it. I can’t
take anymore of this, not tonight. So she says, walking over to the chair to put away the book
she left there earlier, “I think we need a bit of a break from each other, Professor. I’m just
going to put away my things and then I’ll let you be for the rest of the day…”

She peters out as she rounds the chair and sees what is on it. The book lies there, and on it rests a
beautifully crafted origami figure. A crane, meticulously folded from one of the red papers she brought
earlier. Her eyes jump to the Professor in surprise. He sits upright against the headboard of the bed,
his glasses perched on his nose, his gaze fixed on his hands in his lap. She follows it and notices his
fingers fluttering against each other, almost like a nervous tick. When her gaze returns to his face she
can see his jaw clench and she realises, yes, he feels nervous. And then she understands. He made it
for her. It is a gesture, a first tentative step towards making a connection with another human being,
and it is too much after the day she’s had. She picks it up and gently turns it in her fingers as tears
well up. “For me?” she breathes, her voice wobbly with emotion, and she sees him swallow and knows
she is right. “Thank you. It’s- well, it’s the best present I’ve received in a long time.” And it’s just what I
need today, she thinks but does not say. Instead she puts away the book, bids the Professor
goodnight, and walks out, cradling the crane in her hand.

He goes to the window as soon as he hears the front door open, and watches from above as she
steps outside and holds up the crane to look at once more. He sees her wipe the tears
from her cheeks, before a smile brighter than the sun erupts on her face, and he goes
back to bed with a warm feeling in his chest, knowing that he is well and truly fucked.

tbc
 Connection

For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal glance, and that was the end of the
story. But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.
George Orwell, 1984

Week Three
The Professor’s physical progress is such that a few days into the third week, there is no longer
any need for the nurse to be present. Raquel thanks him profusely and is actually sorry to see
him go; his cheerful presence at least lessened the oppressive silence that the Professor’s
stubborn non-communication brings. But Antonio has a life to get back to and she can no longer
justify keeping him away from that, and from his partner. Besides, she reminds herself, she is
making progress, thinking back to the crane the Professor made for her a few days ago. Since
then there has been nothing, though, and she is careful not to push too hard, too soon.

As she drives to Police headquarters for her weekly meeting with Colonel Tamayo, she once
again ponders the significance of the gesture the Professor has made. What is he trying to tell her
by giving her the origami figure? It now stands on her bedside table, and she looks at it every
night before she goes to bed, thinking about the man who made it for her. He is getting under her
skin, more than she should allow. It is becoming a personal crusade, to save him, to heal him, and
that is not healthy. It is the first thing they teach you as a psychologist – never make it personal.
And she is failing. Why else does his indifference bother her so much? There is one thing she
realises more and more – she couldn’t care less about finding out where the gold is. She does not
want to get through to him to get an answer to that question; no, she wants to get through to him
because she would very much like to get to know him. What a fascinating man he must have
been, before they destroyed him, with his intelligence, his views of the world, his determination to
fight the system. No wonder he fascinates you, an inner voice pipes up unexpectedly, you have
always had a thing for intelligent men. It’s why you fell for Alberto, isn’t it? Why you were blind to
his faults until it was too late? But no, this is different, she thinks, vaguely uncomfortable. This is
not about physical attraction, surely not. The man is a wreck. She is only interested in him on an
intellectual level. Yes, that’s it. But it is with a sense of relief that she pulls up at Headquarters and
walks inside, happy to have something else to concentrate on.

She does not report the break-through – does not tell Tamayo about the crane, and she refuses
to think too carefully about why she chooses to do that. She only reports the Professor’s
continued physical improvement, and it prompts the Colonel to insist on a security detail at the
house, to keep an eye on the prisoner. She has no grounds to refuse, but she is adamant that
they may never enter the house or interact with the Professor, and Tamayo agrees to that readily
enough. When it comes to the question as to who to send, he remarks, “What about Angel? I’m
sure he won’t mind-“ “No!” she objects immediately and he raises an eyebrow at her vehemence.
She realises too late what her reaction must look like and fumbles for a credible explanation. “He,
uhm, it would be a waste of his talent and time,” she eventually comes up with, and the Colonel
seems to accept that. He is a male; he will never understand the oppressiveness a woman feels
when a man she has said no to continues to follow her around with a love-sick expression and
constant thinly veiled comments about his adoration - the strain it puts on a person, especially if it
is a friend that you do not wish to hurt. But besides this personal aspect, she doesn’t want Angel
near the Professor, complicating matters even further.
“Okay then, what about Antonanza and two others?”
She nods, grateful that he does not pursue it, and rushes off at the first opportunity. What happened
in there has alarmed her, and she is beginning to doubt her own intentions. She needs time alone,
to think, to figure out what the hell she is doing. The most important thing is Sergio Marquina’s
recovery, and if she can’t separate her own interests from that perhaps it is time to step back.

-0-

He uses the punching bag for the first time and it feels good, even though his punches barely move
the heavy sack. He tries not to dwell on that, on how feeble he has become, and instead focuses on
how invigorating it feels to work up a sweat. His mind wanders as he circles the bag, throwing
punches at irregular intervals, and inevitably it wanders to her. The Inspector. Now that Antonio has
left she is the only person he has contact with, and he finds himself increasingly preoccupied with
thoughts of her even when she’s not present. He likes her, he has finally admitted to himself, and he is
finding it increasingly hard to distrust her. He reminds himself on a regular basis that she is a cop,
playing a long-term strategy to win his trust, and that he mustn’t be taken in. But fool that he is, he is
beginning to fall for it. It isn’t real, her warmth and compassion, he cautions himself; it’ll disappear as
soon as she gets what she wants. And yet he catches himself analysing her voice and her actions
after each session with her, looking for clues that she really means it. That she likes him too, and is
not just being nice because it is her job. Idiot. He throws another punch, putting his full weight behind
it, and is encouraged when the bag swings a little. He has no more energy left after that, and he walks
slowly to the bathroom to shower.

As the warm water cascades over him he presses his palms against the cool tiles and leans against it,
and even here he can’t escape thoughts of her. He remembers how moved she was by the crane he
made for her, and his chest fills with warmth. Oh, God, he thinks in a sudden panic; he has Stockholm
Syndrome, doesn’t he? That is the only logical explanation for what is happening to him. There is no
way that he can experience true emotions after what he’s been through, the rational part of his mind
tells him. He doesn’t know what that is, anymore - real feelings. He’s spent four months forgetting how
to feel, and now his confused brain is latching on to the first instance of feeling anything other than
fear and blowing it out of proportion. Of course he feels gratitude towards the Inspector – she saved
him from that hell, after all. Gratitude is good and healthy. But anything more would be… What?
Unhealthy? Delusional? He should not have given her that crane. It was a mistake – one that will tell
her that she is getting to him, that he notices her, that he is experiencing emotions towards her. She
will exploit it, he warns himself; he has left himself vulnerable to attack. The Red Witch’s voice comes
to him unbidden, telling him, You will never be able to experience normal emotions again. This is what
she meant, he realises; they have fucked him up to such an extent that he will never be certain what is
real and what is not – what is a reaction to what they’ve done to him, and what is pure and new. He
squeezes his eyes shut and stays there, under the spray, feeling empty, lost and confused, until the
warm water runs out.

As he moves back to his room, rubbing his wet hair with a towel, he notices a small figure
by the gate at the top of the stairs from the corner of his eye, and freezes. He does not turn
his head towards it, but even so he recognises her as the girl from next-door, Inspector
Murillo’s daughter. What the hell is she doing here?! And where is the grandmother?
“Hello,” she says, and he just stands there, uncertain what to do. She is not fazed by his
silence and simply talks on. “Mama is not here to read to you today, but I can.” She waves a
big book at him, and then sits herself down on the top step. When he remains frozen in place,
she gestures towards the floor with her chin in a gesture reminiscent of her mother, and
orders primly, “Sit,” and waits until he dutifully settles himself on the floor with his back
against the wall. Once he has done so, she opens the book and begins. “It’s called ‘Lucy’s
Light’,” she informs him, and he can’t get it over his heart to disappoint her so he sits there
and listens as she reads the story of the little firefly whose light wouldn’t go on to him.

-0-
When Raquel returns from her meeting and parks in front of her own house, she notices that the
front door of the house next door is open and nearly has a heart attack. Oh fuck. How the hell…?
She rushes over, pulling her gun from its holster as she does so, and peeks around the frame
once she reaches it. Everything seems in order – at least the place has not been turned over or
cleaned out. As she edges around the door she hears her daughter’s voice and her heart
momentarily stops. Oh God, why is Paula here?! Is she in danger-
But almost simultaneously she registers that her daughter’s voice sounds normal and unconcerned,
and she forces herself to calm down. She moves to the foot of the stairs as quietly as she can, and
then stops at the sight that greets her. Paula is perched on the top step with a book on her lap, and
the Professor is sitting on the floor behind the gate. She reads the words on each page out loud, then
holds the book up to the bars so he can look at the picture if he wants, before moving on to the next
page. Raquel observes them for a minute, waiting for her heart-rate to return to normal, and she can
almost swear she sees the hint of a smile hovering around his mouth.

She quietly holsters her gun before she says, “Paula, honey, what are you doing?”
The Professor stiffens at the sound of her voice and she tries not to be offended by
that. Paula, though, looks up and smiles at her mother. “I heard you tell Grandma that
you won’t be able to read to the Pro- Prof-“
“Professor,” Raquel helps her out patiently.
“-Professor, so I brought my book to read so he won’t be alone,” she explains, as though it is the
most normal thing in the world to do.
“Uh-huh, that’s very thoughtful,” Raquel says, “but how did you get in
here?” “Grandma brought the food over, so I came with her.”
“Where is she now?” Raquel responds, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. Has her
mother wandered off? It has happened a few times, and she senses the Professor tilt
his head, listening. Paula shrugs. “She forgot about me – again – and went home,” she
explains, and Raquel squeezes her eyes shut.
“You’re sure?” she checks, and Paula nods.
“Yeah, I saw her go in,” she divulges, and Raquel leans her shoulder heavily against
the wall and breathes out in relief. Thank God. Perhaps it is time to look into a care-
giver, she thinks despondently, although how she will pay for it is another dilemma.
“Okay, why don’t you go and make a start on your homework, and I’ll be along in a minute?”

She goes to the door to watch that Paula enters their house safely, before she returns to the top of the
stairs. The Professor has got up, but he still stands in the corridor, his hands dangling by his sides,
and for some reason she finds herself confiding in him. “That is my daughter, Paula,” she explains,
unaware that he already knows this. “We live next-door and my mother is supposed to look after her
while I’m at work, but… She is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s,” she says sadly, and his hand
twitches before it stills again. She wonders what he was about to do – maybe lift it to his forehead?
“Sometimes she forgets. Most of the time she is fine, but some days it becomes quite bad. When that
happens, well… She has wandered off once or twice, or she lets my ex-husband take Paula, which is
not supposed to happen because I have a restraining order against him.” She sighs and looks down,
momentarily overcome with sorrow, before she straightens up with a crooked smile. “What can you
do, hey? Anyway, thanks for letting Paula read to you. At least that kept her in here and safe from
harm.” With that she goes down the stairs again, her step heavy, and he goes to the window in his
room and watches her walk over to her house, shoulders slumped, looking like she is carrying the
cares of the world, and he bunches his fist at the unfairness of it. The more he learns about her, the
more empathy he feels towards her. First the abuse, and now this
– her mother’s heartbreaking illness. She knows pain and the darker side of life, and
maybe that is why he feels such a strong connection to her. Misery loves company, his
more cynical side supplies, and he purses his lips. Is that all it is?
 -0-

Later that night, once Raquel has helped Paula with her homework and finally got her mother settled
down for the night, she goes to her room and sinks down on the side of the bed. Damn, she is tired.
Maybe, once this operation is over, it’s time for a holiday. She can take the family to the Canary
Islands, spend some time on the beach. Yes, she thinks, the change of scenery will do them all a world
of good. Her thoughts go back to what happened that afternoon, to the scene she witnessed between
Paula and the Professor. It surprised her, and not only because she didn’t expect to find her daughter
in that house. It was the expression on his face that was most surprising - soft and enchanted, and she
realises that she has never really thought about the Professor and children together. But he seemed to
enjoy Paula’s company. She picks up her hairbrush and meanders towards the window, lost in thought.
It is late but the light is still on in the Professor’s room, she notices absently, and she wonders whether
he is sleeping alright. Tomorrow she will ask whether he needs sleeping tablets; heaven knows, if
anyone has ample material for nightmares, it is him.

-0-

He is restless tonight, and he wanders around the upper floor, from room to room, trailing his
fingers over the furniture, looking out of the windows. He sits on his exercise bench for a while
and contemplates whether he should try a few sit-ups, but he knows his body is not yet ready for
that. One doesn’t undo four months’ worth of abuse in a few weeks. He must be patient. That is
something he is normally quite good at – patience. Didn’t he take almost fifteen years to perfect
his plan for the Royal Mint heist? If that doesn’t speak of patience, he isn’t sure what does. He
gets up and meanders back to his own room, and his gaze trails over the personal belongings the
Inspector has returned to him. He stands over the chess board for a while, pondering a move
involving the white queen, but his mind isn’t really focussed and he puts the piece down again
without making it. The queen is too valuable for an improperly thought-through move. He migrates
towards the window, and when he looks over to Inspector Murillo’s house he stops. It is the first
time he has observed the house during the night, and there is movement in one of the first floor
rooms. It is her, he realises with a jolt. The curtain is open and the light is on and he can see her
quite clearly as she picks up a hairbrush and begins to brush her hair, and he is mesmerised. He
remains frozen in place, staring at her, even as he realises she is coming over to the window.
Move, his brain desperately instructs his feet, but they don’t listen. He is paralysed by a sudden
and unexpected yearning, and all he can do is watch.

And then it happens. She looks up and across to this house, her eyes drawn by the light,
and she stiffens when she sees him. He should drop his gaze, turn his head away, but he
can’t. Her eyes find his and they stand for an eternity, simply looking at each other. A
thousand emotions run through him when he looks into her eyes at last, and from the way
her expression shifts and her breathing speeds up he thinks the same is happening to her.
It is one glance, one meeting of the eyes, but once he tears himself away and steps out of
sight he is shaken to the core. They exchanged a thousand thoughts with that one look,
and he knows nothing will be the same after this.

tbc
 Attraction

“By itself,” he said, “pain is not always enough. There are occasions when a human being
will stand out against pain, even to the point of death. But for everyone there is something
unendurable
– something that cannot be contemplated.”
George Orwell, 1984

When Raquel enters the Professor’s room the next day she is filled with equal parts anticipation
and apprehension. Will the fact that they have finally made eye contact change anything? Does it
mean that he is ready to interact with her? Or was it an accident, unplanned and unexpected, and
therefore meaningless? Will it be business as usual, with her talking to a wall? She steels herself
to expect the latter, not to get her hopes up, but as they are moving into the second month of his
rehabilitation she has to admit that she is beginning to lose a bit of heart. Tamayo has agreed to
give her four months, and she is no longer sure that it is enough time to reach him, to bring him
out from behind the protective barriers in his mind. And really, she can’t blame him for wanting to
stay there, for not trusting her enough to leave that safe place in her presence. She represents
everything he despises, after all, and she needs to consider whether she is the best person for
this job. His wellbeing is her paramount concern, and perhaps it is in his best interests to get an
independent psychologist in – someone who is not associated with the state and its security
apparatus. But what if Tamayo won’t agree to that? She sighs, frustrated. She owes it to him to at
least try, and she resolves to bring it up at her next meeting with the Intelligence officer.

When she enters the room he is standing with his back to the window, hands dangling by his
sides, and even though it is difficult to see his face with the light behind him, she can sense
that he is studiously looking at the floor, and not at her. The status quo is to remain, then.
Nothing has been changed by the eye contact, not for him at least. She is disappointed
despite her best efforts to prepare herself for it, and it takes a major effort to smile brightly
and to sound upbeat as she greets him. “Good morning, Professor. Did you sleep well?” Or
were you also kept awake, shaken by that one look between us? She hesitates as this
thought comes up unbidden, momentarily losing track of what she is saying. “Uhm…” She
belatedly remembers the objects clamped under her arm and hastily holds them up. “I, uh, I
found some old LPs. You can have them – I don’t own a turn-table anymore.”

He listens to her ramble on as she moves over and places the LPs next to the turn-table, acutely
aware of the tension running through her. It has been there since she entered the room and he
knows it is because of what happened the previous night, because of that few seconds of eye
contact. For him it was momentous; the first time he has looked into another human being’s eyes
in more than five months, and he lay awake long into the night in the aftermath, unsettled by the
experience. He didn’t mean to do it… Or did he? He won’t ever be sure one way or the other, but
he is beginning to suspect that his subconscious did mean to do it, because it is her. That
realisation made him grimace into the darkness, lost and confused. Congratulations, Red Witch,
you did what you threatened to do – you made sure that I’ll never be able to distinguish real from
imagined emotions again. She has fucked him up for good, and in the process probably ensured
that he will remain alone for the rest of his life, because who would willingly want to live with that
uncertainty in a relationship? He hastily moved on from that thought, not prepared to contemplate
the reason behind his mind going in that particular direction just yet.

And now, here in Inspector Murillo’s presence, he is more confused than ever. When he doesn’t look
at her once she enters, he can sense her disappointment and he hates it, hates being the cause
of it. Her opinion of him, not to mention her well-being, has come to mean a great deal, and it
takes everything he has not to look at her, not to smile, to let her know how grateful he is for
everything she’s done for him. If not for her, he would probably be dead by now, or at best in
some soulless prison hospital, strapped to a bed and looked after by personnel who don’t really
care for their patients. She is his enemy, and yet he owes her everything, and it is messing with
his head. He’s grateful to her, but he can’t trust her. He admires her, and yet he wants to despise
her for what she is: a cop. She is different, a voice inside his head insists, but he can’t bring
himself to accept it as the truth. And then he thinks – maybe, if you allowed yourself to look at her,
to study her expressions and her eyes, you will know for sure. The eyes are the window to the
soul, as they say, and if you could see the look in hers, pair it with her voice and actions, you’ll
know. As soon as this thought enters his head, his decision is made. He needs to know who she
really is, needs to know whether his instinct about people is still intact. If he’s right about her – that
she’s different, that she truly cares – then maybe he is not quite as fucked up by the Red Witch as
he fears. Maybe, there is a chance that he can trust what he’s feeling, someday. Yes, for all of
that it is a chance worth taking, to break down one of the barriers he’s put up to protect himself.
He’ll still have the other, most important one; the one of not saying a word, and he will keep that
one until he is sure about her. He lifts his eyes slowly, from the floor and up over her legs, her
back, until he reaches her hair, and when she turns around after putting down the LPs, it is to find
his eyes on her face, and she freezes.

Their eyes meet for the second time, but this time there are no obstacles between them. No
windows, no distance, no dark night. They are a few metres apart and the morning sun is
streaming through the windows, and she is gazing into his eyes. It is overwhelming, and she can’t
help the tears that spring to hers. He is looking at her, making contact with her, and it is so
unexpected that she doesn’t quite know how to react. So she simply follows her instinct and lets
him see how moved she is, how happy, and a gentle smile curves her lips. “Hello,” she murmurs,
and her heart skips a beat when a ghost of a smile flits across his face, followed by an almost
imperceptible nod. She doesn’t say anything else, careful not to scare him off, for she can see his
chest rise and fall rapidly, but merely gestures towards the LPs. “There are a few jazz albums you
might like,” she says, and his gaze briefly drops to the albums before lifting to her once more. He
is not looking away, she notes, and somehow that seems a significant development.

Amber eyes. That is the first thing he notices. Beautiful, honey-coloured eyes in an expressive face,
and he watches a kaleidoscope of emotions wash across it as she looks at him. He searches for
triumph, for a sign that this is what she wants – to get to him only so she can get the information the
government requires. He looks for any indication that she sees him as a mere experiment, for the
satisfaction that he knows adorns his face when he wins a difficult chess match. But he finds none of
those emotions. All he sees is joy and warmth and compassion, as though she is happy for him that he
has finally made this breakthrough, and he slowly relaxes. She is so happy for him that tears form in
her eyes, and he begins to suspect that she does see him as a man, a person who has value in and of
himself, and not just a mere subject. The panic that threatened to close his throat recedes, and he
takes a few deep breaths. It’s alright, he assures himself. And when she doesn’t make a big deal of it
and merely continues talking about the albums, he knows he made the right choice. He drinks her in,
watching the way her lips form the words when she talks, how her eyes sparkle when she laughs,
thinking to himself, my God, she is beautiful. And genuine, that unwelcome little voice supplies, but he
knows it is too soon to decide that. For now, he will simply revel in this new-found freedom to look at
her whenever he wants.

-0-

When Raquel next meets with Colonel Tamayo, she does not broach the subject of an independent
psychologist. She has some progress to report, and she puts the decision to step back from this
operation on hold. Now that the Professor is interacting with her she can finally begin to do some
mental exercises with him, to try and determine whether there is any brain damage, even though
he still refuses to say a word. There are many tests that require no talking that can determine his
intellectual and psychological state, and she begins to introduce some of these into their
sessions. He cooperates willingly enough, and she gets the impression that he knows exactly
what these tests are designed to do, but that he is as anxious as she is to find out whether he has
suffered mental or psychological damage. He is slowly coming alive in her presence; watching her
face intently when she talks, smiling when she makes a joke, even using the notepad to ask for
things he needs or wants. When she begins to take him outside, into the backyard for walks or to
simply sit under the tree with a cup of coffee, he takes off his shoes and digs his toes into the
grass, a look of pure ecstasy on his face. And when Paula or Marivi waves to him over the fence,
he waves back and smiles. He is gradually returning to normal, except for that final barrier of not
talking, and she feels a great sense of accomplishment. She is making a difference, helping at
least one torture victim, and it feels good. But most of all she is happy for him. It is her greatest
wish that he should be able to return to something resembling a normal life, once they are
finished here, and she is beginning to think that just might be possible.

The tests are encouraging; there does not seem to be any damage to that impressive brain of his, and
she can sense his relief when she informs him of that. He works hard to exercise it; he has asked for a
book on complicated chess problems and she watches in fascination as he methodically works
through it. The tests also tell her that he was probably a loner in his previous life; that he has never
been a gregarious man, and that he has always lived a somewhat isolated life. Social interaction does
not come naturally to him and she realises that this is probably what saved him; what made it possible
to retreat into his own mind and limit the damage done to him by the torture.

He also continues his physical exercise religiously, and his body is increasingly beginning to look
less like a skeleton and more like a normal physique. When she gives him a puzzle to complete
one day, that involves moving wooden blocks around to build certain three-dimensional shapes,
she can actually see the beginnings of muscle definition under the skin of his arms as he moves
them around expertly. And towards the end of that second month, when she walks in on him
exercising with the punching bag, the play of muscles in his shoulders and arms are obvious. He
is beginning to look like the man he used to be before his arrest, and that makes her smile. He
really is rather handsome, she catches herself thinking as she watches him circle the bag and
throw punches, and everything screeches to an abrupt halt in her head. No, Raquel. He is your
patient, your responsibility, a prisoner; you can’t begin lusting after him, for God’s sake! She beats
a hasty retreat, deeply disturbed, and from then on begins to analyse her feelings when she is in
his presence more carefully. She has always had the ability to be honest with herself, to
understand her own emotions, and within a week she knows she’s in trouble. And when he makes
her an origami rose and their fingers brush as she takes it from him, she is blindsided by a rush of
longing more fierce than she has ever experienced, and she realises that she can no longer
ignore it, can no longer pretend it doesn’t exist.

-0-

He feels more like himself with each day that passes. There is enough stimulation to ensure he does
not feel as though he is a prisoner, and he wonders how Inspector Murillo managed to persuade the
authorities to give her this much leeway. When she takes him outside he feels the excitement of a little
boy who is experiencing something for the first time, and he promptly takes off his shoes and digs his
toes into the grass. He runs his fingers over the bark of the tree in the corner, and he closes his eyes
and lifts his face to the sun, enjoying its warmth. And when he opens them again to find her watching
him with a soft expression, he feels truly alive for the first time in months. They spend most of their
days together, and he loves every minute he gets to be in her company. She is refreshingly forthright,
and if she has days where she doesn’t feel so good she tells him, like when her mother is particularly
unwell or Paula has challenged her, and it helps him out a great deal. He
never has to wonder whether he has done something to upset her, and he finds it calming to
know where he stands with her in any particular moment. There is no pretence about her,
more so than with anyone else he has ever known. Sometimes they play games, cards or
Jenga, and he learns to his delight that she is fiercely competitive and a bit of a sore loser.
But he also learns that she does not take herself too seriously, and on those occasions
where she bursts out laughing at something she’s done he can’t help but beam at her. She
is quite simply the most wonderful and interesting person he has ever met, and he realises
about halfway through that second month that he is falling for her.

Whether it is real or simply a case of Stockholm Syndrome he can’t yet answer, but it is happening
and there is nothing he can do about it, not when he spends so much time in her presence. He tries
his best to hide it, but he knows she has caught him staring at her lips a few times, or maybe she
noticed his touch linger that one time she stumbled on the stairs and he grabbed her arm to steady
her. The thing is, though, that he is beginning to suspect that the same is happening to her. He has
been here for two months and yet she has not asked him a single question that can be classified as
interrogation. Everything she does is aimed at aiding his recovery, and she has never lied to him, not
once. And he can tell that she enjoys spending time with him, for she stays even when she has
paperwork to do, sitting with him as she writes her reports while he pores over the chess board or
makes one of his origami figures. It is in these quiet times together that he finds himself fantasising
about a future with her – she would understand his occasional need for quiet, to have his own space,
his social awkwardness. It is a beguiling thought, to have someone like that to share his life with, and
at first he scolds himself not to be a fool, not to get caught up in these unrealistic fantasies. Until he
realises that she might be having the same thoughts. Yesterday, when they sat together quietly, each
lost in their own world, he glanced up to find her staring at his fingers as he folded the red paper,
mesmerised. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips and a slight blush tinged her cheeks, before she
tore her gaze away and back to her report once more. And God help him, he had to fight the urge to
lean over and kiss her right then and there. When she eventually got up to leave he offered her the
figure, a delicate rose, and when their fingers brushed as she took it her eyes jumped to his. For a
split-second he saw his own yearning reflected there, before it was replaced by panic, and she hurried
away with a mumbled thank you. It is definitely happening to both of them, and it is a major
complication, for he is a prisoner and she is a police officer; he is a patient and she is a psychologist;
he has a secret that she needs to get from him.

What is happening between them goes against every regulation, every sense of logic, and he
knows it can never be. And yet… it is all he can think about, all he wants. But Raquel (for he
can no longer think of her as Inspector Murillo) is also the most principled person he has ever
met, and he instinctively understands that she will never act on the attraction between them,
because she is in the position of authority here, the one who holds all the cards. He wonders
what she is going to do, and he gets his answer when she comes back the next morning,
looking thoroughly miserable and like she hasn’t slept much the previous night. “Professor,”
she says, smiling weakly at him, “I think it’s time to hand over your rehabilitation to someone
else. I’m going to ask Colonel Tamayo when I see him tomorrow.”
His world collapses and he begins to shake his head adamantly, gripped by fear. No. Don’t go.
Don’t leave me.
But she will not be moved. “I’m sorry. I have no choice. You deserve the best care
available, not someone like me, who isn’t doing it for the right reasons-“
Without realising he has reached out and gripped her hand, staring at her imploringly, and when her
eyes meet his they flood with tears. He knows his desperation, his heartbreak is written all over his
face, and she gulps in a shaky breath before she can continue. “Oh God. I’m sorry. But it- it’s not
about you, because of something you did. Alright? It’s me.” And when a tear escapes and meanders
down her cheek it is too much for him. She sighs his name, so softly he almost misses it; “Sergio,” and
he is lost. Then she straightens her spine and looks him in the eye when she admits,
“I’ve developed feelings for you – unprofessional feelings – and I can no longer justify
being your therapist. I know it’s unforgivable, and I want you to know I’m not proud of it,
and I hope that I haven’t made you uncomfortable-“
She doesn’t get any further, because the thought of losing her, of not seeing her
anymore, is the one thing he cannot live with. It is enough to break through his last
protective barrier, and he finally speaks. After six months of resolute silence, he opens his
mouth and speaks. “No. Please. Don’t leave, Raquel. Please. I need you.”

tbc
 Decision

It could not have been ten seconds, and yet it seemed a long time that their hands were
clasped together. He had time to learn every detail of her hand. George Orwell, 1984

It is unclear who is more shocked that he has spoken, Raquel or Sergio himself. His voice
sounds alien, raspy and unrecognisable, not at all like he remembers it. She stares at him,
caught completely off-guard, and he wonders if she actually heard what he said. He is so
unaccustomed to using his voice, that he isn’t sure whether he said it loud enough for her to
hear. And because it is the most important thing in the world to him that she must hear the
words, he repeats himself, enunciating carefully: “Raquel. I need you. Please don’t leave.”
A tear escapes and trickles down her cheek, and he represses the urge to reach out and wipe it
away. She is already overwhelmed and he fears any further gesture from his side will push her
over the edge, so he waits for her to process what is happening, gazing at her anxiously.
After an eternity she lifts her hand to wipe at her face, her movements jerky, and finds
her own voice once more. “Oh my God, you spoke,” she breathes, and for a brief
moment joy lights up her features. “That’s wonderful,” she beams, and he can’t help but
smile at her. But finally the meaning of what he said sinks in and her face clouds over.
“This is my fault; I should have stepped back long ago-“
“No.” The word comes out harsher than he intended but it has the desired effect; she
stops talking and stares at him. He takes a step towards her. “You are the only reason I
am here, basically healed and sane.”
She shakes her head. “There are many psychologists out there more qualified than I for this kind
of work, and I think it’s in your best interests to get one of them in now, someone not linked to the
authorities.” She takes a breath, then adds, “Someone who has not become personally involved.”
Self-recrimination radiates from her, and that is when he knows for certain – she is different.

She is a human being first and a police officer second, and her humanity, her principles will
always overshadow everything else. And because of that, she is exactly what he needs to heal
completely. This is going to be the most important conversation of his life, and there has never
been a moment that carries more weight than this one. “Will you let me say what I want to, before
you make your decision? Please?” he asks, and she hesitates before she slowly nods. Relief
floods him and he tilts his head towards the chairs. “Thank you. Shall we sit down?” he suggests,
before gently shepherding her further into the room, for she looks like she might bolt at any
second. She searches his face urgently, and he’s not sure what she finds there but whatever it is,
it seems to convince her, for she moves towards a chair and sits down. But she looks dazed and
confused, and he knows nothing but the absolute truth will do.

He sits down across from her, his hands on his knees, and swallows. His gaze skips around
the room, finding all the possessions she has returned to him, remembering the countless
small gestures she has made to improve the quality of his life, and the emotion threatens to
engulf him. When he looks back to her, it is to find her eyes on his face, an apprehensive
look on hers. “I have always hated the Police,” he begins, and she closes her eyes for a
moment. “Because they killed your father, and your brother,” she supplies, and he nods.
“Yes. And because I’ve always felt they are the instrument used by the state to oppress its people, to
maintain the existing inequalities in our society. And when the state resorted to torturing Rio – Anibal
Cortez, well, that only strengthened my belief. So it was no surprise when they did the same to me
once they arrested me.” She is interested now and watches him intently as he speaks.
“And then you came along.” He smiles crookedly. “I heard you that day – the day you
came to get me out of that cell – I heard you yell at them, I heard you slap someone.”
“Alicia,” she breathes, and he tilts his head. So she slapped the Red Witch. Good on her.
“You got me out of there, you brought me here, and you treated me with dignity and respect.
With kindness, and I don’t know how I can ever thank you for what you’ve done for me.”
She frowns at that. “Thank me? My God, Sergio. You owe me nothing. It is I that don’t
know how I can ever apologise enough for what they’ve done to you.”
“Why should you apologise?” he countered. “You weren’t the one that tortured me.”
“Perhaps, but I am part of that machine – the state security apparatus, and I can’t
stand back and deceive myself that my hands are clean in this!”
She is getting worked up and he smiles once more. “And that is why you are different. You take
responsibility for your actions, you don’t hide behind orders. You stand by your principles.” He
pauses, before he adds, “And you risked your career to save me. The one man you could.” It is
his turn to search her face. “Why haven’t you asked me where the gold is, Raquel?”

She looks away, but he doesn’t let up. “It was never your intention, right from the start,
to follow that order, was it? You only used it as an excuse to get me out of that cell. And
once they figure that out they will fire you.”
Her gaze flits back to his, filled with defiance. “It will have been
worth it.” He sighs. “Will it?”
She frowns in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think is going to happen to me once they find out? I will go right back
into their clutches, and the torture will begin again-“
“No,” she says resolutely, “I’ll make sure that can’t happen. I have records, proof of what they’ve
done, and if they fire me I will make it public. Everyone will know they have you, and they will
have to follow due process. They won’t be able to make you disappear without trace again.”

There is a silence as he processes what she said, stunned by the sacrifice she is willing
to make. For him. “You’ll go to jail if you do that,” he says eventually, and she shrugs.
“Probably. But I see no other choice.”
He shakes his head. “No. I can’t let you do that.”
She looks down at her hands. “It’s not your choice to make,” she states, and his
chest tightens. “No, Raquel! You can’t throw your whole life away-“
“Why do you care, anyway?” she snaps. “What does it matter to you?” There is an
underlying melancholy to the words, an unspoken yearning, and for once he finds the
courage to spell out his feelings. Because he owes it to her.
“It matters a great deal to me,” he says, gently now, “because I’ve come to care
about you… Because I’ve fallen in love with you.”

Her eyes jump to his and he sees a multitude of emotions cross her expressive face: surprise,
hope, joy, before it is replaced by doubt. She buries her head in her hands and speaks from
between them. “Oh, Sergio. You can’t- How can you-“ She gathers herself and looks up, pushing
the hair from her face. “You probably suffer from Stockholm Syndrome,” she declares eventually,
and he detects a hint of reluctance behind the statement. “You’ve been severely traumatised, and
because I was kind to you, you think you love me. But it can’t be real - you can’t possibly know
your own feelings right now.” He doesn’t say anything, and she continues, trying to convince
herself as much as him. “Once you get to interact with other people, good people, like a different,
independent psychologist, you’ll realise that. Fuck, I’ve made a real mess of things,” she laments,
“I should never have isolated you, with only me to interact with-“

She stops talking as he reaches out and takes her hand, holding it lightly so that she can withdraw if
she wants to. She freezes and her gaze falls to their joined hands, and he can feel the shiver that runs
through her at the physical contact. It is the same as the one that runs through him, and he is
more convinced than ever that they both feel the attraction between them. To his joy she
does not withdraw her hand immediately, and he takes the opportunity to run his thumb
along her knuckles. “Believe me, I’ve had the same doubts as you do. One of the first
things Inspector Sierra said to me was that I will never again know whether my emotions
are real or imagined. But don’t you have to know what a certain emotion feels like to trick
yourself into believing you feel it, when you actually don’t?”
She looks up at his face and her hair falls over her cheek as she does so, and she
pulls her hand away to hook it behind her ear. “I don’t follow.”
He tries again. “I’m talking about the art of fooling yourself that you feel a particular
emotion. Like anger. I have been angry before, so I know what it feels like, how my body
physically reacts when I’m angry. If I want to convince myself I’m angry, even though I’m
not, I know what to tell myself to feel. You see?”
“Yes I think so,” she says slowly, “but I don’t get the point you’re trying to make.”
He takes a breath. “The point I’m trying to make is this: if I’ve never been in love before
– if I never knew, before now, what it feels like to be in love, how can I trick myself into
thinking I am when I’m really not?”

Her eyes widen in astonishment. “You’ve never been in love?”

He can see the pieces fall into place for her. She is a smart woman, and those tests he did will
have told her that he has always been a loner, an introvert, a man who guards his heart jealously.
So he simply shakes his head, until it belatedly dawns on him that she may get the wrong idea.
“I’ve had, uhm, physical relationships,” he hastily adds, anxious that she mustn’t think he’s still a
virgin. “Not many and they didn’t last long, but I have,” he insists. When she tilts her head in a
gesture of curiosity he realises to his mortification that this information can also be misconstrued.
“And by that I don’t mean with prostitutes,” he clarifies, embarrassed, pushing his glasses up his
nose in a nervous gesture, and he can see the amusement dance in her eyes.

Raquel suppresses a smile. God, he’s cute when he gets all flustered- No. Fuck,
Raquel. What is wrong with her?! You know what’s wrong – you’re falling in love.
The smile instantly slips from her face as she curses that internal voice and its brutal
honesty. She has been in love before, and she knows exactly what it feels like: The nervous
anticipation when you are about to see him, the physical thrill of each look, each touch, each
word. The light feeling in your chest when he laughs or smiles, the constant urge to reach for
him when you’re in his presence. Oh yes, she knows, and she is experiencing all of those.
But how can he possibly feel the same, after what has been done to him?
“Sergio,” she sighs helplessly, and a shadow crosses his face, making her feel like a heel.
“You think I’m deluded,” he surmises, and she baulks.
“That’s not the word I would have chosen-“
“But I’m not. Raquel. I have fallen in love with you,” he reiterates, and she bites her lip and looks
to the ceiling in response as a tiny helpless noise escapes her. He pushes on. “I feel alive when
I’m with you, and it’s stronger than I have ever felt before. And I’m a prisoner.” Her eyes return to
his face and latch on to his, clinging to them like a drowning woman to a piece of driftwood. He
can see how desperately she wants to believe him, but he can also see the internal battle tearing
her apart – her feelings for him duelling with her integrity, her need to do the right thing. He plays
his last card. “You want to do what is politically correct, to stick to the regulations. But
sometimes… sometimes that is the wrong choice.” He grabs her hand once more, and his heart
swells when her fingers clutch his in return. “If you had followed the regulations, I would probably
be dead now, or a vegetable at best. But you knew they were wrong, and you broke them, and
you saved me.” He stares into her eyes desperately, urging her with everything he has to hear
him. “And they are wrong now, too. What good will it do either of us if you leave now? I’ll go back
to prison, you’ll be forced to expose what they did to me and go to prison yourself, and Paula will
have to go and live with her father. And for what? To deny what is happening between us?”
He has a point, and with the best will in the world she can’t douse the tiny flame of hope
that kindles in her heart. And yet, what future can there possibly be for them? “If I stay,”
she says miserably, “we’ll only have two more months together. That’s all Tamayo gave
me – four months to get the information they want.”
Sergio’s heart leaps; she’s wavering, and at this point he’ll take anything he can get.
“Two months can be a life-time,” he argues, squeezing her hand, and wins a tiny smile
from her. “I will take two months with you anytime-“
“Even if it means the heartbreak at the end of it will be so much worse?” she
interjects, and he nods resolutely.
“Even then,” he confirms, and she finally capitulates. She leans her forehead against his
and closes her eyes, and he does the same and breathes her in. And then she admits, “I
want more than two months with you,” and he is flooded with love for her.
“Me too,” he says immediately, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
That makes her pull back. “But that’s not realistic. Sergio. If we do this, it can’t be
under any misconceptions. I can’t allow that, because that may damage the progress
you’ve made, regress your emotional recovery.”

He gets up and begins to pace the room, and she watches him worriedly. The
psychological tests revealed that he has a stubborn streak, and she can see that part of
his nature come to the fore in this moment, in the set of his shoulders, the clenching of
his jaw, and the jerkiness of his movements. He turns to her, and there is a look on his
face that she recognises. Determination, as she saw in those videos of the Professor
when he addressed the nation during the second heist. “But what if it can become the
reality?” he argues, and she frowns. “What do you mean?”
“What if there’s another option, where neither of us end up in
jail?” She shakes her head and waves a hand helplessly. “I
don’t-“ “What if we leave, together?”
Her gaze jumps to his. “You mean… Become fugitives?”
“Yes.” He smiles. “I’ve had a lot of practice at it – they’ll never find us.”
God, it is a tempting offer, and for a few seconds she allows herself to believe in the fantasy, but
it can never be. She has responsibilities, here, and she can’t just pack up and do a midnight flit
with the most wanted man in Spain. “I can’t. I have a daughter and an ailing mother-“
“So we take them with us,” he interrupts, moving towards her. “Won’t it be wonderful to
raise your daughter on a beach somewhere, out of reach of your ex-husband?”

He is standing right in front of her now and she lifts her head to look at him, moved in
spite of her doubts. “You’d do that? Start a new life with a mother, a daughter and a
grandmother?” she marvels, and he smiles softly.
“I would, yes,” he says simply, and she takes a shaky breath.
She can’t think of anything in the world she wants more than this – a chance to be with this man.
Can it be that easy, to just pack up and go? What will she leave behind if she does, if she follows
her heart? Nothing but a raft of problems, bad memories and misery, and a sister that is dating
Alberto and wants nothing to do with her after she laid the charge of abuse against him. But is it
really possible? Can it work? Or is this nothing more than a pipe-dream, a folly that will lead them
to disaster? Don’t you owe it to yourself and your family to try? It is her inner voice once more,
and she thinks, yes, maybe I do. Maybe after everything that’s happened – the abuse, the
divorce, the disillusionment with the government and my job – I do owe it to myself, to Paula and
Mama. And besides, once she is out of reach she can expose what they are doing in that secret
facility in Guadelajara and force them to release the other poor souls being tortured there. She
can make a real difference, and it is this realisation that decides her.
“Yes,” she breathes, gazing into his eyes as she gets to her feet, and hope lights up his face.
“Yes?” he checks, and she beams and nods.
“Yes,” she reiterates, before she lifts onto her toes and presses her lips to his.

tbc
 Triggers

Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.

George Orwell, 1984

She kisses him, and his mind goes blank. It is a simple kiss, a gentle caress of lips, and yet
everything around him dissolves as soon as it happens. In the two seconds their mouths are
connected, nothing else in the world exists, and when she pulls back to look at him he feels bereft.
He gazes back, struck dumb by the multitude of feelings that rush through him. You’re beautiful,
he wants to say, and smart and wonderful, kind and compassionate, and I can’t believe how much
you are willing to give to others after everything you have suffered. He wants to make promises,
tell her that he won’t ever hurt her, that he’ll spend the rest of his life making her happy, but he
knows it is too much, too soon. His gaze drops to her lips and it is all the invitation she needs to
kiss him again, more urgently this time. Their lips part as her hands weave into his hair, and he
can’t help but do the same. Her hair is as soft as he imagined; it slides through his fingers like
strands of silk, and he’s certain he’ll never get tired of touching it. She moans softly and presses
the length of her body against his when he cups the back of her head and deepens the kiss, and
the passion between them threatens to spiral out of control in an instant. His blood is on fire. He
has never experienced anything like it, this total immersion in another person, and it is wondrous.
There is not a single doubt, until the Red Witch unexpectedly pops into his head and taunts: You’ll
never be a man again. You won’t be able to fuck – another victim of erectile dysfunction, and
everything comes to a screeching halt.

He wrenches his mouth from hers, breathing hard, his hands convulsing in her hair. Her eyes shoot
open and she looks at him, confused, until she sees the wild panic in his and understands. Her
hands come up to frame his face, to soothe his distress, and she murmurs, “Hey, it’s okay, you’re
here with me. It’s just you and me, no-one else. It’s okay,” she repeats, and he squeezes his eyes
shut and presses his forehead against hers.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and she pulls him into a hug.
“No need to apologise. Everything’s fine. We’re fine. Just breathe for a bit.”
She holds him until she feels his heartbeat gradually return to normal, until she’s sure he’s
alright, and then she releases him. He doesn’t meet her eyes, ashamed, and she realises once
more how much work there still is to do for his recovery. She is angry at herself for momentarily
losing sight of that, but this is a timely reminder of what her first priority must be.

“We should probably take it slow,” she says, watching him carefully to make sure he is
not taking her words the wrong way, “make sure you’re comfortable with every step.”
He glances at her, and she can sense his helpless frustration. “Having second
thoughts?” he asks and she immediately shakes her head.
“God no. That kiss was…” Her voice drops and she smiles softly. “It was wonderful. Really.”
That wins a tiny smile from him and her heart lifts. “Besides, you’re not the only one who
might have issues along the way. This is the first time I’ve- uhm, since the abuse,” she ends
lamely, “and frankly I have no idea what problems that may create. So why don’t we agree
not to make a big deal out of it when one of us has a panic attack, and simply talk about it?”
She understands. The weight lifts from his shoulders and he nods, smiling at her
before leaning over to kiss her softly. “I think I can do that. Thank you.”
She kisses him back, relieved. “Good then. Do you want to talk about it?” When he
hesitates she urges, “It’s important that we figure out what the triggers for the panic
attacks are, so we can deal with them.”
His shoulders slump in defeat and she takes him by the hand and leads him over to the
chairs, and they both settle down while he gathers his thoughts.

“I saw her, in my head; the Red Witch,” he begins, and she tilts her head inquisitively. It
can only be Alicia Sierra he is referring to, so she doesn’t interrupt him. “She told me
that I’ll never be the same again, that once she’s done with me I’ll be what she made me
into.” He smiles bitterly. “She was right.”
“No,” Raquel objects immediately, reaching out to touch his knee. “It feels like that right
now, but we’ll work on it. It’ll get better with time, I promise you.”
The conviction in her voice gives him hope, and it encourages him to confess the truth.
“She told me I’ll never be able to, uhm…” He peters out, uncertain how to frame it with
the necessary delicacy, and she helps him out.
“Have sex? Get it up?” she states with refreshing frankness, and he nods, a slight blush
tinging his cheeks.
“I see.” She sits back, thoughtful. Then she asks, “Were you becoming aroused by
the kiss, perhaps?” His head snaps towards her and the blush erupts into full bloom,
and she adds, in an attempt to ease his discomfort, “Because I certainly was.”
He nods mutely and she smiles encouragingly. “This is good – now we know what the
trigger is, and we can work on some strategies to nullify it.”
“Right,” he mumbles, his embarrassment acute, and she feels for him. But he will have
to get past it; it is the only way to lay to rest the demons they have planted in his head.
“If it makes you feel any better – I’m really happy to hear that the kiss had the same
effect on you as it did on me,” she offers with a cheeky smile, before she sobers. “With
Alberto it was different, you know? He was only interested in his own needs, and that
made things difficult. Unpleasant, even.” Then she stands. “Right, enough of that. Let’s
get started on what we need to do today, yes?”
As he follows her to the other room where she set up the test he must do, he ponders
what she has told him. It is unfathomable to him that any man lucky enough to sleep
with Raquel Murillo can only think about his own needs. If he ever gets that far, he
resolves to make sure he doesn’t make the same mistake.

-0-

Another week passes in which she introduces therapy sessions into their routine. Now that he is
finally communicating, she coaxes him to talk about what he has been through, and he tells her
everything. About the book on the oceans his father gave him, about the nurse who suggested
he pretend that he is underwater, and how he took refuge there during the torture. She teaches
him strategies to combat the panic attacks, such as breathing techniques, focussing on a specific
object, or to find a happy place in his mind and go there. “It has to be different from the place
where you hid during the torture,” she adds hastily, and he thinks about it for a while before he
settles on the beach in Palawan, bathed in sunshine. He pictures her there with him, holding his
hand as they walk along the warm sand, and the image puts a smile on his face. Yes, that’ll do.
They work on identifying more of his triggers; she shows him various images and plays
recordings of different sounds, and to her surprise the crying of a baby elicits one of the biggest
reactions. Why on earth would he associate a baby with the torture-
And then she remembers that Alicia was pregnant during the second heist. “My God.
Did Alicia bring her baby to work with her?!” she exclaims, and he nods.
“I heard her tell Tamayo that there is no-one to look after it since her husband is dead,” he
divulges. “I got the impression she didn’t want to let the child out of her sight, because she
was afraid she would lose it too.”
Raquel gets up and walks a circle of the room, her hand pressed to her forehead. What a fucked-up
place the world has become, and suddenly she wants nothing more than to run off with him, to get
away from it all.

They take it slow with their romantic relationship, as agreed. She sets strict rules for a divide
between work and romance, and during their sessions they keep a respectful distance between
them. But once they are done, they can’t stop touching each other; holding hands, kissing
chastely, or cuddling together on the couch. He is happiest in these moments, and with every day
that passes he is more convinced that what he feels for her is real. He is not imagining it; it is not
misconstrued gratitude. It is real. He is in love for the first time in his life. When she is present she
fills his senses, becomes the focal point of his being, and when she is not there he can’t stop
thinking about her. She has taken over his mind, his heart, his waking moments and his dreams,
and he is thankful because it means there is less time for the dark thoughts to surface. They talk,
about their lives, their families, their hopes and dreams, and he is touched when she is brave
enough to tell him more about the abuse she suffered. In return he tells her about his father, and
about his brother, and she cries with him when he is overcome with grief at the loss once more.

There is an appealing honesty to her, a forthrightness which he suspects would put off a lot of men,
but he is grateful for it. He remembers many a monologue from Andres on the complexity of women –
how they say one thing but mean the opposite, but Raquel does not do that. She tells him honestly
how she feels, which is a good thing, because he, in contrast, is terrible at it. He managed to say the
words when faced with the possibility of her leaving, but now that the danger has been averted he
finds himself unable to repeat them to her face. He tries to show her how he feels instead, but he is
aware that it is something he will have to work at. Until he learns how to do it, he lets the love shine
from his eyes as he gazes at her, lets it infuse each kiss they share, each caress.

What he cherishes most about this time with her, however, is that he is slowly learning how to
have fun. Andres once accused him of living without enjoyment, and he finally understands
what his brother meant. Raquel is fun to be with. She tells him funny stories from her past,
often at her own expense, and laughs gaily. They argue good-naturedly about
inconsequential things – kale does not count as proper food, Sergio, we’re not rabbits – and
when he lets slip that he enjoys the old movies with Anthony Quinn she treats him to an
impromptu re-enactment of the dancing scene on the beach from Zorba the Greek. She even
ropes him in and he submits willingly, comfortable enough in her presence to make a fool of
himself. She introduces him to new music – some of the rock she likes, like an Irish singer
called Van Morrison, and to his surprise he really enjoys it, and in return he introduces her to
some of his favourite classical music pieces and she gets swept up in the beauty of it.

He makes strides in controlling the panic attacks; he religiously works at training his brain to go to
the safe place as soon as the adrenaline begins to course through his veins, and combined with
the breathing exercises he begins to bring it under control. Raquel is impressed with the rapid
progress he makes, unaware that she is the main motivation; that his dedication is mostly driven
by his desire for her, by the need to be intimate with her. The realisation surprises him – he has
never been particularly sexually driven, but he feels an increasing impatience to experience this
ultimate intimacy with her. At first this makes him worry again that it is not real – that it is a result
of the torture, but the pureness of the joy he experiences when they kiss eventually convinces him
that it is. And once he has made up his mind, his need to be intimate with her begins to dominate
his every conscious moment. It almost becomes an obsession, and he watches her greedily, his
mouth going dry when she stretches her back and her breasts strain against her shirt, or the way
she runs her hand through her hair when she talks, and when she puts it up with a pencil he is
absurdly tempted to kiss her neck, to run his tongue up it and to taste her. For the first time in his
life he finds it almost impossible to control these impulses, to reason them away, and he
recognises that he is hopelessly smitten. He is acting as illogically as his brother did each time he
fell in love, and he is doing the exact same things he scorned Andres for during those times.
One night, towards the end of the second week after they declared their feelings for each other,
he dreams of her. It is different from the previous times, where he dreamt about her saving him –
this time it is a decidedly erotic dream. Even though he has never seen her naked, she has no
clothes on in the dream. He cannot make out any details of her body but it does not matter –
simply the knowledge that she is naked is enough to excite him. They kiss ardently, her hands in
his hair, on his cheeks, caressing his neck, and when he looks down at himself he realises that
he is also naked. There are no marks on his body, no scars from the torture, and he knows it isn’t
real, but it makes no difference. He is achingly aroused, and when he pulls her against him and
she smiles up into his eyes he is irretrievably lost to desire. Her hand runs down his chest and
encloses his erection and he gasps, jerking awake to find himself uncomfortably hard. He gulps in
air, amazed, and tries to remember the last time he woke up with an erection. He can’t, and
moments later it hits him like a hammer: the Red Witch was wrong. He can still get it up, and the
knowledge makes him smile giddily. It is the first time he truly believes that he will be alright, he
will become the man he used to be once more. It took two and a half months of patience and care
from Raquel but she was right, it is possible to overcome with time. It is this knowledge that finally
allows him to act on his desires.

Two days later they play Jenga, which Raquel insists on as it tests his control of his motor
functions and three-dimensional visualisation. She is quite good at it and initially she always wins
as he struggles with the steadiness of his hands, but she has one weakness – impatience. As his
control over his nervous system improves he begins to beat her on a regular basis, because
patience is one of the virtues he does have. And when the whole tower collapses when she tries
to remove a block at the bottom too quickly, she yells in frustration. “Argh fuck!” He grins, amused
by her annoyance, and it widens when she continues to swear colourfully and fluently. “Shit.
Damn it. Son of a bitch. Fuck!” She jumps up and walks away, hands on hips, and his eyes follow
her. She has removed her jacket and he has a full view of her behind, her graceful back, her hair
tumbling over her shoulders. God, she is sexy, and without thinking he stands and goes after her.
When she swings around she finds herself chest to chest with him, and her face lifts to his in
surprise, and then he kisses her. With intent.

Her lips instantly part under his and he takes her lower one between his, and they taste each
other deeply. She moans softly, pressing her body to his, and he can feel her soft breasts
against his chest. The world around him fades away, and all he is aware of is each place on
his body where he is connected with her. Fire sparks and run along his nerve-ends, and the
endorphins flood his body and makes him feel euphoric. They kiss ardently, hungrily, teeth
clashing and tongues stroking, and this time there is no part of his mind that is not filled with
her presence, no space for the Red Witch to wiggle into. He cups the back of her head with
one hand while the other drops to her lower back to press her against him, and she moans
again, and he knows she can feel him hardening rapidly against her stomach. Her hands drop
from his hair to his shirt and begins to undo the buttons, and his eagerly join to help. There is
not a single doubt in his mind, not the slightest hesitation, and she can sense it. It should allay
her own doubts and fears, but for some reason it has the opposite effect.

It stirs into life a suspicion that has been at the back of her mind ever since he first asked
her to leave with him. What if he is actually playing her? What if she is only a means to
an end – an avenue of escape? She tries desperately to suppress it, to focus on what he
is doing to her body, to how good it feels to be touched like this once more. These doubts
are not really about Sergio, she tries to tell herself; it is a result of the abuse. You are
afraid to trust again because you got it so wrong with Alberto. Let it go. But she cannot. It
inflates like a balloon in her mind until it is all she can think about, and she wrenches her
lips from his with a suppressed sob and pushes against his chest.

He is so lost in her that it takes him a few seconds before he realises what is happening. At first he
chases after her mouth, unwilling to stop kissing her for even one moment, but then
she shoves against his chest and he opens his eyes in confusion. When he looks into
hers they are filled with abject misery and everything screeches to a halt.
“What- What’s wrong?” he asks, and her gaze flits over his face desperately,
searchingly. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words come out and fear
grips him. “Raquel?” he implores, and a tear escapes and trickles down her cheek.
“Is this real?” she blurts, and he shakes his head in confusion. She grabs a fistful of his open shirt,
before she repeats, “Is it real, Sergio? Or are you playing me, so I will help you to escape?”

Oh. Fuck.

tbc
 Trust

The smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her skin seemed to have got
inside him, or into the air all round him. She had become a physical necessity. George
Orwell, 1984

He stares at her. His first reaction is anger, indignation – how can she think that he would do
something so low?! But almost immediately an inner voice reminds him that he planned to do
exactly that during his first heist, to play on her vulnerabilities to achieve his own aims, and he
feels ashamed. All this time he has only focused on whether he can trust her, and it never
occurred to him that she may have similar doubts about him, and that it is a quite legitimate
concern. They have never really talked about what is to happen to him once she gets the
information from him that she is supposed to. Will he be tried in a court of law and go to jail?
Surely that is not an option, for it will expose the fact that he has been held without trial for
more than six months and that he has been tortured. He has always believed that they intend
to make him disappear, either by sending him to spend the rest of his life in jail in some
foreign country that has no regard for human rights, or by killing him. That is enough
motivation for a man to resort to desperate measures, like deceiving a woman into thinking he
is in love with her so that she would help him to escape. And on top of that he hasn’t been
able to tell her how he feels apart from that first confession of love, when she was on the point
of leaving. No, she definitely has good reason for her doubts.

He takes a few breaths before he responds. “I can see why you might think that, but it’s
not true, Raquel. It is real. I’m not playing you; I swear that I’m not.”
She wipes at her eyes. “I made a terrible error in judgement before, with Alberto, and I’m
sorry, but I don’t know if I can trust what you’re saying.” She smiles miserably. “I won’t be
the first police officer to be deceived by a charming criminal.”
He takes a step towards her, a beseeching look on his face. “I have never been more sincere in
my life,” he says urgently. “The thought of losing you, of never seeing you again – I can’t imagine
a fate worse than that, and this is coming from a man who has endured four months of torture.
Raquel, please. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” She looks unconvinced so he
bulldozes on. “Lately it’s all I think about. I lie in bed and picture us walking on the beach, hand in
hand, and your hair blowing in the wind, and I imagine us sharing a house, and family dinners
around a big wooden table with your daughter and your mother. I- I dream about making love to
you and holding you all night long.” Her tears fall faster now and he grabs both her hands and
gazes into her eyes. “I mean every word, and I’ll take a lie-detector test if that’s what you need to
put your mind at ease – I’ll do whatever you want.”

Oh, God, when was the last time that a man has said such wonderful things to her? She wants to
capitulate, to fall back into his arms, but she resists. This involves not only her own future, but also that
of her mother and daughter, and she needs to be sure. “Whatever I want?” she asks, pulling her hands
from his and taking a step back, and he cocks his head and frowns warily. There is one thing she can
think of, that will convince her he is truly in love with her. He has one big secret, a piece of information
that he refused to give up during four long months of torture, and if he is willing to give that to her she’ll
know for sure. She briefly worries whether asking for it will ruin everything, will once again make him
doubt her intentions, but that is a risk she will have to take. If she gets this wrong, if she uproots her
family and leaves with him, only to find out it was all a charade, it will destroy her. They watch each
other like two boxers circling in the ring, probing for a vulnerable spot, and she lifts her chin in
challenge. “What if I want you to tell me where the gold
is?”

The blood drains from his face and the seconds tick by, and she hears each single one echo
loudly in her ears. The longer the silence stretches, the more convinced she becomes that he will
say no. And then he’ll probably retreat behind his barriers once more and she will lose the
lightness, the happiness that has infused her chest these last couple of weeks. She begins to feel
dizzy and realises she is holding her breath, and gulps in a big lungful of air. Breathe. Be strong.
You have survived worse things than this. He watches every single shift of emotion on her face,
his gaze as intent as a laser probing the ground, before his shoulders slump and he sighs deeply.
He has guarded this secret for so long, through so much suffering and tribulation, that he finds it
almost impossible to give it up under any circumstances. But he can sense her agitation, her fear,
and it makes him realise how much rides on this moment. If he doesn’t tell her, everything will
change. She will withdraw from his rehabilitation and he will never see her again, of that he is
certain. And that is a price too high to pay. Nevermind that he will probably go back to jail and
disappear forever; he will never see her again. He will never hear her laugh, listen to her voice,
watch the way the sun dances in her hair and her eyes. He will never again hear her tell him he is
worthy of living in and of himself, or curse when she loses a game. He will lose all the joy and fun
she has brought into his world and go back to a place where there is only darkness. No. Nothing
is worth that, so he forces the words past the wall that guards it. “If that’s what it takes,” he says
resolutely, “I’ll tell you. It’s-“

But he doesn’t get any further than that. She rushes forward and presses her fingers over
his mouth, shushing him, and his heart threatens to soar out of his chest.
“No,” she sniffs, crying in earnest now, “don’t tell me. The fact that you are willing to, is
enough.” And then she replaces her fingers with her lips and he can taste her tears, or
perhaps it is his own, for the enormity of the moment threatens to overwhelm him too. She
has remained true to her word, has let him keep his secret, and he loves her more than ever
for it. And this time, finally, there is nothing more that stops them from committing fully to
each other. They undress in a flurry of hands, and he picks her up and backs blindly towards
the bed without breaking the kiss. When his knees hit the edge of the mattress he sits down,
holding her on his lap, letting her take control. She does so without hesitation, moving
against him, her arousal wet and warm, her stiffened nipples rubbing against his chest, and
he groans in response, too incoherent to do or say anything else. He is achingly hard now,
and God, it’s been so long that he fears he will come the moment he enters her.
“I’m- I’m going to-“ he gasps desperately and she seems to understand despite his woeful
inarticulateness, for she lifts herself and unceremoniously takes him in hand and positions
him so that she can slide down onto his length, smiling into his eyes as she does so.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, one hand caressing his face, “we can worry about me next
time. Just- I need a moment, it’s been a while for me too,” she confesses, and they stay
motionless, simply breathing together, as she adjusts to the feeling of him filling her.

His hand runs up her back and tangles in her hair, and then she begins to move, grabbing the glasses
from his face as she does so. It is different from all the sex he has had before, somehow more
intimate, and he can’t figure out why until he realises it’s because they both have their eyes open,
looking at each other. He can see into her soul, her heart, can read everything she feels on her face,
and he barely dares to blink, thirsty for every morsel of affirmation he can get. Her pupils dilate as the
pleasure rushes through her body and takes over her brain, as reason gives way to base desire, and
her nails dig into his back. She is tight and wet and hot around him and the friction is exquisite, and
when she swirls her hips his vision goes black for a second and he almost comes right on the spot. He
manages to hang on for a little while longer, striving to meet her stroke for stroke, but the wave is
building up inside him and threatening to sweep him away, and she must see it in his eyes because
she shoves a hand between them and works her clit in an effort to speed up
her own orgasm. It becomes frantic and chaotic and uncoordinated and it is over in a matter of
minutes, and yet he comes so hard he almost blacks out, and all he can do is clutch at her as she
jerks her hips against him a few more times before a high-pitched “Ah!” escapes her and she
convulses around his cock, a rush of arousal flooding from her. Her head drops to his shoulder and
he cradles her against him, breathing in her scent and the smell of sex that permeates the air.

They stay like that until he eventually softens and begins to slip out of her, until their sweat
begins to cool and the fluids they generated become sticky and unpleasant, and she stirs.
She pulls back to look him in the eye once more, and he blinks blearily at her, still stunned by
the force of his orgasm. “Did you, uhm,” he begins, and she smiles giddily.
“Uh-huh,” she confirms, not bothering to hide her surprise. “I don’t normally orgasm so
quickly; I guess I was pretty keyed up.”
He wonders momentarily if she is only saying that so he won’t feel bad, but when he puts
his glasses back on and studies her closely he realises, no, she is telling the truth. She
has a thoroughly satisfied look, and he is so grateful for that that he hugs her tightly and
kisses her. “Thank you, Raquel,” he says earnestly once they part, “for everything,” and
she smiles at him sweetly and caresses his face once more.
“How can something that breaks all the rules feel so right?” she wonders, and he sobers.
“Because, sometimes, the rules are simply wrong,” he offers, looking into her eyes and
cupping her cheek, and she nuzzles into his palm.
“Hmm.” And then her eyes cloud over. “What are we going to do, Sergio?” she asks
forlornly, and he blinks slowly.
“We’ll figure it out. We’re both pretty smart – we’ll figure it out,” he vows, and she leans
forward and kisses him urgently in response.
Yes. They’ll figure it out, because after what happened today she knows she can’t give him up.
She is head-over-heels in love, and she will do everything she can to have a future with him.

-0-

They fall into each other with an ease that astounds him; he never thought it possible that two
people can be so comfortable with each other, so in tune. It is no doubt aided by the fact that they
are isolated here in this house, able to learn each other without interference, but it is still a rare
and wondrous thing. Once they have broken the ice, they are insatiable. They can’t get enough of
each other – constantly touching, kissing, cuddling, and making love. Their sex life is varied and
extremely satisfying, mostly, he acknowledges, because of Raquel’s fearlessness when it comes
to telling him what she likes. She enjoys being on top, she tells him, but not on the days when
she feels vulnerable. Those days she prefers that he take command, and he does his best to fulfil
her wish. He surprises himself with his sexual appetite for her, his willingness to try new things,
and he commits to it fully. He soaks up everything that she teaches him and even manages to
surprise her with a few moves, something he is inordinately proud of. He learns that she loves to
cuddle after sex, to lie with her head on his chest and to touch him as she pleases, and he
quickly becomes addicted to it, too, running his fingers down the valley of her spine or through
her hair in return. When they are relaxed together, like this, they talk about anything and
everything, but mostly they try to come up with ideas on the way forward.

He is the one that asks the difficult question. “Have they told you what they will do with
me once they get what they want – the location of the gold?”
She lifts her head to look at him, resting her chin on his chest. “No. And I never
asked.” “Why not?”
“I don’t know. Probably because, subconsciously, I never intended to do what they want
me to.” He absorbs that, running his hand under her hair to caress her neck. “Well, what
do you think they plan to do with me?”
She watches him, her expression sombre. “Sadly, I can’t think of any good, lawful outcome they
will be willing to accept,” she admits. “The best-case scenario is that they will send you to another
country – one who doesn’t care about human rights – to be incarcerated there until you die.”
He nods. “I’ve come to the same conclusion. Maybe, if you can find out what they plan to
do, I can organise an escape while they transport me.”
Her gaze grows distant as she thinks about it, tracing a hand through his chest hair. “I
don’t know; that sounds risky to me. I’m not sure they’ll tell me exactly how and when
they plan to move you.” That’s true, and they fall silent once more.

After a while she shifts, moving over him, covering his body with hers and his mouth with
hers. After a long, languid kiss he can feel himself stir once more, and she smiles against
his lips in response. “There is another alternative,” she says, “but I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“Try me,” he invites, distracted by the way her pubic hair rubs against his cock when
she moves. “I make a deal with Tamayo – the location of the gold in exchange for
letting you go.” His head jerks up and she smirks. “Told you you won’t like it.”
“You can’t be serious! The authorities will never go for that.”
She purses her lips, serious now. “I’m not so sure, Sergio. Think about it – it’s the
least messy solution for them.” He remains unconvinced so she continues. “I believe
Colonel Tamayo will agree to it – he told me in so many words that all he is
interested in is getting the gold back.” He frowns. “He actually said that?”
“He did. He told me he doesn’t care about arresting the rest of your gang – he simply wants
the gold back because the country needs it to borrow against. We’re fucked economically,
and we need loans to pull through this recession.” She gives him a sideways look. “And to be
honest I agree with him. You know who the first people are to suffer in a recession, right? The
poor and the marginalised. The welfare programmes will be the first thing they’ll cut.” She
presses a kiss to his chest. “You achieved what you wanted to with this second heist – you
got Rio back.” After a pause she added, “The country needs the gold more than you do.”

She doesn’t say anything more, simply gives him time to think about it, and after a few
minutes he sighs. “You make a convincing argument,” he concedes, and she smiles
against his skin. It has never been about the money for him; she understood that as
soon as she learnt about what happened to his father. They share the same beliefs –
that the good of the people must come first, especially the poor and the repressed. And
then he adds ruefully, “I think it’s time I tell you where the gold is.”
But to his surprise she shakes her head, before she pushes upright and takes him
inside her once more. “No,” she says, looking down at him, “don’t tell me.”
She plants her hands on his chest and begins to move, and he struggles to keep hold of
the thread of the conversation. “Then how will you make a deal with Tamayo?”
Her nails scrape over his nipples and he gasps. “I’m going to figure out where it is
myself,” she declares. “I have all the evidence from the heist, and I’m going to go through
everything and figure it out. All you need to do is to tell me if I’m right. Deal?”
Her confidence in her own abilities is extremely sexy and he thrusts up into her, incredibly
aroused. “Deal,” he agrees, and she grins down at him, a challenge in her gaze.
“Good, let’s see if I can beat the famous Professor at his own game, hmm?” And then she
proceeds to fuck him with abandon, making him forget everything but her body above his.

tbc
 Negotiations

They could lay bare in the utmost detail everything that you had done or said
or thought; but the inner heart, whose workings were mysterious even to
yourself, remained impregnable. George Orwell, 1984

Raquel jumps into the challenge with a certain amount of relish. This is what she has been
trained to do – to look at the evidence and to figure out what her opponent intended. For she has
always looked further than the physical evidence – she also considers the psychological aspects
of each crime she deals with. What motivates the perpetrator, what is his personality like, what
are his circumstances? And she does the same now. She goes through the Professor’s dialogue
with Alicia Sierra during the second heist again, re-analysing it with everything she now knows
about him in mind. As she listens to the negotiations between the Professor and Alicia, she is
horrified at the blatant disregard for procedure on the part of the authorities, and she takes
particular note that Inspector Sierra does not bother to protest when the Professor tells her it is
clear that the Security Forces has decided to kill the robbers. That is why they release Anibal
Cortez – so that he is not killed in police custody but rather along with the others when they
attempt to escape. So, at least, there is still a reluctance to blatantly kill a man in custody, and
she files that away for further consideration. It may help her to get Tamayo’s cooperation for the
deal she plans to propose – the gold in exchange for Sergio’s freedom.

The first, most important aspect of the Professor’s second heist to consider, in her opinion, is
that it is not about the gold, not really. The gold is a means to an end – a way to pressure the
authorities into releasing Anibal Cortez. And of course, there is the secondary aim of the heist
– to humiliate the Security Forces even further. These two aims, she thinks, are shared by all
the members of the Professor’s gang, but she is convinced that for their leader there was a
third, more private reason behind the heist – revenge for the death of his brother during the
first heist. Someone like Sergio, who does not form personal attachments easily, is more
likely to take it very hard when the people close to them die. He planned that first heist as an
homage to his father, to avenge his death by the hands of the Police, and it is likely that he
had a similar motivation for this second one. So, then, if the aim never was the gold, why take
it in the first place? And how the hell did they get it out without anyone seeing anything?

She goes back to the profiles of the gang members and focusses on the background of the
new ones they identified – and Martin Berrote’s catches her eye. An engineer. Interesting.
What use can an engineer be in a bank heist? That depends on what type of engineer he is,
she decides, and goes back over the man’s profile until she finds it – he studied structural
engineering. Okay, very interesting. She is willing to bet he was responsible for finding a way
to get that gold out of the bank, and later that afternoon, when she is entwined with Sergio on
the bed, she decides to test her theory. They lie on their sides, facing each other, and her leg
is flung over his hip and he is buried snugly inside her. They move together leisurely, without
any urgency, simply savouring being joined like this, talking in low voices. “Hey, can I ask you
something about the heist?” she ventures, and he lifts an eyebrow.
“Mixing work and play, Inspector?” he teases, bucking into her, enjoying the way her
gaze turns glassy as he does so.
“Oh…” She gathers herself after a few blissful seconds. “Hmm. Do you mind, Professor?” He laughs.
She always gives as good as she gets and he adores it, enjoys every challenge she throws in his
direction. “Not in the least. In fact, I’ve been wanting to do that for months now-“ She silences him
with a searing kiss, and when she withdraws it is his turn to need a few seconds.
“How did you select the people you recruited for your heists? Did they have to have
particular skills, for instance?” His eyes narrow as he thinks about her question, trying to
figure out the reason behind it, and she swirls her hips in an effort to distract him. It
works. “Uh…” is all he manages in return and she grins wickedly, running a hand down
his side and over his hip to fondle his butt. “Do you have a problem concentrating,
Professor?” she needles, and he actually blushes. “Ah, no, I-“ He makes an effort to
remember what she asked. “Yes, everyone was there for a reason,” he finally manages,
before he grabs her leg and pulls it higher up his hip so that he can bury himself to the
hilt, and then he begins to move with intent. “Any further questions, Inspector?”
“Ah, fuck… No. Harder,” is all she manages, and it is his turn to grin in satisfaction before
they give themselves over to the wonderful sensations they are creating together.

And when it is no longer enough, when the position they’re in doesn’t allow him to bring her to
orgasm, he flips her onto her back and lifts himself above her on straight arms to drive into
her. Her ankles lock behind his back and she grabs onto his biceps for leverage, and even
here she gives as good as she gets, and soon they are sheened in sweat, their bodies
colliding again and again until she falls over the edge. Her back arches and her nails dig into
his flesh as she spasms around him, drawing his own climax from him. He collapses on top of
her and she holds him while he empties himself inside her, murmuring sweet nothings in his
ear. When he comes to his senses after a few minutes, he presses a kiss to her neck, and
she sighs blissfully in response. And then she says, “That was quite something. Maybe I
should call you ‘Professor’ in bed more often,” and they laugh together, happy and in love.

-0-

She raises the issue the next time she goes to report to Tamayo. “I am making progress,”
she tells him. “I think he trusts me and I’m increasingly confident I will learn the location of
the gold.” Tamayo laughs and claps his hands together in satisfaction. “Inspector, that is
excellent news. I have to say; I had my doubts, but you’re proving me wrong.”
She allows herself a tiny smile of vindication before she sobers once more. “Thank
you. But my progress now begs the question – what do you intend to do with Sergio
Marquina once you have the information?”
Tamayo’s gaze slides away from hers. “He will go back into the system. He’ll stand trial
and go to prison.”
Raquel laughs bitterly. “You’re lying.”
“Excuse me?!”
“Do you think I’m an idiot, Colonel? There is no way in hell that the state can allow him to stand
trial. It will expose that you’ve held him without due process for more than eight months, and that
you tortured him.” She glares at him. “Even a simpleton can see that’s not an option.”
He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again without saying anything. Raquel watches him
closely, trying to read every tiny shift in his expression. For she has not only analysed the personality
of the Professor these last few months; she has also thought long and hard about Tamayo. She
remembers his discomfort in that torture chamber, the way he refused to even look at the prisoner.
And she recalls the shame that crossed his face when she told him his hands aren’t clean – that he is
complicit in the torture. Then, of course, there is the promise he made to her that day in his car – that
he will help her advocate against state-sponsored torture if she succeeds. He never attended any of
the torture sessions in person – Alicia Sierra did all the dirty work. And even with the torture of Anibal
Cortez, it was Prieto that sanctioned it, not Tamayo. It may be wishful thinking on her part rather than
the reality, but these factors suggest to her that subconsciously he is not happy with the use of torture.
Well, now is as good a time as any to find out.

She reaches into her pocket and takes out a pencil, and Tamayo watches in bemusement as she ties
up her hair with it and straightens her shoulders. “Colonel,” she begins, her voice grave, “it is just
you and me here, now. So let us be honest and open with each other for once. Whatever
you say to me I will keep in confidence, but I need the truth: what will happen to Sergio?”
He stares at her, noting the anguish simmering just below the surface, and makes up his
mind. “He will be shipped to Algeria, and it is up to them to decide what they want to do
with him – either shoot him or jail him until he dies.”
It is what she expected, but to hear it spelt out so starkly shocks her all the same. Dear
God, what have we become?, she thinks desperately. “I see,” she responds, aware that
her voice sounds wobbly despite her best efforts to hide her emotions. “And you’re okay
with that?” Tamayo shrugs. “The decision was taken on a far higher level than mine.”
“That’s not what I asked,” she snaps, the anger rising in her chest; he is hiding behind
his orders again, and she needs to shake him out of that, to get to the man underneath
that suit he wears like an armoured vest. He can’t hold her gaze; it drops to his hands
that are folded on the desk and she sees that they are clenched together, so she
implores, “Colonel Tamayo. Please. We should be better than this.”
He sits frozen for ten long seconds, staring at his hands, before his mask shatters.

His shoulders slump and when his eyes lift to hers they are filled with self-reproach. “Yes.
Perhaps we should. But the system is bigger than both of us – if we try to stand in its path
it will simply roll over us and crush us.”
Raquel nods, thinking back to her suspension. “Probably. But isn’t that how each revolution starts
– with a few voices that refuse to be silenced?” She sits forward. “I don’t care what this man has
done, or any of the others held in that abominable facility; none of them deserve to be tortured.
And if I say nothing, do nothing, I am just as complicit in it as the likes of Alicia. Maybe you can
live with that knowledge, but I can’t. I want to be able to look my daughter in the eye and know
that I stood up against injustice, that I’ve done my best to leave her a better world to live in.”
Tamayo takes a breath, moved by what she’s said. “So, what do you propose? That we put him
on trial and expose the whole sordid business – the illegal detainment, the secret facility, the
torture?” But she shakes her head. “No. I do realise that the state will never let that happen. One
step at a time. For now I’m only concerned with the welfare of one man – the Professor. So I
propose that we make a deal: Sergio Marquina’s freedom in exchange for the gold.”
He stares at her. “You want me to ask the President to release him?! The man who made a
mockery of the government and security forces, who has stolen over a billion Euros and our
gold reserves?!” “Yes.” She returns his look steadily. “It is the cleanest result for all involved,
not to mention the most humane. He has paid enough for what he’s done, don’t you think?”
He scoffs and shakes his head. “They will laugh me out of the office.”
Raquel takes a breath. “Then don’t tell them until it’s done.”

-0-

In the aftermath of her meeting with Tamayo she throws herself into the search for the gold with
renewed vigour. She has a tentative agreement from the Intelligence officer in her back pocket,
but she knows that he can change his mind at any stage, or maybe even double-cross them. They
will have to put safeguards in place, make their own plans to pre-empt that. But first, she needs to
figure out where the Professor hid the damn gold. And how did they get it out of the bank
unnoticed? Gold is heavy and couldn’t just be carried out through a tunnel. In any case, the bank
was thoroughly searched in the aftermath and the hostages questioned extensively, and no-one
reported having to dig any tunnels. So how did they remove it? Raquel runs her hands through her
hair in frustration and goes back to the news footage of the last day of the heist. Did they miss
anything? Did any trucks or vehicles such as ambulances leave the area unnoticed? Anything was
possible in the chaos created by the assault, and besides, the authorities were distracted by the
appearance and arrest of the Professor-
Wait.
Fuck.

She jumps up and takes the stairs two at a time. Sergio looks up in surprise when she
bursts into his room, a look of pure agitation on her face. “You had no reason to be
outside that bank on the day of the assault. I thought you did it to distract them so that the
others could remove the gold, but I’ve looked at the footage carefully and there is nothing.
You deliberately let them capture you, didn’t you? You gave yourself up.”
They stand before each other and he can see her confusion, the sheer disbelief in her whole
posture. He smiles in admiration; she is the first one to figure it out. “Yes,” he admits, and she
sits down slowly, looking at him as though she is seeing him in a whole new light.
“Why?” She can’t understand it – he must have known that there was a better than even
chance that he would be tortured. Why would anyone willingly submit… Unless… “My
God,” she breathes, gazing at him in awe, “you did it so that they wouldn’t go after the
other members of your gang, didn’t you?”

Damn, she is smart, and suddenly he is glad that she wasn’t the Inspector in charge during
his first heist. He realises, now, that his plan to befriend her would probably have backfired
spectacularly. Nevermind that he would have fallen in love with her – she is fucking good at
her job, and she, out of all of the Police and Intelligence people he has dealt with, would
probably have been able to catch him. He nods at her. “Yes. I had to find a way to stop them
from pursuing us, because, like Rio and Tokyo did this time, someone will make a mistake
sooner or later and the whole cycle will just start again, with them capturing one of us and the
rest having to risk their lives to save them. And I can’t take any more death,” he adds, his
voice wavering, and her face softens. “So you sacrificed yourself.”
He looks away. “There was no other option. I’m the one they really want, so if I gave
them that, the rest will be safe. And free.” His gaze returns to her. “I recruited them for
my heist, I’m responsible for them being in this situation. I owed it to them.”
“And that’s why you were able to withstand the torture – you’d been preparing yourself
mentally for it for months.”
Her heart aches as she thinks about the sacrifice he made, to willingly submit himself to four
months of torture. God, she loves him. He has more honour than most of her colleagues in
the Security Forces, and the irony of that is not lost on her. If she had any doubts about her
decision to help him get away and to uproot her family and go with him, they dissolve in this
instant. When she meets his gaze, her eyes glistening, he can read her commitment towards
him, towards them, as plain as day. She gets up from the chair and comes over to him, takes
his face in both hands and kisses him, sealing that commitment. He kisses her back, his arms
encircling her, and they stand in their embrace, lost in each other, for almost a minute.

She knows, as she kisses him, as she allows his tongue into her mouth and probes his with her own,
that there is no turning back for either of them, that they are gradually severing their connection to their
pasts and cementing their commitment towards a shared future, and her heart soars. She has been
right all along – this has never really been about the money for him. It has always been about family
and about resistance against an unfair system. And he has become very rich out of the spoils of that
first heist so there is absolutely no motivation or need to take the gold as well. And that is when it
clicks in her mind. She knows where the gold is, and she wrenches her lips from his.
“I know where the gold is,” she proclaims, unable to hide her excitement, and he lifts an
eyebrow. “Oh yes? Where is it?”
She grins triumphantly. “It’s still inside the

bank.” tbc
 Insurance

If you loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him
love.
George Orwell, 1984

Sergio stares at her in astonishment. She watches him anxiously, and a little
triumphantly. “I’m right, aren’t I? The gold is still inside the Bank of Spain,” she
repeats, and he smiles ruefully in admiration.
“Yes. How the hell did you figure it out?”
“Well, Professor, I am very good at my job,” Raquel responds. It is not a boast, but rather a
statement of fact, and once again he is relieved that fate has prevented him from going up
against her in either of his heists. He knows, now, that he severely underestimated her
when he prepared his plan for the first heist, thinking he would be negotiating with her.
“Seriously though, what gave it away?” His curiosity is piqued; what has she picked
up on that none of the other police officers did?
She shrugs. “Your psychological profile,
actually.” Sergio frowns. “Meaning?”
She takes a step towards him and lays a hand on his chest, over his heart. “Your motivation for
doing these heists. It isn’t about the money, not really; that’s just a nice by-product. No, it’s
about family, isn’t it? The first one was about honouring your father’s dream, and the second to
save a man who must have become like family during those months you prepared for the first
heist. And if the main aim isn’t the gold, why risk more of your people’s lives to get it out?”

It has always scared him, the thought that someone may one day know the workings of his heart,
his soul. He has always believed that it will make him vulnerable and he has avoided it like the
plague. As soon as a relationship threatened to turn serious, he has fled, because the thought of
being vulnerable terrified him. And yet, standing before Raquel in this moment, and having his
inner thoughts laid out so neatly for him, he is not afraid. She holds his heart in her hands, but
somehow he is certain that she will handle it like the most delicate of crystal. No, instead of fear
he feels comfort; he is known and understood, and for the first time in his life he craves this
emotional intimacy with another person. He covers her hand with his own and smiles warmly,
tilting his head in admiration. “Congratulations, Inspector. You have indeed beaten me at my own
game.” “We-ell,” she responds, a hint of playfulness in her voice now, “I think it’s currently a draw,
because even though I know it’s still somewhere in that building, I’ve no idea where.”
“Ah, good point,” he grins, his fingers interlacing with hers, “I can live with a
draw.” “Hmm.”

He can see that she’s not happy with the outcome and he waits, knowing her competitive
nature won’t let this rest. And sure enough, after a few seconds she bites her lip, her
other hand coming up to toy with the first button of his shirt.
“Perhaps I can, uhm, persuade you to tell me?” she offers, slipping the button free to
make her intent clear and he lifts an eyebrow, amused and aroused in equal
measure. “By seducing me?” he grins, and she cocks her head.
“You don’t think I can?” she counters, taking his bait, and he shrugs.
“I don’t know. But I’m certainly willing to let you try,” he says, unable to hide the shiver of
eager anticipation that runs through him at the prospect, and she smiles, knowing the
battle is already half won.
She wastes no time, but raises onto her toes to kiss him, backing him towards the bed as she does
so, and he submits willingly. By the time they get there she has loosened his trousers
and shoved it down his legs, releasing him, and he is already half-hard in anticipation. He
helps her to unbutton his shirt and then she presses him down on the edge of the bed.

She stands over him, looking down at him, her hair falling around her face. His hands bunch in
the duvet, itching to bury themselves in the silky strands, but this is her show and he waits
impatiently for her next move. She steps forward, between his legs, and her hands go around his
neck, her thumbs caressing the sensitive skin under his ears. “Where’s the gold, Professor?” she
asks, her voice husky and low, and his cock twitches against her leg in response. She grins,
pleased by the effect she is having on him, and the only reason he doesn’t tell her immediately is
because he desperately wants to know what else she plans to do to him.
“I don’t know,” he manages, and she lifts an eyebrow. He tries manfully to keep his eyes on her face
but her breasts are right in front of him, and he capitulates and takes one mound into his mouth,
sucking her through the twin barriers of her shirt and bra. Her hands slide into his hair and holds him
there as she sways, leaning her weight against him and deliberately rubbing her thigh against his
stiffening erection. She enjoys his ministrations for a minute or so before she pulls away and sinks
slowly to her knees, tracing her tongue down his chest and stomach as she does so.

“Oh, God,” he groans when she stops just short of her target and looks up at him.
“Where is the gold, Professor?” she repeats, and he buries his hands in her hair,
keeping it out of her face so he can watch her.
“Don’t know.” His voice sounds strained and she sighs in disappointment, the warm air
flowing over his cock and his stomach muscles convulse in response. And then she
finally takes him into her mouth and it feels like heaven. She works him expertly for a few
seconds, before she suddenly withdraws and he barely suppresses a frustrated moan.
“I know you melted down the gold into tiny balls. That means it can be hidden in various places,”
she muses, her breath puffing over him as she talks and it is excruciating. “Is it in the airducts,
perhaps?” she guesses, and he shakes his head.
“No. God, please, Raquel.”
“Am I hot or cold?” she persists, and his hands tighten in her hair.
“Cold. You’re cold, now for the love of God- ah…”
She dips her head back down and takes him between her lips once more, swirling her
tongue around him, and he can feel his orgasm building. Then she hums around him and
he barely refrains from thrusting into her, before she releases him with a soft plop.
She presses both hands around the base of his cock, checking his threatening climax,
and deliberately licks her lips as she looks up at him once more. “Mmm. So not in the
ceilings or roof, then,” she muses, ignoring his frantic attempts to guide her head back
down. “And none of the hostages reported seeing you move it anywhere, so maybe it’s
still in the vault chamber somewhere-“
“Yes! It’s in the floor of the chamber!” he bursts out, almost incoherent with arousal, “Now will
you please…” Her mouth closes around him one final time and then he is aware of nothing
but the all-consuming pleasure infusing his body, and this time she takes him to his release
without further delay. When he comes, stars explode behind his eyelids and his back arches
with the force of it, and when it is over he sinks into a warm and blissful nothingness.

When he becomes aware of his surroundings once more, he is laid out on the bed and she sits
next to him, her fingers tracing through his chest hair. Her head is tilted to the side and she
watches him with a heavy-lidded gaze, a look of complete satisfaction on her beautiful face.
“Hello,” she murmurs when his eyelids flutter open, and her voice has that low huskiness which
tells him she is still aroused. He will have to do something about that, as soon as he can get his
limbs to move again. And then she adds cheekily, “If I’d known it would be that easy, I would have
blown you ages ago,” and that provides him with the necessary motivation. He lurches upright
and grabs hold of her, eliciting a high-pitched exclamation of surprise. He reverses their
positions in a swift move and she finds herself pinned under his body, still fully clothed.
She laughs, delighted, and he joins in.
“It’s only because it’s you,” he reveals once they regain their composure. “I am
helpless against your wiles, Inspector.”
“Hmm, good to know,” she says happily as he half-lifts from her to unbutton her shirt.
“So the gold is in the floor of the chamber?” she confirms, lying back as he pops one
breast from the cup of the bra and takes it into his mouth.
His tongue rasps over the stiff nipple before he responds. “Mmhmm.” He releases her and
looks up. “We mixed the balls in with cement and put a new layer down on the floor. If
they measure that chamber they’ll find it’s shallower than it used to be.”
She shakes her head, smiling at the ingenuity of it, before gently nudging his mouth back to her
breast. “Clever. And because the balls were so small the scanners did not pick it up, because they
were looking for one big pile of it.” He is kissing down her stomach now, loosening her pants as he
does so, and she quickly wriggles out of them once she is able to. He smiles up at her, scraping his
beard over her clitoris and she gasps at the sensation, before her hands bury in his hair and nudges
him down to her entrance impatiently. He can smell her arousal, and he doesn’t waste time but zeroes
in on his target and gives her the same pleasure she has bestowed on him earlier.

Much later, as the sun sets outside the window they lie curled together, naked and sated. His
head is pillowed on her chest and he can feel her breath ruffle his hair on each exhalation, and
he is happier than he has ever been. Who would have thought, on that day that he was arrested,
that it will lead to him finding the love of his life? Now there are no more secrets between them,
nothing more that he needs to protect, and when her fingers trace over his scars he feels
cherished, as though he finally belongs somewhere. He never wants it to end; and his thoughts
are preoccupied with finding a way to ensure that they can have a life together. And as if she has
read his mind, she says, “I’m going to see Tamayo tomorrow, to finalise our deal.”
He rolls onto his side so he can look at her, and she mirrors him. They watch each other
silently, drinking each other in, until he eventually asks, “Do you think he’ll stick to it?”
“I don’t know.” Her hand finds his chest once more, her fingers tracing patterns on his skin.
“Tamayo is an Intelligence officer; while he may not be entirely happy with the use of torture, it’s a
whole different matter to put your job and your reputation on the line to let the biggest arrest of
your career go. And that’s what we’re talking about – if he lets you go he’ll most likely be fired.”
“We can offer him compensation,” he suggests, but she immediately shakes her head.
“No. That will be too much like offering him a bribe; he’ll hate it.” She leans forward and
presses her lips to his in a sweet kiss. “I have another idea.”

-0-

When Raquel next goes to Police Headquarters to report, she stands in front of the building and gazes
up at it for a long time, knowing this may be the last occasion that she will set foot in it. It is a strange
feeling, and she is torn between regret for what she is about to lose – her life’s work, her reputation, life
as she has known it to date – and the prospect of a new chapter that is about to begin, in which she will
be free of all of this, of being part of a system she no longer has faith in. She takes a breath, steeling
herself, before she pushes open the door and walks into the lion’s den. Sergio is not happy with what
she is about to do, but she knows this is the only option she has, the only strategy that will protect them
from any treachery by Tamayo. Besides, she feels she owes it to Sergio, to do this for him, because
she loves him, and this is all that she has to offer in return for the new, better life she has to look
forward to with him. Tamayo looks up when she steps into the office, and she smiles and nods a
greeting. His response is guarded; he has had time to think about the tentative agreement he made to
let the Professor go, and it is only natural that he will have doubts about the path he has chosen. She
wonders fleetingly if he is actually now hoping that she
will never obtain the location of the gold, sparing him from having to make a decision. Well, too late
for that – she has done it, she has got what Alicia never managed in four months of brutal
interrogation, and she can’t help but feel a certain amount of triumph. She has proven them wrong,
defeated their unlawful approach, and she is determined to force them to acknowledge that.

She sits down, crosses her legs and takes a pencil from her pocket, then ties up her hair before she
looks Tamayo squarely in the eye. “I know where the gold is,” she announces without preamble,
and he freezes and stares at her in astonishment.
“My God,” he breathes, “you do?”
She nods. “I do.”
He jumps to his feet and begins to pace, unable to contain his excitement. “That is the best news I
have heard in years, Inspector. Will it be difficult to retrieve?” He turns to her, eyes shining in
excitement, then tilts his head when she does not respond. “Well?” he demands, used to bulldozing
his way through any opposition and hoping to do the same to her, but she doesn’t budge.
“Before I tell you, I need to know that you will honour our agreement of the other day –
that you will let Sergio Marquina go.”
“Yes, yes, I will,” he replies hastily, “now tell me where it is,” but Raquel is not so easily
fooled. “Forgive me, Colonel, but I don’t think I can trust that you will keep your word,
especially when it is given so glibly.” She holds his gaze, challenging him, and after a
second his slides away from her and he moves back to his chair and sits down slowly.

“It’s not as straightforward as you think – this man held people hostage on two
occasions, for God’s sake! We can’t just let him go, our reputation will be ruined and
every criminal will fancy his chances of getting away scot-free, no matter the
seriousness of their crimes,” he objects, and she scoffs.
“And what about how we held him unlawfully for seven months, and did far worse things
to him than he ever did to his hostages? Besides, no-one knows we have him, therefore
no-one will know if we let him go.” Tamayo yanks at his collar, annoyed at how easily
she has thwarted his argument, but worse is yet to come. “But I can see I’m right not to
trust you, so you should know that I have taken out insurance to prevent you from
reneging on our deal.” His head snaps up. “What are you talking about?”
“I have sent copies of the torture tapes to three people I trust,” she declares, and his
eyes widen in alarm, “and if I don’t contact them every day to tell them everything is fine,
they will release it to the press.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes, appalled at her treachery. “You signed the
Official Secrets Act! I can throw you in jail right now for treason!”
She smiles sadly. “I know. But if you do, they will release those tapes and you, the Intelligence
service, the Police, and the whole damn government will be fucked.” On the surface she
appears calm, but underneath her emotions are churning. Even though she believes she is
doing the right thing, it is still one of the most difficult she has ever done. After a life-time of
service to her country, it is not easy to turn against it, no matter how justified it may be.
Tamayo is breathing heavily, shocked to the core. “You treacherous bitch,” he
hisses, and she swallows hard.
“Perhaps,” she responds to his surprise, suddenly sounding endlessly weary. “But I
have been forced into it – by the state’s blatant disregard for human rights. We must
all choose a side now, Colonel, and I choose to fight for what is right.”

He has no easy answer to that, and they watch each other wordlessly. She can see a flicker of
uncertainty in his gaze and it gives her hope; she remains convinced that deep down he knows
what they are doing is wrong. So she says, “Cheer up, Colonel. I am actually providing you
with an opportunity to do what you know is right and to remain blameless at the same time –
you are being forced into it by my treacherous act, aren’t you?”
He bares his teeth in annoyance at her impertinence, but even so she can see the wheels turning in
his head. Could he actually get the gold back, rid the state of a thorny problem and keep his
reputation more or less intact at the same time? Eventually he asks, “So what do you want?”
She releases a breath. “I want you to let Sergio Marquina go, and I want you to stop pursuing him
and the rest of his gang. This ends here. If it doesn’t, I will expose everything.”
He closes his eyes and pinches his nose; she has backed him into a corner and there is no way out,
and he nods reluctantly. “Fine. On one condition; he leaves Spain and never sets foot here again. If
he or any of his people return, the deal is void and I’ll go after them with everything we have.”

Oh God, it has worked. She can hardly believe her ears and struggles to smother a smile
of boundless joy. “Deal,” she agrees quickly, and Tamayo sighs and runs a hand through
his thinning hair.
“So. Where is the sodding gold?”
She stands to leave before she answers. “It’s still in the Bank of Spain,” she informs him with a
certain amount of relish, and his mouth falls open in astonishment. “They melted it down into tiny
balls and mixed these in with cement, then put it on the floor of the vault chamber.”
He stares at her, speechless, and she turns and walks to the door. Once she reaches it she
hesitates. “Colonel Tamayo, it is my belief that you are uncomfortable with state-sponsored
torture, and I hope that one day you will honour the promise you made to me that day in your
car – that if I prove to you that there is an alternative to torture, you will help me advocate
against it.” She looks at him earnestly. “If good people keep quiet, the bad guys will win.” With
that she disappears from sight, and he doesn’t realise it then, but he will never see her again.

tbc
 Deception

You had to live – did live, from habit that became instinct – in the assumption that every
sound you made was overheard, and except in darkness, every moment scrutinised.
George Orwell, 1984

In the days that follow Sergio becomes increasingly aware just how deeply he has fallen in love
with this wonderful woman. By threatening Tamayo with disclosure of the torture, she has
effectively ended her career, and she has done it to save him. He is humbled by this sacrifice,
although he is aware that it is not done purely for him, but also because what the government is
doing goes against her principles. Still, if it wasn’t for him, she would probably have fought them
from inside the system. He is amazed at her bravery, her willingness to take on a system that is so
much bigger than her, not to mention her willingness to uproot her family and to commit to a
relationship with him, damaged and ill-equipped in love as he is. He wonders, if the roles were
reversed, if he would have been willing to do the same. He is so set in his ways; has always found
refuge in regimented order and routine. But he is determined to be worthy of the trust she has put
in him, to bend enough to make space for her and her family in his life. It is the least he can do,
but he owes her so much more. He will try; he will learn her with the same dedication he used to
prepare for his heists, and hopefully that will be enough.

His first priority, though, is to get the four of them out of the country safely. She has forced Tamayo to
let him go, but the man can still try to have them followed, to find out where they go for possible future
action against him. And her, of course, because once she disappears with the torture tapes she will
become a fugitive just like him. So he instructs her on how to obtain an untraceable phone, so that he
can contact his people to arrange for their extraction. They discuss it extensively, and he is adamant
that they have to escape as soon as possible, to catch everyone off-guard.
“But can you put everything in place for us to do so this quickly?” she wonders, and
he smiles. “Raquel, I put everything in place before the heist even started.”
She raises an eyebrow in surprise. “You really do plan for every possible eventuality, don’t
you?” Then she smiles, not bothering to hide her admiration, and it fills him with warmth.
“I try, although there is one development I never anticipated,” he confesses, and she tilts her
head in wordless query. He cradles her cheek in his hand, his thumb caressing her skin, the
gesture so tender that her breath hitches. “I didn’t anticipate falling in love with the Inspector sent
to get the location of the gold from me,” he murmurs, gazing into her eyes, and a low hum
escapes her. Her hand comes up to cover his, pressing her cheek into his palm. “And I never
expected to fall in love with the most wanted man in Spain,” she admits with a crooked smile,
and then they are kissing, once more sealing this unexpected bond between them. As he
devours her mouth, there is only one thought in his head: I never want to let her go.

Matters escalate quickly, and he lifts her and takes a few steps to pin her to the wall. She wraps her
legs around him and it rucks up her skirt, allowing him access to her thighs. He runs one hand up her
creamy skin and her arms lock around his neck in a death-grip in response, as she licks along his
lower lip and he is lost. Later, he will marvel at how easily she can make him lose control, by the
sheer lust he feels for her, his constant desire to be physically intimate with her. He has no defence
against her, and this is when he realises how vulnerable love makes him. She will be able to destroy
him with a few words, a few thoughtless actions, and it would have worried him if he isn’t so sure that
it is the same for her. Her core is hot against his groin and he is hard within seconds, and she shoves
one hand between them to free him from the confines of his trousers. When her hand closes around
him they pull apart and look at each other, as his hand joins hers to
pull her underwear to the side so that she can position him. When he pushes inside she bites her lip, a
tiny smile lifting the corners of her mouth, and he grins back in response. When he is buried to the hilt
they breathe out in unison, and then she grabs a fistful of his hair and implores, “Come on.” He grips
her hips and pounds into her, his control completely obliterated, and still she urges him on. Her heels
dig into his butt as she hangs on for dear life, her gasps of ecstasy washing over his lips with each
thrust. It is hot and sexy and unbearable, and it is over within minutes as she orgasms first, convulsing
around his cock and shaking in his arms. Her head falls back against the wall and he watches her
pupils blow wide as the endorphins flood her brain. He follows her over the edge after only three more
haphazard thrusts, and she clings to him as he empties himself inside her. He leans against the wall
with one hand, pinning her there as he waits for the feeling to return to his limbs, and she presses her
face into his neck. Her tongue darts out to taste the salt on his skin and he buries his nose in her hair
in response. God, he loves her. He wants a lifetime with her, and he hopes that one day he will be able
to tell her that on a regular basis.

He doesn’t know how to do that yet, though, so instead he tries to show her how much he
loves her by focussing on their escape. Once they are cleaned up and respectable once
more, he sits her down and paces in front of her. “We need to discuss our escape plan,”
he announces, and she tilts her head in confusion.
“Can’t we just pack up and walk out of here? We have Tamayo’s agreement,” she
argues, and he shakes his head.
“No. it’s too risky – they might track us, find out where we’re going, and then we’ll be
an easy target if they change their minds about letting me go.” She absorbs that and
finally nods; it does make sense.
“Okay. So what do you want to do?”
“I want us to leave before they expect us to – catch them off-guard.” He stops and
looks at her. “We have to go in the next two days.”
She frowns worriedly. “So soon? I don’t know if I can sort everything out for us to leave
in such a short time-“ she begins, but he holds up a hand and waves a finger adamantly.
“No. You can’t make any preparations.”
“What?” She stares at him in confusion, and he steps closer to her.
“You can’t do anything that will alert them that you plan to leave,” he explains, and she falls silent.

Suddenly it has become real; this decision to leave everything behind and abscond with
Sergio, and it is only natural that she would experience doubts. Isn’t it?
“Paula will want to see her father before we go,” she offers weakly, but he simply says,
“She can’t. I’m sorry, but she can’t.”
She observes him; despite her distress she is fascinated by the change that has come over him. He
is decisive, confident, stubborn; everything that he normally is not. And that is when she realises –
she is in the presence of the Professor for the first time. This is the man that planned those heists
with cold-blooded efficiency, who is willing to hold people hostage and destroy the careers of those
officers he goes up against, because of his single-minded determination to achieve his objectives. He
is like Jekyll and Hyde, or perhaps more like Superman and Clark Kent – two distinct personalities.
Sergio, the man who makes love to her with such devotion, is gentle and sweet and considerate. He
is shy and socially awkward and eager to please, and he is a good man. The Professor, on the other
hand, can be ruthless and self-serving, and is confident in his ability to outsmart anyone. He
represents the darker personality, but even so there are shades of grey. He does everything he can
to keep his own people safe, to protect them, and apparently that now extends to her and her family.
It is strangely comforting, despite her misgivings.

“Okay,” she agrees, and if he notices her subdued air he gives no sign. When he is the
Professor he is almost like an automaton, processing each piece of information and instantly
discarding those that do not serve his purpose, like reluctance from those around him.
“Good. I am going to programme two numbers and messages into the untraceable
phone, and you need to go somewhere with it before you send them.”
“Why?” she asks, suddenly feeling rebellious; she has never liked being bullied into
anything. “If it’s untraceable, we can send it from here, can’t we?”
Again he immediately shakes his head. “They might be monitoring all cell phone signals from this
house and yours; if they pick up an unknown one it will cause suspicion.” There is sense in what he’s
saying, she has to admit reluctantly, but then he makes things infinitely worse. He begins to smile, and
adds, “In fact, I think you should pay a visit to your partner at Headquarters and send the message
from there. Then, if anyone wants to trace its location, it’ll lead to him and not to you.”

He has barely finished speaking when she is on her feet, angry now. “You want me to use him?”
she spits, “a man who has had my back on the job for fifteen years? Whom I regard as a friend?”
It finally dawns on him that she is not happy; that what he’s asking might offend her integrity, and
he hesitates. He pushes his glasses up his nose nervously, aware that she is seeing a new side
to him, and that she doesn’t necessarily like it. It is the side of him that planned to use her abuse
to his advantage, that will have destroyed this wonderful woman’s career to achieve his own ends.
It is a sobering thought, one he has never considered before, and he realises; falling in love has
changed him. She has changed him. “I’m sorry,” he says, his shoulders dropping, “I should have
realised this will make you uncomfortable.” He watches her apprehensively. “I’m not used to this,”
he mumbles, gesturing between them, “to having to take someone else into consideration.”

To his relief her angry frown eases somewhat, and she sighs. Perhaps she is being
overly sensitive, but it is important that she knows who he is before she brings her family
to live with him. She nods, acknowledging his apology, and offers a conciliatory gesture
of her own. “Alright. Tell me why you think it’s important that I use Angel in this way. Why
can’t I simply go the grocer’s and send it from there, for instance?”
He clears his throat, feeling his way more carefully now. “Uh, because I think we have
to lay a false trail for them; to distract them on the day we intend to leave.”
She tilts her head. “Merely sending those messages from his office won’t do that,” she
declares and her eyes narrow. “You want me to do something else, don’t you?”
He shuffles his feet. “Yes. I think you should ask him to dinner on the night we plan to
go.” At the look of horror on her face he hastily explains. “It will reassure the Police that
nothing is in the offing, that you are continuing life as per normal. They won’t expect you
to help me escape when you’re supposed to be out to dinner with your partner.”
After a second’s hesitation she laughs bitterly, and it is his turn to look at her in
confusion. “Are you mad at me?” he asks helplessly, and she shakes her head.
“Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know…” She runs a hand through her hair; to her mortification she can
actually see the logic in his plan, and she knows it will work. Dear God, is she actually considering
it? Is it not too high a price to pay for their freedom – to use a friend in this way? She wants to say:
yes it is, but then she looks into the anxious eyes of the man before her, who has been tortured to
within an inch of his life and who deserves a chance to be free, and she capitulates. It is one small
deception, she tells herself, and one that will be all the more efficient because of Angel’s
infatuation with her.
“Alright.”

-0-

The next day she finds herself back at Police headquarters, but this time under instruction from the
Professor. It is a strange sensation, to take orders from a man she is supposed to regard as bad – a
thief and hostage-taker. But nothing is black and white anymore; people who are supposed to be the
good guys turn out to be torturers and deceivers, and people who are supposed to be bad turn out to
have integrity and principles. And now she is here to deceive a man she regards as a friend. Oh, the
irony. As she approaches the building she ponders once more the complexity of the man
she has fallen in love with. She has always known that there must be a darker side to him – one
can’t pull off two intricate heists without ruining a few lives in the process, after all – but this is the
first time she has seen it in action. It gave her pause, and she spent last night thinking long and
hard about what she is doing. She made a terrible error of judgement with Alberto; is the pattern
now repeating itself? Is Sergio actually a bastard, but she is too blinded by love and lust to see it?
It is a frightening thought, and one she hasn’t quite managed to banish. If she gets it wrong, if she
and her family abscond with him and he turns out to be a bastard like Alberto, they will be
stranded in another country, without any money of their own and unable to come home. Can she
do that to Paula and Mama – gamble with their futures like that?

A tension headache hovers behind her eyes and she cricks her neck to try and get rid of the
stiffness. Fuck, what is she going to do? She takes a steadying breath. Think. Analyse. Use
your brain, your training. She thinks about the look in his eyes when he is inside her, when
they make love; guileless and open and infatuated. He can’t be faking that; if he were, it is an
Oscar-worthy performance. And then there is this tremendous sacrifice he has made to buy
the freedom of those he recruited for his heists – to let himself be arrested and tortured. Is
that the action of a bastard, of a selfish narcissist or a sociopath? Surely not. Alberto would
never have done that for anyone, not even for Paula, of that she is sure, and it is this
realisation that decides her. Every person has shades of grey in them – it is a fact of life. And
she knows, deep in her bones, that Sergio has more good than bad in him. She remembers
an incident a few nights ago, when he thought she was asleep and she felt him gently caress
her cheek. That is not the actions of a man that is deceiving her, and she makes her choice.
She steps resolutely through the doors and heads up to Angel’s office.

He looks up in surprise when she knocks on his open door, and a broad smile instantly
blossoms on his face. “Raquel! It’s good to see you,” he exclaims enthusiastically as he
bounces to his feet and rounds the desk, and she does not resist when he pulls her in for
a hug. As he holds her close she sneaks one hand into her pocket, and presses the
button to send the two messages already loaded on the cell phone hidden there.
“Hi Angel,” she smiles, allowing him to hold her for a couple of seconds before she
steps back. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, settling his butt on the edge of
the desk, and she concentrates on looking him in the eye, on not fidgeting.
“This operation Tamayo has me working on is tiring, and I can do with a night off. And
since I haven’t seen you in a while, I thought we could go for a drink tomorrow evening –
catch up?” she suggests, and her heart constricts when his face lights up. “That sounds
great,” he beams, and she nods.
“Good then. Shall we say eight; I’ll meet you over at Roberto’s café?”
He nods enthusiastically, and she speedily departs before she can change her mind,
fleeing the building with undue haste. This time, though, as she steps out the door and
into the street, she knows she has severed the last tenuous connection to her old life.

Now, there is no turning back.

tbc
 Escape

His whole body and mind seemed to be afflicted with an unbearable sensitivity, a sort of
transparency, which made every movement, every sound, every contact, every word that
he had to speak or listen to, an agony. Even in sleep he could not altogether escape from
her image. George Orwell, 1984

It is her last day in Spain. Raquel is acutely aware of that fact as she drives towards a grocery
store on the edge of the city, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. She has told her mother the
truth - that they can never come back; but has decided not to tell Paula. She feels terrible about
that, but she knows if she does her daughter will insist on seeing her father, and that she can’t
allow. And now she is on her way to a brush-pass with one of the Professor’s people, a man he
has described to her and from whom she must obtain the carfentanil – the substance they will use
to drug the guards tonight. She cannot buy it herself for fear of arousing suspicion, and therefore
she is on her way to meet a man she only knows as Marseille. She, in return, is wearing a red
scarf and must stand before the fresh fruit at exactly 09:35, for that was one of the messages that
was sent yesterday. That part is easy enough; she has done a couple of undercover operations
and will have no problem looking natural doing it, but what if the message never reached its
intended destination? What if the Professor’s colleague betrays him or double-crosses him?
Sergio was adamant that this Marseille would never do something like that, but she has brought
her gun just in case. Better safe than sorry.

She arrives early and parks between two large people carriers, shielding her from view, and
settles in to wait. The red scarf lies on the seat next to her, out of sight, as she studies each
person entering the store. She spots him immediately, about seven minutes before they are to
meet. He is a big man, and he stands a head above most of the people hurrying in and out of the
store. She scrutinises the surroundings but can’t spot any tails or surveillance, so she drapes the
scarf around her neck and follows him into the store. Shopping basket in hand, she collects a few
items at random before making her way to the fruit. Once there, she picks up a few peaches, then
puts them down again, feigning indecision as she surreptitiously watches the people around her.
The big man moves up next to her and picks up a cantaloupe. He looks at it dubiously, then
shrugs helplessly. “I never know when these are ripe,” he laments, and she smiles at him.
“You have to smell it,” she informs him, holding out her hand, and he places it in her palm along
with a small vial. She sniffs it, then nods and hands it back. “That one’s ripe,” she confirms, and
he smiles his thanks before moving off. She slips the vial into her pocket and heads to the check-
out, alert to any trap. But there is nothing, and she goes out to her car without mishap and drives
off. Phase one of Plan Ascension has at least been completed successfully.

She smiles to herself, mostly in relief but also in amusement at Sergio’s need to name all his
plans. She has discussed both his heists in detail with him, and soon learnt that his plan for every
single phase had a catchy name – Chernobyl, Alcatraz, Epicentre. And now their final escape
plan, which he christened Ascension. When she asked him why, he explained it is because they
will vanish into thin air, as though they have been taken from this world by a higher power. There
is a certain poetry to these names he chooses, and she finds it endearing. It makes her think that
it is going to be fun living with him, that he has quirks and idiosyncrasies which will ensure that it
will never be boring, and suddenly she is looking forward to this new life that awaits her.

-0-
Sergio paces the upper floor as he waits for her to return, every second without word an agony. He
has never had so little control over what is happening, and it is stressing him out, although he knows
that is not the main reason for his agitation. No, it is the thought that it is Raquel out there taking the
risk, the woman he has come to love more than life itself. This realisation caught him unawares and
he doesn’t know how to cope with it. How many people has he sent into the lion’s den in his two
heists – hell, even his own brother – without experiencing this crippling anxiety? That is when he
knows, when he banishes every last speck of doubt that still haunts him late at night: what he feels for
her is real. It is not Stockholm Syndrome, it is not imagined; he loves her. With every fibre of his being
and with a fierceness that scares him. If something should happen to her because of him, because
she is risking everything to set him free, it will destroy him. He will burn down this country in
retaliation, he will sweep up the population until they scream her name from every rooftop, because
she deserves nothing less. This he vows to himself as he stands by the window, staring down at the
street, willing her car to return, to bring her back to him safely.

Plan Ascension has too many variables that can go wrong for his liking, and he feels
discombobulated by the fact that he has been out of circulation for seven months. He doesn’t
even know if Marseille is still alive; he could have been killed in a car crash or something equally
mundane for all Sergio knows. The same goes for the group of Pakistani hackers he makes use
of, for whom the second message was meant; they could have been shut down by the authorities
by now. And everything hinges on them still being in place, for they need to block all the cctv on
the routes they plan to take, to make sure there is no trace of their movements once they leave
the house tonight. His heart starts racing and his breathing speeds up, and by now he knows the
signs – he is on the verge of a panic attack. No. He can’t afford that, not now; she may need him.
He squeezes his eyes shut and goes to his safe place, the beach in Palawan. He feels the warm
sand under his feet, he hears the waves sighing, he breathes in the tang of the ocean air. Raquel
is there with him, her hand in his, her shoulder leaning against him, and her joyful laugh ringing
out, carefree and unchecked. Yes, that’s better, he is fine, she is fine, they will have a future
together. That will be his gift to her, his offering to lay at her feet, to show her how much she
means to him. There is the sound of a car engine, and his eyes fly open to see her get out of the
car and hurry into the house.

He waits for her by the gate at the top of the stairs, too anxious to stay in his room, and as soon
as she opens it he steps forward and pulls her into his arms. She is safe, she has come back to
him, and for a few seconds nothing else matters, not even his plan. As he holds her he can feel
the current of excitement running through her, and he knows even before she lifts her face to his
and says, “I’ve got it.” They kiss needily, craving each other, and on any other day it would have
spiralled out of control and into sex, but today there is no time for that. They need to pack and to
prepare everything for their departure, so they part reluctantly, breathing hard.
He feels a need to tell her how important this is to him, so he blurts, “I can’t wait to start
our life together, with your family; far away from here, in a place with no dark memories
for either of us.” Her eyes shine with joy and he knows he has said the right thing at the
right time for once, and she burrows into his chest once more. “Me too,” she says
fervently, and he squeezes her tight in response.

They just might make it after all, against all odds.

-0-

The day passes in a flurry of activity. Raquel has to cajole her mother and daughter into preparing
for the journey, and to get them to pack only the most essential of things into one suitcase each.
Whilst Marivi knows what’s going on – that her daughter has fallen out of love with the system she
has served for twenty years, and in love with that system’s most wanted man, and that she is
helping him to escape and eloping with him, Paula knows none of this. Whilst Raquel hates lying
to her daughter, she knows it is necessary. She can’t risk Paula rebelling and contacting her
father, for instance. Raquel instead told her that they are taking Sergio on a holiday, to help him
get better. To Raquel’s relief her mother is having a good day and between them they ensure that
Paula’s most treasured possessions are not left behind, but every time she looks at her little girl
her stomach knots with anxiety. Paula may hate her for the subterfuge, and that is a frightening
prospect, but she will have to risk it. At least that way her daughter will be out of reach of Alberto.

As the hour of departure draws near she goes over to fetch Sergio. Soon Marivi will offer the
two men currently guarding the house cups of coffee laced with carfentanil, and once they are
incapacitated they will make their move. When she unlocks the gate at the top of the stairs
one last time, she can’t help but pause and smile to herself. What a momentous three months
it has been in this place, and when Sergio appears in the corridor, healthy, sane and
focussed, she feels a great sense of accomplishment. She has managed to do what she set
out to – she has saved this man, has helped restore him to what he used to be, and has
proven the powers that be wrong. She has shown them that torture is ineffective, and that
there are other, lawful approaches to achieve their objectives. And even if Colonel Tamayo
does not keep his word to advocate for the abolishment of state-sponsored torture, she will be
in a position to force them into it once she is out of reach. And when the man in front of her
smiles and pushes his glasses up his nose in that now-familiar gesture, her heart swells with
love. In this place she has also learnt to love again, to trust someone with her heart once
more, so in a sense she has also healed. Yes, she will forever remember this place fondly, as
the house of healing and love. “Are you ready?” she asks and he nods, smiling into her eyes.
“Yes, I’m ready,” he confirms and she can’t stop herself from reaching up to
kiss him. “Come on then.”

As he follows her down the stairs his head is full of images of the new life that awaits them. A few
days ago Raquel brought her mother and daughter over so that they could all have lunch
together, and he remembers how nervous he was. But as they sat around the table and enjoyed
Marivi’s wonderful food, he gradually relaxed. Both the older woman and the young girl accepted
his presence without any fuss, and Paula insisted on telling him how the book she read to him a
couple of weeks ago ended. And when Raquel and Paula took the dishes to the kitchen, Marivi
leant over and placed her hand on his arm. “So you’ve made love to my daughter,” she stated,
and he blushed scarlet. Raquel obviously got her forthrightness from her mother. For a second he
panicked that the older woman disapproved, but she smiled broadly at him instead. “I’m glad,”
she divulged, squeezing his arm. “Raquel has had a difficult time, and she needs someone to
love her.” To his surprise she added, “And you seem like a good man. I can see it in your eyes.”

He sat there, stunned and overcome, as she followed the others into the kitchen to help
with the washing up. The realisation truly hit home then – he is going to be part of a
family. Before he met Raquel that thought would have scared him, but now it fills his
chest with warmth. He wants this, craves it, and he can’t wait to whisk them away from
here and start that new life together. He will have to work hard at it, because he is not
used to sharing his life and his space, but it will be a minor inconvenience compared to
what he will gain in return. Love, support, companionship. Life. He will be living life to the
full for the first time, and as he follows Raquel down those stairs, he can’t wait.

But, of course, nothing is ever that easy. As they watch Marivi walk over to the guards,
coffee cups in hand, they can’t know that everything is about to go to hell, because of
infatuation, of unrequited love.

-0-

It is ten minutes to eight when Alberto Vicuna turns into the street where his ex-wife and daughter
lives. Earlier that day Raquel’s partner Angel had appeared in his office looking smug,
and Alberto suppressed a stab of irritation. He never really liked the man; he had always
been aware that Angel lusted after his wife, and he knew even before the sub-Inspector
opened his mouth that this was about Raquel. And sure enough, he didn’t waste time
with preliminaries. “I thought you should know,” he announced, a note of triumph in his
voice, “that I will be having dinner with Raquel tonight.”
Alberto shrugged; he couldn’t care less what Raquel did with her life now, but he
couldn’t resist asking snidely, “Oh yes? And what does your wife think of that?”
Angel blanched and stepped closer. “I want you to stay away from her from now on,
Alberto. You leave her and Paula alone; it’s time for them to have a man around the
house that won’t abuse them, or cheat on them-“
“Ha! That’s rich, old man, seeing as that is what you’re doing to Mari Carmen right now.”

After that Angel stormed out and Alberto got his idea. With Raquel out of the way tonight, he can
fetch Paula and take her to the cinema. It is easy to confuse Marivi and she won’t be able to stop
him anyway; he’ll simply intimidate her. It is a school night but so what; the fact that it will rile up
his ex-wife even more because of that only sweetens the pot. And who knows, if he’s lucky the
old woman will call Raquel and ruin her date, and poor old Angel will be left in the lurch once
more. It is a win all round as far as he is concerned. As he pulls up to the house, he sees a taxi
waiting; Raquel must be running late. He parks in front of the neighbouring house and settles in to
wait, looking around idly. And that’s when he sees the man through the window and recognises
him instantly. That face is burned into the consciousness of every police officer in Spain; that of
the infamous Professor, and he jumps from the car, reaching for his gun.

Alberto is in the Scientific branch and hasn’t seen action in ten years, but he doesn’t stop to think
about that. Neither does he stop to ponder why the most wanted man in Spain should be in the
house next-door to that of a police officer. He only thinks about how he is going to be the hero of
the nation, the man who arrested the son of a bitch that made a mockery of the security services,
twice. As he runs to the door he is so focussed on his glory that he doesn’t notice the police
officer passed out on the ground in the front garden, and he doesn’t see the movement of a
second person inside the house. Neither is he aware of Marivi shepherding Paula into the taxi
behind his back. No, all he sees is the criminal he is about to arrest, and he bursts through the
door, gun in hand, and shouts triumphantly, “Freeze! You are under arrest!”
The criminal looks up, startled, and they stare at each other for a few seconds. Something
like contempt flashes in the man’s eyes and Alberto bristles. “Put your hands up, Sergio
Marquina,” he sneers, and the man puts down the suitcase he is holding and raises his
hands slowly, not taking his eyes off the other man. It is at that moment that Alberto catches
movement over the shoulder of Marquina as someone steps out of the kitchen, and they
have a gun. It is raised and pointed at him, and he belatedly realises he should have called
for back-up. But he wanted all the glory for himself and now he might pay for that mistake.

He is hypnotised by the gun; he has never had one pointed at him before, and he hesitates.
Because he doesn’t look any further than the menacing black hole of the barrel, he only
realises who is holding it when the person speaks. “Drop it, Alberto,” a very familiar voice
commands, and he is so shocked that he almost obeys before he gathers himself. Raquel.
His ex-wife is pointing a gun at him and he stares at her in astonishment.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands harshly. “This is Sergio Marquina, the
Professor,” he emphasises, but to his surprise she merely nods.
“I know,” she says calmly. “He is under my protection and we are going to walk out of here, and
you are going to let us.”
“Are you out of your mind-“
She overrides him. “I am acting on the instruction of Colonel Tamayo, now lower your gun or I
swear I will shoot you.”
For the first time there is a tremor in her voice and he picks up on it. She is afraid of him, has
been for years, and he knows he can intimidate her. She is too weak to shoot him. He looks
at her arrogantly. “You can’t do it, you don’t have the guts,” he says, and the three of them
stand in their absurd tableau, staring each other down, wondering who will blink first.

tbc
 Ascension
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present
controls the past. George Orwell, 1984

Sergio’s gaze jumps from one to the other. He knows what Vicuna is doing – playing on the
fears of the woman he used to abuse, and he worries for Raquel. Anger pushes up in his
chest and he bunches his fists; he wants nothing more than to punch the guy’s lights out.
The gun in Raquel’s hands is now shaking and she is breathing fast, sure signs that she is
on the verge of panic, and he says quietly, “Raquel,” his voice low and steady, trying to bring
her back to the moment, to him. Alberto’s head turns to him in surprise and Sergio belatedly
realises that he has made an error. “’Raquel’?” Alberto echoes, “so you’re on first name
terms now, are you?” He looks back towards his ex-wife, smiling calculatingly. “Where could
you two be going at eight o’clock on a Tuesday night, casually dressed and cosily on first-
name terms? What, are you sleeping with him?” It is mostly said in jest, an attempt to get
under her skin, but when she breathes in sharply his eyes widen in astonishment. “My God,
you are, aren’t you? You’re fucking the most wanted man in Spain.”
“Alberto,” she grinds out, her voice strained, “lower your gun or I’ll shoot. I’m not asking
again,” she threatens, but the impact is nullified by the tears welling in her eyes and
once more Alberto is certain that he has the upper hand.
“What a stupid woman you are,” he says derisively, and Sergio lifts onto the balls of his feet, ready
to spring into action. “Your pathetic need to be loved has made you gullible; he’s only sleeping
with you so you will help him escape-“
“No.”

There is such conviction in that one word that everyone freezes, and all eyes turn to
Sergio. He glowers at Alberto, and it is a look of pure hatred. “You’re a piece of shit,” he
states. “A coward. What, did it make you feel like a man to hit a woman? Why don’t you
put down that gun and show me you’re a real man – take me on?” he taunts, and Alberto
grinds his teeth. It looks like he is actually tempted to do what Sergio asks so Raquel
intervenes hurriedly, shocked out of her panic by concern for Sergio. Alberto has a
definite weight advantage, and she doesn’t want to risk Sergio being hurt.
“No,” she says, “no-one is going to fight. Alberto, you’re going to put away your gun
and let us walk out of here,” she repeats, and he smirks at her.
“Or what – you’re going to shoot me? Come on, Raquel, we both know you haven’t got
the balls-“ She sees red. All those years of humiliation, of being afraid, flash before her
eyes and before she knows what she is doing she pulls the trigger. The shot echoes
loudly in the enclosed space and the smell of cordite fills the air, and when she becomes
aware of her surroundings again Alberto is lying sprawled on the floor, his own gun
skittering across the tiles and coming to a stop in front of her feet.

She stares at him, shocked and unable to move, and it is Sergio that steps forward and
bends over the other man.
“Is he…?” she gasps, filled with dread; how will she ever explain to Paula that she
killed her father?! But Sergio looks round at her and shakes his head.
“No, he’s alive. It was a clean shot through the shoulder, he’ll be fine,” he asserts, and she closes
her eyes in relief. “Are you alright?” he checks, and she nods mutely, still rooted to the
spot. “Bring me something to staunch the blood with,” he instructs, and she finally gets
her feet moving, going through to the kitchen to fetch some dish towels. They move the
fallen man to the radiator and uses his own handcuffs to secure him, and he begins to
come round as they bind his wound roughly. When his eyes fly open they stand back, out
of reach, and he stares from one to the other, his face ashen from pain.
“Ah, I’m in agony,” he moans, and fastens a look of pure malevolence on his ex-wife. “You
fucking bitch, you’ll pay for this,” he spits, and Sergio loses it. He punches Alberto hard in the
face, and never before has he derived more satisfaction from an act of violence. This man
hurt Raquel and he deserves everything he gets. Raquel looks at him, shocked and grateful
in equal measure, and he takes her by the arm and coaxes her towards the door.
“Come on. You don’t have to listen to this,” he tells her, and she lets him lead her away, in a
daze. She has shot Alberto, her ex-husband and a fellow police officer, and she realises that she
has just burnt all her bridges with this act. After this, she can never return here, never get her old
life back. It is done, finished, and now the only way to go is forward, with the man now at her
side. As they step through the door Alberto’s voice follows them, screaming abuse.
“You’re finished, Raquel! I’ll ruin your life for this. I’ll take Paula from you and make sure
you go to jail, along with your lover-“
But she has heard enough and slams the door closed behind them, cutting off his threats. Then
she turns to Sergio and grabs hold of his hand, and pleads, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

-0-

They simply disappear off the face of the earth. By the time the drugged guards come to and
find Alberto in the house, there is no trace of them. Alberto remembers the taxi that stood in
front of the house, but he didn’t pay attention to the license plate, and when they try to
retrieve cctv footage in the surrounding areas they find only static. It is impossible that all the
cameras can go on the glitch at the exact same time and the experts deduce that the system
was hacked to prevent any record of the escape. By the time they lock down the city the
fugitives are long gone, ferried out of reach by Marseille, first in the taxi and then in a
helicopter. He deposits them on a container ship off the coast of Portugal, and their long
circuitous journey to Palawan begins. Before they get there they will change vessels two
more times and three weeks will have passed, but their route will be untraceable.

To Alberto’s chagrin, there is little urgency from the authorities’ side to find the escapees. When
he storms into Tamayo’s office a day later, his arm in a sling, screaming and railing against his
ex-wife, he is met with an infuriating indifference. Tamayo merely shrugs his shoulders, and
when Alberto threatens to go over his head, the Colonel spreads his arms wide and invites him to
do so. “Inspector Murillo is a hero,” he informs Alberto, to the other man’s astonishment. “She
has got the Professor to give up the location of the gold, and in return the state has agreed to let
the Professor go. So you see, Alberto, we don’t much care that they are gone, or frankly, that you
got yourself shot. If you value your career, you will keep your mouth shut and let this go.”
And in the end, there is nothing else that Alberto can do. Wherever he turns he is met
with a stone wall, and he will never know that it is because of his ex-wife’s threat – that
she will release the torture tapes to the media if the authorities come after them.

-0-

Raquel finally tells Paula the truth three days into their journey, and it goes about as badly
as it possibly can. After Raquel has laid everything out succinctly for her daughter – that
Alberto abused her, that they are going to live with Sergio on a beach somewhere, that
they are now fugitives and can never return to Spain, and that Paula can never see or
contact her father again, tears gather in the young girl’s eyes.
“You lied to me,” she accuses, and the hurt in her voice breaks Raquel’s heart.
“Yes I did, and I’m very sorry. But I had to, for all our protection-“
“No! For your protection! You’re only thinking about yourself! What about what I want?”
Raquel swallows, overcome with guilt. Maybe there is some truth in what Paula has said, for
is all of this not to a large degree motivated by her desire to have a life with Sergio?
Because she is in love? “I…” She doesn’t know what to say and Marivi intervenes.
“Paula, darling, your Mama is trying to protect us all, you included. Your father hurt
Mama, and sooner or later he will hurt you too-“
“Papa said it is a lie. Mama is trying to make him look bad, but it’s not true.”

There is a stubborn expression on Paula’s face and Raquel knows her daughter well
enough to understand that no argument will get through to her now. She needs time to
process this new development, and they can talk about it again later, once Paula has
calmed down. So all she says, softly, is, “Sweetheart. I would never lie about being
abused by your dad. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.”
Paula shakes her head vehemently and storms off, and when Marivi makes to follow her
Raquel grabs her arm and holds her back. “Let her be,” she says wearily, and Marivi
turns to her daughter instead and hugs her.
“It’ll be alright; she’ll come round,” she offers, but Sergio, who has watched the
altercation from the corner of the room, can see how much Raquel is hurting. He slips
out and goes after the young girl, to keep an eye on her. They are on a ship full of
uncouth sailors and he will never forgive himself if something should happen to her.

Paula makes her way to the prow, where she stands staring out over the vast ocean. She looks
sad and forlorn, and Sergio’s feet take him to her side almost against his will. She glances up at
him when she registers his presence, and he can see the tear tracks on her cheeks. If there’s one
thing he does understand, it’s losing one’s father, and he knows Paula will need her mother more
than ever now. “Don’t be mad at your mom,” he says eventually, “it’s not her fault. It’s mine.”
Paula glares at him. “Because you’re dating now and Mama wants to live with you?”
“Uhm, no… Well okay, that’s part of it, but that’s not the main reason why she is doing this,
you know.” She gives him a disbelieving look and he hurries on. “The main reason is to save
me from further torture by the authorities.” He hesitates. “Do you know what that means?”
She shakes her head. “It’s when the people in charge of the country causes someone pain –
like by beating them – so that they will tell them secrets they are keeping.”
Paula turns to him, frowning. “But Mama says no-one is allowed to beat anyone else.
It’s against the rules.”
“That’s right. But sometimes they do it anyway, in secret. And your mom knows it’s not
right, and she wanted to stop them from doing it to me again.”
The girl tilts her head, fascinated now. “Was that why you were sick – why Mama had to
look after you? Because they beat you?”

He swallows, then nods gravely. “Yes, Paula. That’s why I was sick. Your mother saved me,
and she is doing it again now by helping me to get away. And she didn’t want to leave you
behind, because she loves you very much. So don’t blame her for this, okay? You can blame
me instead.” “But it’s not your fault that they broke the rules,” she objects immediately, and he
can’t help but smile. There is so much of her mother in her that his heart constricts.
“No, I guess not. But then, is it fair to be mad at your mom for trying to stop it?” he
asks gently, and Paula sighs and looks away, pondering his words.
Finally, after a long torturous silence, she turns on her heel and goes back to their
cabin, and he follows at a discreet distance. She goes up to Raquel, who is seated
cross-legged on the bed, and throws her little arms around her mother’s neck. “I’m
sorry, Mama,” she says, and Raquel spins round and gathers the girl to her.
“It’s okay. I can understand that you’re mad – I too get mad when people lie to me,” she
responds, and Paula pulls back to look her in the eye.
“Sergio told me what happened – that you’re doing this to save him. So I’m not mad anymore.”
Raquel looks over her daughter’s head to Sergio, hovering in the door, surprised and grateful,
and all he can do is smile and shrug. He owes Raquel everything, and he will do all in his power
to make sure that she’s happy, even offering himself as a focal point for her daughter’s anger.

-0-

He wondered vaguely whether in the abolished past it had been a normal experience to
lie in bed like this, in the cool of a summer evening, a man and a woman with no clothes
on, making love when they chose, talking of what they chose, not feeling any compulsion
to get up, simply lying there and listening to peaceful sounds outside. Surely there could
never have been a time when that seemed ordinary?

George Orwell, 1984

Four months later

Palawan
It is late at night and the house is quiet; the only sound the sigh of the waves on the beach and their
own harsh breaths as they make love. He sits on his haunches in the middle of the bed and Raquel is
in his lap, her feet planted next to his legs for leverage. He supports her back as they move in unison,
and her arms are clamped around his neck as she breathes in the air he exhales, her mouth hovering
inches from his. Maybe it is the endorphins rushing through his bloodstream, but there is a magical
quality to the night; bolstered by the moon streaming in through the open screens, turning her skin to
marble. A bead of sweat meanders down her throat and he leans forward to suck it from her skin, and
one of her hands burrows into his hair and holds him there, and he licks at the salt in the hollow of her
throat in response. She hums in appreciation, clenching her inner muscles around him in reward, and
he raises his head to look her in the eye once more. She smiles, her teeth briefly flashing in the gloom,
before she sobers as she focuses on keeping their rhythm going. Her teeth clamp onto her lower lip
and his hand flexes on her skin; his arousal kindled by the simple gesture. Her eyes are black in the
moonlight, but they have pricks of light in them and he stares, fascinated and bewitched. He begins to
pick up the pace, eager to please her, to drive her to total distraction, and he knows it’s working when
her back arches to push her breasts more firmly against his chest. Her nipples are quite sensitive
when she’s aroused, and he knows she loves the feeling of his coarse chest hair scraping over them.
Oh, fuck, this is so indescribably good…

He is still amazed at the turn of events that brought them here, living together in paradise.
They are fugitives, yes, but no-one knows where they are, and he has multiple warning
systems in place that will let them know if Tamayo reneges on their agreement and begins to
look for them. He doubts that will happen, though, because a month ago Raquel sent a
package to the best investigative journalist in Spain, which gave the woman enough
information to start unravelling the thread that leads to that secret facility in Guadelajara, and
which also allowed her to identify the Colonel as a potential source of information. Raquel
would not rest until the government’s use of torture was brought to an end and that facility
closed down, and it worked; today they received word that the facility has been closed, and
all the prisoners kept there transferred to other, regulated facilities. The government has its
gold, and it has bigger problems to worry about than the Professor and the former Inspector
now. No, they are quite safe, and he can look forward to many more nights like this.

She tugs on his hair, bringing his full attention back to her, and he tightens his grip on her waist. The
tingling sensation is beginning at the base of his spine, a sure sign that his orgasm isn’t far off, but
he’ll be damned if he’ll come before she does tonight. Their bodies are slick with sweat in the
 humidity of the tropical island and it makes her skin glow with an otherworldly halo and he
thinks, she is an angel, sent from heaven to save me. Not only from the torture, but also from
a life of self-imposed isolation. He drives up into her, again and again, giving her all of him,
until he wins a gasp of ecstasy from her on every stroke. She has given him everything; he is
part of a family now, and with each day that passes she is teaching him how to live with
genuine joy. All he can do in return is to devote his life to making her happy, and in this
particular moment he is succeeding. Even in the moonlight he can see the flush push up her
chest and neck, and he knows she is almost there. She is hovering on the edge of the abyss,
and he drops one hand to her gorgeous butt and squeezes, just as he slams into her as deep
as he can on the next thrust. She shatters around him, climaxing hard, her nails digging into
the sensitive skin at the back of his neck and he falls with her, emptying himself inside her
with a soft groan. They collapse against each other, holding each other close, and he knows
he will never let go. And maybe, the way she clutches at him and presses sloppy kisses to
his ear, shows that she won’t either, and the realisation fills him with warmth and wonder.

Later, when she is sprawled beside him, sound asleep, he turns on his side and watches her. He
listens to the waves, to the sound of her breathing, letting it lull him. In a sense he has lived with one
foot in that underwater refuge of his ever since his father died, letting it deaden all sensation, all
emotion. Raquel is the only person that has managed to coax him out completely, first with a touch of
kindness in his darkest hour, and later with love and devotion. She has made him whole again, made
him a part of the living once more. And when her lips curve into a gentle smile as she sleeps, he
hopes that he has done the same for her. She is free of Alberto, of the stress of looking after her
daughter and ailing mother on her own, and she is loved unconditionally. He is not good at telling her
to her face, but he makes use of opportunities like these, remembering how he heard her voice even
when he wasn’t fully conscious and hoping that she somehow hears him while she sleeps. “I love
you,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of her cheek with his thumb, and she exhales softly, his name
like a whispered prayer. His heart skips a beat; maybe she is dreaming of him. He holds his breath
but she says nothing more, simply fidgets a bit until her feet are tangled with his, before settling down
again. And when he sinks into sleep himself at last, he dreams of her and not of the Red Witch, and
the same gentle smile of happiness curves his lips.

Fin

Chapter End Notes

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