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  A child’s bubble of laughter shatters her daydreams and she peers under her eyelids as a woman chases her little escapee through the park. He negotiates the twists and turns of the path as it tapers down a slope to where it spills into the lake. The bronze Alfonso that stands guard at the shore-side dwarfs the child as he approaches and, with the water’s edge in his sights, the infant accelerates. Mercedes steels herself, about to leap, when the woman cries out and pounces.

  ‘Stop!’

  The youngster launches himself in the direction of the marshy shore at the same time that the mother’s fingers seize hold of his podgy biceps; the sobs disrupt her laughter as she thumps down onto the gravel path with her son imprisoned within her arms. The captive squirms against her chest and his cheeks seesaw as he avoids the battery of kisses, one after another.

  Mercedes flops back into her seat; her heart misses beats as she stifles the eruption that simmers below the surface. When Sister Francisco carried her son through the delivery room door, she removed more than a baby wrapped in towels. Years of watching him grow have been lost and, although the pain has lost its raw edge, the ache is with her always. At times, resentment flares up and swathes her in bitterness. When that happens, she struggles to maintain the composed façade that she presents to the world.

  An invisible rod holds her spine rigid as Mercedes keeps her face averted from the mother and child and reaches for her things; she refuses to sink into the dark pool of loss. The handle of her tote frays with a series of snaps and she clutches it to her chest before the weight of the contents completes the destruction. Her arms tighten, and she tries to squeeze the pain out of her heart while escaping the park and her memories.

  When she exits the corner gate, she glances at the clock and turns right onto the boulevard: with only ten minutes before siesta ends, she picks up pace. Mercedes weaves through the sea of workers; the crowd thins as individuals enter buildings that line the pavement, home to some of Madrid’s key businesses. She pushes through a gathering of debating employees that blocks the entrance to the newspaper’s headquarters as the church bell chimes the half hour, a signal that the period for afternoon rest is finished. The marble wall cools her back when she leans against it to slip off the trainers and swap them for high heels. As she straightens, her fingers comb her parting to the side; someone mentioned that it makes her look more professional. Her shoes tap out a metronomic pattern on the tiles as she crosses the foyer to speak to Juanita. Her best friend is about to resume her position behind the reception desk but the chair gives way to her petite frame, gliding down with a hiss and coming to a stop when her nose is at desk level. Mercedes stifles the snort, but then her laughter resonates around the hall as her friend jumps up and kicks the lever underneath the seat. Juanita pumps with her foot, cursing the chair.

  ‘This stupid thing!’ The colour in her cheeks intensifies and, before resuming her seat, Juanita leans forward onto her arms and checks that it will hold her. Satisfied, she eases onto the perch. ‘Keep your fingers crossed that I don’t go down with a bump.’

  Perhaps now is the time to tell her friend about the trick that Jaime plays when Juanita abandons her post; however, Mercedes decides to leave it for another day or two. It seems a shame to spoil his fun; nonetheless, she does feel a pang of guilt as she stretches across the counter to tug the end of Jaunita’s ponytail. ‘With that red hair, you look like you should be at school.’

  Juanita’s cheeks are on fire and she grabs her mane and holds it in front of her face with her eyes crossed. ‘I hope I get used to it.’

  Mercedes blows her a kiss and has one foot on the staircase when her friend calls out to ask if they are okay to meet after work. At first, she raises a hand to wave confirmation; however, she remembers the uncertainty in Juanita’s eye and twists around to shout across the hall. ‘It’s fabulous. You look like a movie star.’ Juanita’s face lights up with her grin and Mercedes starts her climb, glad she voiced her thoughts aloud.

  Four flights of stairs, two steps a time, lead Mercedes to the floor occupied by the paper’s junior staff. Most of her male colleagues are missing from their stations and she squeezes between rows of desks that overflow with papers to her corner of the room. The neat desk stands out amongst the others; everything has a place in the drawers with the exception of her computer and the telephone, and she shakes her head when she observes the upheaval on top of the neighbouring workstations. She tucks the tail of her cotton blouse into her skirt, holding it so that it doesn’t slip out when she leans to delve in the top drawer of her desk. Her fingers connect with her objective and she pulls out the buff folder of notes that she needs for the meeting. As she heads towards the conference-room at the opposite end of the building, she double checks the folder’s contents. An ‘occupied’ sign hangs on the closed door and, when she stares through the glass panel, her teeth clench. The editorial meeting is underway, despite a number of empty chairs. Jorge stops mid-sentence, looks up and frowns as she creeps in. All of the men at the table watch in silence until she finishes sliding along the wall to a vacant seat at the far end of the table. She holds Jorge’s gaze, ignoring the beads of sweat that gather above her top lip as she waits for him to resume his speech.

  When the attention is no longer on her, Mercedes stretches her neck to glance over the shoulder of her neighbour but she struggles to decipher his scribbling. He winks, uses his pen to point to her headline, and jots p-six-l by its side. She chews on her lip as her shoulders slump; once again, her work has not made the front page. The curse escapes her lips before she can keep it back and, hearing muffled laughter, her eyes sweep towards the man to her right. The culprit, Orlando, is one of the recent recruits to the team and his hand covers his mouth but his eyes betray him as they crinkle above the crests of his cheeks. Mercedes can’t help herself and rewards him with a grin but Jorge glares and she re-arranges her expression with an innocent shrug. The act doesn’t fool her editor and his eyebrows meet in a single line while he studies her in silence. His scrutiny makes her squirm and she lets go of her breath when his attention returns to the papers in his hands. No longer under surveillance, Mercedes winks at Orlando and passes him a note behind her neighbour’s back. Who’s been given the lead today? He holds her gaze and nods towards the short tubby man who sits to Jorge’s right side, eyes aglow as he hangs onto every word his boss speaks. Mercedes sighs. Of course, Pedro – the favourite.

  ‘Do you have something to say, Mercedes?’

  ‘No Jorge; nothing.’ Her right hand covers her heart and then moves down to her tummy. ‘My hunger never seems to be satisfied.’ Everyone understands what she implies and several hands hide smirks. Jorge’s mouth twists and his stare aims like a dagger at her head. She waits for the inevitable and sighs when he lifts a side of his mouth in a manner that always signals danger; then he dishes out his punishment.

  ‘Take the Lopez article, Mercedes. On my desk, two days.’

  Mercedes silences her curse and forces her lips to stretch into a smile until his eyes return to his notes, then her spirits sink. She could kick herself for antagonising the editor. Juan Lopez is a criminal boss known for his reign of terror over the local community and the police have him locked away in a secret location until his trial starts. His brother sends daily death threats to the witnesses, and it is unlikely that any door will open to a reporter, even a female one. It will be a miracle if she gets enough to fill her slot before the court case begins. There is no point in listening as Jorge allocates other assignments and his voice fades to a rumble in the background as she digs into her memory for the few facts that she knows about Lopez. Clothes rustle and chairs screech across the tiles, noises that signify that the meeting is over, and with four hours to the next deadline reporters rush to their desks, leaving Mercedes behind at the empty table.

  Absorbed in her strategy to tackle the Lopez article, she meanders through the desks with her eyes locked on her folder. The round toe of a suede shoe appears at the pe
riphery of her vision and her skin tingles as the owner moves close. Orlando shortens his steps to match hers but her eyes remain down; she struggles to neither wilt at his scent nor give a hint that her heart turned a cartwheel when he appeared. The gap between their bodies is non-existent and she is convinced that he must hear the pounding in her chest.

  ‘And why were you so late for the meeting, Ms Cortes?’

  His mimicry of Jorge is uncanny and makes her smile; her attention is still on her notes but a giggle gives her away and she looks up to acknowledge him. The current sparks and she misses her step as she drops her gaze to escape the brown depths that seem to unmask the secrets of her soul.

  ‘An incident at Retiro Park. Some kid on the run from his mother. He was headed into the lake, and nearly made it too, the little terror.’ Their steps, like their laughter, create a harmony, and she concentrates on the floor; her mind is blank as they stroll in perfect synchronisation.

  ‘How did today’s case turn out?’

  Riveted by his odour, the silence extends until Mercedes breaks free of the spell and forces a reply. ‘Not guilty. Can you believe it?’

  ‘But what about the evidence? I was told that there were hundreds of witness statements.’

  They halt and he listens while her hands paint the air and she repeats some of the testimony: wartime stories of people taken away, never seen again; freshly dug mounds of earth where shots had rung out a few hours before, the cover up with unspoken agreements of silence that have lasted lifetimes.

  ‘Those old people were so brave on the stand. How could they let him go? It’s a travesty. He should be in prison and instead, he stood outside that courthouse gloating. Those people have not received any satisfaction, it’s as though their grief has no value.’

  Mercedes doesn’t hear Jaime approach from behind and she jumps when he puts his hands on her shoulders as he sidles past. Her tirade continues when she turns and he holds up his hands as he retreats.

  ‘Okay Agustina de Aragón, I surrender. Calm down.’

  Orlando chuckles as she mumbles an apology, then lowers his head near hers, sending an electric shock through her body as she feels his lips touch the space near her right ear. ‘As fiery as our Joan of Arc, aren’t you?’ Her cheeks burn and she steps away but she still hears his whispered question. ‘What about Saturday? Do you want to come?’

  Mercedes fidgets and prays that her colour soon returns to normal; romance isn’t part of her long-term plan but each time he makes a suggestion, it becomes harder to resist. She has already fabricated excuses; last week, a trip to Juanita’s family and the weekend before, work pressures. ‘I’m sorry but…’ The words stick in her throat. His eyes change colour as his chest deflates; he is not the only one who is surprised when she changes her mind and agrees to join him for a bike ride on Saturday.

  Orlando’s eyes sparkle. ‘We could head up into the mountains. It will be cooler than the city.’ Alarm bells go off in her head as his words tumble out with the arrangements. ‘Fantastic! Let’s meet at Atocha Station at 10?’

  His enthusiasm is hard to resist and her heart leaps but she strengthens her defences and turns away with a curt, ‘See you later.’ That man has the ability to wear me down; she shakes her head as she grabs the back of her chair with a force that spins it on the rotary base so she has to leap on between its turns. In the desk drawer, Mercedes locates a folder filled with her reference notes and cuttings relating to current crimes and dumps the contents onto her desk; she flips through, searching for anything that will help with the Lopez article. Meanwhile, the computer groans through its start-up until she whacks it on its side and scribbles a memo to Jorge; he must do something about a replacement machine for her before it gives up completely. While she waits for her files to open, Mercedes jots down some questions and facts about the Lopez family onto a page in her notepad. The bustle of the office disappears as she becomes absorbed in her work.

  An incessant ringing of the telephone breaks her concentration and papers explode onto the floor as she burrows to locate the handset. Bent over at her waist, she retrieves the sheets from where they have scattered below her desk. At the same time, she answers.

  ‘Mercedes here. Speak to me.’

  It is difficult to hear the voice over the background office noise. Muffled words wobble in her ear.

  ‘Hello. Am I speaking with Mercedes Cortes? The reporter?’

  The corner of a rogue sheet under her chair tempts her and Mercedes bends forward to stretch her fingers further, trapping it at the same time that she utters the confirmation; there is a note of victory in her voice.

  ‘Ms. Cortes, I want to meet with you.’ The caller is a woman, probably old; she uses the formal speech from a bygone period. Not another crank, Mercedes hopes as she mumbles words of encouragement.

  ‘I don’t know who can help. It’s terrible. You must write about it in your paper.’ Sobs interrupt the words. ‘I can’t keep quiet any longer. Other mothers need to know!’

  Those last words intrigue Mercedes and she leaves the papers on the floor as she cups her hand around the earpiece. A tingle on the back of her neck forewarns that this may be a worthy lead and she tries to mask the predatory undertone in her voice. ‘Will you tell me your name?’

  ‘Carmen.’ The whisper is audible, just.

  ‘What do you mean, other mothers? Explain, Carmen.’

  The silence seems never-ending but Mercedes waits, her instincts telling her the call is genuine. Carmen’s accent is local, uneducated but polite; the woman probably comes from the northern outskirts of the city. After long minutes, Mercedes stares at the handset with frustration and she is about to voice some encouragement when at the same moment the woman mutters more words.

  ‘Babies. Missing babies.’

  Waves of nausea threaten to overcome Mercedes and the room spins as she scans around and looks for whoever is playing this malicious prank. No one in the office is on the phone nor displays any interest in her, and she turns her back on the others and tries to hide behind her arm. The handset slips within the sweat of her palm and she gulps for breath as she fights for composure. When the fuzziness in her mind clears, she chooses her words with care.

  ‘I’m sorry Carmen. I’m still here. You took me by surprise. Whose babies? What makes you think that they’re missing? When? Carmen, are you there?’ The questions jumble in her head and she has to bite her lips together to stop the torrent. Mercedes counts every second of the pause; every so often, the sound of a laboured breath in the earpiece reassures her that Carmen is there.

  ‘I don’t believe that they died, no matter what they said. Maybe they were sold or were given away. There’s too many. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know but…’ A door bangs in the background and Carmen exclaims, ‘I can’t talk now’.

  ‘But why have you called me?’ Anguish tarnishes Mercedes’ question but the connection is lost; her eyes fill with tears as she stares at her white fingers locked around the handset. Little by little, her chest deflates as the air expires and she stabs at the telephone keys but is unable to reconnect the call; the hum over the receiver is continuous.

  ‘Damn!’ The outburst draws startled glances from her neighbours. She slams the phone down and her eyes dart around the newsroom as she strives to regain some sanity. No one meets her gaze; each one of her colleagues appears occupied with the work on his desk. Five minutes is all that she is able to endure before she leaps from the chair and hastens out of the office; as she disappears, she shouts instructions over her shoulder to Jaime at the neighbouring workstation. ‘If that phone rings, answer it and get a number. Tell her that I’ll call her straight back. And come find me, I’m not far away!’

  The cubicle door slams, wrapping her in solitude where she can release the knife in her chest and give freedom to her sobs. Carmen’s call has opened the old wounds – areas that she keeps hidden. In those early days when she returned home to her family without her baby, she learnt that no one
wanted to hear any accusations of hospital mix-ups. People of her town had grown accustomed to suppressing accounts of past injustices and persecutions after the civil war and a teenage girl’s problem was one more issue that wore a shroud of silence. A hope that their reunion will occur one day burns like a fire deep within her soul but for now, her child is still missing and no more than a handful of people know of his existence. She is convinced that he is not dead and feels his presence, and absence, in every waking moment. Now an unknown woman has rekindled her faith, her hope, and her grief.

  The tap water cools the warm tracks left by her tears and she inspects the mirror for tell-tale signs; some bluish shadows tinge the area underneath her eyes, otherwise it is her face that stares back. Its normality surprises her. On the way back to her desk Mercedes considers her next move. Jaime shakes his head and confirms what she already suspects. Without a phone number or last name, she has to rely on the hope that nothing stops Carmen from attempting another call. The bowels of the building hold the storage of the newspaper archives; if she looks amongst them, perhaps she will unearth some clues but it will be like trying to find one grain of sand on a beach without more detail. Mercedes taps the gnawed end of her pencil against her forehead and looks towards Orlando to ask for help but he is busy on the telephone and she changes her mind. The task can’t be shared; she doesn’t even know what she will be looking for as she heads for the stairs, resigned to aimless hours in the dungeon.

  Chapter 2

  Mercedes teeters on her toes and waves her hand in the air above the bodies. Black mould speckles the wall that faces her, and the smell of old beer and unwashed clothes can’t be masked by the bundle of dried lavender. Suspended by a single nail from the wood beam, the fragrance faded long ago and it looks as though it has hung there for several decades. Wedged on all sides by the men who cluster close to the bar, she can’t attract Felipe’s attention. The extra few centimetres she gains with the high heels makes no difference and, when she realises that she is getting nowhere, she decides upon a different tactic. Mercedes crouches and pushes like a bull through the crowd towards the bar; she ducks under arms and around bellies and ignores the dirty looks she attracts along the way. A final thrust between two customers and she sprouts up at her destination where she yells at Felipe until he acknowledges the order with a grumble that matches his sour expression. The slovenly proprietor pulls a dusty bottle out of one of the terracotta semi-circles that line the wall to his left, and slams it onto the surface with a grunt. It’s a miracle that the bottle doesn’t break and she grabs it as she shouts the rest of her order at his back. A couple of fingers in a dismissive gesture indicate to her that he heard.