26
El Cucorno
If the descent down the outside of the lighthouse had been terrifying, Diego’s “secret path” wasn’t exactly relaxing. It was a narrow trail, less than a foot wide, and it went right along the edge of the cliff.
Roberto peered apprehensively over the precipice. Far below, the roar of the waves crashing on the rocks made any kind of conversation impossible.
Anyway, he was too busy concentrating on where to plant his feet. Every few steps, he felt the ground shift beneath his weight, and stones and clods of earth went tumbling over the edge.
“Diego!” He clapped the boy on the shoulder to get his attention and shouted at the top of his voice. “Are you sure this is the way?”
“Yes!” The boy nodded his head, quite sure of himself. “We’re almost there. It gets easier soon.”
Roberto had no choice but to trust in the boy, even though he couldn’t help wondering what he meant by “easier.” Fortunately, within a couple of minutes, the path widened out and swung inland, away from the edge. It was far from well trodden, and Roberto got a few scratches on his face from down-hanging branches, but he did feel safer. Eventually, they reached the main road, at a point far from the lighthouse, and raced along it to El Cucorno.
Arriving, they didn’t need to knock on the door. The Freires must have posted a lookout, because Rosalía was already waiting for them.
“Thank God you’re here!” she said as she flung her arms around Diego. “We were so worried! Particularly about you, you little rascal! Where did you get to?”
“That’s a long story,” said Roberto, feeling the reassurance of the heavy wooden door closing behind him. “But right now, what you need to know is that the Docampos are on a war footing.”
“We already know that,” Rosalía replied, grimacing angrily. “It was just a matter of time.”
“They want to keep all the money, and settle some old scores into the bargain,” he added. “They’re not messing around, I promise you.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“Ramón Docampo told me himself.” Roberto dropped into a chair. Now that the adrenaline had begun to ebb, the pain in his arm had become close to unbearable. “I think he’s out of his mind, but nobody can make him see reason. None of his family can, anyway.”
“And nobody else either ...” said Rosalía.
Roberto observed her carefully, and only then did he notice the grayish tone of her skin and the deep bags under her eyes, the product of a sleepless night. She was no longer the imposing matriarch he had first met, just a fragile, overwhelmed, exhausted woman. Even so, the flame of determination burned in her eyes.
“That arm of yours looks nasty.”
“I think it’s dislocated.” Roberto clenched his teeth. “It hurts like hell.”
“We’re used to dealing with this kind of thing,” Rosalía replied. “When you collect shellfish on the rocks, it happens all the time. Go upstairs to the first-aid station we’ve set up and ask Antía to take a look.”
A first-aid station? These people are preparing for war too.
Roberto stood up with some difficulty and made his way up the stairs, gripping the banister with his good hand. When he passed theliving room, he noticed that it had been cleared and a large mahogany table stood in the middle of it.
The scene was so similar to the one he had witnessed in the Docampo household that a bitter smile came to his lips. Around the table, three people were preparing a rudimentary arsenal of sickles, axes, and shotguns. He noticed that one of them, whom he recognized as one of the men Pampín had accused of trespassing on his patch, was holding an item that looked vaguely familiar. It was a moment before the penny dropped.
It was an old MP 40, a submachine gun with a folding stock similar to the weapons he had seen in the hands of German soldiers in countless war movies. The man was carefully loading bullets into the magazine. Roberto shook his head. The submachine gun had been carefully oiled and appeared to be in good condition, but it must have been more than eighty years old: It was almost certainly a souvenir taken by Orlando Freire from the German submarine.
He couldn’t help wondering how many more relics like that were to be found on the island and, above all, what condition the bullets would be in, after sitting in a drawer for eight decades. Old munitions, as he knew by experience, tended to behave erratically and, sometimes, could be more dangerous for the marksman than his target.
Things weren’t looking good. The Freires were planning to defend themselves using weapons that were old and unreliable, and the Docampos were both more numerous and had the initiative, but this lethal piece of gear tipped the scales.
He shuffled down the hallway until he reached the first-aid station, which was housed in a gallery that looked down onto an inner courtyard crammed with fish crates, lobster pots, and other junk. There were a couple of beds in the gallery, one of which was occupied. In it lay a young man with a long, deep cut on his right forearm, and Antía was tending to his wound, wrapping his arm in bandages that had been improvised by tearing a sheet into strips. On the floor was a bloody bandage that she had just removed.
“What happened to him?” he asked. “Was it the Docampos?”
Antía looked up.
“He doesn’t know.” She carried on changing the man’s bandages. “Last night, he was coming back from checking the moorings when someone jumped him.”
