Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [15]
‘But does it –’
‘Yes, it matters! Think of how we see history. You saw the pavilions down by the Seine. If you believed history as presented by Stalinist Soviet historians, you’d be unaware of the millions currently dying in the Gulags.’
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ The Doctor was practically hoping on the spot now, pushing his hair back off his face and staring earnestly at them. ‘What matters is that if the perception of history is controlled or changed, you can make people believe anything. It’s as dangerous as changing history itself.’ The passers-by were starting to slow now, perhaps hoping they were street entertainment. Or at least entertaining. Anji smiled at them and made the universal gesture of madness, twirling her finger near her temple. She got a few sympathetic smiles back.
‘See? See what you did then?’ the Doctor said earnestly, pointing at her, ‘You made them perceive me as insane, when really I’m just very worried. Those people will believe for the rest of their lives that they saw a madman.’
‘They’d not be that far wrong.’ Fitz muttered. The Doctor glared at him.
‘I heard that. Right.’ He grabbed them both by the arms, pulling them back towards the steep incline of the Montmartre steps. ‘We’re going to sort this out. And no, Fitz, we are not going to the Moulin Rouge.’
* * *
A car’s engine growled as its driver forced it to continue despite the state of the road, and Antonio checked who was arriving. All day cars and wagons had arrived and driven off again, ferrying the more important people to and from their base of operations. Important! Why grant them status over others? They get their cars and vehicles, meals in town and a base of operations that isn’t right at the front. We get nothing. We get marched here – marched! It wasn’t even properly voted on. Told to attack the rebel front line. Told! Ordered! No debate, no discussion. No choice but to run forward. And when some refused, because we didn’t know why we were at this fight any more, because the process of consensus is gone, we were punished. We’re told we’re not good anarchists because we don’t jump when Durruti shouts. Well, no more!
Antonio watched as two men got out of the newly arrived car. He only had two rounds left of the ten he had managed to find yesterday. He double-checked the bolt on the elderly rifle, ensured that it would not jam. Too many jammed during battle, too many men died because of it. One of the men turned his head and Antonio recognised him. He raised the rifle butt to his shoulder and steadied his elbow on a tree branch. Was this the right thing to do? To take away a hero? Yes, it was right: he may have been a hero once but now he led with coercion and rules. He had become the enemy they were fighting, had taken on their hierarchy. Squinting to aim at the man emerging from the car, he squeezed the trigger with a shaking finger. He saw his hero fall.
Buenaventura Durruti died of his wounds two days later in the converted Ritz Hotel in Madrid.
* * *
Serrano Domínguez leaned forward in his chair, his eyes suddenly following a figure darting off down Las Rambles. It had looked a lot like Diego Garcia, who – so rumour had it – wasn’t happy with the current coalition. He was well known for his headstrong desire to be martyred for the anarchist cause and no one had been surprised to find him in the bloodiest parts of the street battles, or inciting the crowds to burn down churches. And he’d been unusually quiet these last few days. One rumour had it he had gone to the front, desperate for the fascist bullet that would bear his name to glory. Serrano Domínguez hadn’t believed that though, and his sister Eleana had snorted with derision at the idea.
‘Garcia wants to be a martyr,’