Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [28]
Anji felt vaguely guilty that she hadn’t even heard of him until two days ago. Eleana was wiping at her face again, looking oddly proud of her tears.
‘I heard he was shot by a misfire?’
Eleana frowned at her. ‘No. You are mistaken, Anji. He was killed by a fascist sniper bullet: it was a cowardly assassination by one of Franco’s men in Madrid. They were so afraid that Durruti’s column would defeat them that they murdered him.’
Anji nodded and continued to walk next to Eleana in silence. It was one of the versions she had heard anyway, and clearly the one the anarchists preferred: it was better than suggesting one of their own men had shot him, accidentally or on purpose. They had reached a wider part of the Divisional now, and the procession was starting to loosen. Anji tapped Eleana on the shoulder. ‘I have to go, things to do, you know?’
The anarchist nodded and smiled. ‘You will come to the meeting tonight though, Anji? We are reaffirming our oath to follow Durruti’s dreams.’
Anji couldn’t think of anything she’d rather miss but reassured Eleana that she would try to make it. Getting out of the slow moving column of mourners, she still had to edge her way through the crowds gathered on the pavements to watch. Twisting and sidestepping to get through them faster, Anji supposed it to be no worse than trying to get along Oxford Street the week before Christmas. The difference was that here she didn’t know her way through the quieter side streets and was stuck with the exasperating crowd.
* * *
Fitz grinned inanely as yet another drink was put in front of him and someone gave his shoulder a squeeze. The streets were still crowded with jubilant locals. When he had sat down for a drink, the bar-owner had recognised his poor accent and stood him a drink. Then he had told the rest of the bar’s customers of the Ingleses and Fitz had been supplied with a fresh drink every time his ran out, often coming with a slap on the shoulder or a warmly shook hand. The only problem he was having with the entire scenario, and he had to admit that right now it wasn’t that massive a problem, was that it hadn’t got him any closer to Guernica.
Whoever had given him the latest drink was still gripping his shoulder and Fitz looked up to thank them. The man held his hand out and Fitz automatically shook it. The generous stranger gestured to the empty seat opposite. ‘May I?’
Fitz waved at it. The man unbuttoned his jacket as he sat, and Fitz caught the briefest glimpse of a gun handle on the left of his belt. The slight fuzzy warm feelings the cheap wine had fermented in him drained away and he started to focus properly on the stranger. He was a tall, slim man, paler than most of the locals Fitz had noticed here. His dark hair was neatly combed back from his face and shiny with hair-oil, and his narrow brows seemed set in a slight frown. His hand had been soft, not gnarled or callused. Combined with the smarter clothing and the gun, Fitz guessed this man wasn’t local.
‘My name is Sasha,’ the man said, and now he was looking for details, Fitz noticed the accent. His way of pronouncing English was different to the gentle sibilance of the others Fitz had conversed with.
‘Fitz Kreiner.’ He offered cautiously.
‘A German? Here?’
Fitz shrugged. ‘Naturalised English,’ he told the other man, ‘although I’m less surprised to find a Russian here.’
Sasha raised a half-smile. ‘This is not a conflict of nations,’ he remarked, ‘but of ideas. Are not all civil wars so? Setting brother against brother?’
‘So why are you here? Your brother fighting for the other side, is he?’
The Russian gave a snort of laughter. ‘My brother died in the October Revolution, fighting by my side. I’m here because I want to help, just like you, Fitz. We