Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [60]
‘Buenos dias.’
‘Hola señor Sugrañes, you want the roof?’
‘If I may.’
Rodrígues smiled and stood. They walked through the ribs of the vault together, the way lit with naked bulbs strung on twisted wire. The bare bricks of the next stairs appeared and Rodrígues unlocked the gate across it. He went up first, calling out to the man stationed on the roof that it was a friend. The guard shrugged at him, indifferent, and went to share a cigarette with Rodrígues.
Emerging into the evening sun, Sugrañes smiled. The warm setting light to the west bathed the stone in yellow light, glinted off the mosaics. The roof was a dreamscape, curving and rolling like the sea. The stone had been carved, smoothed, sculpted. The Master had put care into every detail: even the chimney stacks were sculpted, formed, designed to be aesthetic. The caps which ensure nothing nested across the airways were formed into soldier’s helmets, the smoke drifting out of the blank eyesockets. Not the mere functionality the Republicans seemed to want. Wide steps were cut into the roofs. At the unprotected edges, if one braved it, there was a good view of a junction. Sugrañes walked along the roof carefully, taking the deep steps of it slowly and methodically, looking about at the stacks. There was a chip on one of the tiled forms, he noted sadly. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed.
He climbed down another step, turned to look at the cluster of three sculpted chimneys above and behind him. They reared up behind him, the sky on fire behind the stone helmets.
And then, they turned to look back at him.
* * *
They parked up by a farm labourer’s cottage late that night. The distant crump of shells suggested they were still closer to the front than they would have liked to have been. And they were, as far as Fitz was concerned, driving the wrong way. He grouched at Sasha as they jumped down into the empty, abandoned, yard.
‘I still don’t get why we’re driving this way to get to Barcelona. I could have just got a train.’
Sasha gave a melodramatic sigh, suggesting Fitz was the most stupid person in the world. ‘I told you already: because between here and Barcelona is held by the Nationalists. You might think you can charm your way through them with your papers but I won’t. I plan to get over the border to France. You can go where you like. Now, hush.’
The Russian hefted his handgun out of his waistband and held it up ready to drop and fire. He tapped on the door of the building with it, standing to one side of the frame. Fitz leant on the warm front of the truck, his arms folded, and grinned as he watched the performance. Sasha rapped on the door harder, listened for a moment and then gestured for Fitz to join him. Fitz ducked back into the cab to grab one of the blankets and a bottle of wine, then sauntered over. Sasha was lighting a gas lamp in the kitchen that took up most of the ground floor. He motioned for Fitz to wait and vanished up the crooked wooden stairs, treading lightly.
Fitz glanced about the room. The table was laid but coated with a thick film of dust and powdered ceiling plaster. Moving the lamp slightly he realised one grey shape was a lump of cheese, disguised with mould. He poked it with a knife, then covered his nose and mouth at the rancid smell that rose up and made him gag. Chairs were pushed back at odd angles. Fitz hooked one with his foot and drew it up behind him. As he sat he put the lamp on a clear space on the table. It was like the Mary Celeste