Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [75]
‘You must let me take you to dinner some time soon,’ Nikolai was saying. Anji caught herself in time, before the conversation autopilot she’d been using could say ‘yes’.
‘Soon,’ she answered, deliberately glancing at her watch. ‘Oh, but I should be going. I’m late meeting my boyfriend.’
She extricated herself from the sofa quickly and smiled at Nikolai. He was useful, best to keep on good terms with him. ‘I value your insight,’ she remarked. Management speak was always useful here: no one knew it was bland drivel and they actually believed it.
Down the street, she noticed the air seemed tenser than even a few hours ago. Pedestrians were glancing about more. Looking at balconies, or up to church towers. It was the same building feeling as she always sensed before a thunderstorm but the day was clear, dry. She walked the one block up to Plaça de Catalunya quickly, wincing as a tram trundled past, bell clanging. She turned the corner and walked slowly down the pavement, looking for the sort of people who would be stood around all day. The sort who noticed stuff. A man was leaning against one of the huge columns that lined the plaza, holding a bundle of folded newspapers under one arm, the other holding one to display the headline. He wasn’t bothering to call it out. She mentally noted to try him later and moved on into Fontanella. The telephone exchange was just off the square; a large, turn of the century building, typical of Eixample. The entrance was heavily sandbagged, with some anarchist militia leaning against the barrier with their rifles slung over their shoulders, chatting. One of them straightened as he saw her approach.
‘Papers, comrade.’
She knew they had taken in her civilian clothes – no militant woman would have worn a skirt – and were just going through the formality. Nonetheless, she still felt nervous watching them rifle through her identity. Fitz hadn’t helped with his tale of nearly being arrested on the border. A tale she suspected of being exaggerated but which had even so increased her nervousness. She hadn’t even had a fake NUS card in order to buy drinks when she was sixteen: she felt uncomfortable pretending to be something, someone, else.
‘Reason for visit?’
‘I... well, I’m looking for someone.’
There was a murmur of interest from the militiamen, knowing smiles and nudges. Anji showed them the photograph. ‘Him. Have you seen him?’
‘Well, comrade, I am not sure –’
‘Ah, Pablo, tell her something. I’ve seen her drinking with Eleana Serrano Domínguez before now.’
The others were grinning openly now, assuming she sought a boyfriend or a lover. Pablo gave her back the photograph, which she tucked back into her bag.
‘Try upstairs. They might help.’
Anji smiled her thanks and entered the building. The foyer was kitted out for guard duty, filled with kitchen items, foodstuff and rounds of ammunition. All the windows were sandbagged, the glass covered in strips of sticky paper or completely missing. Remnants from July ’36, when control of the Exchange had been central to the quelling of the fascist uprising. Had the militias lost control of the communications, the city might have fallen to the insurrectionists. Climbing the wide stairwell, she passed a light machine gun position. The gun was angled downwards, covering the doorway, and the two man crew were playing dice behind the wall of yet more