Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [78]
‘It’s the government –’
‘A coup – trying to take our city from us –’
‘We should never have trusted them –’
‘The telephone exchange is under attack –’
‘They want control over us –’
‘La Batalla was bombed, grenades –’
‘– bloody Asaltos –’
Fitz steadily pushed in as well, trying to ignore the snatches he heard. He somehow doubted these people knew what was really going on. All he could tell was that the tension that he had felt in the city was exploding around them, anger and resentment bursting out into the open. A brief break in the gunfire was followed by the bellow of an explosion. The crowd didn’t even pause in their clamour. Fitz started to wonder if this was the best building to wait out events in. Not only was it overcrowded but it was a union office – it might even be the target for a second wave of attacks. He started looking about, trying to find a way to the edge of the mass, a breathing space where he wouldn’t be caught up in it. He really hated getting dragged along with panicking crowds.
Someone was leaning over a banister from the second floor, waving. ‘Hi! Fitz! Hey!’
He realised the man was waving at him with his good arm. Alberto. Injured at the front and probably in the building to argue for his invalidity pay. Fitz started pushing through the throng. It actually thinned after the first flight of stairs: most of the people were just taking temporary shelter, he realised, the building was a haven until it was worth risking the run for the Metro or home. He could probably wait down there until the firing died down enough for him to run back up Las Rambles to the Oriente. On the other hand, he had no desire to stay in the crush.
As he reached the second floor, Alberto greeted him warmly. His hand was thoroughly shaken by the small man. Fitz thought the academic looked even more dishevelled than he had done when they’d first met. Most of the men on this floor had rifles, or were arguing with an exasperated union man who was refusing to hand out more. Fitz recognised a couple of faces in the group. Luiz – a huge man Alberto had introduced him to the previous night – stood calmly next to one of the open windows, his back against the wall, his rifle ready. A couple of younger boys ran about, tugging on rifle butts or straps, trying to get a firearm off the men.
‘Fitz, you will fight. You must, yes?’
‘I only came in to –’
‘I will sort you out a weapon.’
Fitz couldn’t think of a single protestation he could make that would not throw suspicion on him. He was a new face in town, had been asking after a communist friend and now just happened to show up when who knew how many places were being attacked? Fitz didn’t want to think what they might do if he were to say he wasn’t going to fight. Of the men arguing with the ‘officers’, two were English but dressed in the ugly semi-uniform of the militia. They were also being steadfastly refused weapons, being looked at as very dubious. Fitz grinned to himself. If even men who had already been fighting with the POUM couldn’t get armed, he didn’t stand a chance. He could just wait out the fighting. He took the chance, as Alberto argued with the man refusing to issue arms, to look around the room carefully. As if the missing men they were searching for would be propped in a corner waiting to be spotted.
‘There’s firing coming from the Café Moka,’ Luiz remarked, looking down into the street.
Fitz joined him, careful to keep out of sight. He could see a narrow sliver of Las Rambles. The trams, normally whirring and clanking up and down the street, stood silent on their tracks. The odd person ran across the wide boulevard, ducking behind the slim cover of the trees. A clatter of flashes and noise when a CNT lorry screeched past indicated the Café Moka. Alberto rejoined him.
‘They will not arm you, my friend.’ Fitz tried not to look relieved. ‘They cannot even telephone the Oriente to prove you are who you say – the telephone