Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [87]
It was cold up here, the clear air stealing the heat from the streets. He sank lower into his greatcoat, the rough collar rasping against his stubble. Two days since fighting broke out, since he’d been commandeered into sitting on this wretched roof. Sat in the dirt with the stench of dried sweat only occasionally hidden by the acrid smell of cordite. Half an hour’s sleep snatched here or there, leaning against a chimneystack, waking in a start whenever something clattered against the copper. Relief if it was a comrade’s boot, fear if it wasn’t.
‘Hey. Hey! Hijos de puta!’ The shout was from the far side of the street. Fitz knew that one by now: ‘sons of whores’.
‘Si?’ Joaquín leant forward to yell, ‘Hijos de Pasionaria!’
Fitz leant his head back, stared up at the stars. ‘Of all the ways, I’ve envisaged dying, this has to be the most unlikely,’ he muttered under his breath. For years now, he’d imagined his death would be up there, or in some strange future version of Earth. He had vague memories of jumping off a tower but they were indistinct, like something he’d seen in a movie. Not really him at all.
The grenade cracked against the slanting roof beside them, clattering and skittering down the tiles. Luiz, closest to him, swore. Fitz felt his limbs were weighted, unable to move at the speed his brain was so urgently yelling for. Then hands were grabbing the homemade grenade, hurling it back into the night.
‘Sheep of Stalin!’ Joaquín shouted cheerfully as the grenade fell into the street below. Fitz automatically covered his head, waiting for the explosion. Nothing. Another dud. On the opposing rooftop, the PSUC were supposed to be better armed, better trained and better organised. Of the grenades thrown in the past two days, though, only one had exploded and that had been misthrown into the apartments next door.
‘Hey, Fitz?’ Luiz asked him.
‘Yeah?’
‘We get off this roof and I take Eleana for a drink. You think she will come?’
‘I don’t know, Luiz. You asked her?’
‘Not yet.’
Fitz nodded and grinned. ‘Just ask her.’
Luiz nodded, then wrapped his arms around himself and fell silent. Fitz went back to imagining his perfect cigarette: so much easier than considering if he wanted to die on a Barcelona rooftop less than a year after he was born, or trying to imagine his ideal partner. And he still kept seeing Heinkels, smelling cordite, blood. That would just bring back far too many memories, too many moments he could never go back to. He had managed to snatch a few hours the day before to go the Hotel. The rooms were in a state, empty. There had been no notes or signs of where the Doctor or Anji were, or had gone. The guy at the desk had known nothing. He hadn’t had a chance to check on the TARDIS or look for Sasha. Fitz tucked his chin under the top of the greatcoat, hugged himself tighter.
‘Hey!’ The soldiers in the Moka were calling up to them. ‘Hey, it’s over!’
Joaquín laughed loudly. ‘You say that now...’
‘No, it’s true.’
There was the sound of rapid boots running up the spiral stairs, almost slipping in their haste. Joaquín had his pistol out, ready, as Alberto’s head came into view. His arm was still in a tight sling against his torso but he was grinning.
‘Joaquín. It is over. Joaquín.’
Fitz felt his face break into a grin as well. At last he could go and have a decent bath at the Oriente, take his time. He could go back to what he ought to be doing, find Anji and the Doctor. Find Sasha. He stuck his head into view and yelled down to the men in the Café Moka.
‘Hey! Did you save us that beer like you promised?’
* * *
Anji wasn’t sure what time it was. The way the days had dragged, she wasn’t even sure what day it was. She thought she had been stuck in this dump for under forty-eight hours but she couldn’t tell as they had taken her watch from her on the way in.
The truck had dropped her in a courtyard. She hadn’t recognised the building as they were herded