The Exile by Mark Oldfield

of beer? I can always go somewhere else.’
    â€˜I’ll get a new barrel,’ the barman said. ‘It’ll only take a minute.’
    â€˜Fine, I’m off for a piss.’ Aïtor walked to the rear of the building, through a large tiled area in semi-darkness, wooden tables and benches where the restaurant had once been. At the far end, a murky passageway led to the toilets.
    Mikel disconnected the empty barrel and rolled it towards the storeroom. Behind him, he heard a rustle at the door and turned, hoping it was another customer. No such luck: the bar was empty. He shrugged and went to get the new barrel.
    In the men’s komun , Aïtor washed his hands in cold water. The hot tap hadn’t worked in years and Mikel still hadn’t fixed it. At least there were paper towels today. He dried his hands and tossed the screwed-up towel on the floor with the others, wondering why he still came to this dump. Once, the place had been a popular restaurant. Now, it was just a seedy bar with a dwindling clientele as competition grew from the places springing up round the dam. When they finished the new complex, most customers would take their business there. Certainly he planned to. No more hundred-metre walks to take a piss or hot water taps that never worked.
    He stepped out into darkness. Someone had turned out the light in the old restaurant, reducing the passageway to a dark tunnel. At the far end, he saw a figure, framed against the dim light, coming towards him. A pale face emerged from the shadows.
    â€˜What did you call me?’ Galíndez said.
    N-240, GAMARRA MENOR, 2010
    With just a kilometre to go before she reached the A-1, Galíndez started looking for the slip road. After that, she could look forward to the monotonous three-hour drive back to Madrid. Behind her, she saw the flashing light of a patrol car in her mirror, travelling fast, probably on its way to an accident. As the patrol car passed, it veered in front of her and slowed, forcing her to brake. A hand emerged from the driver’s window, pointing to the verge. She pulled over.
    The patrol car stopped a few metres ahead. Galíndez killed the engine and waited, rehearsing her story: No, really, was I going that fast? An attitude of quiet surprise. Here’s my ID. That’s right, I’m guardia – just like my father, actually. Mendez said stuff like that worked every time and she ought to know, she drove like a lunatic.
    Galíndez opened the window as a figure in a hi-vis vest came toward her. Atienza leaned in through the window. ‘You want the good news or the bad news?’
    â€˜Surprise me.’
    â€˜He’s not going to press charges. I don’t think he could face his pals if they heard you’d beaten the crap out of him.’
    Galíndez frowned. ‘So what’s the bad news?’
    â€˜You’ve got a problem.’
    He’s guessed about the tablets. Dilated pupils maybe. ‘What sort of problem?’
    â€˜I think they call it anger management.’
    She relaxed. He doesn’t know about the medication. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I saw that builder in the square and had a quick word with him.’
    â€˜It was a hell of a word: he’s got a broken collarbone and two black eyes. Why didn’t you tell me if he upset you that much?’
    Galíndez stared into the dark, gripping the wheel. ‘I’m my father’s daughter.’
    â€˜What does that mean?’
    She turned and met his gaze. ‘It means I don’t ask anyone to fight my battles for me.’
    â€˜Wait here.’ Atienza went back to his car and returned with a plastic box under his arm.
    â€˜What’s that?’ Galíndez asked.
    â€˜Two chorizo sandwiches, an apple and a flask of strong coffee. You’re in a hurry so you might be tempted not to stop and eat. I’m donating my supper to you.’
    â€˜ Gracias ,’ she said, touched.