Sunrise with Sea Monster by Neil Jordan Page A

Representations have been made on your behalf.
    He is repeating himself, I tell him.
    OK. But be so kind as to repeat to me the burden of what I've told you.
    You studied at the University of Leipzig with Heidegger.
    Heisenberg. Heidegger holds the chair of philosophy at Freiburg. But that was not my question. About your movement.
    They have had certain contacts with the Reich.
    Yes. And on your return, you are to resume your contacts with your former comrades. In time you will be approached by persons
     unknown.
    Should I get out and walk? I ask him.
    Yes, if you wish to be a martyr and an idiot.
    Then stop the car.
    He screeches to a halt. The landscape is lost in a cloud of dust and my head crashes off the windscreen.
    Be my guest.
    A trickle of blood runs down my nose. I feel for the door handle, push it down and stagger outside. He looks at me with amused
     contempt. I wipe my nose and smile and thank him and walk forwards. As the dust clears I see the ruins of a farmhouse in the
     distance, the thin line of refugees starting again. To the left of my feet is what must have once been an irrigation ditch,
     now filled with bloated cattle. I walk forwards. I attempt to calculate the walk to Barcelona and guess it at fourteen days.
     After a time I hear the Hispano-Suiza purring behind me.
    Irish, he calls.
    Hans, I answer. The car draws alongside.
    Am I to take it you won't act upon my brief?
    Yes, I tell him.
    Then please accept my hospitality.
    I stop, wipe the blood again and look at him, his face still wreathed in the same smile.
    This is no time for heroics, my friend.
    I turn again and walk on, knowing the car will follow. And after a time it does.
    You heard what I said?
    Which part?
    All of them.
    I heard the lot, I tell him. And while not wishing to offend you, I think I might enjoy the walk.
    The smile diminishes somewhat.
    You do offend me.
    Then please accept my apologies.
    I bend my head, to signal my regret, then walk on. I hear silence behind me for a time, then the engine roars and he passes
     me in a cloud of dust.
    The cattle by the ditch are long-horned, their ribs showing through their cases of skin. Their stench is overpowering. I walk
     on, my hand over my face and slowly, ever so slowly, the line of figures comes closer. A dozen men in front, like a bedraggled
     bunch of navvies and behind them women and children. We pass, without exchanging a glance. The ruins come closer and I see
     instead of a farmhouse, the remains of a hamlet, smoke rising out of a bare chimney unsupported by walls. The sun in time
     congeals the blood on my face, then the sweat from my forehead makes it flow again. I can see a table now beneath the chimney,
     an open fire with scattered motorcycles round it. Glinting in the sunlight, a phalanx of three-cornered hats. They turn as
     I approach, to watch the sole figure walking in their direction. The smell of charcoal drifts towards me, mixed with a hint
     of pork. I can see a suckling pig roasting on a spike, a young boy turning it. A figure in torn khaki tied to a broken column,
     the head bent down at an unnatural angle. Two of the three-cornered hats rise. They walk towards me, casting tiny shadows,
     thumbs stuck in their ammunition belts. I follow the only course open to me and walk on.
    Buenos dias, I mutter, with what I hope is a hint of dialect, and they step aside to let me walk between them. I keep an even pace, down
     the centre of the track, then hear their footsteps close and congeal behind me. I think it unwise to turn, but hesitate for
     a moment, then feel my feet kicked from beneath me.
    I smile as I hit the dirt, try to raise my hands in a supplicant manner when they grab them, flip me over and drag me face
     down towards the table. I can see the figure in khaki still motionless, tied to the broken column. They dump me by the burning
     embers, beneath the suckling pig on its spike, and the fat leaps from its browning skin to the skin of my face. One of them