by John Eider
That was that, of course. We were done for and had no way out. That we’d survived so long had been a surprise; the only reason we had being that Ashe was especially busy that evening. Which was also the only reason we had dared attack in daylight with the result of getting caught, so, swings and roundabouts. Still though, that was that.
A large part of my provocative attitude toward our inattentive host had been that for all the attention drawn on me there would be less on Wareing. Our chairs not facing one another, and our talking quickly curtailed, it had been hard to keep a track of how he’d been doing those stifling hours, he already in the worse shape of either of us even before his ankle’s relapsing that morning. And it appeared to have worked, Wareing hardly counting in our captors’ thoughts it seemed.
From my position on the floor I still could not see my partner clearly. The court emptying with their king and queen, I risked calling to him, though got only a mumble in return. The way I had fallen had brought me down on my side, the steel back of the chair pining my right forearm just above the elbow (my hands of course being tied behind the chair). The weight of my body pushing the chair down on my arm ought have been agony, but instead it had only begun to ache and go numb in preparation for what I sensed would be an eternity of pins and needles. I thought of whether flipping onto my back – if I could even manage that movement – would leave less of me squashed against the unforgiving floor? But at least on my side I felt half-protected, while the thought of lying facing upwards without defence was a sudden nightmare fear. So I stayed where I was, but knew a few hours like that could leave me in very bad shape.
Hearing no protest at my calling to Wareing, I assumed we had been left alone there. Not that it mattered, I knew we were meat. The next morning, or the morning after that, or the morning after that, it would be us greeting visitors from the sign by the side of the road.
At some point I think I passed out, for when I woke again it was darker; and then, disturbing the silence, across the wooden floor came footsteps: slow, deliberate, an assassin either wary of or savouring their task. They were evidently a sadist, unable to resist for long the prospect of such helpless prey, and who had been waiting only for the boss or any witness to their actions to be away. I tried to remember the faces I had seen sat or stood around the hall that long day, imagining which of them were to be our murderer? And then my musings became academic, for their figure was over me, and suddenly cold steel pressed into my face and chest; and they were pulling me, dragging me and the chair across the floor…
Just as suddenly they were out of my personal space again, I now sat upright and looking to Wareing, he sat there fast asleep! Not a new mark on him, or even a flicker of pain on his face – I had succeeded in become the focus for our tormentors’ attentions that far at least. Before me in the near dark though was my killer: and it was the young gunman, his rifle glinting across his chest where it had fallen on its strap as he had leaned over to lift me. This scene wasn’t right… The electric lights had yet to come on, the dirty drapes letting the sunset in only as a golden glow that lit the frames of the skylights. The young man started,
‘They think you’re robbers. You’re not robbers. Who are you?’
He came closer, and I saw he was even more scared than I was. He continued,
‘What are you doing here? Fuller’ll be here any minute, I need you to tell me!’
I tried to piece together everything that we had seen or overheard of this lad since he, Ashe and the older guard had nearly run me down in the forest.
‘He hates you, you know.’
‘Ashe? We guessed.’
‘No, Fuller! Especially you,’ he pointed at me. ‘He says it’s ‘cos you killed Ted, but he doesn’t care about him. It’s after your showing him up at the depot.’
Fuller was the older gunman, I realised, the trigger-happy lunatic who shot at trees. I had forgotten about him since almost strangling him earlier. We hadn’t seen these men all afternoon.
‘He’s stuck out on the harbour wall for now, but he’ll find a way back here while Ashe is busy. You’ve got to tell me.’
And then a thought returned: weren’t the men looking for us at the playing field the previous night ribbing one of their number for fancying a girl, Tanya was it? And hadn’t the story been that Ashe had sent her away?
‘You knew Tanya?’ I asked.
A smile emerged on the lad’s face, its owner too scared though to look too very hopeful.
‘We’re Interpol,’ growled a woken Wareing, ‘We’re on her trail.’
I groaned; but the lad was no more convinced than me,
‘You’re not Interpol, look at you! You haven’t even got guns.’
Who could argue with logic like that? As if any Government agency would be stupid enough to send agents into such a lawless land as this without them…
‘No, we’re not Interpol.’ I started, hoping he trusted me now. ‘But we can get word to them, get them looking for her.’ She would be one lost person in several million of course, but civilisation hadn’t fallen that far yet that they wouldn’t take her details, wouldn’t put her name on lists.
‘And you’ve got to kill Ashe too,’ he said, ‘for what he’s done.’
I baulked at his blurted demand,
‘Well, I don’t have the arms free just now.’
‘Look, are you being serious or what?’
He had a point, I hopefully correcting my demeanour to say,
‘Sorry. Look, can you get us a drink?’ I didn’t ask to be freed just then, still gaining his confidence. He came back with a glass from the bar and slopped it at our mouths in turn.
‘We’re Army scouts,’ Wareing was woken now and pitching his lies more believably. ‘They’re coming in along this coast soon. You have a good harbour for a landing.’
It was actually a useless harbour – a shallow beach and tiny quay for pleasure dinghies. But the lad was evidently no fisherman, only asking,
‘How long?’
‘As soon as we tell them it’s safe. Which we can’t do while Ashe…’
The lad turned white,
‘But we can’t do it tonight. The Dutch!’
It was evident he had wanted this long before we came, that he was just waiting for allies, and yet now his chance seemed thwarted. I asked,
‘When do they come?’
‘The barges come at midnight, but Kronkear’s always here earlier in the speedboat to do the deal.’
‘How many men?’
‘Not many, mostly labourers. Kronkear has two armed on his launch though.’
All that would be going on at the seafront. Meanwhile, in the maelstrom of my mind it occurred to me, it was just possible that our actual target, that odd little building by the football pitch and depot, would be free for a visit. I wondered if Wareing was having the same thought? He asked the lad,
‘Do you have any more guns?’
‘No, only this one.’
‘While they’ve five at least, and more coming through tonight… Come on, no time to lose.’
In a flash the lad was untying Wareing’s hands, quickly turning to mine… but before I could get myself free from the unknotted tethers and turn to see what was happening, there was a thump; and when I did turn I saw that not for the first time Wareing’s right hook had left its recipient on the floor.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Did you see their strength today, when you weren’t trying to wind up that psycho Ashe?’
‘I was taking attention away from you,’ I snapped, as he finished my untying.
‘I can handle myself, you know.’
I rallied, ‘If he knew you were carrying an injury he’d have tormented you, you’d have spent this afternoon in agony.’
‘Come on, we can’t talk here.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Wareing had laid the lad on his side and was extracting the gun from around his shoulder. He stood back up and said,
‘Crofts, this i
sn’t our war. I’ve counted five different armed men here today, plus the ones we know, and who knows how many others coming on these boats this evening with yet more arms. We’re three men with one gun, two who don’t know this town from the Garden of Gethsemane – would you fancy our chances?’
I stood forlorn.
‘Come on, we don’t have long before they miss us.’
Still I couldn’t move. He chivvied,
‘You heard the lad, they’re raising an army here to pillage for miles around.’
I looked down to the forlorn figure, who only moments before had offered us his complete trust. I noticed how even down on the floor I could make him out in the odd brown light of the sunset.
‘We can’t leave him here.’
‘Then bring him, he’s only a whippet.’
But we had waited too long, and showing remarkable powers of recovery – though perhaps still not enough to beat a ten-count – the lad was murmuring and waking from his knocked-out state. I certainly wasn’t going to move now, holding my ground until he had got himself into a sitting position, and his senses had returned,
‘What… happened? What did you do?’
I gave Wareing a stare as in I dare you to hit him again, while at the same time inwardly acknowledging that in allowing me to carry him with us he had performed a second act of mercy this mission. I knelt to help the lad back up,
‘You slipped, you knocked yourself out cold,’ I explained, unsure if he bought this; but adding quickly, ‘Look fella, what’s your name?’
‘Patrick.’
‘Look Patrick, we’ve had a change of plan. We’re still going to do everything we said, we’re still going to call in the cavalry and have this town secured by tomorrow nightfall. We’re still going to see Ashe taken out; but there’s only three of us, we’ve only one gun – we’re not going to be able to take them on tonight.
‘They teach us in the Army,’ I continued, though not recalling the exact lesson, ‘that sometimes discretion is the better part of valour, that a tactical retreat is better than a senseless sacrifice, if it allows you to find your friendly forces and regroup to relaunch. Just think of the Free French. You see this means we have to leave now, calm and quiet like?’
He nodded.
‘Good lad,’ said Wareing, himself awake from his afternoon’s slumbers and, though hobbling on his pulled ankle, quite decidedly itching to be out of there. There were sounds from outside, of activity and another sound like a crackling.
I went to the bar first though, drank a glass of water for myself, before bringing another to splash over the lad’s face. Soon I had him on his feet and his arm around my neck, Wareing leading to the stage stairs as pointed out by the lad. What a sight we were: the half-conscious lifted by the injured and led by the lame.
Chapter 29 – Through the Smoke, to Clear Air