by John Eider
To the occasional stares of locals up all night, or just waking having slept through the tribulations, I ran again through the streets and soon found the dewy football field, the empty depot, and the target building. Never seen clearly before, I double-checked the map from Wareing’s bag, and yes, that was it: concrete and of the right era, its parking spaces damp, its pointed roof casting deep shadows. A golden sun that morning rose above all in God’s creation, but the earth before that building was still wet with days-old rain; and in that bronze-tinted gloom before me sat a daycentre, a drop-in resource for old folk, a crèche facility for local working mums – and advertised as such from posters in the porch.
But I was trained now, I saw through such pretence. I knew the secret structures that we sought were paired with others above-ground; and saw that day the telltale side-door with no relation to the rest of the building, the way the wall beside it sloped as if hiding a downward staircase, the air vents, the aerial rusting and not replaced as if linked to a TV set no one had tried to use in a while. I walked up to the powder-blue painted side-door and cast one mighty boot to its centre. Although decorated in tune with the rest of the outside of the building, the door was rotten; and, though heavy in itself, came off its hinges with a second kick.
I ran down the stairs, found another heavy entrance; but before I kicked it checked it with my torch: the door was ajar. I pulled it open slowly, and under torchlight found myself in a grotto waiting for a faded Santa, a Blue Peter Christmas Special studio full of toys and only missing the children to play with them.
Upstairs was a crèche, of course; and downstairs I realised was where they kept the old toys: the dated (a rocking horse painted like a carousel), the broken (a plastic pedal-car fire engine with three wheels) and the scary (a child-sized clown with manic eyes). A heap of crazy-dancing Action Men and wild-haired Barbies; a BMX bike upside-down and on its handles… What a boon it must have been when the management found this space, this odd basement storeroom they had never been told about, with a few odd signs to puzzle them (‘WAIT FOR RED LIGHT BEFORE OPERATING RADIO’ shouting out from the wall above a restorable dolls house) and heavy old doors to get open, but otherwise empty and waiting for their use.
Anything dating from its observation station days had been flung, as I could see after a quick look around behind the toys. There were other rooms down there, but which held nothing but a rusted tap and dry-bowled toilet. I stroked the mane of the horse, leaving it rocking as I closed the door I had opened, and then (with a guilty conscience) placed the front door drunken in its frame.
These rooms required no work. My days of bombing were over. Feeling my responsibility to Wareing and the Major complete, I turned, found the coast road north, and ran like lightning.
I tried to recall the day before, and at which hour we’d pressed the button? We had been among trees then, the weather had been different – I couldn’t tell if it was that time or later. After a while of running I had to slow down, my bones old before their time; but jogged again when I saw the ruined tower ahead. Old and cragged, as I met it it occurred to me that that building had lasted long enough without a roof. And there, a hundred yards out from that point, on a sea of dark-green glass, was a boat.
I waved as I ran onto the beach, a little light flashing above the boat’s cabin as it moved in toward me. I slowed, put my hands on my calves and felt the stitch. Soon I heard the engine as it pulled up to shore, a tannoy calling,
‘Please state your name and rank.’
‘Crofts, Private, was travelling with Wareing, on instructions from Major Trevellyan.’
But this was mere formality, the boat slowing in its approach and near enough to ditch the loudhailer. A human voice said,
‘We can’t get any closer, if you don’t mind getting your feet wet.’
I was already sploshing through the low tide, my boots sucking into the gloopy sand beneath. The boat looked like a river police launch, smaller and less showy than Kronkear’s. A hand was reached out to haul me onto the low deck at the rear, before we shook in more civilised fashion. A flask was opened, and coffee passed to me. Almost too hot to drink, I held its warmth close as I got my breath back.
‘We’d given up on you,’ said the senior officer of three. ‘We only stayed as the place was so obviously deserted. Glad you made it. We were told there’d be two of you?’
‘Wareing, he died.’
‘That is a shame. We’re sorry to hear that. Is his body..?’
‘Retrievable? No, he’s already been buried.’ I lied, not wanting to get those townspeople’s hopes up with a boat arriving already but with no aid. And anyway, I had a growing feeling that Wareing was where he would want to be. ‘It was a good burial, they’ve done well by him. There’ll be no need to go back.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, then we had better get going…’
‘Wait. This coast’s deserted, as you say. There’s no danger staying a little while longer. I need to write a letter, do you have a pen and paper?’
‘Yes, but you can write it on the way back.’
‘I’m not going back. I just need you to…’
‘Now hold on, our instruction was to return you to the Continent.’
‘Well, the situation has changed. Wareing’s gone, and there is one last thing I need to do. The mission we were sent on is completed, I just need you to tell the Major that, but trust me when I say I must remain.’
A junior officer (the third of the crew remaining in the cabin) appeared with a jotter pad and a Biro which I took up greedily, even as his superior eyed me warily; I saying to the Captain,
‘Now this letter is for the Major, but it’s open, and you and anyone who needs to should read it.’ Trying to remember all I would need to say, I wrote:
To Major Trevellyan, Mûr-de-Bretagne
From Private Crofts, East Coast of Britain
Dear Sir,
Mission complete, all targets either found to be harmless or neutralised. BBC relay station seemingly operational. Wareing killed by hostile gunfire at final target site, his killer himself immediately killed. He has had a good burial.
Final target town had suffered mob rule, now ended but town’s peaceable population requiring aid drop ASAP. Town has quay for medium sized vessel to dock, no hostility to our arrival expected. On docking ask for Patrick and Angela.
They also have information of a criminal gang, possibly Dutch, working along East Coast trading stolen –––– Agency aid, gun running and people smuggling. Bring Interpol representative with aid drop if possible.
I have decided to stay on in the UK, there is a lead I wish to follow up. I want to make myself useful while here, but if all goes well I should be back in touch with the authorities within the week, and am fit for redeployment. For the record, I gave this boat’s crew no choice in my declining to come back with them.
Please tell Wareing’s family that he performed his duties in an exemplary fashion and was a credit to the Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.
Thank you,
Pt. Crofts
I had no idea if Wareing had family, or if they were contactable after E-Day. The phrase ‘in an exemplary fashion…’ I had picked up from a letter that my commander in Afghanistan had written to the parents of a nineteen-year old who died in our regiment, and which was read at his memorial. I was also aware that in excusing myself of whatever might have been lined up for me on my return, I was giving the Major little choice in the matter.
‘You know the town I mean?’ I asked the men as they read the letter. ‘Just south of here?’ (They nodded.) ‘Please make sure the Major gets this, and your commander at your base.’
‘Private, are you sure?’
‘That people see this letter is more important than me returning right now.’ I gave the boat’s Captain no chance to argue. ‘Now, you also need to take this,’ I handed him the remaining explosives and charges, ‘and see it gets stored safely. I have no use for it. Now, do you have food for the journey back? I�
�ll need it for the walk.’
I had the contents of mine and Wareing’ bags out on the deck, I re-filling mine with only what I needed for the next few days. I took one map, the rest of the papers I entrusting to the Captain,
‘Now all of these,’ I said, stuffing them in Wareing’s pack, ‘need to get straight back to the Major, treated as secret.’
I still carried the air of self-proclaimed authority I had assumed since my announcements to the town the previous night, though I had no right to issue the crew duties in this manner. The interesting thing though was that they accepted those duties. Perhaps the cloak and dagger nature of mine and Wareing’s work, and of the Major’s instructions surrounding it – with neither these men or Captain Linkater told quite why they were to help us – gave them leeway in interpreting those instructions.
‘At least take this.’ The Captain gave me a new emergency transmitter. ‘The same rules, the same pick-up point.’ With a thermos and sandwiches handed me by the junior officer also stowed, I thanked them and saluted, before hopping over the rail, and splashing back to the beach.
I never used the second transmitter – I still have it, a memento, my little warning beacon, my assurance that if I’m ever in a fix then I can call someone to come and get me out of it. I don’t mean that practically of course, for its batteries must be dead by now; and it was only set up for that one beach that I’ve been nowhere near since. But still, a lucky rabbit’s foot for the radio age.
Making sure I was out of sight behind sand dunes, I threw my bag down and flopped on a grassy outcrop. The sun was fully up now: it was going to be a glorious day. After a while though I rose, knowing I needed a better bed. Walking to the tower, I found a family of foxes rooting around its base. They watched me warily, as I walked up some stone steps and found a shady space higher up, where I ate some sandwiches, drank half the coffee, and slept.
I knew as I hopped off the boat into the gentle surf that I was making my bed – in a different sense – but I was happy to lie in it. I remembered too, all to well, the walk that lay ahead of me, having strode the length of it the week before. My aching body creaked at the prospect of the same again; but knew that however bad it was that it was only four days, and then that would be that. A day before I thought I would be dead – now I had another chance.
I would be alone of course, no one to watch my back or lift me if I fell. And I had yet to grieve for Wareing, who I think of still. I am becoming reflective in my narrative, I notice; but that is fine, for we are nearly at the end, have nearly entered the future.
Chapter 32 – The Long Walk Back