Troubled Midnight

by John Gardner

  “You okay, Suzie?” he leaned over her and she moved experimentally, feeling bruised around her back and shoulders. “You okay?” He asked again.

  “You get the license number of the truck?” It was a line she remembered from a Laurel and Hardy film. Curry gave a little half laugh, unconvinced.

  “What happened,” she asked. “Where are the others?”

  “We got shot at.”

  “Where am I…?”

  “In the GPR officers’ mess ante-room.”

  “Where’m I hit?”

  “You’re not.”

  “But something knocked me flying. I heard the crack and thump and…”

  “You know about crack and thump?”

  “Yes. Why? Is it a secret from women? Where’m I hit?”

  “Haven’t met a girl who knows about crack and thump before.”

  “You have now. One of the many mysteries Tommy unveiled for me. Where’m I hit?”

  “You’re not.”

  “Something knocked me to the ground. Of course I was hit.”

  “No. That was me. I wanted you to get down: avoid the bullets. Whoever was doing the shooting was trying to remove us – you and me, Suzie. Nobody else. We were the targets.”

  “Crumbs.”

  “Crumbs indeed.”

  “So I’m not wounded?”

  “No. Probably bruised a bit. I leaped on you from behind.”

  “Chance would be a fine thing,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “I said it must have been a near thing.”

  “It was. He fired four shots. The last one put out the jeep’s engine.”

  “Lucky you didn’t bring your car over then. Where is everybody?”

  “The shots were fired from half way up the meadow opposite. Everybody’s gone to get the would-be assassin. Every officer here and Tommy with his people. I reckon the sergeant instructors as well, and a posse of RAF Regiment. Armed to the teeth.”

  She tested her back again, wiggling her shoulders against the leather, shifting slightly. “I think you’re right,” she looked up and wiggled some more. “No, I don’t think I am wounded.” Wiggling as far as she could move back. He looked terrific, bending over her, his hands on either side of her shoulders. He doesn’t half look jolly good, she thought. Toyed with the idea of giving yet another wiggle of encouragement, decided against it.

  She felt warmish under her clothes, shifting her thighs gently, rubbing them together a little, hardly moving.

  You want to kiss me, she thought. Then, aloud he asked if she was sure she was okay.

  “I’m okay.” She pulled herself into a sitting position and thought, well that’s that. All over now. He’s out of reach. Gone and never called me mother.

  “Want a drink?” Curry asked. The mess orderly came over with the silver tray and the little glass with the amber liquid. “Drop of brandy? How about that? Drop of brandy’ll do you the world of good.”

  Curry took the glass, leaned over again and held it to her lips. Her mouth, then her throat filled with fire and she spluttered.

  “Sorry,” he grinned. “Probably not used to brandy.”

  “I’m very used to brandy,” a challenging flair in her eyes. “When I was little some stupid nun made me help carry chairs over the Lax pitch to the Pav in the freezing cold. Said it’d do me the world of good, brace me up. I got home that evening with chilblains, fingers swollen and red raw, me shivering. Daddy gave me some brandy. Just a sip but I never forgot it. Warmed me up a treat.” Those wonderful days of safety. Peter Pan had the right idea.

  She took another swallow, felt the fire course down her oesophagus and explode in her stomach, making her feel much better so she sat up, struggled out of her burgundy coat and handed it to the mess orderly who sprang forward to help her but Curry beat him to it and passed the coat on to him. She was sitting properly now, feet on the floor, skirt adjusted and everything.

  “We could make our getaway,” she tried.

  “Yes we could, but I rather think they’ll want to ask questions. At least Tommy will.” He frowned as though remembering something important. “Funny, I was with Tommy when we first learned about crack and thump. School. The army came over to give the Corps a day’s training. We had to dig a slit trench then stand in it in pairs while they fired over our heads. I was with another boy called Osteritter: Bugs we called him because he was an amateur lepidopterist or some such, Bugs Osteritter. That was quite a thrill, having live rounds fired over our heads. Different when it’s for real of course.”

  “I know, we’ve just had it done.”

  “Lax?” he said, going back a snake. “You used to play Lacrosse, didn’t you? That’s what Lax is, right?”

  “A very dangerous game, but the nuns said it was character building.”

  “The nuns played?”

  “No, we had a Games Mistress, Miss Druit. Used to hang around the showers and changing rooms, flicked our bottoms with a wet towel when we misbehaved. Sometimes when we didn’t. A real sadist that woman. Miss Monica Druit.”

  “And the showers and changing rooms were in the Pav, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Just wanted to get the lingo straight. Like to be able to follow you.” He grinned to show he was having a bit of a joke.

  She swigged down the last drop of brandy and was relieved that her throat seemed to have become accustomed to the spirit: cauterised it she presumed. “Who’d want to shoot at us, Curry?”

  “That’s the big question; don’t really know the answer. Got an idea, but not quite certain.”

  “It was just us? Nobody shot at Tommy?”

  “Just us. No doubt about that. Tommy was almost at the mess door. There’s no justice anywhere, Suzie. Neither a jot nor tittle.”

  “Narrows things down though, doesn’t it?”

  “You mean it possibly puts Colonel Weaving’s killer here, with the regiment?”

  “That’s what I was getting at.”

  “Unless the weapon was from outside the aerodrome. But on the whole it probably narrows the field. Why us though?” He shook his head and twisted away, standing up as they heard voices coming into the mess entrance hall. There were people outside, Suzie glimpsed them through the big windows and they began to come into the ante room: Major Hutt with Tommy, followed by Bomber Puxley and Wilson Sharp with the remainder of Tommy’s crew bringing up the rear.

  Curry immediately asked if they’d had any luck.

  “Found where the blighter was lying: in that little stand of trees, half way up.” Tommy’s face was red and his breathing irregular. Making you run for your money, Suzie thought and had a picture in her head of Tommy stripped to gym shorts and vest, wearing white gym shoes, doubling around a field being shouted at by a fiery little PTI, all bounce and swearing.

  “What was he shooting at us with? A Bazooka?” Bazooka was a new word to Suzie. She had read about the Americans having an anti-tank weapon called a Bazooka, but hadn’t a clue what it was.

  “I’ve got Ron digging the bullets out of the mess wall. Then we’ll know. Bazooka would’ve done for you.” Tommy actually looked at her as he spoke. “You alright?”

  Oh, he still cares, she thought. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Whoever it was he was a careful bugger. Cleaned up after himself. Took all the cartridge cases with him. Picked them up.”

  At that moment Shed Hutt came up, rubbing his hands together in that swift concentrated manner some men use to cloak nerves when addressing a woman. “Well, well, how’s the little lady then?” Big smile all teeth and tonsils.

  “I am not a little lady,” she began, a healthy dollop of rancour sliding into the way she spoke, causing Major Hutt to take a couple of steps back. “I’m sorry, sir,” she added, “But I’m a trained and tested police officer and I don’t like being addressed as a ‘little lady’.”

  “Sorry, I’m sure,” Hutt took another step back. “Only anxious for you. How you’re bearing up, tha
t sort of thing. After all, you nearly caught a packet, almost bought it.”

  “Thank you, but shouldn’t we get on? Pin down who was shooting at us.” Pause, count of four, “and why?”

  “Some idiot with a gun having some fun, my guess,” Tommy joined in, swaying back on his heels. “Not a good shot after all. Think it was an impulse: out potting rabbits and saw some people moving below him, thought he’d have some fun.”

  Tommy had raised his voice. Wants everyone to hear him, Suzie imagined, wise in the ways of Tommy Livermore. Shed Hutt drifted off towards the bar.

  “You’re not really asking us to believe rubbish like that, Tommy?” Curry moved in quite close. From where Suzie sat it looked almost threatening.

  “Of course not young Shepherd,” all but whispered. “But we should try and keep these brown jobs happy.”

  Curry turned towards Suzie. “I’ll go and get the car and we can start making tracks for London.”

  “You leaving us, then?” Tommy sounded happy about the prospect.

  “Only temporarily. Back before you know it.”

  “Need to talk to you both, privately before you go. Right?” Tommy smiled as if to cover the seriousness of what he was saying.

  Nearby, Bomber Puxley had overheard them, “Not leaving without something to eat, I trust. Small mess this, but we do ourselves proud.” He bent down and laid a forefinger alongside his nose, “Pinched the best cook on the ’drome.” Grin, two-three, eyebrows up, two-three, relax.

  “A little something eggy on a tray’ll do for me.” Suzie made sheep’s eyes in Curry’s direction and he was just turning away when there was another bustle in the hall, the ante-room door opened and a dazzling figure appeared.

  He was around six foot two or three inches tall, broad and muscular in the shoulders slimming towards the waist, immaculate in a tailor-made battledress with two or three ribbons over his left breast pocket, above them the Army wings, plus the parachute wings on his right sleeve, Airborne flashes high below his shoulders. On his epaulettes were a crown and pip, signifying Lieutenant Colonel. He had the face of a gentleman farmer, ruddy cheeks and clear eyes while his head was thatched with a beautifully maintained, crisply cut, crop of corn-coloured hair.

  When he spoke it was with the voice of the old sea captain Billy Bones out of Treasure Island, combined with the Angel of Death, both of them Eton and Cambridge.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. “Here I am at last.”

  “Good grief,” Shed Hutt gasped. “Barty Belcher in the flesh.”

  “And with a bump-up, young Shed; bump-up to half Colonel and your CO to boot. Your new CO, come to take over from the late lamented Timsy Weaving.” Big smile flashed all around the room, taking in every last one of them. Then, “I spy strangers,” looking at Tommy hard.

  “Bart Belcher,” Tommy said. “Long time no see, Bart.”

  “Hon Tom, eh? Not seen since we all got kaylied, last day of school.” He fixed Tommy with a pursed smile, stern and as though he knew something about the Detective Chief Superintendent that nobody else knew. “You investigating the demise of the former Commanding Officer of this shower, or just on a social jaunt?”

  “Here on business, Bart,” cosy and on good terms with Belcher. “Do you speak true? Are you the new CO of the Heavy Glider Conversion Unit?”

  “Very much so,” he saw Curry and the smile momentarily froze on his lips. “Joined the cops have you, young Shepherd? I heard you were dead.”

  “Gross exaggeration, Bart. Out of proportion when put against the facts.”

  “Glad to hear it. Where’s my adjutant?” looking towards the door.

  “Here, sir.” A second officer appeared, a captain, spruce, bandbox smart with all the same badges and brevets as those worn by the Colonel.

  “Captain Carter,” Belcher introduced him. “Leslie Carter. Thought it best to bring my own man, because all you chaps are going to be pretty busy. Now, listen, this is an order I’m taking all officers to London tomorrow: meeting at COSSAC. Talked to them today and they tell me they can use all the brains I can bring up. You can come back here when we’re finished in London, make ready for going on Christmas leave, right? And you’d better make the most of it because I’ve a feeling you’re not going to get much leave in 1944.” Thin smile all round: quick, off and on. “Shed?” He called, a little loud.

  “Sir?”

  “Immediately you’re back from leave you’ll give me a quick course on the Horsa – me and Les Carter, both.”

  “Piece of cake, sir.”

  Nobody seemed to know Captain Carter and Curry whispered to Suzie, “Grammar school, I’d guess, wouldn’t you?”

  Then, before they knew it, Tommy was between them, arms outstretched resting on their shoulders and propelling them to a quiet corner away from the knot of officers gathered around their new CO who was buying drinks at the bar.

  “You know something I don’t, Shepherd?” he began.

  “Such as?” Curry had dropped his smile, all grave and serious now.

  “Such as why anyone here might want to do away with you, and Suzie here? She’s of special interest to me as you probably know by now. Has been for the past three years.”

  Curry nodded. Waited for more.

  “Someone tried to chop you two,” Tommy continued. “And for what it’s worth I think it was the same person who killed Tim Weaving. The same persons, I should say because there are at least two of them.”

  “Who went off with you in search of the sniper, Tom? From among the officers here?”

  “The whole bloody lot, Curry. All three of the buggers, led by Shed Hutt. Some of his sergeant instructors were around as well. Didn’t see how many, but I did see that affected bloody Sergeant Major join them, coming down the hedgerow on the far left, carrying a rifle. All of them were armed to the teeth. Damned Commandos and Airborne they’re like private armies, got weapons from everywhere, British, French, German, American. You expect them to appear with stuff nobody’s seen since 1911.” He drew a quick deep breath, “and watch Belcher, their new Commanding Officer, rogue elephant that’s what he is, always was. Known him since the year dot. Don’t trust him. He’s a vain braggart. Know what he did when he got his MC? Telephoned the News of the bloody World, that’s what he did. Fella doesn’t get much lower than that.”

  Curry gave a curt nod. “We’ll go and get my car then, Tom. Got an appointment in London.” He hadn’t seen Colonel Belcher come up behind him.

  “Can’t go yet,” boomed Belcher. “You’re guests here, got to show you a bit of regimental hospitality, what. They tell me the catering’s reasonable here, and…”

  “We really should be getting away, sir,” Shepherd very firm and earnest.

  “You know best, young Shepherd,” reluctant and a shade put out. “I provide anything for you? Transport? How you off for transport?”

  “A lift over to the sergeants’ mess might help, sir.”

  “Drink? Have a drink before you leave? How about you young woman?”

  Suzie declined with a matching show of firmness, so, finally an RAF driver ferried them back to the sergeants’ mess where Curry’s dull green Vauxhall Ten stood, lonely in the large parking area to the side of the wood and block building.

  Thanking the driver they watched him turn the jeep around and head back towards the officers’ mess.

  “Is this so terribly important, me meeting Elsie?” Suzie asked.

  “Not really, but it’s important we get ahead. You’ve worked and played with Tommy Livermore. What’ll he do next? In your opinion what’ll he do?”

  “Well, to his mind he’s made one pass through the family: the regiment, people Weaving was working with. He’ll see the real father and mother, and the sister, but not yet. He’ll go for the other girls next. Julia Richardson, the fiancée, and, what was the other one, Anne Fooks?”

  “Ann Tooks. Yes. More or less what I thought, and that’s important. We should see them first, before Dandy Tom gets
at them.”

  “Game’s afoot, Watson, eh?”

  “A foot, a yard, a couple of miles. Let’s go.”

  They took two steps towards Curry’s car when it erupted in a ball of flame, a deep, throaty explosion that seemed to come from somewhere near the engine, a deep single horrible amplified drum stroke, then the blast blowing towards them like a cyclone, hot and full of deadly shrapnel.

  For the second time that day, Curry threw himself on top of Suzie, pushing her onto the ground.

  As she rolled and climbed onto her feet again, breath knocked out of her, trembling with shock, Suzie gave a little strangled cry. “Oh bugger,” she intoned. “Bloody nylons.”

  Chapter Eleven

  SUZIE WAS STILL trembling when they got her back to the officers’ mess, her legs wobbly and unable, for a time, to take her weight, let her stand or walk. Curry just looked pale: both of them aware they’d been quite near death – “Another five paces and you’d have bought it,” Tommy said – and their hands shook trying to hold the big enamel mugs of tea. Suzie, with a wan smile, said that another two steps and she’d have needed ODO-RO-NO – a deodorant much in demand.

  Finally she stood up from the big sofa in the ante-room, then sat down again quickly, feeling she didn’t exist, that inside she’d been excised, as though all the muscle in her body had been sucked out by the explosion, her bones fragmented and her mind expunged. She had been all but eliminated and, for a moment only, knew it was as though she’d never been born.

  Colonel Bart Belcher came in as they were lifting the mugs in two-handed grips, gingerly getting them up to their lips, swallowing and gasping, burning their mouths.

  “Strong, hot and sweet?” he enquired of the mess waiter who had, on Shed Hutt’s orders, brought the tea.

  The mess waiter told him, yes, and the colonel said, “Best thing for shock, strong tea with plenty of sugar.” While he was speaking a RAF doctor, squadron leader, came bouncing in, saw the colonel’s insignia, bounced out again, deposited his greatcoat then came in for the second time and asked the colonel’s permission to look at the patients.