Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  He wondered if he was meant to die in here, and told himself not to be stupid. People go to the Antarctic, and that must be much colder than this. Some of them die there, of course, like poor Captain Scott. But at least he reached the South Pole first, and he didn’t whinge about the cold — no Englishman would. His men probably trained in places like this. I’m lucky, really. I’ll be able to lead an Antarctic expedition when I get out!

  If I get out.

  To stop himself getting into a funk and thinking panicky thoughts like that he got up every ten minutes or so and walked around the floor of the ice-house. He tried to pretend he was on an Antarctic expedition and sometimes it worked. The floor of the ice-house was perfectly circular, and it was about six yards in circumference. It was quite dark in here, and the ice scrunched and slithered beneath his feet, but that was all right; it just helped him to pretend he was in the cold and dark of an Antarctic winter. Anyway, he knew what the ice-house was like; he had been in here before in daylight. The walls were made of brick and quite thick, and the whole thing was sunk several yards below the ground for insulation. That was why there were steps, winding down from the door, which was locked. Even to approach that door from outside you had to open another door first and go down a little cold tunnel. The roof was well insulated, too, and since the house was in a wood under trees which never let through any sunlight, it was very, very cold.

  Cold enough to keep ice in throughout the summer. Ice that was used to cool bottles of wine and champagne in buckets, or to pack around meat and fish which cook wanted to keep fresh for a few days before cooking.

  It was a luxury that only a few country houses had, and Tom knew his parents were quite proud of it. Sometimes they bought ice to fill it, from fishing trawlers which had been up to Iceland in midwinter; in other winters, when it was cold enough in Ulster anyway, they had it chopped out of the local ponds and water-butts and brought it up here in a cart.

  The ice-house was always supposed to be kept locked, but everyone knew the key to the outside door was kept under a slate near a yew tree, and the key to the inner door hung on a hook in the tunnel. Once, when Tom was younger, he had taken the first key, gone inside, locked the door from within, and then taken the second and opened that door too. It would have been all right if it had gone to plan — he had only meant to fool his mother. The trouble was that he had lost the key to the outside door under the ice somewhere, and nobody could hear his shouts. He had only escaped when he had found the key after nearly two hours, and then by a superhuman effort unlocked the door and staggered down across the lawn to the house, his legs almost rigid with cold.

  The memory of that day encouraged Tom and frightened him too. You can escape from this place, he thought. I did it before. Only then when I came in here to hide from mother, I had the key, and now I haven’t. That man Simon Fletcher has got it and he didn’t say when he was coming back. And if he doesn’t come back I will die of cold. People do. Scott did . . .

  No, Father will rescue me because I hid a secret message in my letter. That was very clever of me — just like Sherlock Holmes. When Father comes to let me out he’ll say I’m a plucky little chap, especially when he learns I didn’t cry. I’ll tell him I walked halfway to the South Pole while I was waiting.

  The only thing that troubled Tom about the message he had sent to his father, was that really it was the sort of message his mother was more likely to understand. And, knowing his father, he might not want to upset his mother by showing her what he had written.

  The best thing to do with thoughts like that is to ignore them, he told himself. Think about what Father would say. Chin up, old man. That’s the spirit. Never say die. Play up and play the game. Show the world what an Englishman is made of.

  Shivering, he dragged himself to his feet, and for the fiftieth time began to stumble around the floor of the ice-house, a tiny figure shrouded in blankets.

  South, towards the Pole.

  It was true that Charles had once crept through the lines of the Matabele but that was twelve years ago now. And even then he had had the services of a skilled African tracker who had led the way. This time he was on his own.

  When he left Deborah he went back to his own room and took off his riding boots. The leather would creak and they might shine in the moonlight, he thought. Instead he put on an old pair of marching boots and puttees, and then pulled a thick pair of grey socks over the boots to muffle the sound of the nails.

  The rest of his clothes would do, he thought. Khaki jacket and trousers would not show up in the dark, but he left off his officer’s cap with the gleaming brass badge and put on a long, dark, riding coat against the rain. He spun the chamber of his Webley service revolver to check that it was fully loaded, and slipped it into the holster on his Sam Browne belt, leaving the flap loose so that it would not get in his way if he had to draw it quickly.

  But a shot would make too much noise. If he really did come across any of Werner’s men then the last thing he would want to do was call down all the rest by firing a gun. A knife would be better. He glanced quickly around the room and took a knife from the wall. Hardly an ordinary knife: it was a kukri, one of a pair that he had bought from a Ghurka in India. The blade was nearly a foot long, curved, very heavy especially towards the point, and razor sharp — he had once seen a diminutive Ghurka soldier slice the head off a bull with one in a single blow. Smiling grimly, Charles buckled it on to his belt. A kukri is not supposed to be taken out of its sheath unless it draws blood, he thought. And if one of these bastards tries to stop me tonight there’ll be enough blood to float a ship.

  He stepped quietly down the back stairs to the kitchen door. This was some way from Werner’s room, so it should be all right, but still he moved slowly, cautiously, listening to every creak and groan of the floorboards. He had forgotten how deafening silence could seem when you were listening for every sound — he could even hear the singing of blood in his ears.

  Outside, darkness enveloped him. He moved quickly through the yard towards the stables, and then past the walled kitchen garden behind. So far, so good. None of the horses had whinnied, his boots had not sparked on the cobbles. This far he knew the way without thinking, so he had moved quickly; from here on he would have to go more slowly, with care.

  He waited under a tree, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. There were two obvious ways to the village: either down the drive at the front of the house, or along a cart track that ran from the stables at the back, west and north around the outskirts of the estate, eventually going past a small wooded rise and down onto the loughside road a mile further on than the drive. It would be foolish to take either of these; if there was any truth in Werner’s claim, then both would be guarded.

  There were three other routes. He could go straight across the park and down to the road that way: it would be quick, and quite easy if the darkness held, because there would be nothing in the way but a few hedges, grass and cows; but if the moon came out he would stand out clearly, an obvious target. He could go west, away from the house in the opposite direction to the village. There were quite a lot of hedges and small hills here, good cover; but he would have to make a long loop round to his right after he had crossed the track, four or five miles across country in order to return to the village from the north, and that would take time.

  And time was what he did not have. To be sure of taking Werner by surprise he wanted to give his orders to Sergeant Cullen and be back in the shortest time possible, so that Werner would have the least chance of realising he had gone. The less Werner suspected, the safer it would be for Tom. So he had to go quickly.

  He decided on the third route: north through the mile and a half of woods and coppices that led directly to the junction of track and road, half a mile outside the village. The woods were thick in places, but he knew them well. And, when he approached the road, the trees would give him good cover to look out and see if anyone was watching.

  When his eyes ha
d adapted well enough to distinguish the trunks of trees ten or fifteen yards away, he set out.

  Inside the woods the darkness increased. He was surrounded by the dank dripping sound of water falling from leaves. The rain had almost ceased, but water was still making its way from the trees to the ground. The sound, Charles thought, would deaden any noise his feet might make on the damp turf and leafmould underfoot. His greatest care must be to avoid stepping too sharply on a rotten stick or crashing into a bush.

  There were paths through the woods. He thought he knew them well. He had come in here once or twice with Tom only a few weeks ago, in the Easter holidays. He remembered how shocked the boy had been when they had come upon a line of vermin strung up on a fence by Charles’s gamekeeper — half a dozen rotting crows, a sparrowhawk, a weasel, and two magpies, all hanging in various stages of decomposition from a branch not far from the pheasant runs. It was disgusting, Charles had agreed, but they were there to deter others. Vermin had to be killed, to make the woods safe for pheasants and songbirds.

  And for children, Charles thought. He wasn’t sure what the legal penalty was for blackmailing parents by kidnapping little boys, but it ought to be death. If I saw that Werner strung up on a line rotting like a crow I wouldn’t care, so long as Tom was safe.

  And would Simon hang, too? Now, as he pushed his way slowly through the dark dripping trees, the enormity of what had happened came over Charles and he began to weep. He could not remember weeping ever in his life before, but that must be what it was. There was a pain in his chest and his breath came harshly and he thought: I did this to my own son. It is because I trusted that boy Simon and gave way to my passion with him and with Werner, when I knew it was wrong, that all this has happened. If I had restrained myself, as I ought to have done, then no one would have dared to blackmail me with the life of my only son.

  Sweet Christ forgive me! Just a day ago Tom thought I was a hero. If I get this wrong now, they will kill him. And even if they don’t, one of those devils will probably tell him his father has done something he could never, ever understand.

  He stopped for a moment in a glade, and for the first time noticed a sound like a man in pain. Abruptly he held his breath. The noise stopped at once, and he realised with shame it was the sound of his own sobbing. If I make a noise like that because I can’t control my own emotions I deserve to be caught. For God’s sake, man, get a grip!

  Softly, he moved out of the glade along a dark grassy path which led to the pheasant runs. The moon had come out, and a pale silver light began to filter down between the trees. Ahead of him he could make out a row of low wooden hutches where the keeper kept his pheasant poults. Two hundred yards beyond that, down a slight slope, would be the road. In ten minutes at most I should have made it, he thought. And then, if there’s no one on the road itself, in five minutes more . . .

  ‘Halt! Stand there, please — still!’

  The voice spun him round as though he had touched an electric battery. Who was it? Where? It came from the left, just ahead and to the side of the hutches — yes! Six or seven yards away under the trees, the figure of a man.

  His first instinct was to run, but even as he took the first step he saw the figure had a rifle. And the voice said: ‘Halt there! Still, or I shoot!’

  Charles stopped, five yards from the man, thinking: It’s no good to run. Even if I get away they’ll know I’ve gone now and that may mean death for Tom. The only thing is to stop this man now, quietly, so that no one knows what’s happened.

  Silently, as he stood in the semi-darkness, he slipped his hand under the long riding coat and slid the kukri from its sheath . . .

  ‘It sounds silly, but I was terribly frightened then,’ Deborah said. ‘He was so little, and he could easily have died, simply frozen to death in there. I mightn’t have gone there for days. I made a rule he shouldn’t ever go in a place like that again. I called it never find.’

  ‘Never find?’ Sarah stood beside Deborah, gently stroking her shoulders and back. She was only half listening to the words, more to the tone of them — the compulsive, terrified hysteria that made Deborah go on and on, talking about a problem neither of them could solve or forget.

  ‘Yes. Like some medieval dungeon, you know. The ice-house and places like that were out of bounds for hide-and-seek because you might never be found there, you know. Anyway, we hardly ever played hide-and-seek after that. Sarah, why am I telling you all this?’

  ‘Why? Because it was the last time you lost him, I suppose. And now this, which is much worse. Listen, Debbie,’ Sarah stopped rubbing Deborah’s neck, and sat down on a stool in front of her. She held Deborah’s hands and stared quietly into her eyes. ‘Charles knows the countryside round here quite well, doesn’t he? So if he thinks he can get into the village he probably can. And once he’s got his UVF soldiers to round these kidnappers up, there won’t be any point in their holding on to Tom, will there? No one makes war on small boys.’

  ‘Don’t they? What if only one of them knows where he is, and that one gets shot or runs away? We’d never find him!’

  Deborah’s eyes looked haunted in the candlelight. I have never seen her upset like this, Sarah thought. She’s obsessed by the horror of it all, as I was when I found out about Jonathan . . .

  Forget that! Don’t think of that now, it’s all past.

  As comfortingly as she could, she said: ‘Charles is a soldier. He knows what he’s doing, Debbie.’

  Deborah said: ‘Never find . . .’

  ‘What?’ She’ll lose control completely if I can’t reach her, Sarah thought. ‘Of course we’ll find him, we’ve got nearly twenty-four hours yet . . .’

  But Deborah wasn’t listening. Frantically, she took her hands away from Sarah’s and scrabbled on the chair, on the fireside table, in the pocket of her nightgown. Looking for something.

  ‘Here!’ She took out Tom’s crumpled note. ‘Don’t you see? Look, there!’ She pointed to some words at the end of a line. ‘Never find!’

  Sarah read the note again.

  Father,

  These men have caught me and shut me in where you can never find. Please do what they say or they will kill me. I am sorry.

  Tom.

  ‘What do you mean, Debbie?’

  ‘It’s not proper English, is it? If you or I were writing that sentence we’d say, ‘where you can never find me’, wouldn’t we? And Tom’s bright, he doesn’t make mistakes like that. He’s done it on purpose.’

  ‘Debbie, you’re imagining things. He was probably just frightened and confused and left a word out, that’s all. Anyway what could it possibly tell you?’

  ‘That . . .’ Deborah got up abruptly and paced across the room. ‘I know it sounds crazy, Sarah, and you’ll think I’m making it up, but I don’t think Tom’s far away at all. I think they’ve brought him here and shut him up in the ice-house!’

  ‘But why would they do that?’

  ‘Because . . . it’s near and it’s easy and it’s very secure and no one would think to look there, perhaps. I don’t know. I’m just telling you that’s what those words mean, to Tom and me. It’s not a mistake, it can’t be. He and I used those words hundreds of times — they’re a sort of family joke.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Charles recognise them?’

  ‘I don’t know — no, probably not. He was away in India at the time, so it wouldn’t mean so much. Sarah, he’s there. I know it.’

  Sarah stared at her, bemused. ‘It’s a possibility, I suppose, but — what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘We could wait for Charles, tell him when he comes back.’

  ‘Will he believe you?’

  ‘Probably not.’ Deborah shook her head frantically. ‘Oh Sarah, I know it sounds crazy but I know he’s in there! And we can’t just leave him. Even if they don’t kill him, he’ll freeze to death!’

  ‘All right. Let’s go there and let him out.’

  ‘What? Just you and me?’

  ‘Yes.�
�� Sarah smiled. ‘You and a few other ladies got me out of Holloway, didn’t you? This should be a lot easier than that!’

  Charles stood quite still, waiting. He could see the silhouette of the man in front of him, five yards away under the trees, shadowy in the moonlight. He could distinguish the shape of the rifle, but not the face; just a pale grey blue under a cap. If the moon goes in, he thought, I won’t see even that.

  And he won’t see me.

  Charles felt the weight of the kukri in his right hand, under his coat. Heavy, perhaps one and a half pounds in weight, solid, razor sharp. A single blow from it would sever the man’s arm or neck, leave him stretched, twitching on the ground, pulsing his life’s blood into the leafmould. It would be a terrible thing to do — but for my son, he thought, I will if I have to.

  The man was still five yards away, just out of reach. Deliberately, Charles took a step forward.

  ‘Halt,’ the man said. ‘Stand still there.’

  Charles realized he still did not know definitely who the man was. Certainly the accent was not local, probably foreign, but before killing a man one ought to be sure. If he was just a poacher and I sliced his head off . . .

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘To talk not. Back to house. Verstehen?’

  Oh yes, I verstehen all right, Charles thought. Just come a little closer and you’ll see. ‘Which house d’you mean, old chap? I went out for a midnight stroll and got lost, don’t you know?’

  He took another step forward.

  ‘Halt! Stand there!’

  The man took half a pace backwards to keep his distance, into the low overhanging brush of the surrounding trees. Charles thought, I can move forward faster than him, but one false move and I’ve had it. The gun barrel was pointing straight at his chest, and the man’s voice sounded distinctly nervous, uncertain what to do next.