by Tim Vicary
Any moment now.
‘Hilfe! Hier! Adolf! Schnell!’ The man turned his head and yelled loud over his shoulder, into the night. At the same moment the moon went in, and he almost disappeared in the sudden blackness all around him. Charles ducked and stepped forward, swinging at the rifle barrel with his left arm to lift it up and away, harmlessly over his head. At the same time he drew out the kukri in his right hand and, as he felt the rifle barrel slide away, raised himself to his full height and swung the kukri down and forwards with all his strength into the darkness where the man had been.
He felt a jar all along his arm and a crack as though the kukri had sheered right through something.
But it was too high! It was not in the right place for an arm and there was not the soft, sticky blood smell or a scream. Instead there was a curse, not where the knife had struck but a little further away, and a shadow moving under the trees. God damn it to hell, Charles thought, I hit the branch of a tree not the man. He lifted the kukri again and stepped forward but another branch whipped him in the face and before he could focus on the shifting indistinct shape in front of him there was a sudden red flash and a blinding roar and . . .
‘There’s a man there!’
‘Where?’
‘Sssssh! Look!’ Deborah reached out and touched Sarah’s arm, pointing down between the trees. They were on a little hill about half a mile west of the house, with large well-grown cedars and beeches stretching high above their heads. Immediately in front of them and below them was a thick bank of rhododendron bushes, which Deborah hoped would screen them from view. The ice-house was just below them to the right, screened by the rhododendron bushes and a number of other shrubs. As the moon peeped from behind a cloud, she had seen the shape of the man.
Sarah peered along the line of Deborah’s arm, but it was hard to see what she was pointing at. It was very dark, and a thin, drizzling rain was still falling. The brief flash of moonlight filtered through a confusion of trees and branches which were unfamiliar to her; she was not even sure she could distinguish the ice-house.
She was beginning to regret her impulsive suggestion that the two of them should come out here. They had no clear plan, other than to look for the key, unlock the door, and see if Tom was inside. Despite Deborah’s certainty about the words in the letter, Sarah thought the chances of finding Tom were highly unlikely. She had only suggested they come in order to humour her sister and help her break out of the self-destructive weeping and panic which had begun to engulf her. At least it was action, and Sarah was in favour of that. It might lead to something, and if not, at least they would know they had tried.
The moonlight faded, then returned. Sarah peered harder in the direction Deborah had pointed. There was a low building there — she could see part of its roof between the rhododendrons, wet slates glistening silver. And something else, about ten yards to the right of the building. Was that a man, standing very still and dark beside a leaf-covered path, or had Deborah imagined it? It might be only a tree stump, or a small fir tree, perhaps?
Fir trees don’t move.
The figure turned, took several paces idly along the path, as though going nowhere in particular, then came back. She thought she could make out the coat now, and a peaked cap like that of an officer.
‘It is a man!’ she hissed fervently. ‘You’re right, Debbie — standing guard outside the ice-house!’ Sarah was impressed. Perhaps Deborah’s intuition had been right after all.
‘What did I tell you? Tom’s got to be in there!’
‘Well, what’re we going to do now?’
‘Sssssh! He’s looking this way!’
‘Oh my God, so he is.’
The two women froze. At least we had the sense to put on dark coats and hats, Sarah thought. Surely he can’t see us? If he has, we can’t possibly fight him. I only just managed to make it up this hill. Maybe it’s my gasping for breath that’s given us away.
Deborah was almost certain who the man was. He was slim and he had that officer’s cap on — certainly he wasn’t a poacher, and she couldn’t believe any German spies would dress like that. Anyway, surely their caps were different? So it must be Simon Fletcher, and that proves everything. He has a stick in his hand too, or is it a rifle?
As the young man looked up, and then began to climb the slope cautiously towards them, Deborah thought, if it is him I can’t run, that would be deserting Tom. Maybe I can find a fallen branch somewhere to hit him with, or I’ll walk straight up to him and jab my fingernails in his eyes . . .
She had never fought anyone since she was a child, and she had little idea what to do. But no one had threatened her son before, and that made everything different. She thought: everything’s possible if you have the courage. The main thing is to attack . . .
The dank silence under the trees was shattered suddenly by a scream far away in the woods to their left, and a shot immediately afterwards. The two women froze and the woods around them echoed with the sound. Then there was another scream, high-pitched, distant like the first. This time Deborah thought she could make out some of the words.
`Hilfe! Hier! Adolf! Schnell!’
It was about a mile away, in the woods by the road where the pheasant runs were. My God, she thought, it’s Charles!
On the slope in front of them the dark figure of the young man stood quite still, staring to his right where the sound had come from. He seemed to hesitate for a while, and Deborah thought, if I were a man I would attack him now. While he’s still not sure we’re here, while he’s not thinking about us. But I’m not: he’s too far away and I still haven’t found a stick.
Then the young man made up his mind. He turned abruptly and walked away from them, back past the ice-house and out of sight. For a couple of minutes Deborah listened, in the oppressive silence that seemed to have descended around them even closer than before, like a damp dark blanket. She thought she heard occasional footsteps going away, down the slope and through the trees towards the house. If he was going into the house then surely there would be the scrunch of gravel . . .
There! Wasn’t that it?
She had to take the risk. ‘Come on!’ she whispered to Sarah. ‘I’m sure he’s gone. We’ve got to try the door!’
Simon was good at waiting, but only when he saw the point of it. If there was a man to be killed — tipped from the passenger deck of a ship into the grey midnight sea or incinerated in his own mistress’s house — then Simon could wait for hours, immobile, waiting for precisely the right moment and thinking only of the task in hand. Then he would strike, swift and silent as a snake, and be gone. The waiting was part of the joy of successful revenge.
But tonight was different. He had not chosen to wait outside the ice-house, and he saw no point in it. The boy was shut in behind two locked doors. He could not escape, and no one would come to rescue him because no one knew where he was. Simon wanted to be in the house. He wanted to see the expression on Charles’s face when he learned what had happened. He wanted to see the knowledge seep in, like poison, that this was Charles’s punishment for having rejected Simon’s love. It was what happened to all men whom Simon met, in the end. And he wanted to see Charles’s face when he realised that his son, whom he said he loved above anything, was a hostage in Simon’s hands; and that, because of this, he was going to have to betray every principle he had ever held dear.
It was a more subtle, crueller revenge than any he had devised before. That was why he had proposed it — that, and the large pension from the German treasury that Werner had promised him, if the plan succeeded. But all his pleasure would be wasted, if he was not allowed to witness the effect on Charles . . .
Werner had insisted Simon stayed by the ice-house, partly to guard Tom, partly to ensure that no one left the house to give a warning, and partly, so he said, because he felt that the sight of Simon might so enrage Charles that he would be unamenable to reason.
None of these reasons impressed Simon, but in the end he had give
n way. Now, alone in the dank night, he wished he had not. He had considered going in to young Tom and favouring him with a detailed account of exactly what his heroic father did for sexual gratification; but the pleasure in that, also, would be small if he were not able to witness the meeting later between father and son. It had also occurred to Simon, later in the night, that Werner’s plans excluded him from the trip to Craigavon the next day. One of Werner’s men was to drive the car; he, Simon, was to stay here. The more Simon thought about that, the more foolish he thought it was. He knew the roads and the car better than any German sailor; and any suspicious sentries they met would recognise him as Charles’s ADC. And, most important from Simon’s point of view, he would be there to watch Charles squirm as he carried out Werner’s orders.
All these thoughts were going through Simon’s head when he heard a sound in the woods above him. At first he thought it might be a fox or a badger rustling through the leaves — he had heard several already that night. Then a stick cracked and there was a sound that might have been whispering; though it was hard to tell, with the rain and the wind through the leaves. But if it was someone, trying to move through the trees into the back lane and on into town, then he had been placed here to stop that.
He climbed hesitantly up the slope. He was not an experienced soldier or used to fighting in the normal sense. He had his rifle, the Mannlicher which had been smuggled in from Germany, with the long bayonet hanging from his belt, but he was not fool enough to think he was expert in using it yet. Still, it would at least do to make a noise and summon help.
He was still hesitating when the scream and the shot came.
The sounds terrified Simon. He was alone here and one of the voices sounded like a German calling for help. Perhaps Werner had got it wrong — perhaps Charles had somehow got out a message asking for help and there were UVF soldiers all around him now in the woods! Or perhaps Charles had been shot and was dying.
Either way, Simon could not bear to stay alone here any more under the dark dripping trees. If Charles was dying or had to be killed then he, Simon, wanted to be in on it. And if he was not and the whole operation had gone wrong then he wanted to know, so that he could make his escape.
Quickly, not caring how much noise he made, Simon ran down the slope and across the wide lawns towards the gravel drive and the dark, looming shape of the house.
‘It’s not here!’
Deborah felt frantically with her hands under the slate by the old yew tree near the ice-house. There was no key! Not under the slate, not on the grass or the roots nearby. She searched quickly, carefully, kneeling on the damp muddy ground as she patted with her hands everywhere, but it was not there.
‘Are you sure this is the right place?’
‘Of course I’m sure! It’s always here. That’s where it’s kept!’
‘Then that man’s got it!’
‘Yes. Simon, the devil!’
Deborah got to her feet and ran back to the outer door of the ice-house, banging with her fists against the old, mossy wood. She called in a low, anxious voice, ‘Tommy! Tom! Are you in there?’
They both listened carefully but there was no answer. She banged and called again but the result was the same. ‘I could scream louder,’ she muttered. ‘But it wouldn’t help and someone might hear. We’ve got to get this door open!’
‘Yes, all right, but how? We need some sort of tools, at least.’
Sarah felt the edges of the door in the darkness. In places bits of old rotten wood could be peeled off but there seemed to be plenty more solid stuff underneath. She could get her fingers into the gap between the lock and door jam but that was no use; nothing moved when she pulled.
‘Perhaps if we could get a bar or a spade in there and lean against it — that might lever it open. But where could we find something like that?’
‘I don’t know!’ Deborah was nearly weeping with frustration. Her son was in here, she was quite sure of it. But if she couldn’t get this door open soon that monster Simon Fletcher would come back; and apart from that, the shot might mean Charles had been killed, for all she knew. Charles, the stupid arrogant fool, prattling on about being true to his conscience and his duty — why isn’t he here!
‘In the Middle Ages they used to smash doors in with battering rams.’
‘What? Don’t be silly, Sarah — where would we find a thing like that?’
‘A big log, perhaps, or a stone. There must be something, somewhere.’
‘All right, let’s look.’
At first it was impossible. There were trees all around but no logs; for the first time in her life Deborah cursed her garden staff for being too efficient. Only little stumps and twigs and masses of useless bushes and leaf mould. They searched around on all sides of the ice-house but they could hardly see. Time was passing, Deborah realised; soon someone would come up from the house and then all her efforts would have been wasted. Her son might be killed because now she knew where he was and who had kidnapped him . . .
The moon came out, bathing the woods in clear silvery light. At least it was clear now and they could see they were wasting their time.
‘Here!’
‘What is it? Where are you?’ Deborah rushed towards the sound of Sarah’s voice. She was near the path under one of the rhododendron bushes.
‘Look, there’s a big stone. If we can just get it out of the ground …’
‘Let me help.’ The stone was one of a number that the gardeners had dug into the ground at the side of the path, presumably with the idea of marking the route and possibly having a little wall on either side in the end. It was big, a foot or more in height and six inches thick. But Sarah was right, it ought to be possible to get it out. Maybe the rhododendron roots had loosened it, or the rain. They seized it with their slippery, muddy hands, tugged with all their force, grunted . . .
‘It’s coming!’
‘Yes!’
The stone lay on the path, loose, like an extracted tooth, and Sarah collapsed gasping beside it. For nearly half a minute she lay there, wheezing. Deborah tried to lift the stone herself, failed, tried again. This time she moved it two feet and then dropped it, weeping with frustration.
‘It’s no good — it’s too heavy!’
‘No it’s not!’ Sarah was back on her feet, and the two of them got their hands under the stone, lifted it, carried it together up the path to the door of the ice-house. Then, backs breaking, they put it down.
‘We can do it. We’ve got to,’ Sarah said. ‘Look, when we pick it up, we’ll take two steps back and then swing it as hard as we can against the door, just by the lock there. If we do that enough times it’s bound to smash. Only don’t drop it on your toes!’
‘No,’ Deborah laughed, a brief, harsh laugh. Then they bent to pick up the stone. The first time they swung it there was a disappointing slithering smash, and they did indeed drop it with a soft plop into the leafmould by Sarah’s foot. Deborah felt the door but nothing seemed to have happened to it at all. Sarah leaned against the wall, clutching a finger which had got crushed.
‘It’s no good,’ Deborah said. ‘It’s too heavy and we’re not strong enough. You shouldn’t be doing this anyway.’
Sarah gasped for a moment, her breath coming too harshly for speech. Then she said: ‘Nonsense! Good exercise . . . make me strong. Anyway, when you’ve been in prison you know . . . how important it is to get out.’
‘All right. Thanks.’ They bent to lift the stone again and this time they managed much better. The stone hit the old iron of the door with a thunderous crash and they didn’t drop it but swung it back again for another blow. And a third. Then they put it down, gasping, to examine the damage.
It was not as much as Deborah had hoped. The iron of the lock was bent and the wood around it splintered in places, but although the door rattled it held nearly as firmly as before. This is going to take time, she thought. And time is like strength — something we don’t have much of.
Even
as they paused, breathing heavily, she heard voices down by the house, and lights came on in the windows. Then there was the sound of footsteps, walking outside on the gravel.
‘Come on,’ she said, bending to pick up the stone. ‘Four more good swings this time. Just there, on the edge of the lock.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Sarah whispered grimly. But even as she stepped back for the first swing she staggered, and nearly fell . . .
30
WERNER HAD not gone to bed that night. It seemed too risky and he felt vulnerable in his enemy’s house, even though he was convinced he had paralysed Charles with his threats. Instead he sat quietly in an armchair by a low fire with the automatic pistol on his left knee, gazing into the flames, thinking.
If all went well tomorrow he would have fulfilled every jot of the plan he had submitted to von Falkenhayn. Carson would have vanished — spirited from the very gates of the Unionist headquarters, Craigavon, into nowhere. The Unionists would be shocked, furious; they would be certain that the British government were behind his disappearance and no amount of official denials would convince them otherwise.
Tomorrow morning, to reinforce this belief, an article, already written by Werner, would appear in the Neue Zuricher Zeitung at the same time as Carson’s abduction. The article would say that the paper’s correspondent had exclusive information that the British Special Branch were planning to arrest Carson and keep him incommunicado in a police station near Belfast for several days. Werner had arranged for copies of this article to be sent to the London Times, the Daily Telegraph, the Irish Times, and the Daily Mail. When the news of Carson’s disappearance broke, one of these would be bound to report on Werner’s article even if they did not believe in it completely.
No amount of government denials would destroy the avalanche of suspicion which, Werner felt sure, would lead to a flood of attacks by Ulster Unionists upon police stations and British Army barracks throughout Ulster. The remaining Unionist leadership would be powerless to resist it. The civil war would have begun.