An expectant hush falls on the court. ‘I don’t rightly know, sir. I’d lost the rest of my platoon. I was in a shell hole. Everyone around me was dead.’
‘So why didn’t you try to make it back to your own line?’
‘Couldn’t move, sir.’
‘You were injured?’
‘Can’t rightly say, sir. I’d been hit by something, on my helmet. I think I was knocked out for a while. I weren’t sure where I was. It were dark. I’d lost me rifle.’
‘You’d thrown your rifle away?’
‘No, sir, I must have dropped it when I dived for cover. Like I says, I’d lost it.’
‘How would you describe your mental state when you were hiding in the shell hole?’
‘Don’t know what you mean, sir.’
‘Were you frightened?’
‘No, sir. Well, yes, sir. It was frightening. But I’m not a coward, sir.’
‘Yet you thought you would save yourself by running away from the enemy?’
‘I walked towards them, sir.’
‘What?’
‘I walked towards the German line.’
‘Without your gun?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You wanted to be taken prisoner?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Are you saying you decided to walk towards the German line, on your own, without a gun?’
‘I weren’t on me own, sir.’
‘Who was with you?’
The prisoner purses his lips and shakes his head.
The question is repeated.
‘I weren’t alone, sir. I were with someone.’
‘Someone from your company?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’
‘What do you mean you don’t know?’
‘He were one of ours.’ Andrew touches his temple. ‘It was confusing. He led me to safety. Along the German line. To the river.’
The chaplain stands up. Everyone turns to him. ‘He was definitely wearing a British uniform?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The chaplain is fidgeting. ‘You are sure of this?’
‘I think so. I can’t remember right well. There were a lot of lights. I couldn’t see him proper because of the lights.’
‘Flares?’
‘Yes, sir. Must have been.’
The chaplain taps his chin. ‘But he asked you to follow him?’
‘He didn’t speak.’
‘So why did you follow him?’
‘He were signalling at me to come towards him. He turned and started walking towards the German line so I stands up as well and walks after him.’
‘And how long did you follow him for?’
‘Couple of hours.’
Colonel James throws his pencil on to the table in front of him and speaks for the first time. ‘Do you expect us to believe that you and this other fellow managed to take a Sunday stroll for two hours in no-man’s-land in the middle of an offensive?’
Andrew looks at him placidly. ‘It’s what happened, sir.’
Colonel James turns to the defence counsel. ‘I’m a little confused. Have you briefed your client to enter a plea of insanity?’
Lieutenant Cooper shakes his head. He looks baffled.
Colonel James returns to Andrew. ‘Are you trying to persuade the court that you took leave of your senses?’
‘No, sir.’
‘So the two of you carried on walking to Nieppe?’
‘No, sir. When we reached the river the man pointed to the remains of a barrel in the mud. I lay on it and pushed myself out into the water. I didn’t see him again after that.’
‘You then threw away your uniform?’
‘No, sir. I’m wearing it now.’
‘But it doesn’t fit you.’
‘I know, sir. It were all they had when I enlisted.’
Brigadier-General Blakemore has to suppress a smile at this.
‘Did you throw away your tags?’ Colonel James continues.
Andrew reaches in his collar, lifts up his identity discs and jiggles them with his fingers.
‘Sir, is there any point to this?’ Colonel James says, turning to face the brigadier-general. ‘He’s admitted he’s a deserter.’
‘I agree. I think we’ve heard enough. Defence, do you have anything to add?’
Lieutenant Cooper looks at his notes. ‘I have a character witness, sir.’
The brigadier-general turns to the chaplain. ‘Are we agreed that this is permissible, padre?’
‘I can find no objection in military law, sir.’
‘Very well. Call the witness.’
Adilah is escorted in. In her nurse’s uniform, with her LÉgion d’honneur on a ribbon around her neck, she looks dignified and elegant. Her starched white wimple bears a red cross on it. She is resting her hand on her stomach, her pregnancy obvious. The members of the court martial exchange glances.
‘Madame Camier,’ Lieutenant Cooper says, ‘would you tell the court who the father of your child is?’
Adilah looks up, her face blank.
The chaplain translates.
‘Monsieur Kennedy,’ she says, pointing at the prisoner.
‘Did you know Private Kennedy was a soldier?’
She waits for the translation. Nods.
‘Please answer.’
‘Yes, I knew. I guessed.’
‘Was it your impression that he intended to return to the army?’
‘Yes. I assumed he would one day. But he wanted to help me. He looked after me.’ She glances at the cuff of her left sleeve, pinned to her shoulder. ‘He protected me.’
‘What’s she saying?’ Brigadier-General Blakemore asks impatiently.
‘She says she thought the prisoner would return to the army,’ the chaplain translates.
Colonel James interrupts again: ‘Is there any point to this?’
Cooper’s gamble, that Madame Camier will make the court feel sympathy for the accused, has not paid off. It is the prosecution’s turn. Captain Peterson stands up. ‘Madame Camier, did Private Kennedy tell you he was a deserter?’
As the padre translates, Adilah looks across at the prisoner. ‘Non. Mais ce n’est pas un lâche. Il est revenu pour moi.’
The chaplain translates again. ‘She said: “No, but he is not a coward. He came back for me.”’
Captain Peterson continues. ‘You planned to marry him? Is that correct?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Did Private Kennedy tell you he was already married? That, in other words, he was intending to commit the crime of bigamy?’
The colour drains from Madame Camier’s face as this is translated. She shakes her head.
‘Please answer.’
‘Non.’
‘Thank you, madame,’ Blakemore says. ‘You may step down … Are there any more witnesses?’
‘The ADMS, sir,’ Cooper says.
Surgeon-Major John Hayes, the assistant director of medical services, is a retired GP. His practice was in Norfolk. He has thick jowls and turned-down lips.
Blakemore is direct. ‘In your opinion, is this man suffering from shell shock?’
‘I am satisfied that he has been having nightmares and hallucinations,’ the surgeon-major says in a voice like fine sandpaper. ‘Shell shock is more complicated. He may well have been suffering from it at the time. He may well have neurasthenia now.’
‘Yes or no?’
Andrew’s mind keeps wandering, as if it is not he being talked about. Out of the window he can see open pastureland. He can hear the clip-clop of iron-shod hooves and the rattle of a passing limber. The medical officer, he notices, has writing on his hand. What does it say? Andrew is not close enough to read it. He shifts his attention to the MO’s lips. They are moving but it takes a moment of concentration before his words come into focus. ‘He hasn’t seen action for more than a year,’ Hayes is saying, ‘so at the moment he is probably not suffering from shell shock. At the time he almost certainly was, I would say.
But I believe he may have been in what is known as a fugue state – memory loss following a traumatic incident.’
‘Private Kennedy used his own name and address to have his birth certificate sent from England in order to commit bigamy,’ Blakemore points out. ‘Does that sound like the action of a man who has lost his memory?’
Hayes looks from side to side, up at the ceiling, down at the floor. He draws a deep breath. ‘Memories are unpredictable. Perhaps he forgot he was married.’
‘He may be a fool but that doesn’t mean he lost his memory. Having remained undetected for so many months he had become complacent.’ Blakemore waves a hand at the witness. ‘You may step down.’
The ADMS turns from the bench and begins walking away. Stops. Turns back again. ’This is madness,’ he says in a barely audible voice, as if softly swallowing the words. ‘You know that, don’t you? I’ve seen too many good men pointlessly killed in this war. Private Kennedy volunteered, for God’s sake. He did his duty as best he could. He didn’t know his nerves would fail him. None of us knows until we are tested in battle. Show leniency. Have some humanity.’ He walks up the long table, rests his hands on it and stares at each of the three judging officers in turn. ‘The Germans are back to the Hindenburg Line, for Christ’s sake. The war is all but won. We’ll be home in a few weeks.’
Major Morris bangs his fist against the table and speaks for the first time. He has a resonant voice. ‘The man’s a coward. Cowards don’t deserve pity.’
‘You know as well as I do that the woods around Étaples were full of deserters,’ Hayes counters. ‘There were thousands of them. There probably still are. Do you plan to shoot all of them?’
‘Those we catch, yes. Make an example of them. I’ll shoot the bastards myself.’
‘Major!’ There is cold fury in the reproach. The ADMS draws himself up. ‘Show some self-control. A man’s life hangs in the balance.’
The major straightens his back and turns his heavy-lidded gaze from the ADMS to the prisoner. ‘Our business here is finished.’
‘We are not savages, sir,’ Hayes says, his cheeks colouring.
The major’s eyes are burning and wet. ‘Our business here is finished,’ he repeats.
The brigadier-general blows his nose. ‘Yes, well. Are there any more points to be made? Prisoner’s friend?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Prosecution?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Is the court martial officer satisfied with procedure?’
The chaplain tilts his head. He has a degree in jurisprudence from Cambridge but little of what he learned there applies to the vacillations of this court. ‘I should point out that, in order to convict, the court must be certain that the defendant was not only absent without leave but had formed the intention of never returning to his unit.’
‘Very well,’ Blakemore says with a nod. ‘We know the answer to that. Thank you, padre. We shall adjourn to consider our verdict. Take the prisoner away.’
Andrew has been waiting for four minutes when a hoarse yell summons him back inside. A crackle of excitement passes through the court. With an excess of tight-lipped military smartness the clerk stands to attention and reads from a piece of paper. ‘Private Andrew Kennedy, you have been found guilty of shameful desertion in the face of the enemy and it is the sentence of this Field General Court Martial upon you that you suffer death by shooting at dawn on the fifteenth of September. May the Lord have mercy on your soul.’
The chaplain says: ‘Amen.’
Andrew salutes and remains standing to attention.
Blakemore isn’t sure what to do next. He looks at the prisoner expectantly. ‘Have you anything to say?’
‘The fifteenth, sir. When is that?’
‘Tomorrow.’
The prisoner makes as if to speak again but instead clicks his heels together. From start to finish his trial has lasted twenty-three minutes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
London. Present day. Five months after the crash
WITH HER HAIR STILL WET FROM THE SHOWER, NANCY WENT through an underwear drawer, holding up several items before choosing black silk hipster briefs with a lace trim. As she stepped into them, she had to hop twice and steady herself on the ottoman. Half standing, half sitting against this, she opened a new packet of black hold-up stockings and rolled them on. She chose a bra next, a black demi-cup that flattened her breasts slightly so that the Theo Fennell cross she intended putting on would hang better. Next she sprayed a mist of scent from a bottle, walked through it and stood in front of her full-length mirror to look over her shoulder at the curve of her hips and the taut roundness of her buttocks. She patted her left cheek to test the elasticity of her skin; rubbed her forehead. Why had she said yes when Tom had asked her and Martha over for Sunday lunch? She had bumped into him near her house. She rubbed again. What had he been doing near her house? And why had she mentioned that Daniel was away in Boston? ‘Why are you making an effort?’ she said out loud to her reflection. She knew why and it brought a flutter of nerves to her belly. Infidelity begins in the imagination and it had begun for Nancy that afternoon when Tom had walked her to her car. She had, in moments of reverie, been imagining herself having sex with him ever since, vengeful sex, dirty sex, and this mental adultery had been making her furtive and jumpy. The deed itself was a mere technicality.
She took her BlackBerry from her handbag and sent Daniel an email to appease her guilt. ‘Why not look Susie up while you’re in Boston?’ it began. ‘She and I have been emailing each other and I’m sure she would appreciate the chance to talk to a fellow survivor, someone other than me, I mean. You might get something out of it, too. I know she’s still struggling to come to terms with what happened to Greg. Poor thing. It broke her heart. In the last email I got from her she said she had gone back to college. I think she has also found religion, but don’t hold that against her. She said she starts each day with a visit to the cathedral x.’
A few seconds after sending the message, she sent another: ‘We miss you … The bins need emptying x.’
Long after the message had been sent, she continued staring at the screen. As if of its own accord, her hand returned to the bag and felt for a packet of anti-depressants. The flat metallic wrapping held eight pills, each separated by an expanse of empty foil. They were like prisoners in solitary confinement. Lonely and enclosed, hermetically sealed and claustrophobic. Their solitude cruelly reflected hers. They must feel as I feel. Why aren’t they all in the same bottle? She popped each one of them out and pushed them together like gamblers’ chips. The staring again. Taking one without water, she clicked her handbag shut. The sound was reassuring, decisive, thrilling.
Tom lived in a Victorian redbrick in Dulwich. It was semidetached and three storeys tall. ‘I inherited it from an uncle,’ he explained apologetically as Nancy looked down at the black and white marble tiles on the floor and up at the high ceiling in the hall. He led the way through an airy kitchen and, holding open a fridge door covered in brightly coloured magnets, offered Martha a can of Coke.
‘Diet?’ Martha questioned.
‘Diet,’ Tom confirmed.
‘Sorry. She has to be careful about her sugar intake,’ Nancy explained.
There was a hiss as Tom pulled the ring on the can and put it to his lips to stop it foaming over. ‘I’ll get you another one,’ he said.
‘That one’s fine,’ Martha said sharply.
Tom shrugged and led the way out to the garden where there was a bottle of champagne cold-sweating in an ice bucket. Next to it, on a mahogany table, were two long-stemmed crystal flutes. As he expertly unwrapped the wire, he asked Nancy if she would join him in a glass. Nancy’s affirmative answer was lost behind the sound of the cork being popped.
‘You seem happier,’Tom said as he tilted both the bottle and the glass.
‘Feel happier. Thanks to you.’
‘I don’t think I’ve done anything. You needed someone to listen, that wa
s all.’
‘You ever seen a counsellor?’
‘Why do you think I became one? My counsellor saved my life.’
‘Really?’
Tom rolled up his sleeves and showed the thin white scars on his wrists.
Nancy put her hand to her mouth. ‘Why?’
‘It was after my wife died. The only way I could think to make the blackness go away.’
‘I didn’t know …You never mentioned a wife.’
‘Bit of a conversation killer … “Hello, my name’s Tom. By the way, I’m a widower.”’
‘How long ago?’
‘Eight years, nearly nine. But she had been dying for a year before that. A horribly slow journey.’
‘You poor man.’ Nancy touched his arm. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Let’s change the subject … To happier days.’
They clinked glasses.
‘Happier days.’
They ate outside under a large canvas umbrella. Tom had cooked lamb with new potatoes and fresh mint, and when they finished the champagne they opened a bottle of red. Feeling light-headed, Nancy had to support herself when she rose from the table. She was still smiling at her own clumsiness when, a minute later, in the bathroom, she looked in Tom’s medicine cupboard and found several bottles of anti-depressants. She recognized them. The same ones she used.
Afterwards, while Tom filled the dishwasher, she leaned over a kitchen counter with her chin resting on her fists and watched Martha playing with Kevin the Dog in the garden. She was feeling drunk, as if she needed to sit down. When she felt Tom’s fingers kneading her shoulders, she rolled her neck slightly, giving him permission to continue. He bunched her golden brown hair and savoured its weight, smell and texture before laying it gently over her shoulder and kissing the nape of her neck. She closed her eyes as his hands reached around and cupped her breasts, a shockingly intimate gesture. How rude. How deliciously rude. The unfamiliar hands were a thousand times more erotic than if they had been Daniel’s familiar ones. When she still did not protest, he hitched her skirt up to her hips; it was tight and she had to help him by wriggling slightly. She felt him press his lips against the exposed curve of skin at the top of her briefs. Feathery kisses now. Goose bumps. Oh my God. He was kissing the backs of her knees. She closed her eyes, breathed through her nose, stopped herself. She then stopped Tom. This was wrong. She wriggled again as she tugged at the hem of the ruched skirt, smoothing it down.
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