by Danny Weston
‘You can’t stop there, sunshine. Keep talking!’
‘The … the machine-gun chatters again and a man drops in front of me. I trip over him and almost fall on my face in the mud, but I recover and somehow I keep going, the rifle in my hands like a stupid, useless weight that I am almost tempted to throw away. There’s an explosion from somewhere behind me, and a ragged figure catapults past me, his arms and legs flailing. And then I hear a long, whooshing sound and I know it’s a shell, that it’s going to be close, but even as I am thinking it, there’s a flash of white light that blinds me and I feel a giant hand swat me aside like some troublesome insect. I am falling then and I wait for the impact of the ground against my shoulders but it doesn’t come … it doesn’t ever come …’
‘It doesn’t end there, though, does it?’
‘No. When I open my eyes, it seems to me at first that only moments have passed but I realise very quickly that it’s night. It’s night and I was somehow expecting it to be day, though I can’t say why. There’s a terrible pain in my head, my face is wet and there’s a ringing sound in my ears. I don’t know who I am, or where I am, or what I’m doing lying in the mud, in the dark. With an effort, I manage to sit up. I look around me, but I can see nothing but heaps of men lying still in the dirt and I wonder how I came to be with them. They’re wearing some kind of uniform. Soldiers, I tell myself. I know that much. But does that mean I’m a soldier too? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. My head feels like it’s splitting open, like somebody has cut it open with an axe …’
‘I know that feeling!’
‘I manage to get to my feet and I look in all directions. There’s a sliver of moon in the sky that gives a little light but I have no idea which way to walk. But I walk anyway. I pick my way between mounds of dead men, past heaps of discarded weapons. I’m parched with thirst. I keep walking, and after a while I leave the dead men behind and I come to a field and I walk across the field, then another one, and I feel weak and dizzy and when I finally come to a hedge, I drop to my knees and crawl into its cover and I sleep.’
‘Do you dream?’
‘Yes, but the dreams are just a confused jumble of things, none of which I recognise. Occasionally I wake and find myself wondering who I am, but I’m in such pain that I do not care much. I just want to sleep again and eventually, I do.
‘Morning comes and it’s cold and windy. I get myself to my feet and I begin to walk again, but I see no features to head for, no houses, no hills, only flat green land. I walk for most of the day. By now my feet are blistered and they shoot tongues of fire up my legs with every step. Finally, when I think I can walk no further, I see in a field ahead of me a man milking a cow. I stumble towards him and I beg him for milk. My voice isn’t much more than a croak. He stares at me for a moment, then takes a metal ladle and scoops up some milk from the bucket, then hands it to me. I swallow it down and it’s warm and creamy and I think it’s the finest milk I’ve ever tasted, though I can’t be sure, because I don’t actually know if I’ve tasted milk before, I don’t even understand how I know what milk is in the first place. But it tastes good. The man says something to me in a language I don’t understand and I am trying to answer him when the world takes a sudden lurch to the right and I know nothing more.’
‘So you sleep again?’
‘Yes, I sleep until I open my eyes and I am lying on straw in some kind of barn. A woman sits over me. She is wiping my face with a warm, wet cloth and she smiles and the man appears, standing behind her, looking into the stall where I am lying and he says something in the language I don’t understand and she nods and says something back to him and I sleep again.’
‘My goodness, you are tired, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, very tired. I sleep again, until I open my eyes and now the same woman is pushing a spoon into my mouth, something warm and tasty. Whatever it is, it’s good and I eat and I sleep and I wake and I eat and I sleep and I wake. This goes on for some time, I’m not sure how long, but one day I am able to stand and I find a mirror fixed to a wall of the stall and I look into it, thinking that now I will know something, but the face that stares back at me is that of a stranger, a stranger with a hideous scar on his head that somebody (the woman?) has sewn together with a needle and thread …’
‘Ooh, that must smart!’
‘It does. I am still looking at the reflection when the man arrives. He points to me and when I look down, I see I am not wearing the clothes I had before. He tells me in halting English that he has destroyed them, in case the Boche come here. He says that I can stay a few more days and then I should go. It’s not safe for me here. I don’t argue with him. I ask him if he knows who I am and he just gives me a strange look. He advises me to go west and I say I will, even though I don’t know which way that is.
‘After a few days, I am strong enough to leave. The man shakes my hand and the woman, who I think must be his wife, kisses my cheek and presses a parcel into my hands. When I look at it later, I see that it contains a piece of bread and some cheese, and as I am hungry I eat some of it but I keep the rest back for later. I walk for days, sleeping in hedges when it gets dark.
‘One day, I find a road and I begin to walk along it. Then I hear noises coming from up ahead of me, so I run into a hedge to hide. A column of soldiers comes marching along the road, men in khaki uniforms. They wear steel helmets and they carry rifles. I think their uniforms look like the one I was wearing when I found myself lying in the mud, but I can’t be sure. I don’t want to reveal myself in case they aren’t friendly (what if they’re the Boche?). So when the column has finally moved on, I head back into the fields and I tell myself to stay off the roads, just in case more soldiers come.
‘I travel for days, weeks perhaps. Sometimes I meet people in isolated homes and I indicate to them that I am hungry and they let me do work for them in exchange for something to eat. In one farm I work at, a man has good English and he asks me questions about myself, but when I can’t answer any of them, he seems suspicious of me, so I’m glad when it’s time to move on.
‘In this way, I travel further and further away from where I started until finally, one day, I come to a forest and I see a road sign that says “Paimpont”. Because I haven’t seen any soldiers for a very long time, I decide to walk along the road. On the outskirts of the village, I see two men dressed in overalls who are struggling to move a heavy stone kerb, so I go over and give them a hand. They are surprised at first but then they seem grateful and when we have got the kerbstone into place, they offer to share their lunch with me. They watch as I wolf down the food, and in the end, they give me everything they have because I think they sense that I need it more than they do. They don’t have much English, but I manage to make them understand that I’m willing to work for them on a regular basis in exchange for more food. They tell me that they are called Claude and Dominic. They ask me questions about myself in bad English and even though I cannot answer any of them, they don’t seem suspicious. The one called Claude does most of the talking and he keeps looking at his friend and tapping his temple, the same place where my scar is. He tells me that they can’t pay me anything but they will feed me and that he has a place where I can sleep, an old hut round the back of his house. I accept that. I am happy and for the first time in ages, I have some purpose in life and something to put in my belly.
‘And then one day, I’m working with my two friends on the road and I look up and there’s a boy sitting in a carriage in front of the general store and he’s looking at me in a strange way, as though he recognises me, as though he knows who I am and before I know what’s happening, he’s running towards me, he’s shouting that I’m his father and—’
‘Wake up,’ said Mr Sparks.
Da’s eyes focused. He sat for a moment, blinking, as though he’d just woken from a deep sleep. Then he looked across the table and he smiled.
‘Owen,’ he said. ‘I remember. I remember everything.’ Owen jumped up from his cha
ir and ran around the table. He and his father hugged, the two of them crying.
‘Don’t mind me,’ said a muffled voice and Owen looked back in surprise to see that he had forgotten all about Mr Sparks and that the dummy was sprawled across Owen’s chair, his pink shiny face indignant. Gerard stood and picked up Mr Sparks. He carried him off towards the door.
‘Let’s give the two of them some time alone,’ he suggested.
‘Don’t forget your promise,’ said Mr Sparks slyly. ‘No monkey business!’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Gerard carried the dummy out of the room, closing the door behind them.
Da looked down at Owen, his eyes full of tears. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Oh my word,’ he said. ‘What about Megan?’
‘Ah yes,’ murmured Owen. ‘Ma.’
He took a deep breath and told Da what had happened to her. It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do in his life.
23
Lamballe
Quinn and Wilkins paced around Lamballe, looking for clues. They’d finally caught up with the elusive Henri late the previous evening back in Erquy and he’d told them that this was where he’d dropped the boy. So they’d set off in the hired car early that morning and now here they were, walking the cobbled streets of this pretty little town and asking every passer-by they met if they’d seen a young boy with a suitcase. But in each case they were met with indifferent shrugs and puzzled expressions. Wilkins was starting to lose patience with the whole enterprise. He was missing London and, more particularly, he was missing Ruby. What’s more, he didn’t appreciate some of the things that Quinn was making him a party to. Scaring the old woman back in Portsmouth, for instance. Wilkins was no angel, but he hadn’t liked taking part in that. What’s more, Quinn carried that heavy pistol with him everywhere, and though he claimed it was only there to scare people, Wilkins had no doubt that he would use it without hesitation if he had the least bit of provocation.
‘I don’t understand why we’re wasting time hanging around here,’ muttered Wilkins. ‘That woman at the inn said the kid was heading for Paris.’
‘That’s what he told her,’ admitted Quinn. ‘It doesn’t mean it’s where he was actually going. And remember, it was Sparks that said that. We know the creature lies. It’s his nature. Besides, if they really were going to Paris, they’d surely have taken a more direct route? Why come out here to the middle of nowhere?’
Wilkins shook his head. ‘But surely it makes sense he’d go to Paris,’ he insisted. ‘It’s where he started out all those years ago, ennit? At the theatre with Lucien Lacombe.’
‘Yes, but you seem to have forgotten that we tried Paris last year and it was a dead end. And besides, it’s not where Lacombe was originally from, is it? We know he originally came from somewhere in Brittany. We just don’t know exactly where.’
‘France is a ruddy big country,’ said Wilkins.
‘Oh well, thank you for that. Sometimes I wonder how we’d manage without your incisive eye for detail.’
‘I’m only saying that this is like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
‘And I’m only saying that we know the boy was dropped here, only a few days ago. We’re on his trail. If we stay methodical and ask all the right questions, then sooner or later we’re bound to get a lucky break and we’ll find out where he was heading.’
‘But that could take weeks.’
‘I don’t care if it takes years. We’re not giving up on this. So you’d better get used to the idea.’
‘I don’t get it. All this, so you can destroy the dummy. Wouldn’t it make more sense to take it back with us and study it? Find out what makes it tick?’
Quinn shook his head. ‘There are some things, Wilkins, that are better left unknown. That thing is one of them.’
They were approaching what must have been the town square, where a bustling market was in progress. On the far side of it, there was an imposing-looking church with a tall spire. ‘I’ll ask around the market,’ suggested Quinn. ‘You go and enquire at the church.’
‘The church? What would the kid go there for?’
‘This may come as a surprise to a heathen like you, Wilkins, but to many people the church is the first place to go when you’re in trouble. Now get your bloated carcass moving. Use the script if you have to.’
Wilkins knew better than to complain. Muttering to himself, he crossed the square and approached the church, in front of which stood a tall stone cross. He went past it, climbed the steps to the arched entrance, then pushed open the heavy wooden door and went inside. It was quiet in there and very cool. He stood for a moment, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Churches always had that effect on him. It came from being brought up in a Godless family. Wilkins’ parents had never had any time in their lives for prayer. Booze and gambling were his father’s two pleasures and he had followed them religiously, right up to the end. Wilkins looked around. The place seemed deserted.
He took a few steps along the nave, his footsteps echoing in the silence. To his right, there was a huge stone font, elaborately decorated with mosaic designs. He was about to walk past it when something caught his eye, one of the images on the side of the font. For some reason it seemed oddly familiar to him. He stepped closer and had a proper look. The image was of two armoured men sitting astride a single horse. For a moment, he couldn’t think for the life of him why it was so familiar. And then it came to him – the little lapel badge that Quinn always wore. Wasn’t this the very same image?
‘Bonjour, monsieur!’ The voice spoke from right beside him, making him jump. An elderly priest stood there, dressed in long robes. He was smiling at Wilkins, obviously keen to help, but all thoughts of Wilkins’ real reason for being here were, for the moment, forgotten. He pointed a stubby forefinger to the image on the font. ‘Er … là?’ he muttered. ‘Qu’est ce que c’est?’ It was one of the few French phrases that Wilkins had managed to pick up, but the priest looked puzzled to say the least.
‘Anglais?’ he enquired.
‘Oui.’
‘Une minute.’ The priest waved a hand, indicating that Wilkins should stay exactly where he was. Then he turned on his heel and hurried away with a swish of his robes. Wilkins returned his attention to the image. He was convinced now that it was the same as Quinn’s badge … and hadn’t Quinn said something the other day about his ancestors coming from this part of the world? The dukes of … somewhere or other?
‘May I help you?’
Wilkins turned in surprise to see that the elderly priest had been replaced by a nun, a middle-aged lady with an angelic face, framed by a black wimple.
‘Umm … yes, please. You obviously speak English, so …’
‘I am English,’ she assured him, with a smile. ‘I came to live in France several years ago, but I haven’t yet forgotten how to speak the language. I am Sister Anne.’
‘Oh, delighted, I’m sure. Alfred Wilkins.’ Wilkins doffed his bowler hat and then, thinking about it, refrained from putting it on again. Weren’t you always supposed to keep your head uncovered in a Catholic church? He pointed again to the image on the font. ‘I’m interested in this,’ he said.
‘Ah well, that font is very old, it dates from the—’
‘Er no, not the font! I’m sure it’s a very nice font and all that, but … it’s this picture of the two geezers on the ’orse.’
Sister Anne moved a little closer and smiled. ‘Ah yes. Well done for spotting that! That is a source of some controversy and a particular interest of mine, as it happens. You see, before the War, I studied French history. Of course, later on, I got the calling—’
‘The calling, miss?’
‘To become a nun.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘But I still continue to study in my spare time. A fascinating subject. Are you a scholar yourself, Mr Wilkins?’
‘Er … not exactly,’ he said. ‘I’d just like to know a bit more.’
‘Well, as I said, this l
ittle image is very interesting to somebody like myself. It’s the seal of the Knights Templar. They were very active around this area when the church was built.’
Wilkins frowned. ‘Knights Templar?’ he echoed. It seemed to him that he had heard the title before, though he couldn’t say exactly where. ‘And who were they, exactly?’
‘They were a religious order. A secret society, in many ways. Very powerful and wealthy people, in their day. They took part in the Crusades to the Holy Land … and it’s said that they invented the whole concept of banking as we know it. They had secret initiation ceremonies and so forth … a bit like the Freemasons. You’ve heard of them, I suppose?’
Wilkins nodded. She didn’t know how right she was. Back when he was in the police force, he’d often heard rumours that quite a few of the more successful officers belonged to that society, though he wasn’t a member himself. You had to wait to be invited. It had long been his ambition to become a Freemason, because he’d been told that they always did rather well for themselves. Of course, it wasn’t going to happen now, not since he’d been disgraced and kicked out of the police.