by Vicary, Tim
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 fro
nt 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.
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 incin
erated 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 given 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.