Gunner Kelly dda-13

by Anthony Price

  ’Who the devil are you, then?‘ And looks at the long gun, ’An‘

  what the devil is that?’ says he, pointing at it ... An‘ they says

  ’Why, that’s the new 17-pounder, that is—an‘ if you want to know what it does, just you look across yonder’. An‘ they points across dummy1

  the valley, an’ there’s four—maybe half a dozen—Jerry tanks, that’s come round the side across their front, poor devils—twelve hundred yards away . . . twelve hundred yards, if it was an inch!”

  He shook his head in wonderment which had evidently not decreased in forty years. “That was the first time the 17-pounder ever went into action—in front of our gun position, saving our bacon. We couldn’t believe our eyes, I tell you!”

  Benedikt looked at the Irishman questioningly. “Yes?”

  “Aargh! Do ye not see?” Kelly cocked his head at such obtuseness.

  “ ‘Tis us that are the 17-pounders here—you and me, and Dr Audley . . . An’ maybe Blackie Nabb and one or two others at a pinch. So if it’s Miss Becky you’re worried about— why, she shall sleep sound in her bed while we’re doing the business that has to be done, an‘ her none the wiser.” Then he smiled at Benedikt, and for the first time there was a hint of something more than mere calculation in his eye. “I understand you, Captain: a fine young lady, she is—and with a heart as big as her grandsire’s. But she has her life before her . . . And the rest of us can look after ourselves well enough.”

  Somewhere far away, but still within the house, a bell rang out a tuneless electrical alarm.

  Kelly looked at his watch. “There now! That’ll be young Mr Bradley calling me to my duty with him, havin‘ all our people placed where they should be. The marvels of science!” He smiled at Benedikt again. “Your concern does you credit, Captain. Once upon a time it would have been a pleasure to have fought you—an’

  now it’s glad I am that you’re on the same side. But you must dummy1

  excuse me while I go to see how young Peter’s getting on. Then I’ll be with you for supper in the kitchen before we put our defences through their paces—eh?”

  Schneider knew there was something wrong then, but only by instinct, not by reason, so he says. Kelly was too calm and confident—‘ laid back’, is it? ‘Serene’ almost, Schneider says: not so much like the old phoenix before it goes into the fire, but more like the new one which comes out of the flames, born again.

  So he knew something was wrong, just as I always knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it any more than I could, because neither of us is a computer with total instantaneous recall. But he thought he still had some time in his pocket, and he knew Kelly was with Peter Bradley in what passed for their control room, so he went to look for Becky to find out whether she’d confirmed my alleged whereabouts.

  Becky was making the supper. She’d phoned my wife, who had said that I was in the bath and would phone back, as I’d instructed her to do. And he talked with her for a few minutes, for the sake of politeness. Only, by that time the thing in the back of his mind, which had been nagging him, but which he still couldn’t reach, was on the way to driving him half frantic. He went out from the kitchen, down the passage and into the main hall.

  The main hall at Duntisbury Manor is where a lot of the family portraits are: a selection of military Maxwells down the years, with the Sargent picture of Colonel Julian, the poet, in pride of place.

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  No picture of the Old General, of course— he was never self-considering enough to have one painted. And yet he was there all the same, said Schneider: it was the Old General— the Squire—

  who filled his mind, not Kelly. Not either of the Kellys. Just the Old General.

  And then he had it. ‘Like it was the Old General gave it to me,’ he says. And you can make what you like of that—

  “Miss Rebecca—do not argue, I beg of you! He must not leave the Chase! I have told Peter Bradley to give that order, but he does not know me—he will not obey me. But he will obey you, Fräulein!”

  He had to reach her somehow.

  “But, Captain—he is with Peter, surely—”

  “No! He has gone, I tell you!” He felt time accelerating away from him. “When Peter rang the bell it was to tell him that a car had passed the ford—a car with three men in it.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “He told Peter not to worry—that they were accounted for and expected. Expected?” If it frightened her—he had no choice. “What men?”

  “I don’t know. But—”

  “He knows.” He was committed now. “He was expecting them—

  and he has gone to meet them.” He cast around desperately in his memory for something with which to convince her. But the truth would be meaningless to her, even if he had had time for it. “This is what he planned—from the start. . . Where are most of your dummy1

  people now? They are out of the way on the ridge and along the stream where he sent them. You must believe me, Miss Rebecca!”

  Suddenly her hand came to her mouth. “That gun he has—! Oh God!”

  Huh! thought Benedikt. But if that would move her, then that must be his way. “I will go, Miss Rebecca—I have the car outside. But you must give that order: he is to be stopped at all costs.”

  “Yes—yes—”

  “Has he a car?” Without a car the man couldn’t get far.

  “No—yes . . . My Metro is at Blackie’s—he’ll know that—” She didn’t stop to wonder why he was asking her.

  “Well, you’ve got your road-blocks—set them up, then. And stop him at gun-point—” God in heaven! What would that lead to? But he had no more time to worry about that. “—but give that order, Miss Rebecca—now!”

  “Yes.” Her decision reached, she started to move. And then stopped. “You won’t get past the lodge gates. But the key’s hanging up by the backdoor—on a hook—”

  Odd how last-minute thoughts make the difference. But then odd about that 17-pounder story . . . of all the stories he could have told. Though perhaps not so odd, on second thoughts, Jack: he told a story for Captain Schneider, and no one else, I suppose.

  But if she hadn’t remembered about the locked gates . . . Kelly just nipped over the wall, and headed for Blackie Nabb’s garage. But Schneider went round the back to get the key— and there was this dummy1

  KGB heavy lying stone-cold dead (or still warm, rather) by the open backdoor. Three shots for him— he was the back-up man, so maybe he’d smelt something wrong and was moving when Kelly hit him; whereas the squad leader inside the lodge— the one who’d expected to wait for Kelly, and had found Kelly waiting for him—

  just one heart-shot for him, nice and clean. Gunner Kelly indeed, by God! But not with an old 25-pounder— and not with an old war souvenir with no firing pin either, which told Schneider all he needed to know, which he’d only suspected until then, but was sure now— the neat head-shot— and also warned him of what lay ahead: two hundred yards away up the road, nicely parked on the verge, under the trees by the estate wall where Kelly had crossed out of the wood— a brown 2-litre Cortina, six years old and as anonymous as you could wish for, except for the driver lying dead across the front seat— another head-shot at close quarters for him, he never knew what hit him.

  So Schneider put his foot down then—

  It was the same tableau he had seen once before, but with differences out of a nightmare.

  The farm tractor and its hay-bale-loaded trailer were slewed across the road, out of the same gateway. But now a pale blue Metro was nosed against it, driver’s door wide. That was one difference.

  Inconsequential things: the Metro’s engine was still running. . . one of the gate-posts leaned out of true, beside a buckled fence, from yesterday’s charade—

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  Blackie Nabb stood up from where he had been squatting beside the body on the verge. And, in the same movement, his shot-gun came up to cover Benedikt. And death brushed
across him, light as a cobweb, as he faced the man in the long moment which it took to lift his empty hands.

  Inconsequential things: the dead man’s legs—how did he know the man was dead?—stretched out of the tall summer grass into the road—old scuffed leather boots, hob-nailed with iron studs.

  Benedikt found his voice. “Miss Rebecca sent me.” The words sounded foreign.

  Blackie Nabb made a sound in his throat. “Too late.” He eyes left Benedikt’s face for an instant. “Over there.” The shot-gun lowered slowly.

  Benedikt moved cautiously. There was a silenced Heckler and Koch pistol in the road, lying beside the Metro’s toy-like nearside wheel. Then he saw Kelly.

  “He is dead?” More foreign words.

  “I dunno. An‘ I don’t much care, neither.” Blackie’s voice was matter-of-fact.

  Benedikt looked at him.

  “Down by the stream, we were.” Blackie drew breath. “An‘ the message come—to stop ’un. An‘ Old Cecil drove the tractor, an’ I sets on the back. We got ‘ere just before ’im.”

  There were sounds in the distance.

  “‘E says to Old Cecil ’Open up the road‘ . . . An’, for an answer, Old Cecil just gets off the tractor.” Another breath, almost a sigh.

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  “An‘ ’e says again, ‘Open up the road’. An‘ Old Cecil says ’No‘.

  An’ then there’s this . . . like a thump, as I was a-comin‘ round the side.” He looked straight at Benedikt. ’“E didn’t give ‘im no chance. An’ I didn’t give him none, neither.”

  Benedikt went to where the shot-gun blast had blown Kelly, on the opposite verge. Blackie must have been very quick to have got that shot in like that, against an expert; and, more than that, because with killing it needed will as well as reflexes. But the old soldier’s training must have reinforced the poacher’s instinct in that instant, so Kelly had been unlucky at the last when he was almost clear.

  He knelt down beside the man. The blast had taken him midway, and not spread much, but there was a lot of blood. The unmarked face was grey-white, and old. He thought. . . old men shouldn ‘t die like this—

  And then the eyes opened suddenly, and the chest moved, blowing a bubble of blood.

  “Captain.” Kelly looked up at him, expressionless as Blackie.

  “Ahh . . .”

  With a wound like that ... it was hard to tell if there was nothing to lose—or anything to gain?

  Nothing to gain of value now, he estimated coldly. Only curiosity was left now.

  He bent a little closer. “Why did you kill them?”

  Kelly gazed at him. “Told you. Personal matter.”

  That wouldn’t do. “No . . . Alloysius.”

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  Just as suddenly as they had opened, the eyes were no longer without expression. “Ahh . . . You knew?” Now they were sharing curiosity. “How long?” Almost a frown now.

  Truth? “Minutes.” Truth. “The long gun—the 17-pounder . . . The Old General wasn’t there, he was away sick at the time. So you lied. But you had no reason to lie ... Or you weren’t there yourself, either . . . And that made me think of other things ...” Yet—what other things? wondered Benedikt. Because it still didn’t add up.

  “Ahh . . .” The frown was smoothed away. “True story, though—

  Michael’s story . . . Had to be Michael, for you . . . little mistake—

  big mistake. Clever—too clever.” Almost imperceptible nod.

  “Michael always said . . . Jerries clever.” Against the odds the voice was stronger. “Forgot that.”

  And, even more strangely, the voice was no longer Irish, but had no country. “It was Michael who was killed?”

  Another tiny movement of the head. “Bad luck. Both going . . .

  running . . . Spotted one of them—can always tell . . . bastards . . .

  Michael had talked of going to the Squire—safe with him ... I went instead.”

  And that was where it didn’t make sense. “And he accepted you?

  As Michael?”

  “Michael?” Aloysius Kelly closed his eyes, and for a moment Benedikt thought he had lost him. “Ahh ... I was Michael—

  Michael Kelly . . . 834 Gunner Kelly, sir!” Another frothy bubble expanded, bigger than the rest. “Best troop in the battery, best battery in the regiment, best regiment in the brigade, best brigade dummy1

  in the division, best fucking division in the whole fucking army!

  834 Gunner Kelly, Sir! ”

  He still couldn’t believe it. “The Old General accepted you as Michael?”

  The eyes opened. “What?”

  “He-accepted-you-as-Michael?”

  “Accept me? The Squire? Never!” There was blood at the corner of Kelly’s mouth. “Told you true . . . told him true . . . not all of it, of course—couldn’t do that. . . But told him I was done with it—their lies, my lies—over and done with for ever, and no going back in this world . . . Told him a lie—told him Michael had gone back to Ireland, where he’d be safe—not him they were after, only me—

  couldn’t tell him about Michael . . . Asked him if I could lay up for a few days, till I got my breath back.”

  More blood now. What had the newspapers said about Michael Kelly’s death? An accidental explosion of petrol in a garage? And nothing about a victim, of course ... all hushed up. . .

  “He was a man, he was—the Squire. ‘If Gunner Kelly’s safe in Ireland,’ he said, ‘then you be Gunner Kelly safe in England—how about that, then?’ ” Impossibly, Aloysius Kelly was moving one hand, as though to touch Benedikt. “How about that, then—834

  Gunner Kelly—the Squire and Gunner Kelly—the bastards’ll not forget them so quickly, not now—”

  Then the blood came with a great rush, choking him.

  How we put all that together is according to taste, I suppose, Jack!

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  So far as Captain Benedikt Schneider is concerned, the fact that he knew every detail of the Old General’s military career only demonstrates once again how thoroughly the BND does its homework— thanks, presumably, to the Wiesbaden computer. But even so, his catching the one mistake Kelly made— that 17-pounder lie which the real Gunner Kelly wouldn’t have told—

  marks him as someone special: young Schneider has that rare gift which is better than a good memory, the wild faculty of plucking truth from untruth.

  For his part, he maintains that the lie sparked all his subconscious suspicions into consciousness. I had fed him my doubts about Aloysius

  Kelly’s supposed death (though perhaps he already knew that); and all along he’d picked up contradictory vibrations from

  ‘Gunner Kelly’. The man was a cunning hunter, like Esau in the Bible, but that could have been the old soldier’s skills surfacing.

  Yet he was also a smooth man, like Joseph in the Bible—

  sometimes falsely wearing Esau’s hairy skin, but also Joseph’s coat-of-many-colours.

  Of course, I’d picked up Kelly vibes too. But I was blinded by the Old General’s acceptance of him as ‘Gunner Kelly’: my experience of pure Christ-like goodness, which gives sanctuary to sinners without listening to the Devil’s Advocate, is sadly defective, I fear . . . Besides which I was too busy looking for danger from outside the Chase— perhaps that’s how that original Fighting Man came unstuck.

  Excuses, excuses! Maybe if I’d known the Old General’s military dummy1

  history I would have sussed out the real Kelly from the false one—

  and maybe if Schneider hadn’t been his father’s son, come fresh from the tank museum, he wouldn’t have done. But the fact is that I didn’t and he did.

  When it comes to Aloysius Kelly and his motivation, there is a difference of opinion between Schneider and myself. Of course, I watched the man over several days, but Schneider saw him die.

  My somewhat unromantic Anglo-Saxon view, anyway, is that ihe leopard does not change his spots— that however much Kelly
may have admired the Old General he always intended to survive. So his vengeance was intended to leave us believing that he was indeed Gunner Kelly, while the blood-bath in Duntisbury Chase—

  the elimination of an entire hit-squad— was intended to dampen the KGB’s ardour for continued pursuit (plus, of course, the scandal of such a massacre on our territory). I believe he had another bolt-hole set up.

  While he thinks differently, Schneider does agree that by the end Aloysius was running very scared— he had been using Becky Maxwell-Smith and her people in the Chase to give him early warning; because he never underrated the KGB, even though he was obviously pretty sure he could get them where he wanted, when he wanted (with a pretended IRA call? They wanted him dead too). Anyway, my arrival was bad enough, but Schneider’s positively stampeded him: it was that evening or never, he must have reckoned.

  It’s on the ‘why’ that we diverge. For Schneider is romantically obsessed with the sanctity of the Old General, which he thinks dummy1

  somehow transmuted ex-Comrade Kelly into ex-Gunner Kelly, like base metal into gold— or even made a single man out of them, with the ex-comrade’s brains and the ex-gunner’s loyalty: a sort of super Irishman, but without the luck of the Irish.

  Maybe we’re both right— and it was Comrade Aloysius who shot Old Cecil like a dog, and died for it; but it was Gunner Kelly who left that letter on the mantelpiece of the Lodge, claiming his ancient right of vengeance and exculpating the Chase from blame.

  You pays your money, and you takes your choice, Jack.

  As for me— the same applies. Captain Schneider is a loyal ally, and as blameless as your Jane. But Old Cecil’s blood is on my hands and I’ve lost you whatever was in Kelly’s head, so my resignation is attached. Use that or give me Cheltenham and I’ll win for you there, I promise. Losing is not to my taste.

  Yours,

  David

  The End

  Document Outline

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