by John Gardner
The knock at the door in the early hours; the Mercedes cars purring through iron gates; private rooms; screams. Some newspapers had been graphic in their descriptions of the work of the Gestapo.
‘Get on with it,’ drawled Peter. ‘You talk too much. The time for talking has not yet come. We can safely leave it to the Führer for the moment.’
Hensman flashed me a smile, as though we were conspirators on the same side. ‘You visited my old friend Oscar Miller in Basle.’ A statement needing neither confirmation nor denial. ‘I know all about that. Jane told me everything. Old Oscar spun you quite a yarn, he was never too keen on the truth. You see, he didn’t come to me as an old school chum, trembling and in fear. I think he was shaken by Ramsey’s rather extreme reaction to his advances, but you see, Darrell, he knew the notebook was mine, though not the details of course. He knew whose safe deposit it came from. I gathered that he considered I’d be a softer touch than Ramsey or the other two. He came as a blackmailer. Incidentally, Jane Patterson didn’t know any more than you did. She thought I had vanished because of threats.’ He laughed again, the same amused pleasure. ‘I merely disappeared in case Miller spread it all over town.’ As though operated by some remote control, the smile disappeared, his manner changing abruptly. ‘He gave you the names. He gave you the notebook. What did you do with it?’
Somehow the irony of the situation touched off a nervous laugh. ‘You’re quite wrong. He gave me what I took to be the notebook. It was empty.’
Peter swore in German.
‘I am to believe that?’ asked Hensman.
‘Believe it or not, it’s the truth.’
‘So?’
I did not sense the blow coming, just the flash of pain as Quorn struck: a stinging agony in my left ear.
‘Quorn’s good at that one.’ Hensman’s voice came through the numb deafness. He cupped his hands together, flat with the thumbs bent inwards, then brought them together with a hard, hollow plop. ‘If you do that to both ears at the same moment the pain can be quite excruciating. If it’s hard enough, the eardrums can be permanently damaged.’
‘Then I wouldn’t be able to hear your questions.’ I rubbed the ear, feeling a slight loss of balance even in the sitting position.
‘You have a point, Darrell. Perhaps he will only damage one ear. It can be most painful.’
A telephone rang somewhere in the house, as it had done when we arrived.
‘Let’s assume that you’re telling the truth,’ continued Hensman. ‘That you were not given the real notebook. You knew the names; they’re not hard to remember. Did you communicate them to anyone?’
‘Why should I tell you?’
‘Why not? Nobody has gone looking for Ramsey, Nettlefold or Trim, but I cannot take that as evidence that you did not pass them on to Fox, for instance.’
‘I wouldn’t usually give him the time of day, but now I wish to God I’d told him.’
Hensman looked pleased. ‘Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. What about the bold Commander Clarke? Brutus, as they call him.’
I was lost; faces and names swimming through my head. ‘I don’t know him.’
‘Of course you don’t. This is important, Darrell. I have to know whether to break up my cell. To move them out.’
‘Then I should if I were you. Fox’ll soon put two and two together once they find my body.’
‘Nobody’s going to find you,’ said Peter.
‘My editor’ll talk.’
‘I think we have Guy Underwood under control. He can be managed.’ Hensman frowned.
‘I don’t see the point of going on with this.’ It was not that I felt brave or anything like it. The future stared up at me dismally, a blank wall of nothingness.
‘Would you, perhaps, like to buy your life?’
‘I’m not that stupid. You daren’t leave us alive after this. And once they find our …’
‘No bodies will be found,’ Peter snapped. ‘Quorn, take him back. Make the most of the next few hours with your girl, Darrell. We sail tonight and you’ll make fishes’ bait somewhere in the North Sea.’
Hensman half rose, as though to argue.
‘What’s the point?’ Peter turned to him. ‘Leave things as they are, Michael. If it is played correctly Underwood won’t make trouble. As long as we’re out.’
I wanted to lash out, but couldn’t with my fists, for Quorn’s hands had clasped my wrists behind my back. ‘And what about your wife, Hensman?’ I shouted, the echo of words sounding dull in my still singing ear. ‘You going to kill her like Jane Patterson?’
Hensman calmly looked at his watch. ‘At this moment, Beryl will be having a little outing to Ventimiglia in Italy.’ The smile turned to a smirk. ‘Only she won’t be going back into France. In a couple of days she’ll be in Berlin. Ready to greet me when I arrive.’
I made a move to kick back at Quorn’s legs, but he simply tightened his grip on my wrists, bending them upwards. He frog-marched me back up the stairs to the room where Poppy lay waiting for me. She was plainly concerned — scared, worried; and my own state was no better than hers: thoughts scattered and dwelling on the proximity of death, mixed up with the need to survive and a strange sense of desire for the kind of belief which I had lacked all my adult life. The worn and bent phrases from the school chapel; the words of comfort with no substance from the mouths of clergy. God in heaven, the old parson who was a friend of my father’s, said often. So often that its repetition devalued it, together with all the Our Fathers, and In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, all the Hail Marys and Amens. I tried not to transfer my own fear to Poppy, attempting to sort out the next moves in the drama. Bait for fishes somewhere in the North Sea? They were leaving, taking us with them to a terminus in the cold grey waters somewhere between the Northumberland coast and the Heligoland Bight.
‘It’ll be okay, old girl.’ The words were as false as those of the group downstairs, or their absurd master with his lock of hair and the Charlie Chaplin moustache. I have no dishonest intentions towards Czechoslovakia.
To keep her mind off what was so obviously being prepared below, I talked incessantly about the new arrangements we would have to make for the wedding: though I couldn’t tell whether she was merely going along with what I said in order to keep a bold face on things, or taking it all as truth.
Around one o’clock, Quorn came up with Helen, bearing a tray of cold meats and salad. There was also a glass of beer for me, though only water for Poppy. In the middle of the afternoon we heard one of the vehicles start up below. We went to the window, standing close to the little diamond panes, squinting down. It was the car, moving out slowly towards the front of the house. Shortly afterwards Quorn came back, this time with the man whom I thought of as the driver. They collected the tray, and we both asked to be taken to the bathroom, so they led us in turn along the passage — one always in our room, the other outside the bathroom door which was not locked. Then they left us in peace.
Late in the afternoon we made love, not by arrangement, but rather by unspoken mutual agreement, lying naked on the bed for some time afterwards. My thoughts turned even more towards survival now, and I found myself pacing the room, waiting for dusk to come so that I could make the attempt to negotiate the drainpipe.
Shortly after five the car returned, and we both stood at the window, knowing that this could well be our last view of England, or for that matter of life. Hensman and Peter came up, with Quorn hovering behind them, just after six.
‘Believe me, I’m sorry you had to be involved in this,’ said Hensman. He still had the political charm, sounding as though he was speaking to one of his constituents in the aftermath of some disaster.
‘We have not yet decided what is to become of you.’ Peter stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, heels close together. ‘We await orders. In any case you will accompany us tonight. It will be necessary to bind your arms and gag you when we go down to the beach. We will speak again, but ma
ke no mistake, if either of you tries to run, or do anything stupid, you will be shot there and then. What is left of you will not bother us. A weighted body disposed of through a torpedo tube in deep water will not emerge for a long time.’
When they had gone, I told Poppy that I would make the attempt as soon as the house seemed quiet and darkness was fully upon us.
‘They don’t seem to be watching the outside of the house. If I can get to Boscastle and bring help ...’ I allowed the sentence to drift away. ‘It means leaving you on your own. Do you mind terribly?’
She drooped her shoulders. ‘There’s nothing else we can do. Surely, though, we’ve ruined things for them. After all, Guy knows about the names — and your political editor, what’s his name? Evans?’
‘They seemed to think Guy could be squared.’
The jigsaw of facts and ideas again jumbled in my head like a deadly kaleidoscope. Guy’s politics were true blue and he was no actor. I couldn’t think of anyone else I knew who was so plain, straightforward and open. It was impossible to think of him being mixed up in something so treacherous as this. The few people I knew who had been members of the British Union of Fascists were all outrageously outspoken in their views. But then who would have had doubts about Michael Hensman, public schoolboy, professional politician, a man who lived very much as a member of the upper middle classes? The remarks about Guy hung heavily in my thoughts as we watched the sun slowly sinking.
It had been a hot day, and I had not dared open the windows in case our jailers realized they could provide a means of escape. Now, the gentle warmth of early evening did nothing to alleviate the discomfort of the heat which had turned our room into a furnace.
At about half-past seven, Quorn and the driver came back with more cold meats. No salad this time, just a few tomatoes and a jar of Rajah Pickle, half full. Again there was beer for me and water for Poppy. At lunchtime I had been thirsty and gulped down the beer without thinking. This time I sniffed and tested both it and the water, wondering if they were intent on stupefying us with drugs to make us more amenable to the events which were scheduled to follow later. The food and drink, however, had not been tampered with, and we ate heartily, watching with covert glances for the light to show first signs of fading. It was a long haul to darkness. They came for the tray and dishes and to take us, in turn, to the bathroom. Quorn even brought cigarettes: sitting on the bed and watching us smoke, then removing the dog ends like some houseproud landlady.
Slowly the dusk began to settle over the land visible from the windows. I glimpsed birds circling against the deep blue as it turned to the pearl grey of evening, then to the crimson slashes reflected by the setting sun, like open wounds. I had always loved the late summer dusk for it held many happy memories — driving through evening lanes to parties; walking on the long lawn at home, after a game of tennis; sitting on some wooden bench outside a village pub with Sarah. I had done none of these things with Poppy, and now, maybe, it would be too late.
We waited until it was fully dark and even then I hung back a little longer, my ear to the door in the hope of catching some hint of what was transpiring downstairs. By this time we had taken to speaking in whispers, as though the night was some strange religious phenomenon. My stomach churned incessantly, fluttering with the butterflies of anxiety, and I noticed how Poppy’s hands trembled as she touched me. In the end I could not tell whether I was putting off the moment through care or fear.
Finally, when there seemed to be no sound from the house and no sign of life below, I nodded to Poppy and we both moved to the window nearest the front of the house. The catch made a squeaking sound as I pulled on it, and the window frame was at first hard to push open, as though it had jammed through wood swollen by damp.
I held Poppy close for a second and she clung when I began to move away. I kissed her once more, put a finger to my lips, heard her whisper, ‘Good luck,’ and then set a foot on the sill and began to pull my body through the opening. My legs dangled down below the little sloping tiled area as I felt with my feet for the guttering and the drainpipe. For a second I had a vision of my weight transferred to the junction where the downspout joined the gutter, and the whole lot giving way to send me hurtling down on to the gravel below. I tested the metal with my feet, clinging to the sill and bearing down upon the pipe. It held, and I managed to lower my feet on to the drainpipe itself, gingerly letting go of the sill with one hand, feeling down for a safe spot to hold on to the tiles. I found what seemed to be a firm hold and lowered my body, letting go of the sill with the other hand, feeling down again and grasping the metal pipe firmly; letting my body drop until I supported all of my weight by my arms clasping the pipe, feet scrabbling for a secure hold. I had to move fast, arms aching from the unaccustomed strain as I pressed myself tightly against both the spout and wall.
I went down too quickly, my shoes scraping the wall, making what sounded like an unholy rasping noise as my hands moved in a monkey descent. Half way I felt the pipe groan under the weight and sag outwards, so that I thought it would become detached from the wall. But it held, and my feet crunched far too loudly on the gravel.
There was the sound of laughter coming from the front of the house, and I feared they were all out there on the gravel sweep, until I realized that they were inside in the drawing-room with the windows open. Breathless, I leaned my hands on my knees and fought for air, dragging deep draughts into my lungs to steady myself and bring my thumping heart back to a more normal rate after the exertions. The drainpipe ended about seven or eight inches from the ground and a brick-surrounded drain set into the earth. They obviously had trouble with the drain: probably in autumn and winter from the leaves drifting away from the trees which flanked the side of the drive. A metal poker, with its end bent at right angles, stood propped near the drain — an implement for clearing out the clogged leaves. Now it became a tool of war for me. I grasped it firmly in my right hand and advanced towards the corner of the house, peering through the night air, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness.
The curtains seemed to have been pulled over the open drawing-room windows, for there were no shafts of light falling across the gravel sweep. I could see clear down to the big wooden gates and, to their right, the curved border of grass behind which there was a long clump of bushes and shrubs, running down to the low wall and the road. The conversation drifted quite plainly from the room, voices muffled only slightly by the heavy velvet. Peter said something in German and Quorn answered with a chuckle. Then Hensman said, ‘I only hope he’s on time. Will it be Maas again?’
‘It is important,’ Peter said, ‘and Maas knows the coast better than any other U-boat captain.’
‘He certainly brings them in closer than any of the others.’
‘He’ll be on time, as well.’ From Christian.
‘A few hours more,’ Peter coughed. Quorn spoke again in German and I heard Helen laugh.
One of them began to hum a tune, and taking another deep breath I launched myself quietly, almost on tiptoe, to cover the gravel between myself and the bushes. There was no shout or sudden change of mood, and I hunched myself down just inside the perimeter of the bushes, once more letting my breathing settle, peering around and shifting slightly to make certain I was shielded from the house by the shrubs. Here I remained, silent, for about four minutes, before starting the final journey down to the road. I was about to set off, holding my poker before me, when I saw him, coming quietly up the side of the clump, walking as though through mines, along the grass border. He crouched low, an incongruous figure with his light raincoat, like that of a British officer, the ubiquitous bowler crammed upon his head.
I hadn’t seen him in the house, but it was obvious that he was doing guard duty — the leather-faced sinister man who had tried to terrorize me on Piccadilly tube station. I had no way of knowing if he had glimpsed my shadow as I came across the gravel, or seen me flit into the bushes, but I clasped the poker in readiness. He moved very quietly for a bi
g man, turning from side to side as he came on, closer. He was barely two paces from the bush behind which I sheltered, when my foot shifted on the loose earth and I started to overbalance noisily into the shrubbery. He was above me as I rolled on to my back, his pistol held at arm’s length, his voice cold, rasping out quietly, ‘Stay where you are or I’ll fire.’
There was nothing heroic about it, for my reactions were wholly automatic. With a single movement of my arm I brought the poker up and felt it make hard contact with his wrist. The arm was thrown upward as he gasped with pain, and his one reflex shot exploded into the silence. I kept rolling, moving towards him, coming up on my feet, prodding forward violently with the poker as he backed into the drive, desperately trying to level his pistol again. Through the panting I heard a shout, and light broke out across the drive. I dared not run for fear of the shots which would undoubtedly have followed. I have never thought that being shot in the back was the most glamorous way to die.
‘You are covered, both of you. Put down your weapons.’ Peter’s voice cracking out like a drill sergeant’s from the door.
At first I didn’t understand, then Quorn was standing there, an automatic pistol waving between both myself and the bowler-hatted guard who was inexplicably dropping his revolver to the ground.
‘Darrell, drop that weapon.’
I heard the poker crunch to the gravel, and the man who had recently tried to take a shot at me whispered, ‘Darrell? Good God.’
Four of them had come out — Hensman, Peter, Quorn and the driver who was now hurrying down towards the gate, a rifle in his hand. The other three had automatic pistols.
‘Inside,’ Hensman motioned with his firearm.
The bowler hat lay on the gravel and Quorn reached forward to pick it up. My former assailant wiped blood off his cheek, In the half light from the house I caught the rueful look. ‘I tried to warn you, Darrell,’ he muttered. ‘Thought you’d react better to a bit of the old frighteners.’