To Run a Little Faster

by John Gardner

  ‘Inside,’ Peter ordered again. Quorn pushed us together, helping us on with blows to the back with the flat of his hand.

  The driver returned as we got into the hall. ‘No sign of anyone,’ he reported.

  ‘So you were here all the time, Mr. Hensman,’ said the new prisoner. ‘I wondered.’

  ‘Are your people about?’ asked Hensman. He did not sound so complacent now.

  ‘They can’t be far away,’ snapped Peter. ‘Get the girl down. What a prize for the Office. I thought you didn’t know Brutus, Darrell.’

  ‘Brutus?’ The reaction was setting in. After the excitement I could feel the slough of despair in my guts. Or, I thought, surprised at the flippancy, it may have been the Rajah Pickle.

  ‘Let me introduce you, though I know you’ve met before.’ Hensman leant against the wall. ‘Simon Darrell. Commander Clarke. His code name is Brutus; from your Security Service.’

  Chapter Eleven

  They brought Poppy down the main staircase as we stood in the hall under the threat of the pistols. The man who had been my guard in the van, and whose name I now discovered was Dawson, shepherded her like a gamekeeper out to pot rabbits, a rifle slung under the crook of his arm. I looked up at her tiny shape, the marks of strain and fear pencilled in around the eyes and mouth, and wondered once more about the relationship we had so quickly formed.

  My failure to get away and bring help probably had something to do with it, but at that moment I was vividly aware of the great stretch of unmapped experience which lay between us. In the past weeks our conversation had mostly been surface chatter, only word deep; the abiding memory of her was physical. Perhaps, I reflected, something stronger would be needed by those called upon to face the kind of people who now held us prisoner. There must be millions all over the country who went through the emotional ritual called falling in love, which meant an ability to relate, a pleasure in each other’s bodies, a conformity of work, home-building, raising children. Whether that experience added to the quality of their lives was another matter. A glance at the faces of Peter, Quorn and Hensman told me that they had a different way, almost a religious ideal. They displayed it in the manner they now went about their business, even in this moment of great stress. Peter issued the orders, criss-crossing between English and German. The smile had disappeared from Hensman’s face, but there was purpose in every move.

  ‘We’re smashed,’ Peter said, looking sideways at Hensman. He had just sent Dawson down to the gates as look-out, while Christian and Helen went about the duty of erasing all traces of occupants other than themselves. ‘You’d better get on to your people in London. There’s still probably time to get them out.’

  Hensman nodded, slipping away into the drawing-room which had a second door opening on to the hall. They took us through to the dining-room, making us sit on the chairs around the table with our hands flat on the polished surface, as though we were taking part in a séance. Across the hall, Hensman’s voice could be heard, speaking rapidly from the drawing-room. I couldn’t distinguish the words but the urgency was unmistakable.

  Three times Peter asked Clarke if any of his people were nearby. He answered the first time, ‘You don’t really expect me to tell you that. We’re on to you, that’s all you need know.’ Thereafter he refused to speak, sitting upright, staring ahead. I tried to catch his eye, but he remained unmoved, as if cut off from everyone else by some invisible screen. Quorn came in with a shoebox and they started to chain our wrists with the kind of links used to secure bicycle wheels, each locked with a little brass padlock, the kind of thing you could buy from Woolworth’s. Quorn was none too gentle, making sure that the wrists were held tightly crossed behind our backs with the chains pulled hard so that they bit into the flesh.

  As this was going on, Hensman came back. ‘It’s all done,’ he said to nobody in particular, taking out a box of cigarettes and lighting one, letting the smoke dribble up from his lips. ‘You know what I’m going to miss until we get back?’ he asked, again of nobody in particular. ‘De Reszke cigarettes. I’m going to miss good old de Reszke with his top hat and monocle. They’re going to be in short supply in Berlin once the shooting starts.’

  ‘There won’t be much shooting,’ said Peter. He stood at the end of the table looking at the three of us. ‘Because of Commander Clarke’s arrival, we will have to leave earlier than planned. Brutus, we’re taking you all the way. I don’t know about you two yet. Our contact is not arranged until just after midnight so it will be a long wait, but it’ll be safer for us on the shore, among the rocks. There could be more visitors here at the house. You will be gagged, and I don’t suppose I need to remind you that any attempt to run or cause trouble will be dealt with on the spot.’

  The driver came in to say the van had been brought around to the front. Hensman went off and returned wearing a thick pullover under his jacket and carrying a large leather briefcase. By this time, Helen and Christian had joined us. Peter spoke to them in rapid German and they all shook hands while Quorn, rough as ever, covered our mouths with sticking plaster. Poppy squirmed, but I tried to take my cue from Clarke who remained impassive, his face like a carved wooden Indian.

  It was uncomfortable, the bite of the chains and the difficult proposition of breathing only through the nose. Poppy’s eyes were wide and helpless, pleading. I could only shake my head and try to will courage into her. Just before we left there was one last moment of melodrama. They were all standing together and Peter said something which sounded like a pledge in German. In unison they brought their heels together and raised their arms. Heil Hitler.

  I had seen it all on Movietone and Gaumont British: the banners; the regimented chant of Sieg Heil; the drums and ordered blocks, rank upon serried rank; the eagle and the swastika; schellenbaum and gorget; SS; boot upon boot, in a clamour of crashing goose step; and the man on the dais, under the giant eagle, one hand to the belt, the other raised: Ein Reich, Ein Volk, Ein Führer. Now the drama and spectacle was reducted to these few in an English country house, but it had about it the urgent hysteria of fanaticism.

  Quorn and Hensman came in the back with us. Peter was in front with the driver. Dawson stayed behind with Christian and Helen. They arranged us along one side, seated like puppets, while Hensman and the big blond man sprawled opposite, their pistols, muzzles towards us, resting on their knees.

  Then the rear doors were closed and we were in darkness.

  ‘Please don’t try anything stupid,’ Hensman said as the engine started. ‘In the dark, here, you would all come off badly.’

  Unlike Peter, he genuinely seemed to wish for as little violence as possible, but I suspected this was merely a facet of his character. He wouldn’t mind death coming to us somewhere in the North Sea as long as he didn’t see it done. Maybe the terrible moment in the flat, when he was alone with Jane Patterson, had been enough for him. He was probably the kind of man who could order bombing planes against a city full of women and children while he sat in comfort; or sign death warrants to be carried out miles from where he slept.

  I knew that we had turned right out of the gates, but after that it was impossible to gauge distance or direction. It was only certain that we were taking the coast road. My shoulder bumped against Poppy’s and I pushed towards her, as though the physical contact would help allay the fear which must be scratching at tier nerves, boiling in her stomach.

  I tried to centre my own thoughts on those moments of the past which had meant something to me — memories which now, in the bleak darkness of the bumping van, suddenly seemed to mean little: like golden fruit in a dream which crumbles away to nothing once touched. Until now I felt that my life had been frittered in trivialities — pushing up through yards of newsprint to get on to a national newspaper; the days of idleness with hardly a thought for those in distress who were but cyphers in quick news stories; the convivial nights and depression over Sarah’s trysts with Tommy Carter; the scenes and flung recriminations; the grasping and cla
wing towards elusive happiness. Poppy. It all meant nothing when faced by the machine which drove men like Hensman towards some all powerful goal. I lost track of time, though it could not have been long before we came to a halt and the doors were swung open.

  They spoke in whispers, prodding us with the pistols as we came out into the night air, a cool wind blowing in off the sea below us, its eternal movement audible and viewed from where we stood as a white fringe in the darkness. We appeared to be among boulders and spongy grass at the top of a low cliff, and the breeze had a chill to it which stung, making one shiver. A few words were passed between Peter and the driver before the latter got back into the van, restarted the engine, and bumped away, as Hensman prodded us to get down, flatten ourselves off the skyline. I saw the lights disappear and then, as though on a theatrical cue, the moon came out from behind an airship-shaped cloud. The harvest moon.

  We lay there, close to the ground, for a few minutes while Hensman and Peter whispered. The smell of grass. Then there were prods again and we were pushed to our feet. I was unsteady with my clasped hands, and the blow on my ear had possibly affected my sense of balance, for I staggered slightly like a man who has taken one too many.

  Quorn led the way, using a small flashlight, while Peter and Hensman moved beside us, two-legged sheep dogs herding us through the rocks down the narrow path which ran steeply to the beach. It was shingle, heavy and hard to trudge through in the dark. Poppy kept stumbling, again and again, being pulled to her feet by Hensman. They kept us close in by the overhang of the low cliff, and I suppose we travelled about a hundred yards before the prods and gestures took us forward towards the sea, and a cluster of large wet rocks, slippery with seaweed. The whispers and goading again, and we were forced to the shingle between two rocks and made to lie down. I struck a small pool with my hip, my clothing soaking up the water, chill and uncomfortable. Hensman, Peter and Quorn crouched near us, occasionally turning, exchanging the odd whisper.

  Poppy was the most restless, constantly trying to squirm into different positions, like an insomniac. The time dragged, and with it my feelings began to change again — from despair to anger at having let myself be put in such a position. Fox getting me taken off the story, Clarke threatening in the tube station — I wasn’t to know his motives: the whole thing like an unnecessary dance around the mulberry bush. Ring-a-ring-a-roses.

  After an hour the discomfort became acute and the light breeze from the sea turned to a cutting cold wind. No sign of life stirred from the cliff top, clear as the moon began its downward swoop. The taste of salt from the sea, the incessant slap of waves followed by the long drawn-out sigh as they retreated through the shingle, sucking back and sifting the stones. Crabs and a fishing net; tin buckets and spades; a bathing dress with long legs, red and yellow stripes in the sun, and the laughter. The sea taste as you dived in among the surf; the rough towelling and the cool miracle of the ice-cream cone with grit in your mouth, mixed from your hands into the, whirl of cold vanilla. The sinking sun and French cricket; the Punch and Judy days, and the little orchestra which played melodies from Strauss, Gilbert and Sullivan and Chu Chin Chow as you sipped your soup and were shown which spoon to use in the unaccustomed late stopping-up dinner among the smiling waiters. Sore shoulders, sunburned; a doze on the beach.

  I jerked back shivering, consumed by wet and cold, to hear the whispers again. It had changed now: Quorn behind us and Hensman close to Peter craned forward peering out towards the sea. I pulled myself into a sitting position, but Quorn’s hand on my shoulder pulled me back. In the darkness a wink of light. Once. Twice. Then again in rapid succession. Darkness. Peter had his hands up, and I glimpsed the quick reflection as the flashlight went on and off. On and off. Four times. More whispers and the goading pistols.

  ‘In a very few minutes we are going to get up and walk towards the water,’ Hensman said, a little louder now as though the vigil was ending and we were almost out of church. The few minutes turned into at least ten. Quite near, we saw the light flash from the sea again, close in shore. The pistols prodded, hands pulled us up.

  I wiggled my damp toes and tried to stamp life into wet legs as Quorn patted me forward towards the surf, across and between the rocks. Peter, I could see, was half carrying Poppy. Clarke walked docilely in front of Hensman.

  We reached the edge of the surf, which slopped up over our shoes as the large inflatable boat came crunching on to the shingle, and shapes moved in from it, splashing in the tugging sea. They spoke low; sailors, three of them, one with a rifle; an officer in cap and white polo jumper in the bows. One by one they lifted us aboard, and the sailors were pushing the boat out again, bobbing on the inshore waves, rising to the swell like a cork, uncontrolled until the remaining hands were aboard and the oars shipped out again to the soft orders of the officer.

  Our three captors remained alert, their heads moving, as though sweeping the surrounding blackness. You could feel them straining their ears to catch any sound above the heavy gasps of the seamen pulling on the oars, and the muffled creaks of the rowlocks. We were heading out, quite fast now; the coastline becoming visible, the moon dipping down, almost gone behind the horizon which seemed to reach up as though to grab and snuff it out.

  The noise was at first only a figment of my imagination, yet another unreal dream in a day which was full of unrealities. But the sudden reaction within the boat brought my head up. Through the breeze, the grunts and noise of the oars, it floated in like a bumble bee in bedroom darkness.

  The officer said something sharply, and the oarsmen increased their beat. Twisting my head forward I could plainly see the long black shape, almost merged with the rising water ahead: a metal hull and the structure of a conning tower above it. But the bumble bee noise became louder with an undertow of churning sea.

  Peter called softly and there was a click of metal. A grunt from Clarke, straining into the sitting position. Then out of the darkness from the direction of the buzz now turned to a throb, a bright wide pencil of light exploded across the water. The picture remains: startled faces, Hensman half on his feet, caught in the full blast of the beam, the throb of engines slowing and the amplified voice drifting across the sea, shouting something about the Royal Navy and Heave To.

  Quorn got to Poppy first, and even through the plaster on her mouth you could hear the grunting scream as he put his hand under her and heaved, tipping her from the boat as it slopped perilously to one side, her grunt turning to a horrible guttural cry, muffled by the plaster. Then the splash as she went into the sea. I had no time to react, for there were hands under my arms hauling me to the side. Someone kicked at my leg, Clarke struggling and the boat rocking while the search-light still held us and the loud hailer voice went on. Then the world tipped and the shock salt water filled my nose as I went under. I kicked out with my legs and something struck me as I surfaced: another body, Clarke, splashing into the sea, so that I went down again, hopeless with hands clamped behind me:

  I turned on to my back, trying to relax in the freezing cold; the wind on my face again, shouts echoing and the great grey shape of the U-Boat tipping, a spurt of spray leaping into the air. Then those terrible grunting screams from Poppy threshing with her legs, bobbing up and down to my right. I lashed out, trying to make way through the water to get my chest between her and the grabbing sea, twisting my head as I rose on a small wave. But she had gone from where I thought she had last been. Impossible. The cold and numbness, the swell and disorientation. The boat bobbing close. A sound like a shot. The wind. A great undertow as the metal conning tower disappeared. Pulling down. Darkness and gulps of sea water. Drifting; bursting. The air. Gulping. Not able to gulp because of the plaster. The engine throb, and a shout, then blackness once more. For those in peril on the sea. Eternal Father strong to save. A cricket pitch and the taste of bitter beer. The pounding in my head and chest, and I had to breathe but it was water. Air, coughing, retching, a bump.

  ‘Grab him. There. He’s going un
der.’ The darkness. Impossible. Arms lifting, floating upwards. God, if there’s a heaven after all. Or a hell and fires? There are Fires: All around, and torment. Christ. The hell is now. Eternal. Eternal Father strong to ... And floating upwards into darkness studded with stars and bright flashing lights.

  My chest hurt, as though someone had pushed their hand down my gullet and then punched the lungs from the inside. I was flat on my face and retching: below, the bed was unstable, lifting and dropping. I could open my mouth.

  ‘He’s round,’ said a voice I half recognized. ‘Coming round.’

  ‘Poppy,’ I croaked. Far away in my head I heard someone say, ‘Like pigs. They live like pigs.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Darrell. Don’t worry about her.’

  ‘Where ...?’ I began.

  ‘MTB 452.’

  It took a great deal of thought to get through the mists and remember that MTB stood for Motor Torpedo Boat.

  ‘Navy?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s it, lad. Come on, we’ll turn you over.’

  My hands were free and it felt wonderful. As they turned me I saw another figure lying prone with two men in heavy sweaters working on it. Clarke. The cabin tilted again.

  ‘We’ll soon be home.’ Superintendent Fox stood above me, looking as disenchanted as ever.

  ‘Where’s Poppy?’ I asked again.

  He just went on looking at me, the same expression, and I knew. When he spoke there was a hint of compassion in his voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, Darrell,’ he said. ‘Truly, I’m very sorry. They just couldn’t get to her in time. It’s been touch and go with the Commander and yourself.’

  Chapter Twelve

  It was almost a month before I was completely fit again — bodily fit that is. The tragedy of Poppy’s death took a long while to heal and I suppose is still there under the scar tissue.

  On the day I went down to the office in Whitehall, at the request of Fox and Clarke, the situation in Europe had reached its lowest ebb. There had been statements and the comings and goings of Foreign Ministers. Hitler had made his last territorial claim I have to make in Europe speech. As Churchill was to write later, ‘it seemed that the moment of clash had arrived and that the opposing forces were aligned’. Even as my taxi drew up at the building, the Prime Minister was yet again in Munich making a final bid for peace.