The Hour of the Donkey dda-10

by Anthony Price

  'So . . . you take the child—and the chariot—and tuck 'em away out of sight . . . and come back and have a bit of a kip until eleven-hundred hours, or thereabouts—' Wimpy consulted the Frenchman's watch—because you'll need all the rest you can get—off you go then, there's a good fellow.'

  He watched Wimpy survey his surroundings critically.

  'An absolutely ideal spot . . . plenty of cover right up to the roadside ... if I crawl around from the back, without disturbing the front—I can see up and down the road for half a mile too! Ideal!'

  Unarguably logical. So why argue with it?

  Wimpy turned back to him. 'Look, Harry—I know what you're thinking. But you don't have to prove anything to me, my dear fellow . . . It's simply that this makes sense, that's all.'

  So it did, of course.

  It isn't as though you'll be running away—it's just as vital that someone gets through with the information as it is that someone else puts the kybosh on the bastard. Swopping jobs . . . that would be a nonsense.'

  dummy4

  And so it would be, of course.

  Wimpy half-smiled. 'I always used to tell my boys that nonsense must be wrong—all they had to do was to think logically, because Latin is a logical language. Patriam amamus: eam servabimus— illustrating the use of the pronoun—so I'll do the job. End of lesson—class dismissed, Harry.'

  Class dismissed.

  The nettle stings throbbed as Bastable turned away from the railway line, back to the contemplation of Wimpy's black-suited back half-shrouded by the tall grass and nettles in which he lay.

  He had slept without dreaming at all, but before he had slept he had recalled something which until that moment he hadn't remembered for half his lifetime.

  Mr Voight had promised Form Vc, the bottom French division of no-hopers, that the last class before the exam would be painless—he would read them Maupassant's La Dernière Classe ('classe' feminine—'dernière' e-accent grave-e).

  Not that Vc cared a toss for accents—but wasn't Maupassant that writer of sexy stories who had died of the clap practising what he preached . . . ? Good for Old Voighty!

  Except that he hadn't understood a word of the story; and dummy4

  even those who had puzzled out some of it had dismissed it as a shameless 'have on'; because it wasn't about filles de joie (Vc knew about them) at all, but about boys like themselves having a last French class before the Prussians conquered Alsace-Lorraine and abolished the French language there—

  and Good for the Prussians was Vc's considered verdict on that!

  Only now, by the bridge from Carpy half a life later, Harry Bastable remembered what Henry Bastable had instantly forgotten—the difference Old Voighty had painfully taught them between la classe dernière and la dernière classe!

  Only now it was Wimpy who was teaching him the difference: Wimpy's very last lesson—the last lesson he would teach anyone—wasn't about logic, or about Latin. It was about what sort of man Harry Bastable really was—that was what it was about.

  'Give me the gun, Willis,' said Harry Bastable.

  'They're a bit late,' said Wimpy. 'What?'

  'Give-me-the-gun.'

  Wimpy looked at him quickly. 'Don't let's go through all that again, Harry.' And turned away.

  Bastable crawled alongside him.

  'There isn't time to fuck about now,' said Wimpy.

  'Give me the gun.'

  dummy4

  'Don't be an idiot.'

  'I'm the senior officer.'

  'Balls!'

  'Give me the gun, Willis. That's an order."

  'Balls.'

  'I'm taking the gun, Willis.' Bastable reached out through the nettles. 'Give it to me.'

  'No you're not—there isn't time.'

  'I'm taking it!'

  'Watch out! Christ, man! It'll go off— mind what you're doing!' hissed Wimpy.

  Bastable had the barrel, but Wimpy still had the butt. They wrestled with each other silently, each pushing against the other, fighting for control of the revolver.

  'It'll go off!' gritted Wimpy.

  'Then let go of it!'

  'No!' Their cheeks rasped against one another, sandpaper against sandpaper. 'Don't be a fool, man!'

  Bastable dug his heel into the ground to anchor himself. It occurred to him that Wimpy couldn't do that, not with his bad ankle. In fact ... all he had to do was to kick at that ankle with his other foot—

  Suddenly, Wimpy relaxed against him. He didn't let go of the revolver—he still held it as firmly as ever—but he relaxed, as though the fight had gone out of all of him except that one dummy4

  hand which held the weapon.

  'G—'

  'Sssh!' whispered Wimpy. 'Sssh!'

  Bastable held himself rigid. For ar instant he coud hear only his own heart thump inside his chest. And then—

  A faint crunching? Was it?

  The crunching faded, and then became more distinct.

  I am an idiot, thought Bastable. He' s quite right—

  Wimpy was staring at him: their faces were so close that he could see every detail of Wimpy's features with microscopic sharpness, sweat beaded among the bristles, dirt ingrained into the lines crinkling the skin, the crater of a pock-mark on the cheek-bone—eyes huge with surprise questioning him.

  'Sssh!' Wimpy's free hand pressed down on his back.

  There was something wrong—something more wrong than just that Wimpy was looking at him like this, and not fighting any more. Even his hold on the revolver was weakening.

  'They're...' Wimpy's mouth opened on the word so softly that it was more like a breath than a whisper ' . . . not . . . on the road . . . they're ... in ... the cutting— Harry!'

  In the cutting.

  At the bridge—but not on the bridge.

  Under the bridge.

  Logic, thought Harry Bastable emptily.

  The line ran north-south. The Germans were advancing to dummy4

  the north. It was a good place to meet, under a bridge, out of sight.

  Oh, shit! thought Bastable. The matter had been settled for them by the Germans.

  'Take good care of the child, Willis,' he whispered.

  The revolver came out of Wimpy's hand—Wimpy wasn't even holding it.

  Crunch-crunch-crunch . . . from below them.

  He rolled sideways silently, and then crawled the last yard or two to the fringe of grass-and-nettles at the edge of the cutting.

  There were three of them: one in German uniform, and two in brown leather coats, belted at the waist, and dark snap-brim hats—civilians of some sort—German civilians. This was the German end of the tunnel under the bridge.

  The soldier halted, saluted someone under the bridge, and disappeared from view.

  The civilians also disappeared from view.

  Logic.

  Oh, shit! thought Harry Bastable, and then stopped thinking.

  He got up and stepped over the edge of the cutting, steadying himself for the first second with his free hand on the brickwork as he dropped into space.

  He was conscious in the same second of several physical dummy4

  sensations: the surprising warmth of the bricks under his palm, and their roughness against the nettle-stings; the brightness of the sunshine in the cutting beneath him; the sound of an aeroplane engine droning somewhere up above him.

  The cutting was very steep, but not altogether vertical: it was a green cliff layered in a succession of narrow terraces; and beside the bridge itself, between the terraces, a series of crude footholds had been trodden into slopes.

  His body, not his mind, was in charge of movement and balance. Nevertheless, the fall of the cutting was too great, the terraces too narrow and the footholds too smooth and sloping for him to be in full command of his descent; he could only try to beat gravity by denying it the chance of betraying him—since he was unable to descend slowly he had to do so in a succession of extraordinary leaps, far beyond his normal capabilities.


  The last leap almost jarred the breath out of him as his boots crashed into the granite chippings beside the railway lines.

  Yet his body had been already turning in the air as it fell, and his legs straightened again, driving him into the shadow of the arch above him before the shock-wave could register.

  Someone shouted—

  He had expected the tunnel to be dark— it had seemed pitch-black from the angle above— but it wasn't dark at all; it wasn't a tunnel at all—it was only a high-arched bridge, with the sunshine streaming into it—

  dummy4

  There were men left and right of him, staring at him in astonishment. He swung the revolver left and right, searching for khaki-and-red-tabs—but encountering only a brown leather coat: it fell away from him is though it had been jerked from behind—but there was no khaki-and-red-tabs that side—Christ! there was no khaki at all—only civilians— Christ!—

  'What the devil—?' began the Brigadier angrily.

  The Brigadier was wearing a pork-pie hat, and a sports jacket, and a striped tie.

  'Traitor!' shouted Bastable, and pointed the revolver at the Brigadier, stiff-armed across the railway lines, and shot him twice in the face.

  The force of the bullets hurled the Brigadier backwards into the civilian behind him. Bastable's head was filled with a loud ringing noise, but he was aware of the other brown coat coming at him. He dodged sideways and threw the empty revolver at the German soldier, who was standing in his way

  — and ran—

  Sunlight burst around him.

  And ran—

  He was twenty yards—thirty yards—out into the cutting before any shred of thought came back to him.

  He was running, his boots crashing and crunching into the granite chippings beneath him. The silver railway lines stretched away ahead of him, shimmering into infinity—

  dummy4

  there was a small concrete hut recessed into the side of the cutting just ahead, which he didn't recognize—it was alongside—he had passed it—

  He had run right through the bridge, and now he was heading north, towards, the British lines! Towards safety!

  The cutting was coming to an end; he could see the edge of it dropping, and the land opening up on each side—

  There was someone running behind him!

  The air pounded in his chest painfully— he must go on running—if he could only go on running—he had run away before—he had escaped before!

  But he was weaker now. All the weary miles and hours, and the lack of sleep and proper food, and all the fears which had sapped his strength, were accumulating in his legs now, slowing him down.

  He looked from one side of the shallower cutting to the other, to the lines of the embankment ahead: on this side was open country, but there were trees and there was undergrowth on the other. His pursuer would run him down in the open, but in those bushes—perhaps— perhaps—

  'Stop!'

  The bushes were nearer. Just a few more yards, and he could cross the line and throw himself into them—down the embankment—

  'Stop ... or I fire!'

  dummy4

  — only ten yards away. Nothing in the world was going to stop him now— not lead nor steel—

  He altered direction slightly, to leap across the lines.

  First one line—the sleepers were black and greasy-looking, and he judged their distance to match his running strides, to avoid them .. Now the other one—he heard the shot behind him as he leaped, and knew that it had missed him a fraction of a second before the toe of his boot caught the edge of the line. For the following fraction he was airborne, legs lost behind him; then he crashed headlong into the granite chippings, their sharp edges tearing into his chin and his palms and his knees.

  He tried to get up, scrabbling at the chippings, but his leg gave way under him.

  'Halt! Don't move!'

  The voice was at his back. He stared at the bushes in front of him with utter despair.

  'Are you hit? Did I hit you?'

  Bastable sank sideways on to one buttock and one hand, and looked his pursuer in the face.

  Sandy hair—no hat—double-breasted grey suit, bad ly cut, with a foreign look, but the voice was unmistakably British.

  The sharp-faced staff captain, remembered Bastable belatedly. He wasn 't there in the farmyard with the Germans so I forgot all about him! I should have saved the second bullet for him! But now it was a million years too late.

  dummy4

  'English?' Sandy-hair was sweating, red-faced and breathless.

  He didn't have to answer. It was all the same now. It was finished. It didn't matter what he said.

  'Get stuffed!' he said.

  Sandy-hair nodded. 'English. Who are you?'

  Damn! He should have held his tongue.

  'Ten seconds.' Sandy-hair pointed the pistol.

  Bastable was disappointed to discover that he was still very frightened, even though it didn't matter any more. On the other hand, maybe it did matter: if the swine was still on the look-out for Wimpy—for Captain W. M. Willis—there was one thing he could do that might help. One last thing.

  'Willis,' he said.

  Sandy-hair's jaw dropped. 'Willis?'

  Bastable nodded. 'W. M. Willis. Captain, Prince Regent's Own South Downs Fusiliers,' he said defiantly. He was rather pleased with his own cleverness; it was satisfying to know that he had done one clever thing, worthy of Wimpy himself, even if it was the very last thing he did.

  Now all he had to do was to keep his mouth shut, so as not to give himself away. But as he usually didn't know what to say that shouldn't prove difficult.

  Sandy-hair was frowning at him. 'Willis?' he repeated to himself as though he couldn't believe his ears. And then he dummy4

  looked quickly down the track and held up his hand. 'Go back! It's all right—go back!'

  He looked at Bastable again. 'Willis?'

  It was as good a name as any other to die under.

  'My God!' murmured Sandy-hair. And looked down the line again quickly—and back to Bastable again. 'Fall— like you're dead— now!' He raised the pistol. 'Now! Willis— now!'

  The order was so categorical that Bastable obeyed it without thinking, letting himself fall flat on his back. And before he could question his own irrational obedience the pistol jerked above him with a loud cracking sound—the blast from its muzzle hit his face and granite chips struck his ear like stinging nettles. He flinched at the shock and tensed himself against the impact of the bullet he would never hear.

  ' Lie still.' Sandy-hair hissed, bending over him, fumbling at the buttons of his denim jacket. 'Where's your identification?'

  Identification?

  He had no identification—

  'For God's sake—where's your identification?'

  'Trouser pocket!' Bastable heard himself say to the blurred red face and blue sky above him, without knowing what he was saying.

  The hands left his chest: they patted the pockets of his denim trousers, and felt a lump in one of them—a knotted lump which, until this confusion of light and thought in his brain, hadn't been in any conscious reckoning there.

  dummy4

  Sandy-hair retrieved the lump—the lump unravelled itself above Bastable as Sandy-hair stood up, into the primrose-yellow-and-dove-grey lanyard of the Prince Regent's Own South Downs Fusiliers— the symbol of pride and privilege!

  'Lie still. ..' Sandy-hair looked down at him again—and then away again, and waved down the track. '. .. stay dead until I come back ... if I come back ... or we'll both be dead, Willis—

  savvy?'

  Bastable heard the chippings crunch once more, away into a distance of sound made up of aeroplane-drone and the blood in his own ear-drums.

  He had been dead so many times that being dead was no longer a burden, it was a memory drilled into him by long practice and experience. So many pieces of him had died along the way, during these last hours, that another piece made no difference. One p
iece lay under the carrier, and another was among the Tynesiders and Germans on the grass behind the field hospital, where he had dropped the lanyard—and picked it up; and another piece remained in the attic, with his uniform, where he had consciously-unconsciously transferred the lanyard from one pocket to another—

  the last surviving piece of his identity as himself.

  And now even that was gone. He was stripped bare to the bone in the sunlight, full of separate pains—hands and knees and face stinging, the unyielding stones beneath him digging dummy4

  into his aching back.

  Yet the pains were as nothing compared with the utter bewilderment he was experiencing; rather, they were the spur to an awareness that he was still alive, when he should be finally dead at last. For although he could otherwise have argued with himself that some fragment of consciousness might still continue after death-that the brain might continue kicking and twitching with thoughts as darkness closed in—

  he could not reconcile such an imagining with the ordinary discomfort he continued to feel.

  He was alive, when he ought to be dead.

  Sandy-hair had quite deliberately spared him, when that should have been the coup-de-grace—

  And more, and more confusing than that: Sandy-hair had quite deliberately pretended to kill him—

  'Lie still! Stay dead until I come back!'

  It didn't make sense.

  For it had been Sandy-hair who had fired at him from behind, as he had jumped the rails; and it had been that which had made him miss his footing and fall.

  But then Sandy-hair had fired that second time—but to miss

  —

  It didn't make sense, and the nonsense of it made his head ache with the effort of thinking about it.

  And now Sandy-hair had returned to his German friends, to complete whatever treason he was transacting with them . . .

  dummy4

  It didn't make any sense at all.

  Time was passing.

  He toyed with the idea of seizing this opportunity to start running again—to spring to life and start running— but finally rejected it as unsound. He dare not move to test the strength of his leg, which he had damaged in his fall, but he could add its likely weakness to the greater tiredness and lassitude which enveloped him, and to the doubts within him; and the addition told him that if he ran he would not run far before they caught him.