The first copper’s eyes met Rossett’s, and he half drew his truncheon slowly from his pocket.
The sound of the café faded into the background. The young copper lifted his left hand and indicated that Rossett should remain calm by wafting it slightly, as if he were gently patting a horse.
Rossett wasn’t a horse.
He was a lion.
And you should never pat a lion.
Rossett grabbed a bowl of scouse from under the chin of a man sitting next to him and shoved the woman who was still blocking his way. She sprawled across another table, knocking food and drink onto the floor at the feet of the copper with the truncheon.
Instinct made the copper reach for the woman as she fell, and as he leaned forward, eyes still on Rossett, he got the bowl of scouse into the side of his head.
A chopping right hand followed the food, and the copper landed hard on top of the woman, who started screaming the place down. Rossett moved quickly across the café, dodging between the cowering diners, eyes on the second policeman. The copper took a step back and to the side as he lifted his truncheon and held out one hand.
Rossett feinted, twisted, slipped the swipe of the truncheon, and then punched the copper in the solar plexus.
The copper went down in a heap.
Rossett was at the door almost before he heard the policeman’s truncheon hit the floor.
He stepped out onto the curb and saw a police car half blocking the road outside the café. The driver’s door was open, and the driver himself was talking into a police radiotelephone, one foot on the curb as he sat on the red leather seat.
He looked at Rossett.
Rossett kicked the door shut against his leg, then grabbed the frame, opened the door a few inches, grabbed the copper by the hair, and slammed the door against his head twice.
The driver fell back into the car, as the café door opened behind Rossett. The first copper emerged, food down his tunic, blood down his face. He came at Rossett fast, head down, an angry bull, shouting with anger, intent on driving Rossett into the side of the car.
Rossett stepped left and rolled the copper past him, then halfway across the hood of the car. He hit hard, turned, and then tried to grab at Rossett’s coat. Rossett sidestepped again, pushed away the copper’s hand, and hooked his right hand just behind the copper’s ear.
The policeman sprawled onto the hood, then slid to the ground. He wasn’t out cold, but he was out of the fight. He held up a hand to shield the side of his head and scrabbled away a few inches.
Rossett started to run.
High stepping, puddle splashing, sprinting through the crowds sort of running. He could hear sirens in the distance. They sounded like they were coming from everywhere as they bounced off the tall buildings on either side of him. He turned a corner, knocked a man to the ground but didn’t bother to stop. He could see a tram up ahead, threading its way through the traffic on silver rails that glinted in the cold, wet blackness of the road.
Rossett dodged between two parked cars into the street, aiming for the open platform at the back of the tram.
He didn’t care where it was going, he just wanted to be on it.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw an Opel Blitz truck behind him, juddering to a stop by the café.
SS.
Either they were monitoring the police radio or Evans had tipped them off.
Fuck.
Rossett pushed harder for the tram, head down, doing his best to catch it before it picked up too much speed. His fingers pointed as the run became a sprint, then a tumble, then a roll, and then finally, a sprawl onto the floor.
A car door had clipped him on the left leg. He was stunned, but still managed to scrabble up onto all fours. He looked at the car that had hit him. It was maybe fifteen feet ahead. A battered old Rover saloon, green matte paint with scratches of rust on the rear fenders.
Both front doors were open, as a hint of blue exhaust smoke made his nose crinkle. Rossett made to get to his feet, then froze as he felt a pistol push hard into the right side of his neck.
“Need a lift, Lion?” The Bear grabbed a handful of his coat and dragged him up off the ground. “I think I’m heading your way.”
Chapter 12
Time had long left Neumann. Hours and minutes had drifted away to become nothing but meaningless words bouncing around his brain. He was cold. Incredibly cold. Shivering didn’t seem enough. His jaw ached from being clenched for so long.
He rolled onto his stomach. Whatever kind of box they had locked him in was rough and dragged at his skin.
Was it wood?
A coffin?
He couldn’t remember.
He could only manage to hold the position for a few seconds before he had to roll again, this time onto his other shoulder.
It ached.
He shifted, trying to find a spot that wasn’t tender. He couldn’t. He started to shiver again and fought the urge to scream. The sack on his head was making his scalp itch. He scrubbed against it by moving his head and felt the string at the bottom dig into his neck.
“Maybe I can hang myself?”
Neumann wondered if he had spoken out loud.
“Hello?” This time he spoke clearly, testing the sound, comparing it to what he thought he had heard.
“Jesus,” he whispered. “I’ve only been here a few hours and I am going mad.”
He rolled back again, banging his head. He ignored the dig of the handcuffs and pressed against the bottom of the box as hard as he could. His head hit the top of the box.
“Fuck.” Loud this time, the top of his voice. “Just kill me!”
Nothing.
Nothing but the rasp of his lungs.
No reply, nobody was there, he was alone.
He was going to die.
He started to shake again.
This wasn’t how it was meant to be. He wasn’t a bad man. Sure, he was part of the occupation, but he wasn’t a Nazi. He just did his job. He was a policeman, and the law was the law.
He didn’t make it.
He just enforced it.
Neumann lightly banged his head against the box.
It wasn’t fair.
The sound of footsteps woke Neumann up.
He jerked, hit his head, then rolled over so that he would be lying on his side when they opened the box. He lay still. Someone was rattling a padlock.
Maybe he should lie on his back?
Neumann started to roll over, but the light flooded in and beat him to it. Someone grabbed his naked shoulder and maneuvered him up into a sitting position.
“Please,” he said in German, before the confusion cleared and he repeated it in English. “Please . . . no.”
They didn’t reply.
He knew it was “they” because there were now two of them. One on either side, hands under his armpits, lifting him out of the box. Neumann cried out as the handcuffs dug into his wrists. His legs were numb and couldn’t hold him up, so he sank onto the ground in a half-sitting heap. Someone pulled at the sack. The string caught his chin and cracked his teeth together as it scraped past.
He kept his eyes shut and let his head fall forward.
He was in danger of falling over until one of them gripped his shoulder and straightened him up again with a shake.
“Open your eyes.”
His head lolled on loose shoulders, then lifted a few inches to look up.
Neumann blinked. He was in what looked like a workroom. There was a selection of rusty tools hanging on various hooks and a battered bench that went around three of the twelve-foot-long walls. The ceiling was old, cracked, blackened at the edges and showing signs of smoke damage where it met the wood-paneled walls.
Cobwebs filled the corners, and the boards he was sitting on were worn smooth by years of work boots and shuffling.
Neumann looked up at one of the men.
“I need a drink.”
“In a minute.”
“Are you going to kill
me?”
“Quiet.”
“I’ll be good.”
“I’ll get you a drink in a minute.”
“I’m not a Nazi.”
“Quiet.”
“Please. I have a family.”
The guard slapped the side of Neumann’s head so hard the room spun, and he had to squint to push down the pain in his ear. It took him a moment, then he opened his eyes and stared at the floor.
“D-don’t hit him.” A woman’s voice, behind him.
“I only gave him a tap.”
“D-don’t hit him,” the woman said again. “Not yet.”
Not yet? Neumann turned his head to look over his shoulder, trying to see the doorway behind him. He couldn’t, so he shifted a little and felt the hands on his shoulders tighten and push him down. He looked up at the man who had struck him, then tried to turn again, this time slightly slower.
He didn’t have to.
She was coming around. The same limp, but not as bad as it was when he had first seen her with the cart talking to Rossett. Back in the alleyway, when they had been lost and looking for directions.
He felt ashamed, vulnerable. His nakedness weakened him and he tried to shrink before her.
She sat down on a stool Neumann hadn’t noticed before. Her chin jutted an inch, twisted, then came under control again as she settled. She stared at him with eyes that were so perfectly blue, they looked out of place on a broken body.
She opened her mouth, a fraction too wide, and spoke.
“Are you scared?”
Neumann nodded.
“You should be. We’re the r-resistance.” Her chin lifted half an inch and twisted slightly to the left with the stammer.
“Please, I’m just a—”
“Shush. You might not have many w-words left to say, so don’t waste them. Understand?”
Neumann nodded.
“J-just answer my questions.”
“Yes.”
She paused, watching him for a moment, before speaking again. “What do you see w-when you look at me?”
Neumann stared.
“I . . . I don’t know. A woman. I don’t know.”
“What do you see?”
“A woman.” Neumann tried to sound a little more confident this time.
He failed.
“And?” She spoke softly and economically, as if the breath that carried her words was in short supply.
“I don’t know.”
“What am I?” she tried to help him.
“Resistance?” Neumann was floundering, not understanding.
“No.” She lifted a wavering hand and wafted it down her broken body. “What’s wrong with me?”
“I . . . I don’t . . .”
“You know it. S-say it. Go on, it’s okay.”
“I don’t know the English word?”
She smiled a crooked smile, looked at the two men holding him, and then placed her fluttering hands between her knees and leaned forward a little on the stool.
“S-spastic.” Quietly, a slight stutter on the first S. “You say it.”
“Spastic.”
“Good.” She smiled again. “You say it better than me. Now, d-do you think my body makes me weak?”
“No . . . I don’t, honestly. I’m not a Nazi. I don’t.”
“You think I’m w-weak.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“No.” Neumann looked up at the men holding him. “Please, I’m just a policeman . . .”
“D-don’t talk to them, talk to me.”
Neumann looked at her. “Please, I’m just a policeman.”
“Say I’m weak.”
“No, I don’t—”
“Say it. Go on, please, say it.”
“I think you’re weak.”
“You’re right.” She leaned back, lifted her right hand, and tried to smooth her short blond hair. She almost missed her head, such was the sudden convulsion of movement that hit her. She held up her hand, studied it herself, and then offered it toward Neumann. “My b-body is weak; you could snap this wrist like a twig. See?” The hand flickered and then turned. They both watched as the frail fingers folded and clenched into a fist.
“I’m strong, though.” She pulled the fist to her chest. “Strong inside, deep, w-where you can’t see it. I’ve been fighting since my first breath, and then every breath since. Every step, every stumble, every m-move, every word. I might be frail to your eyes”—she leaned forward again and tapped her fist against her breast—“but I am iron inside. Do you understand me?”
Neumann nodded.
“So do as I say, take me at my w-word, and answer my questions. Yes?”
Neumann nodded.
“So, tell me Generalmajor N-Neumann, where is the gold?”
Chapter 13
“Aren’t you going to ask how I found you?”
“What does it matter?”
The Bear nodded. “You’re right, I’m showing off. It isn’t important.”
“If you’re going to kill me, just do it. I really can’t be arsed sitting here listening to speeches.”
They were sitting in a derelict warehouse, just the two of them, the Lion and the Bear, a few miles away from the city center. To Rossett’s left a hole had been blasted in the thick brick wall. Through it he could see the River Mersey. Dusk had settled, and a thin blanket of mist was putting the dirty old river to bed for the night.
A few lights blinked on the far bank, maybe a half mile away. The cold air blowing through the hole smelled of dead seagulls, smoke, and spilled oil. Rossett’s skin felt like it was coated damp with the salt of the sea beyond Liverpool Bay. He wanted to wipe the sheen from his face, but the handcuffs holding his arms behind his back meant the best he could do was swipe a cheek against a shoulder.
The Bear had lit a fire in an old oil drum. It popped as some damp timber cracked.
“I’m not going to kill you.” The fire lit the Bear’s face from below. “I just saved your life. What would be the point?”
“So what do you want?”
“I wanted to speak to you, to get to know you. See if you are what they say you are, and if so, make you an offer.”
“With a gun in your hand?”
The Bear looked at the Mauser and then slipped it into his pocket. “I apologize, that was rude of me. Like I told you at the garrison during the interview, I’ve read all about you. The newspapers, the stuff in the comics they make for the kids, all of it. I’ve read everything about you. So what I need to know is: Is it true?”
Rossett shook his head, then heard the scratch and scuffle of a rat foraging behind him. He was sitting on a low pile of bricks, and the rodent sounded close. He turned and looked into the dancing shadows being thrown by the fire, but the rat remained invisible.
He looked back at the Bear.
“Aren’t you worried someone will see the flame?”
“Why should I be?”
“They might come looking for the idiot who lit it.”
“When you are at the top of the food chain, you don’t worry about being found. You see people hunting you as prey, saving you the hunt. You should know that.”
The rat scuttled again. This time it sounded closer, and Rossett worried about his cold fingertips, and turned to look again.
“Do rats bother you?” the Bear asked.
“Their teeth do.”
“People hate them.” The Bear was sitting on a low milking stool on the other side of the fire. He peered into the gloom beyond Rossett, taking his turn to scour the shadows for the rat. “I don’t. I admire them. They are survivors.” Smoke drifted past the Bear’s face as he looked at Rossett. “Just like you and me.”
“They aren’t top of the food chain.”
“You see any cats around here?”
Rossett shifted on the rubble pile. “So you’re a rat?”
“I’m a bear, and you are a lion.” Bauer smiled. “It’s exciting, isn’t it? Together at las
t, the bear and the lion.”
Rossett didn’t reply.
The Bear frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “How’s the head?”
“Fine.”
“When I was watching you, down at the Pier Head, just before the shooting started, you kept touching it. Did they x-ray for fractures?”
“That was you at the Pier Head?”
“I was looking after you.”
“You knew I’d be there?”
“I knew they would kill the people they had rounded up, and I knew they would want to kill you as well. It’s what they do.”
“So you knew I would be there.”
“I told you about the gold, therefore Dannecker wants you dead, and that was the perfect way to arrange it.”
Rossett didn’t reply, so the Bear continued.
“I saw the cameraman. Dannecker is clever; now he has footage of you trying to stop the execution. Even though he didn’t kill you, he now has the means to make you look like a traitor.”
“I’ve been a traitor for a long time.”
“Yes, but this time, you are a traitor to the Germans, and that’s a much more dangerous proposition.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
The Bear smiled and pointed to his head again.
“Did they x-ray it?”
“No.”
“Would you like me to take a look?”
“No.”
“I have medical supplies. An aspirin, maybe?”
“Shove it up your arse.”
The Bear laughed as the fire popped again, and the smoke made Rossett want a drink. He stared through the flames at the Bear, who apparently read his mind: he reached down and produced a quarter bottle of what looked like Scotch from the floor by his feet.
“Medicinal?” The Bear waggled the bottle.
Rossett didn’t reply, so the Bear put the bottle back on the floor unopened. He held out his hands to the fire and warmed them before speaking again. “I wanted to see how you reacted.”
“To what?”
“All that killing. The buildup, and then the prisoners being shot. I wanted to watch how you handled it.”
“I’ve seen people being shot before.”
“Yes, but not like that.”
“You think so? I was in France, after the collapse, and during the mopping up of what was left of the Expeditionary Force.”
An Army of One: A John Rossett Novel Page 17