Betrayal

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘Berlin have been asking questions, Mrs. Fraser. If you’d thought to go to Dublin like you said you would, you’d have found that out.’

  ‘I’ve already told you …’

  Nolan pulled out her coat. ‘Berlin are being difficult. They want the names of all of Kramer’s superior officers—the German High Command in Tralane. They want proof that you’ve met with them. Get it!’

  He tossed her coat on top of the others, looked as if he’d like to kill her and leave her body lying there.

  ‘You and that husband of yours be out of here no later than one fifteen.’

  Dear God, a bomb? Nolan could see the thought racing through that velvet mind like lightning.

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ he heard her say, she trying hard not to cry. ‘You couldn’t.’

  Had her voice betrayed her feelings far more than the moisture that had collected in those lovely bedroom eyes of hers?

  When he stood behind her, his breath was warm and as he touched her dress, she couldn’t help but flinch.

  She did smell nice, thought Nolan, her hair like silk. He’d brush a hand down her arm, would let her think he’d mess with her. ‘You want to watch out for Kevin, Mrs. Fraser.’

  A bomb … Nolan had planted one in the house. It was in the smile he gave, in the way he was watching to see what she’d do. Turning quickly, she faced him, he stepping back a pace and instantly losing the smile. ‘If you set off a bomb in here, everything at Tralane changes. They won’t let me in because they won’t be around to do so.’

  ‘Or there’ll be such a state of emergency they’ll have turned the whole of Ulster inside out—is that it, Mrs. Fraser?’

  ‘You know it is. Look, please! For the love of God …’

  ‘Whose god? Why should I listen to any talk of God from the likes of you?’

  Mary ducked but he didn’t hit her.

  ‘Maybe the Germans want us to blow this place to smithereens, Mrs. Fraser, maybe they think that copping this lot is a far better job than bagging that lover of yours, but it’s leaving you with the thought, I am. Good hunting.’

  ‘Nolan, please don’t do this to me. My husband … the others …’

  Right enough she could see the shambles the bomb would leave and hear the cries for help.

  ‘Just tell me what you want of me.’

  She had said it like a woman down on her hands and knees. ‘Everything, Mrs. Fraser. Every little thing we ask.’ He’d let her feel his lips brush over hers, would put a hand at the base of her throat, then both of them on those breasts of hers while feeling for the bullet.

  ‘Don’t, please don’t.’

  ‘Just remember what I said.’

  The room was in darkness. Every second of every minute ticked away. Mary wished she’d not hear them, wished she didn’t have the image of what must happen. All the upstairs rooms but one had been gone through and done as best she could, the bedroom with the coats first, she thinking that he could well have left it there in a box or hamper under the bed or tucked into one of the closets, but the trouble was, of course, that Dotty Bannerman and the colonel had umpteen boxes and suitcases and she couldn’t possibly look in all of them, had been so afraid, too, that someone would find her at it and demand to know the truth.

  Feeling for the light switch, murmuring came to her, sweet nothings, hot kisses and then, ‘Oh that’s lovely, Jack. You’ve such a grand one.’

  They were going at it on one of the twin beds in Colonel and Mrs. Bannerman’s room. Maevis had her knickers looped around an ankle. Her stockinged knees were up and Jack, with his trousers down, was lying between them, his face buried in the girl’s breasts, she clutching him by the seat.

  Blinding them momentarily with the light, Mary stammered, ‘Oh, sorry.’ Blushing crimson and feeling utterly stupid, she backed out but forgot about the light, Maevis saying, ‘Shit! It’s that doctor’s wife,’ but going right back to it.

  Pressing her forehead against the door, her hand still on the knob, Mary heard herself whisper, ‘Please help me find it.’ She couldn’t tell the colonel and the major that there was a bomb in the house. They’d ask her how she knew of it, and she’d have to tell them everything as everyone else ran outside.

  It was 12.37 a.m. Straightening, she dried her eyes. If all else failed, she would tell them to clear the house with ten minutes to spare.

  Then she would stay inside all by herself and that would be the end of it.

  There were two telephones in the house. One at the foot of the stairs, she coming down them now, the other in the study. She could say she’d been passing by and had heard the thing ring. An anonymous caller, a tip-off. Didn’t the IRA sometimes do that, especially if they knew the bomb could not possibly be found in time?

  ‘Phone’s out of order, Miss. Captain Allanby’s attending to it. Wind must have blown a line down.’

  A line … She’d forgotten all about Jimmy’s being at the party.

  Mary set the phone down. ‘Thanks. It doesn’t matter. I was just going to check with Mrs. Haney, our cook-housekeeper. She and her husband are staying with Caithleen.’

  ‘It’s grand news about the colonel’s sons, miss. The party will be certain to go till dawn.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it will.’

  If she told them about the bomb, she’d betray the IRA and Fay Darcy would make sure they got their hands on her. If she didn’t tell them, there’d be chaos at precisely 1.16 a.m.

  ‘You’re enjoying yourself, Mary?’

  ‘Hamish, shouldn’t we be going?’

  ‘Och no, lass. The night has only begun.’

  Somehow she had found her way into the breakfast nook. Hamish was courting a bottle of single malt he’d pinched from the colonel’s private store, was mellow by the look, not four sheets to the wind yet, but no doubt very near to it.

  ‘You look particularly beautiful,’ he said. ‘The major, here, was only just saying it.’

  Trant lifted his glass in a silent salute as sober as a judge and damn Hamish for getting himself pissed at a time like this! ‘I think you’ve had enough,’ she said, the fishwife again and knowing only that he’d rebel.

  ‘Come and join us, lass. The major was saying you were being most helpful.’

  Trant took in the stark beauty of despair, the haunted look of a woman on the run. ‘Yes, please do.’

  ‘I can’t. If you’ll excuse me, Major, I’ll go back to the dancing.’

  He pointed the way and when she went into the kitchen, patted the husband’s arm in farewell and got up to follow her. She was looking at the kitchen waste, then in under the sinks, then up in the cupboards, first one and then another and with no time to lose, the staff being nudged out of the way if necessary and no explanations given.

  She settled on two cardboard boxes that had been left beside the outer door, hardly had time to ask what they contained and when she heard, ‘Favours for the ladies and gents, miss,’ snatched up a knife and cut the strings.

  Then her fingers went to a nervous stillness Trant found curious, for they had paused over the first of the boxes.

  She teased the lid open—didn’t have a care about getting that frock of hers dirty. Just knelt on the floor and began gingerly to take up each of the brightly wrapped packages. Some were smaller than others—cufflinks, no doubt. Others were lipstick size or longer and wider—pen-and-pencil sets perhaps. There were name cards and she glanced at one of these before leaving the first box to open the second.

  ‘Looking for something, are we?’ he asked, startling her.

  ‘My gift,’ she said, having turned back to the box. ‘And Hamish’s, Major. He has to be at the hospital in Newry first thing tomorrow. If I don’t get him home …’

  It was no use, and Trant had seen this clearly enough. Hamish didn’t ever need to be at that hospital or any other than Trala
ne’s. Even here in Northern Ireland, the Royal Society of Medicine had taken that privilege away. Besides, he’d be drunk in any case.

  ‘I just want to go home, Major. If you must know, I’m worried about Caithleen.’

  ‘Then let me help you. One mustn’t leave without one’s favour.’ What the devil was the matter with her?

  They found Fraser’s cufflinks and she set that one aside on the floor. ‘And this is yours, I believe,’ he said, handing the thing to her, she awkwardly taking it from him.

  ‘Major …’

  ‘Yes?’

  She winced. ‘Would you have the time, please?’

  The time. She’d a watch on her wrist and the clock up there on the wall. ‘Zero one hundred hours, near enough.’

  ‘Thanks. Now if you’ll excuse me, I … I have something to do.’

  She ran from him, completely forgetting the much sought after favours. She was in the men’s coatroom when he found her madly going through the pockets, she saying overly loudly that she simply had to find Fraser’s car keys.

  There were boots and shoes and walking sticks and mack’s, caps and guns, Bannerman’s Webley service revolver, his own as well. ‘Mrs. Fraser, why not tell me what you’re really looking for?’

  Mary glanced at her watch and pushed past him, heading for the living room, the sound of music and laughter growing, Maevis and Jack coming down the stairs but still looking flushed and turning quickly away so as to avoid her, Erin Ross and Christopher Blakely being nowhere in sight.

  ‘Mrs. Fraser? Mrs. Mary Ellen Fraser?’

  ‘She’s over here,’ shouted someone.

  Blakely gave her a generous smile, so kind and understanding she wanted to scream at him to get out of the house.

  ‘Mrs. Fraser?’

  It was one of the waiters. ‘M’am, you’re wanted on the telephone.’

  ‘But … but the line’s been disconnected?’

  ‘Line’s been reconnected, m’am. You can take the call in the colonel’s study if you wish. I’ll show you the way.’

  It was 1.13 a.m. Mary hesitated. She wanted to shout, ‘There’s a bomb in the house!’

  The telephone was warm but the line was dead. Thoughts of Hamish came to her, she wishing he was holding her, but of course he wasn’t anywhere near, and when she went into the breakfast nook, he was no longer there, nor in the conservatory.

  There was now less than half a minute left. As she ran towards the music to warn everyone, she banged into one of the waiters, heard the telephone ringing again even as it was answered and her name being called out again.

  There was a cardboard box tucked against the bottom of a radiator and under a chair in the foyer. Had she not come this way, she would never have seen it.

  ‘The telephone, Mrs. Fraser.’

  The box was heavy. ‘It’s all right,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Just tell whomever it is that I’ve left for home.’

  Seeing her letting herself out of the house, he called after her, ‘Mrs. Fraser, m’am, he says you’re to put the cake in the boot of your motorcar, that it’s a present for Caithleen O’Neill.’

  The rain beat against the car, the sound of it hammering in her head. Nothing had happened. Somehow she had made it to the car and had driven some distance from the house, only to stop at the side of the road and wait, herself saying, ‘Hamish, forgive me. I did love you, my darling. You’ve been so good to me and I’ve been such a fool.’

  The road ahead was lit up slightly by the headlamps. The wiper blades made their passes over the windscreen. Looking like the spun grey-blonde of an old woman’s hair, the tall grasses along the verge had been beaten down.

  Glancing at her watch, Mary leaned forward so that the faint glow from the dash would help, then switched on the overhead Hamish had yet to disconnect.

  It was 1.57 a.m. and nothing had happened. Slowly, as in some horrible dream, she opened the box and took out the bundles, each of six sticks but there were no wires, no clock timer, no fuse, just the gelignite that was wrapped in stiffened, waxed brown paper, the bundles bound by electrician’s black tape.

  Nolan could so easily have blown them all to pieces. It was just a ‘present’ for Caithleen and yet another lesson for herself.

  When her head began to fiercely ache, she rolled down the side windscreen, drank in the fresh air, but still sat with the bundles on the seat beside her not knowing what she was going to do.

  How had the second caller known she’d found the box? The man who had answered the telephone must have told him.

  In spite of the smell, which was like no other, she tucked one of the bundles under the front seat, pushing it well back of the wiper rags and tools Hamish had there. Then she closed the lid of the box and, turning the car around, drove slowly back to the house, trying desperately to clear her head of the fumes and to think, not panic.

  Jimmy was standing in the rain with a torch and for a moment she didn’t know what to say to him, just wanted to run and wait for the bullet to hit her between the shoulders. He had that look about him.

  ‘Jimmy, I’ve found a bomb. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell anyone about it, but the caller didn’t give me much time. The only thing is, it didn’t go off when it should have. There are no fuses, no wires, no timer. Just some sticks of explosive.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘Caithleen, I suppose. He did say it was a present for her.’

  ‘And you took it where?’

  ‘Down the road a piece.’

  ‘You stupid, stupid woman. You could have been blown to bits!’

  That instant told her much. Jimmy wasn’t just interested in her but desperately in love. She saw it in the anger not just at her but at himself, in the way he yanked the box from her, in the defeat as he held it, the hope she’d understand how he felt and why it was hurting him.

  ‘Say nothing of this,’ he all but shouted, angered by her lack of response. ‘Let the colonel and his wife enjoy themselves. He’ll know soon enough.’

  ‘Will you help me to get Hamish home when the time comes?’

  Had it been a particle of yielding on her part? ‘Yes. Yes, of course, I’d be glad to.’

  Had she crossed a watershed? wondered Mary, struck by the thought, for now she couldn’t tell him of the sticks she’d hidden, could tell no one of them, certainly not Nolan. But … but Jimmy wouldn’t want to make too much of the incident, not when he’d been in charge of security, so at least that was something. She’d best leave the side windscreen rolled down the half, though, as if she’d forgotten all about it.

  The tea was hot and sweet, and she took it in the Bannermans’ kitchen not knowing really how long she had been sitting here. The cooks had left plates of sandwiches. The major had set an egg salad in front of her. There were two oatmeal biscuits as well but she knew she mustn’t eat a thing.

  She was very frightened and vulnerable, thought Trant. Jimmy had been slack—damned bad form for a man as good as he was. She had had two telephone calls, she’d said, but neither of them had been before she’d begun to hunt for that bomb, and why in God’s name had the IRA not chosen to set the bloody thing off? To simply place a dozen sticks of gelignite in a cardboard box and throw the fear of the Lord into them didn’t really make much sense, but he would have to leave all that for now. She had clearly been through enough. ‘You ought, really, to get a medal for what you did. There are just a few questions I’d like to ask, but we can go over them another time.’

  He set the favours on the table beside her sandwich, two brightly wrapped packages she couldn’t have cared less about. Silly things, pathetic things, by the look she gave. ‘Haven’t they found Hamish yet?’ she asked.

  ‘Now just rest easy. The doctor will be found.’

  Dead? she seemed to silently ask, but then she ducked away to the cup and saucer in her lap. Wishing he could p
ursue things, Trant knew it wouldn’t be right of him and that he would just have to wait.

  Somehow Mary finished the tea. The two Wrens came in to put the kettles on, so the party must be winding down. ‘Major, what time is it?’ she asked, knowing her voice must sound empty.

  ‘Just after zero three hundred hours. Why not let me have one of the men drive you home? The doctor can then pick up the car when he’s feeling better.’

  And not drunk, was that it? ‘I’m really all right, thanks. If I could just sit here quietly, I’d appreciate it.’

  Jimmy and the major had kept the bomb to themselves. The Wrens looked as if they had had a smashing time. Both were bright-eyed, tussle-haired girls in their early twenties. After all, it was a young person’s war and one had to take one’s fun whenever the opportunity arose.

  Trant went off to see about something and when one of the corporals who had been on sentry duty came to fetch her, she got up without a murmur. Jimmy would want her to see the condition he’d found Hamish in, but had Fay Darcy and the others hurt him or had he simply clutched that bottle by the neck as he’d stumbled blindly away to fall flat on his face among the cowpats?

  Behind the topiary and the fishponds there were more of the rose arbours, and beyond them some walls, the kitchen gardens, the orchard and Mrs. Bannerman’s potting shed.

  Jimmy was waiting for them. There was another man with him, the two standing in the darkness beneath one of the trees. Trant? she wondered, the strong cider smell of the apples reminding her of their own orchard.

  The corporal switched off his torch, Jimmy wanting it this way.

  ‘Mary, it’s not what you think.’

  Mary! as if that sort of familiarity could ever have existed. ‘Captain, I don’t understand? Look, I’ve had enough for one night. What the hell do you mean: It’s not what I think?’

  Someone swung the beam of a torch over the potting shed. The door had been broken open, the panes of glass in its top half having shattered. Splintered wood lay about the lock but nobody in creation ever bothered to lock up a potting shed. The door had been kicked in by the flat of someone’s shoe.