by Ed Church
He tried again to lift a hand to his cold head. It worked this time. But… his head wasn’t how he remembered it. There was a channel all the way along the scalp. A furrow, an inch or two off-centre. The hair either side felt like he had just stepped out of a shower. Except it wasn’t water. The pain of touching the injury began to chase away thoughts of the afterlife. It was as if…
…As if a bullet from the Walther P38 of a drunk man had caught the top of his forehead and traced the surface of his skull, collecting skin, flesh, blood and hair like a snowplough before throwing it all out behind him.
The wound was deep. Horribly deep. Along much of the furrow, the white of the skull itself was exposed. But that, too, had saved him. It had been enough to distract von Eberstein when he should have been noticing the shallow movement of lungs somewhere in the crumpled heap. It also satisfied him instantly that Victor was dead. Nobody survives having their skull on display. Well, almost nobody.
Then there was Blondie. So quick and efficient at wrapping him in the animal skin that he too had missed the faint signs of life. The multiple rolls of thick hide had surely helped save Victor when he was thrown clear of their blown-up vehicle.
Of course, if he ever met the regimental pastor again, the clergyman would no doubt have a different explanation for his survival. Nothing to do with a freak of physics or the poor aim of a drunken shooter. His answer would be simpler… ‘The Armour of God’.
In any case, there would be no need to check for signs of life where Blondie was concerned. His flaming upper body had started to burn through the branches in which it was lodged. Victor heard them start to crack and saw the semi-charred remains slipping from the canopy above him.
For a moment, a wrist became stuck, giving the eerie impression that the fiery half-corpse was trying to hold on. Then the final restraining branch gave way and the burning top half of Blondie came plummeting towards Victor. He rolled out of the way as fifty percent of a Nazi psychopath slammed into the ground beside him. Still trying to kill prisoners. Even in death.
The sudden movement and smell of burned flesh made Victor’s head spin. He took a long time to compose himself before trying to stand up, only to fall straight back down, confused. He looked at his legs – it was easy to assess them since he was only in his underpants. There was something wrong with the left one. Nothing seemed to line up properly. He tried to rise again, putting all his weight on the right leg, only to lose his balance and hit the ground once more. Maybe his luck had run out after all.
He was becoming more aware of the throbbing pain from his head wound now. The shock that had been protecting him from the full horror of it was starting to wear off. From his position flat on his back he looked around, for the first time seeing beyond the immediate surroundings of smouldering metal and gently crackling undergrowth.
There was a farmhouse away to his left, at the top of an incline. Not the SS house. A different one. If he could somehow haul himself through the hedgerow then it was just the other side of a sloping field. Why were things always the other side of a bloody field? There was no point wondering about the political sympathies of its occupants for now. He just had to get there.
Rolling onto his side, Victor tried grabbing a section of branch that had been brought down by Blondie. His right hand refused to grip it, swelling badly after its violent encounter with von Eberstein’s face. He rolled onto his other side and grabbed the piece of wood in his left. Then he began using it as an ice pick – pulling hard, while pushing with his good leg, and digging in his right elbow for a third point of thrust. He was able to cover a short distance with each combined effort.
Negotiating the ditch at the side of the road was every bit as painful as expected. The broken left leg tumbled down into it. With gritted teeth, Victor hauled himself up and out the other side. Hedgerow next. He looked up and down for a weak point, finally settling on some kind of badger run a few yards away. A few more heaves and he could see through the little tunnel to the farmhouse. But the route through the dense hedgerow was narrower than he had thought. Foxes perhaps, rather than badgers.
He heard the distant sound of a vehicle approaching. A decision to make… Take his chances with the vehicle or take his chances with the farmhouse? Von Eberstein had told him how close the Americans and Russians were. Maybe the vehicle was one of theirs. The occupants of the farmhouse were bound to be German. But not all Germans were friends of the Nazis.
The engine noise grew louder. Victor made his decision. The age-old scenario of a weary traveller throwing himself upon the mercy of strangers seemed the best bet. He began dragging himself through the hedgerow, realising almost immediately that its mesh of twigs was stronger than he had anticipated. It pinned him to the ground, making progress almost impossible. Soon he was wriggling desperately.
Nearing the point of exhaustion, he managed to get his left hand out the other side and dig the piece of wood into the ground, hauling himself forward. The twigs scratched and scraped at his head, sending bolts of lightning through him. All the time, the engine noise got closer – at any moment they would be able to see his legs still poking out.
Victor dug the ‘ice pick’ in again and pushed with his good leg at the same time. Then again. And again. Gritting his teeth to the point of damaging them. The hedge’s grip moved down his body and then it was gone. He was in the field. He rolled away from the tiny tunnel and lay flat on his back, eyes closed, exhausted.
On the other side of his hedgerow shield, the fast-approaching vehicle pulled up at the scene of the explosive devastation. Victor heard doors opening… male voices speaking German… fast, angry German. It was hard to understand, but one word seemed to be repeated more than any other – ‘Schmidt’. They all knew Blondie. Nazis. Victor had made the right choice.
Unlikely though it was that they would hear him, the Englishman tried to lie still and breathe silently. It was an approach that created its own problems. After a minute or two, the blood and lack of movement attracted a crow that mistook him for carrion. Its wing grazed the gaping head wound as it came in to land for its feast. Victor muffled the scream of pain and swatted it away, hoping that its squawks would not draw attention.
After a few more minutes of angry disagreement over what to do with the two bits of Schmidt, the hum of more aircraft in the area caused the Nazis to retreat to their vehicle. They sped away amid more slamming of doors. Victor took a deep breath and steeled himself for the long and painful crawl to the farmhouse. And whatever fate awaited him there.
But something had changed. It had crept over him during those minutes of stillness. A weakness – physical and mental. He had gone to the well one too many times and now it was empty. He opened his eyes but his vision was blurred. He was starting to drift, returning to the fingertip grip on reality he had experienced earlier. He could feel the world spinning beneath him, wanting to spin him right off into the void. He didn’t know whether to hold on or let go.
Then the Angel appeared.
He had heard about them in stories from the Great War – appearances over battlefields, the famous ‘Angels of Mons’, legends told by old soldiers in pubs. He had never been sure if they were real. But here was one now, just for him, looking silently down. She was blonde and wearing a white dress. Of course she was. She was an Angel. And she was beautiful. Obviously. A part of him was sad he hadn’t made it to the farmhouse. Never mind. He was safe now.
But why was the Angel looking scared? That wasn’t meant to happen. She was staring at his head injury and then turning back to the farmhouse, beckoning urgently. Calling other Angels, perhaps.
Victor gave up on trying to work out if this was real or not. If it was life or afterlife. Heaven or Earth. He gave up on everything other than converting the last vestiges of hope, the last scraps of his battered spirit, into two short words.
Because, whether his broken body was dead or alive, the words he needed to say to the Angel were the same.
‘Help me.’
Then darkness returned.
Chapter 42
Sunday, 24th April 2016
North London
At just a couple of hundred yards from Tottenham Hotspur’s White Hart Lane stadium, ‘Big Dave’s’ was a café designed to survive any match day trouble between rival fans. The five white Formica tables along each wall were bolted to the tiled floor, while their red stools appeared to hover in mid-air – attached to the underside of the tables by rigid crossbars. It all amounted to a café with no ‘throwable’ furniture (though a wall mirror covered in special offers was something of an oversight).
Brook and Jonboy had chosen the place on account of its proximity to The Elbow Room pub – for their pre-Tourist recce – and because it looked quiet enough for Brook to make the two phone calls he promised were ‘the final pieces of the jigsaw’.
Marie answered the first. Back home early rather than stuck in the office for a change. After the greetings, Brook got straight to the point.
‘You said that VIW1 in the crime report was called Paul Fisher – the old guy who died in Hyde Park after meeting Logan Baird. How was Fisher spelled?’
‘Hang on,’ said Marie. ‘I’ve just got out of the shower, but I wrote it down here somewhere.’
‘We could switch to FaceTime if you want me to help with the search?’
‘You’re hilarious, Deelman.’
It didn’t take long for her to find the bit of paper and read out the exact spelling. It was as Brook expected. An extra ‘c’ between the ‘s’ and the ‘h’… ‘FISCHER’… The first old man to die after encountering the Tourist had a Germanic name.
‘There’s something else I was going to call you about,’ said Marie. ‘I spotted it on the Intranet just before I left work.’
‘Oh, right?’
‘I don’t know if it’s important, but Barnes retires in a few days. It was right there in Notices.’
‘Interesting… Thanks.’
They said their goodbyes and hung up.
‘Just one more call,’ said Brook.
‘No hurry at all,’ replied Jonboy, nodding at one of the many Spurs photos. ‘I’m learning all about how Tony Parks saved a penalty to win the 1984 UEFA Cup.’
Brook detected a heavy dose of sarcasm. He switched from his Contacts to the internet and called up something he had found while researching Stalag IV-B – the home page of a museum dedicated to the old POW camp. The place had sprung up next to the original site, while the camp itself had been reclaimed by nature; a new forest gobbling up the wooden huts that had once housed twenty thousand men. Only the layout of the ‘streets’ and a concrete shower block remained.
The website told him the museum was usually closed on Sundays but would be open throughout this weekend on account of the anniversary of the camp’s liberation. He tapped on the phone number and simultaneously tried to access the mothballed German language files at the back of his sleep-deprived mind – not fluent like Afrikaans, but kicking around with half-forgotten French, bits of Setswana, and later additions in which he could order a beer. A female voice answered and Brook switched to German mode…
‘Hello. Is that the Stalag IV-B museum?’
‘It is.’
‘Do you speak English, perhaps?’
‘Only a little bit. But your German is not bad. Can I help you?’
(That could have gone better).
‘I have a strange question.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have a photo of Stalag IV-B’s theatre. Christmas ’44. A musical. There are, umm, prisoners and German soldiers… together sitting.’
‘Yes, I know that photo. It’s actually quite well known. One moment. We have it here in one of our books.’
As the helpful assistant went off to find the book, Brook puffed out his cheeks and gave Jonboy the thumbs up. After a minute, he heard the receiver being picked back up.
‘So, I have found it. And your ‘strange question’ has something to do with this photo?’
‘Exactly. There is a German officer. Not far from the camera. He is laughing. He is laughing… a lot. Do you know who that is?’
Brook pressed the phone harder to his ear. The assistant made him wait a moment longer.
‘So, I know a few names of people in this photo. Sometimes a visitor can help us with such things. And this officer… Yes. This officer, I know.’
Brook grabbed a pen and paper from his jacket.
‘What can you tell me?’
Amid the note taking that followed, the detective repeated the two key details by way of confirmation – a name, and an English phrase that the museum assistant was clearly familiar with.
‘Karl Friedrich von Eberstein’… ‘Missing, presumed dead.’
Then he gave his thanks and hung up with a degree of relief – speaking German was draining.
‘Well?’ asked Jonboy. ‘Are you finally going to tell me what I’m missing here?’
‘I am,’ said Brook, standing up. ‘In The Elbow Room. You’ll need a pint to hear this.’
Chapter 43
He didn’t like not knowing. Not knowing meant uncertainty. Uncertainty meant risk. Risk was something to be managed and minimised. So he didn’t like not knowing. And, right now, he didn’t like not knowing what had been in those evidence bags that Deelman and his friend had brought out of the flat.
The flat was always a weak point in the operation. The fact he had never been inside to search it meant he didn’t know what secrets it held. Given a more generous time frame, he would have liked to gain access before the first kill (he doubted it would have unduly tested his range of skills). But he had always known that compromises would have to be made due to the small window of opportunity before Barnes retired.
The alternative was to do this without the safety net Barnes provided. And that meant greater risk. So, yes, he had been right to take out the first target when the opportunity in the churchyard presented itself. But that didn’t stop him really wanting to know what was in those evidence bags.
His curiosity was such that he’d considered taking a table in the café to which he had followed the two officers. ‘Big Dave’s’. But even if his new appearance gave him a chance of not being recognised, it was too much of a risk. This Deelman was… above average.
No, he would just have to live with the curiosity for now. And at least where some new uncertainty had emerged, some old uncertainty had been erased – the moment he watched them walk into The Elbow Room. There was no longer any trace of doubt. They would be there tomorrow evening. Looking for him.
He felt his phone vibrating and checked the screen… Barnes… He let it ring out. Safety net or not, he was bored of speaking to him. He was going to do this his own way.
Chapter 44
Monday, 25th April 2016
Brook’s apartment
You can never tell when a hippo is going to surface nearby. But when it does, you fucking know about it. At the midpoint of a sleepless night, Brook Deelman was almost certainly the only Londoner pondering that thought as he stepped onto his balcony and looked out over the lights of the capital. For once, it wasn’t the investigation on his mind, but a childhood memory. One that had chosen tonight to re-announce itself after a quarter of a century. Talk about timing.
The 11-year-old Brook had certainly known all about it when a hippo decided to surface nearby. Or directly beneath, to be precise. The narrow ‘mokoro’ ferrying him across the Thamalakane River was flipped in an instant, its six occupants pitched into the dark, reed-filled waters. The river was about 100 metres wide at that point. They were halfway across.
As soon as he hit the water, the young Brook had started swimming for the shore – ignoring the option of clinging to the upturned boat, his legs on offer to the crocs. He was a good swimmer and already getting strong, yet, to this day, he had never been able to recall a single sight or sound between that first stroke and reaching the bank. All he could see was an image of himself from below. Arms windm
illing. Legs thrashing. Even the details of his school uniform. A croc’s eye view.
Only upon reaching the side did regular senses kick back in. He recalled seeing the other occupants of the mokoro dragging themselves across the same fast-flowing currents. He remembered wading out to help haul them in, a long way down river from where they had entered the water. Everyone was exhausted. Staggering in the shallows. Splashing. Collapsing. Just one more, then they would all be safe. Just his school friend Vincent…
Brook took a sip of the decaf coffee, washing down another sleeping pill for good measure.
It was a week before they found Vincent. What remained of him, at least. He had been a year younger than Brook. Small for his age and not much of a swimmer. He used to have a Ghostbusters lunch box. Downstream, two different police forces announced on the same day that they had found ‘the body’. Then there was an unseemly row over who had the biggest chunk. It was home school for Brook after that.
He still recalled the strange look in the eyes of Vincent’s parents at the funeral. Just at the moment that he shook their hands wearing a suit that was too big for him. Their eyes were saying the things they weren’t allowed to verbalise. Not to an 11-year-old… ‘Why didn’t you do more, Brook? Why didn’t you help him?’
…He finished his coffee.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he said into the night.
Then he turned and looked back at the clock in the flat. It was just after 4am.
Brook watched it in silence. Out in the darkness. On the other side of the glass doors. And he realised he had been wrong. The memory was about the investigation. The paranoia it had generated in him. His name, his phone number, his actions – all of them known, seen and foreseen by those operating against him. They were watching him. In the dark. The croc’s eye view.
Chapter 45