Authors: Tim Vicary
Last week in Craigavon several officers had argued strongly that it should be put into immediate effect
now
, while the time was ripe. The Liberal government was surprised and demoralised by the success of the gun-running and the mutiny of its own officers at the Curragh last month, they said. It was very tempting. Only the more mature officers counselled caution.
If Carson were arrested, everyone in the UVF would believe the British government were trying to attack them. They would want to strike back. The pressure to rescue Carson and take over the province before it was too late would be irresistible.
Charles himself had argued for putting this plan into effect. It had never occurred to him that it might be useful to the Germans. He had realised it might lead to a brief civil war but he believed the UVF would win it and that the Liberal government would back down and reverse their nonsensical policy of putting Ulster under an Irish Home Rule Parliament in Dublin. He remembered discussing this in the car with Simon on the way back from Craigavon.
Simon! Could he be behind this? The thought hurt him almost as much as the piercing pain about his son. He remembered how bitter Simon had seemed whenever he had tried to end their relationship. How an unpleasant, vicious side to the young man had surfaced . . .
A side which Charles had tried to ignore.
He glared at Werner intensely. ‘Who told you all this?’
‘All what exactly, Charles, old boy?’
The calculated familiarity of Werner's manner enraged him. It was deliberate — an attempt to remind Charles of their school days together, when he had been as fond of Werner as he had recently been of Simon. And now they had both done this to him! Charles gripped the sides of his chair, trying to retain control.
‘Who gave you all this information about my orders to collect Carson tomorrow? And made you think that the UVF might stage a coup if Carson were abducted?’
Werner laughed. ‘As for the second, it is obvious enough, isn't it? I worked it out for myself even before I saw the secret orders. But I got hold of those and the details about tomorrow, because . . . you're afflicted with a certain weakness, aren't you, old chap?’
So it
was
true. Simon — that smooth-talking little devil. And only a few days ago I offered to write letters of recommendation for him, too. ‘Why?’
He hadn't realised he had shouted aloud. But Werner seemed happy to answer.
‘Why did I come to you, do you mean? Why choose you as the weak link in the highly moral force of loyal Ulstermen? Well, Charles, why do you think? I knew what you were like from all those years ago when we were at school together. Do you remember? When I was put into your study for protection and you forced me to do those things that . . . no decent man would think of. I haven't forgotten — I don't think I ever will.
‘Then I was sent back here and the first thing I saw was you, parading all proud and disdainful with a young smooth-skinned ADC by your side. Perhaps it seemed normal to most people but I thought, nothing has changed, has it? So I thought I would ask that young man a few questions, just to see where his loyalties lay. Oh, you chose a jewel this time, Charles, didn't you? Young Simon couldn't give a damn for you or the Union, not in a thousand years! That boy cares only for himself. And now, I'm afraid, he seems to think you've insulted him — apparently you have a gift for it. So, just like me, he wants to hurt you.’
Charles stared at him, hurt, bewildered. ‘I thought we were friends, at school.’
Werner laughed. It was a cruel, mocking sound. ‘For a leader of men you know very little about people, don't you, Charles? You thought we were friends because you wanted to think it. It was never true, not after you started to touch me. You had the power and you used it to degrade me. You never even cared what I thought.’
‘So you're doing all this just to hurt me, just for something that happened at school?’
So casually he says it, Werner thought.
Just something that happened at school.
As if a boy could be buggered once a day for two terms and then cast off, forgotten, unharmed. He never wrote, never cared when I left. Passion can't touch this man. Just sarcasm, cruelty, blackmail.
Coldly, he said: ‘Oh no, Charles, you're not that important. I'm not doing it to hurt you at all. The fact that it does just adds to the pleasure.’
Silence. Werner was pleased to see that Charles's initial rage seemed to be cooling. The man was less likely to try to spring up and try to throttle him now than he had been a few minutes ago.
No doubt he was thinking hard, instead, of more devious ways to evade the trap he was in.
As quietly and calmly as he could, Werner said: ‘Let me explain what is going to happen between now and tomorrow morning. Listen carefully, it is important for your son. He will be kept where he is, well-fed and guarded, until tomorrow night. If all goes well and I return safely to speak to his guard before eight o'clock tomorrow night, he will be released and brought back here. Otherwise he will be killed. So it is in your interests to see that nothing happens to me.’
He paused, waiting for a response, but none came. Charles sat silent, unmoving, staring at him with concentrated disgust.
‘Tonight I will stay here in this house. No doubt it will cross your mind to try to send a message to someone for help, but I would advise against it. It would cause the death of your boy, and it would also lead to the death of the messenger. My men have surrounded this building and have orders to shoot anyone they see leaving it. I suggest you advise your servants of that at once. I see that you also have a telephone, but you will find you are no longer connected to the operator. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly.’ Despite himself, Charles reached out casually for the telephone at the end of his desk and put the receiver to his ear. After a few moments' silence, he put it down in disgust. ‘It seems you have planned well.’
‘I believe so. Now, if you will show me around the house and find me a room for the night, I need trouble you no more until the morning. If no harm comes to me, no one needs to be hurt.’
‘No one except Carson,’ Charles said. ‘And me too, I suppose.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘A little holiday, I think you said, didn't you, Weichsaker? Carson and I would be taken away for a little holiday? Have you thought what Sir Edward will say when he is released and finds the whole country plunged into civil war because of a plot organised by a foreign power? He'll turn the whole force of the UVF against you, and the British government will do the same with their forces! Then you'll see a war far worse than anything that could happen in this small corner of the world. What good will that do you or anyone else?’
Werner smiled thinly. Franz, Karl-Otto and Adolf had already dug the two graves which were the solution to that problem. One for Charles, one for Carson. But it would hardly encourage Charles to mention them now.
‘That is a matter for politicians, not me,’ he said. ‘After all, holidays can be long or short, according to need and circumstances. In any case, I suppose that your wife and servants will be here tomorrow night to welcome your son home, even if you and Sir Edward Carson have to be detained a little longer.’
P
LAYING THE piano had given Deborah unusual pleasure. She was no great pianist, but she had always played, ever since she was a child. She liked romantic ballads and lullabies mostly, which she could sing in a clear, low contralto as she accompanied herself. The songs and soft chords gave her comfort. She had played the same tunes to Tom when he was at home, and tonight she shared them with Sarah, who sat quietly on a sofa in the drawing room, leafing through a newspaper and listening. Sometimes, when Deborah looked up, she saw a relaxed smile stray like a ghost across the thin, strained face in the firelight, and she thought, this will do us both good.
Not just the two of us either. Always, she was conscious the child growing inside her. This music is for my baby, too, thought. It will help him sleep and grow quietly inside me, safe, secure, knowing nothing of the dangers and troubles of world into which he will be born. I must shield him from that long as I can.
As long as I can . . . Once, towards the end of the evening Charles had looked in. With him was a tall thin man with startlingly pale blue eyes and a crippled hand. Charles introduced him as Werner von Weichsaker and said he would be staying the night. But neither had stayed to talk. Charles’s introduction had been curt, brief almost to the point of rudeness, and Deborah had guessed the man's arrival had been an unwelcome extra burden to her husband's many military duties. Charles looked unusually tense, she thought, his face pale, strained.
So tonight would not be the time to tell him of the baby.
For three days now she had put it off. Each day seemed to her like a reprieve, a last blessed hour of sunlight before the storm that had to come. She told herself that Charles was too busy, he was in the wrong mood. That Sarah was too weak to face the inevitable row. That she was being kind to her baby to let it grow in peace another day longer. She even told herself that she was being kind to Charles.
Soon the excuses would run out.
As she went to bed the rain had stopped. She opened her bedroom window and stood there in her nightdress for a moment, looking out into the darkness across the grounds. The clouds were passing and there was a patch of clear sky over the hills to the west where the moon shone down, surrounded by a sprinkling of stars. She could make out some of the trees of the park and the woods on the hills; the field where the cattle came down to the pond that they sometimes called a lake, where she had played at boats with Tom and where the poor children from Dublin had tried to catch ducks; the summerhouse near the oak in which Tom had built a tree-house; the woods with the little gothic pavilion and the ice-house and the badger setts and the tunnel under the road where she and Tom had played hide and seek long ago.
This is my home, she thought. Despite all its frustrations it is where I belong. When I tell Charles what I have done, I shall lose it all.
An owl hooted near the stables. Deborah shivered, closed the window, and climbed into bed. She blew out the candle and lay quietly, watching the small rosy shadows of the firelight flicker on the ceiling. She remembered how she had lain here longing for Rankin only two short months ago. Her lover whom she would never touch again.
Her doorknob clicked. The door opened slowly in the dark. A man came into her bedroom. Deborah gasped, and sat up, startled. ‘What — who's that?’
‘Sssssh. It's only me.’ The dark figure closed the door softly behind him.
‘Who?’
‘Charles.’
Charles?
She could hear the creak of the riding boots, so he was still fully dressed, in uniform. But Charles never comes into my room!
‘What do you want?’
Even as she said it she thought how unwelcoming, how harsh the words sounded. He must want something from me or he wouldn't have come, and I should be glad of it. It is the source of all our problems that he never seems to need me, so I shouldn't drive him away. Perhaps he even wants to make love — even now it might not be too late to persuade him that the child is really his.
Oh God I don't want to I'm not in the mood it would be harsh and dry and tearing but if he wants to of course I must it's my last chance . . .
‘Charles?’
‘I have to talk to you. Do you have a light?’
‘Yes. Here by the bed somewhere.' She reached out, fumbled for matches, lit the candle. He came and sat on the chair between her and the window. She could see the profile of his face in candlelight — the proud hooked nose, thin high brow, smooth grey receding hair, hollow cheeks, more lined than usual. She could not see into the darkness of his eyes.
‘I have something dreadful to say.’
He knows
, she thought
.
How can he possibly have found out?
‘It's about Tom.’
‘Oh!’ Not about me and Rankin then. But his voice sounded so grim, weary, bitter. ‘What has happened?’
‘He has . . . Deborah, I am very sorry to tell you this, but Tom is in serious trouble.’
‘What — at school, you mean? Has he done something wrong?’
‘No, not at school, Deborah. He's not there.’
The voice was not just bitter, but frightened, she realized. ‘Charles, what's happened?’
‘Don't scream, woman. It's very important that you don't scream. Please control yourself.’
‘Will you please tell me what has happened to my son?’
She was sitting bolt upright in bed now, glaring at him.
‘He has been . . . kidnapped.’
‘What?’ It was beyond her comprehension. She was not sure where she was or what she was doing; she felt faint. He was holding her hand, a thing he never did.
‘Please, Deborah, don't scream. It's very important that you don't scream. That man might hear you.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Desperately, she focussed all her energies on trying to understand what he was saying, to believe it was really happening. His voice was low, insistent, urgent.
‘Listen to me now. That man who is staying here, Werner von Weichsaker, he is one of them. He came to me tonight to tell me. His men have taken Tom from school and hidden him somewhere. They are German agents, you see. They want to capture Carson, perhaps kill him. And they want to force me to help them, so they have kidnapped Tom.’
It was too much to take in all at once. Floundering, she said: ‘How do you know they have Tom? They may be lying. Dr Duncan wouldn't let him go, surely?’
‘He gave me this.’
Charles gave her a crumpled scrap of paper. She read it.
Father,
These men have caught me and shut me in where you can never find. Please do what they say or they will kill me. I am sorry.
Tom.
The tears came. She couldn't help it, they were just there. Welling up inside her, misting her eyes, shaking her chest so that she sobbed. They were no use, she didn't want them, they didn't help. Fiercely, she said: ‘What are we going to do?’