Authors: Tim Vicary
He explained again, patiently, what Werner had said, what he wanted. This time she took some of it in. She said: ‘But why — how do they know all this?’
Charles did not answer at first. He had hoped to avoid this but it was impossible. It was bound to come out now. Anyway, Tom was her son as well as his; she had a right to know how his weakness had brought the boy into danger.
‘I'm afraid . . . I think Simon told them.’
‘Simon?’ Deborah had never liked the young man, but still. ‘Why? He's one of your soldiers, isn't he?’
‘Of course, but . . . it seems he has taken a dislike to me and been selling information to these Germans. It may even have been him who persuaded the headmaster to let the boy leave school. Dr Duncan would recognise Simon, wouldn't he?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. He drove me there at the beginning of term. But why would Simon dislike you, Charles? You've always been kind to him, haven't you?’
‘Yes, but . . . Deborah, I am very sorry about this, but . . .’ He hesitated. The words were there, in his throat, to tell her, explain why he had been so cold to her all these years.
I am afraid I have not behaved entirely properly with him
. . . Perhaps, if he said that, she would understand, accept him for the man he really was.
But he could not do it.
‘. . it seems the boy has been paid. I am afraid I am not always the best judge of men. And these Germans have used him.’
‘So — Simon has helped in this kidnap?’
‘I don't know. I am not sure who is guarding him, but it may be that Simon has a hand in it. Anyway, we have a choice.’
‘What do you mean — a choice?’
The shock was too deep for tears. Deborah suddenly felt a surge of furious energy, a desire to hit someone or run far away and leave all this behind her. But she could do neither. Instead, she got abruptly out of bed, stepping carefully past Charles so as not to touch him. She took a dressing gown from her wardrobe, wrapped herself in it, and walked up and down by the dying fire.
‘We have to find Tom!’
‘I don't think we can, my dear.’ In a grey, weary voice, Charles explained what Werner had told him. ‘So you see, there is a choice, though no one would wish to face it. If I do what they say, Tom will be released — probably — but Carson will be captured, possibly killed, and a wretched civil war will break out which will benefit Germany and kill hundreds, perhaps thousands, of soldiers; or we prevent all that and our son dies.’
She stared at him incredulously. ‘You can't mean it, Charles! You don't have any choice at all. You couldn't risk Tom's life!’
Bleakly, he said: ‘It is not only Tom's life at risk, you see. I have a duty to all the other lives that may be lost as a result of this wicked scheme.’
‘A duty?’
‘Yes. Tom may have a similar responsibility one day, if he becomes an officer.’
‘But it's his
life
, Charles! Anyway, I thought you were happy for a civil war to start.’
Charles sighed. ‘I have advised in favour of a considered military action, yes. But only if it has been agreed on by our leadership; not as a result of Carson being kidnapped, perhaps killed by the Germans. To support that would be treason, woman — don't you realise that?’
Silence. It was so like Charles, she thought. No one else could be so cold, so logical and correct, in a horrendous situation like this. Perhaps that is how you learn to behave, as an army officer. But this is our son we're talking about — how can he be so calm? I am married to a man I don't understand at all.
‘So what do you intend to do?’
Charles leaned forward intently, his elbows on his knees. As though it was important to convince her of some academic point.
‘I think there may be a solution. A way of fighting back while minimising the risk, at least.’
She strode to the window frantically, staring out into the night. Hurrying low clouds had hidden the moon again and there was a spatter of rain, the rustle of wind among dark, shadowy trees. She pressed her hands against the glass.
‘Tom's out there somewhere, Charles. We've got to get him back!’
‘Yes, of course — I'm trying to do that. But not at the price of betraying my conscience! Listen, Deborah, von Weichsaker says he has the house surrounded, but I don't entirely believe him. He can't have that many men, and they won't know the grounds. So it might be possible for me to get away from the house and go down to the village and summon help. And if I could do that, I
would
have enough men to surround the house. Men who know this area very well indeed.’
She gazed at him helplessly. It all sounded futile to her. A boy's game of soldiers. That was the world Charles lived in. ‘But how would that help Tom? If you do that, they will kill him. Tom says that in his note, doesn't he?'
‘Yes, but nothing will happen to Tom until tomorrow night, he said. Only if he, von Weichsaker, doesn't come back safe from the operation against Carson, then something will happen to Tom. Not before. That may prove to be their mistake. You see, if I can get to the village tonight, I can get Sergeant Cullen to organise a detail to arrest von Weichsaker and his men when they come here and try to get in the car with me at seven tomorrow morning. It might be dangerous for me, but it won't hurt Tom. And then, if von Weichsaker sticks to what he says, nothing will happen to Tom until eight tomorrow evening, when Werner fails to turn up where they're holding him. Which means we'll have over twelve hours to look for that hiding place — and try to persuade von Weichsaker to tell us where it is. My guess is that when he realises he's been beaten, he'll understand there's no point in killing an innocent boy.'
She looked at him coldly. ‘And so you intend to leave me alone in the house with this monster, and go down to the village to collect your soldiers. What do you think this Werner von Weichsaker will say when he finds out you're not here? He'll probably take me hostage, as well.’
‘That's why you'll have to keep quiet tonight. When it gets light I want you to warn all the servants, tell them to stay inside the house. I'll be back by morning — I'll have to be. It'll only take me a couple of hours at most to get to the village and back.’
‘And if you're wrong? If you're shot by the men surrounding this place?’
‘That's a chance I must take. At least it'll mean von Weichsaker's scheme will fail; it can't work without me in the car. So again, there's a chance they'll release Tom or that he'll be found in time.’
There was a long silence. They stared at each other, conscious suddenly of the sounds of the house at night; the fire burning in the grate, the occasional creak or groan of old rafters, the wind siffling around the eaves, a slight patter of returning rain on the windows.
‘Charles, I don't like this! It's too risky. I think you're making a mistake.’
Charles got to his feet, a thin smile on his face. ‘Don't worry. I am a soldier, after all. I've moved past the Matabele at night before now. I'll be gone in a few minutes, and I should be back well before daylight. I didn't come for your advice, but to tell you what's happening because you have a right to know and in case anything goes wrong. And also to say, whatever happens — I am sorry.’
‘About what? You couldn't have known.’
‘No . . . Of course not. Wish me luck then, my dear. Goodbye.’
He walked past her to the door. He did not touch her and she did not speak. Then he was gone, and she sank slowly into a chair by the fire.
‘And if he doesn't come back?’
‘He will. He's a soldier, of course he will.’
‘Soldiers get killed. All the time. In a way, I think he wants to.’
‘Debbie! What do you mean? That's not like Charles.’
‘No, I know. It's just . . . something he said. Oh God, Sarah, I hope I'm wrong! He seemed so grim — resigned, almost.’
‘Don't talk nonsense. You're imagining things.’
The two women sat huddled together in Sarah's bedroom, whispering earnestly together by the light of a candle. The window was open, and they could hear the soft hissing of the rain on the grass outside, and the sighing of the wind. So far, no sound of what they were listening for — the sounds of a fight, whatever that might be. A shot? Shouts? A scream? Deborah didn't know.
Deborah was not sure how long Charles had been gone. It was difficult to measure time when your mind was in such turmoil. For a while she had stayed in her own room, but the sense of utter helpless panic had been intolerable. She knew it was wrong to burden Sarah with things like this, but what else could she do? Call the cook? Run out into the garden herself? Go and plead with that man Werner in his room?
At least Sarah had not fainted. Indeed she seemed excited more than anything else. More alive than she had been since she came here. And she saw the problem with slightly more detachment than Deborah could manage.
Now she asked: ‘What made you think Charles wanted to die?’
‘He apologised to me, Sarah. He never does that.’
‘About what?’
‘This man kidnapping Tom, I suppose. I don't see why it's his fault except he brought that awful young man Fletcher into the house.’
‘But why did
he
do it?’
‘Oh, I don't know. Sarah, I don't know!’ Deborah shook her head hopelessly. ‘I just want my son back!’
‘Of course. Of course you do.’ Sarah's mind was racing, trying to think of a way out of this appalling deadly puzzle she had woken into. ‘There are guns in this house, aren't there? We could go downstairs, find some, kill this German . .’
‘And condemn Tom to death? As Charles may be doing right now?’
‘Yes, I see. Well, where could they have taken him, do you think?’
‘How should I know? A house, an empty cottage somewhere — there must be hundreds all over Ulster. Perhaps a barn up in the hills.’
Sarah sighed. ‘And all you've got is this note?’
‘Yes.’ Deborah sat with her head in her hands. Her chest ached and the tears trickled pointlessly through her fingers. She had never felt so useless.
Sarah looked at the note, hoping it might tell her something. What would you do, if you were a young boy scared out of your wits, forced to write a letter like this, she wondered. Write a note on the back, perhaps. Or the envelope. She turned the paper over. Nothing. Just the blue printed lines and the red of the margin — normal exercise book paper. ‘Have you got the envelope?’
‘No. Charles must have it. I never saw it.’
So much for that. Sarah studied the writing. Nothing useful there. Just an uneven, pencilled scrawl. ‘Poor boy. He must have been terrified.’
‘Yes, of course he was.’ Deborah got up and took the note out of Sarah's hand — almost possessively, Sarah thought. She stared at it closely, then crumpled it in her hand. ‘Wouldn't you have been?’
‘I was,’ Sarah said, very softly to herself, glad that Deborah couldn't hear. The Black Maria, she thought, the cell, the day I was shut in that basket. The poor little boy — how old is he? Eight? He must be scared out of his wits. At least I knew what I was doing it for, but even I nearly went mad. He's just a victim, doesn't know anything at all. Probably they haven't even told him what it's all about. ‘The worst thing is not knowing when it will end.’
Sarah hadn't realised she had spoken the last thought aloud, but Deborah turned as though she had heard.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Being imprisoned, as I was and Tom is now. You can bear anything if you know it's going to end, but when you're at someone else's mercy you can't know that. Anything longer than a day seems like forever.’
‘Don't!’
‘I'm sorry.’ Sarah got up and walked quietly across the room, put her hand on Deborah's shoulder. She was still in her nightdress and even walking was still not so easy for her. But if I could find a way to do something about this, she thought, I would find the energy from somewhere, whatever it cost later. It's like those little girls in London, only this is a boy, even younger.
‘When he was about four or five,’ Deborah said softly, compulsively. ‘We used to play hide-and-seek round the grounds. It's a good place for it, there are lots of hiding places. And then one day I couldn't find him, the little beggar. I looked for
hours
. I called and called — I thought he was just being naughty — but in fact when I found him he'd lost the key and was nearly frozen to death.’
‘Why?’ Sarah stroked her shoulder softly. ‘Was it winter?’
‘No. It was nearly May. He was in the ice-house.’
Tom had been given two blankets but he was still cold. He sat on the steps most of the time, with the blankets wrapped around him like the pictures of squaws he had seen in books about the Wild West. They helped, but not much. The steps were cold and damp and there was a draught that came whistling under the door and made his back and legs ache. But at least it was better than the ice in front of him.
He couldn't see the ice because it was dark, but he knew it covered all of the floor. It was at least a foot deep, maybe more — he had thrust his hand down into it as far as it would go, and had not found bricks. Goodness, it was cold! His hand went numb afterwards, so that the bones ached right through to the wrist; and even when that had warmed up he felt he had lost some warmth which he couldn't afford. His teeth were chattering most of the time and he could feel goose pimples all round his knees. He was wearing grey flannel shorts, long grey socks, a bright orange jumper and a school blazer — and it was not warm enough, not by a long way!
He wondered if he was meant to die in here, and told himself not to be stupid. People go to the Antarctic, and that must be much colder than this. Some of them die there, of course, like poor Captain Scott. But at least he reached the South Pole first, and he didn't whinge about the cold — no Englishman would. His men probably trained in places like this. I'm lucky, really. I'll be able to lead an Antarctic expedition when I get out!
If
I get out.
To stop himself getting into a funk and thinking panicky thoughts like that he got up every ten minutes or so and walked around the floor of the ice-house. He tried to pretend he was on an Antarctic expedition and sometimes it worked. The floor of the ice-house was perfectly circular, and it was about six yards in circumference. It was quite dark in here, and the ice scrunched and slithered beneath his feet, but that was all right; it just helped him to pretend he was in the cold and dark of an Antarctic winter. Anyway, he knew what the ice-house was like; he had been in here before in daylight. The walls were made of brick and quite thick, and the whole thing was sunk several yards below the ground for insulation. That was why there were steps, winding down from the door, which was locked. Even to approach that door from outside you had to open another door first and go down a little cold tunnel. The roof was well insulated, too, and since the house was in a wood under trees which never let through any sunlight, it was very, very cold.