Authors: Tim Vicary
A blade of grass up his nose.
It tickled. He shifted his head and sneezed, and he realised his head was wet everywhere. Cold wet underneath because he was lying on grass or mud or leafmould, and hot sticky wet on top and all across his face. He didn't know what that was and he didn't like it. He had a sense that he should keep the cold wet and the hot wet apart, but to do that he would have to split his head in two and
Ah God the noise again!
And the shot in front of his face, yellow and red and white fire . . .
A shout, somewhere above him:
‘Hilfe! Hier! Adolf! Schnell!’
Where did it come from? He realised he had hands and tried to move one. It crawled in the leafmould near his face like a crab. In order to see if it was really one of his own he pushed against it with what might have been his arm, and it lifted his face up so that he could see for the first time. The moon had come out and there was a boot a few inches away from his nose. He opened his mouth to speak, but the hot, wet, sticky stuff trickled in, and before he could swallow it the boot lifted up out of his sight and came down between his shoulder-blades, crushing his face into the leafmould again.
‘Lie still.
Hilfe kommt.’
The weight of the boot was many thousands of times stronger than any strength he might have, so he lay and felt the hot wet trickle down from somewhere on his right forehead to join the cold wet under his left cheek. After a while he opened his right eye again and saw shadows and silvery bits of leaf and grass, so he decided he was not blind. He decided he was not dead either, because neither heaven nor hell could be like this. He tried to remember what there had been in the world before the shot, but the noise came back and his head throbbed and he closed his eye and prayed
please God stop it now!
And God answered with a small voice that said: Tom.
Tom is my son. He will be killed now. I have to rescue him.
He was not sure yet why Tom would be killed or who would do it or where he was, but he knew immediately that it was very urgent and he tried to get up, but that only resulted in his head turning over and more pressure from the boot and the hot sticky liquid trickling straight down over his right eye and his left eye being free to see things for a change.
What it saw was a knife blade.
The knife blade was about a foot long and two inches wide, bent in two at an angle halfway along. It was one or two feet away from his head, and the point was stuck in the ground. The moonlight shone on it and was reflected straight off the gleaming blade into his eye and it went on into his brain, where it dispelled the noise and the fog and illuminated his memory.
Charles thought: Kukri. That knife is a kukri and I used it to try to kill this man, this German spy who has his foot in my back and was trying to prevent me from going to the village to raise the alarm. I have to raise the alarm because they are going to kidnap Sir Edward Carson and start a war, and to persuade me to help them do that they have kidnapped my son Tom. Oh God, what will they do to him now?
There was a crashing noise through the leaves and then two more boots came and stood by his face. There was a conversation above him in German and then someone bent down and struck a match and held it close to his head. Then there was more conversation and then they picked him up.
‘Can you stand?’
‘No, I . . .’
Charles staggered and flopped against one of the men. Each of them put an arm round his waist and laid his weak floppy arms across their necks, and they began to move through the wood. They were more or less carrying him, but occasionally one of his legs moved, and after a while they both did, and one of the Germans said: ‘Is besser now, uh?’ and let him down a little so that he bore a bit more of his own weight himself.
As they came out of the woods and onto the drive, Charles thought: maybe my strength is returning a bit. If I really had to now I might be able to stand. I've got an arm round the neck of each of these two bastards — if only I was strong enough I could throttle them both.
But that was utter nonsense, as he found when he tried to move his right arm even a few inches. Someone seemed to have unstrung all the muscles inside it, as though it belonged to a rag doll. And the Germans were built like a pair of buffalo, they weren't even breathing heavily after carrying him almost a mile.
They carried him up the front steps of Glenfee, and as they came into the hall the library door opened and there were Werner and Simon. Oh sweet Jesus in heaven, Charles thought, perhaps they didn't need to send me to hell when I died, they just sent me back here . . .
‘Put him down over there,’ Werner said. ‘Under that lamp.’
Franz and Adolf carried Charles into the library and sat him in a chair. His uniform was filthy; there were streaks of blood like matted hair all over his face and neck, and his skin was as white as paper. When they let go of him he slumped against the back of the chair as though he would have fallen out of it had there not been a headrest there. But his eyes were still alive. They moved from Werner to Simon, dark with hatred.
‘What happened?’ Werner asked Franz in German.
‘I saw him coming through the wood and told him to halt. He jumped at me with a knife so I had to shoot him. I don't think it's very bad — the bullet must have just grazed his skull.’
‘Let's have a look.’ Werner switched to English. ‘Someone had better get some water from the kitchen. Simon, it had better be you, the servants know you.’
‘Why treat him at all?’ Simon asked coldly. ‘Your scheme's ruined anyway, he might as well die.’
There was a slight movement in the chair, as though Charles had tried to sit up. His hot dark eyes focused on Simon, his mouth slightly open in shock.
‘Nonsense,’ Werner said sharply. ‘If it's only a graze we can dress him up and take him with us. Soldiers are always getting wounded, Carson will be impressed by his dedication to duty.’
‘In
that
uniform?’ Simon asked.
Werner looked at Charles's jacket. It was streaked with mud and blood. ‘If necessary. But he must have a clean one somewhere. Get the water when I tell you to, damn it!’
Simon went, and returned. While Franz held the bowl, Werner bathed Charles's face and forehead carefully. It was as Franz had said — a narrow wound about an inch long on his right temple, which bled profusely. ‘Do you have any first-aid equipment in this house?’ he asked Simon. ‘Bandages, iodine?’
Sullenly, Simon brought it. Charles winced when the iodine was put on, then Franz applied a cotton dressing and wound a quick, competent bandage round Charles's head.
‘There.’ Werner took a deep breath. ‘And you say he was going
towards
the village when you shot him, not coming back from it?’ he asked Franz.
‘Yes.’
‘Then so far no one knows anything about us.’ He looked at his watch. It was twenty to four. ‘We will dress this man up in clean clothes and continue with our scheme as planned. Your wound, Colonel Cavendish, will provide an interesting topic of conversation for you with Sir Edward Carson when you meet. You had better work out an innocent story to tell him.’
Very faintly, Charles said: ‘Don't be stupid. I can't go with you now, man. I'm too weak.’
Werner stared at him. ‘Stand up!’
Charles made what seemed to be a feeble move to get out of his chair. He slumped back after his head had moved a few inches.
‘I can't. Sorry, old man. It's no go.’
Werner felt the sweat trickling under his arms and on his upper lip. So near, and yet so far. And now this arrogant sod had the gall to mock him with his own weakness. In that upper-class English drawl.
‘In that case, I shall kill your son.’
Werner felt the electricity of the room focus on him. Franz and Adolf were watching him, shocked. Simon had an odd smile on his smooth handsome face. Charles sat up, much more sharply than he had done before. His voice was stronger too.
‘You can't do that! You daren't! He hasn't done anything to you – he's only a boy!’
‘I made a promise and I shall keep it,’ Werner said. ‘Except that it will not be me who does the killing. Simon shall have that pleasure.’
Charles sat back, breathing in quick short gasps. ‘But I can't move. Really, I . . .’
‘Then you had better get your strength up. Simon, go and fetch the boy. Call Karl-Otto in too – he is in the fields to the west of the house. In the meantime, Colonel Cavendish, we will fetch you brandy and clean clothes, and let you rest. When we leave this house to pick up Sir Edward Carson, your son will come with us in the car. So will Simon Fletcher. I am afraid young Simon does not like your son, but you have my word no harm will come to him so long as you summon up enough strength to do exactly as I say. When we get within a mile of Craigavon, Simon and the boy will get out. We will pick them up on the way back. If Sir Edward is with us the boy will be unharmed. Otherwise, Simon will cut his throat.’
Charles stared, horrified, as Simon Fletcher walked out of the room with a satisfied smirk on his face. Hell is all around me, he thought.
The stone was huge and heavy and slippery and hard and it tore at the muscles in their arms and shoulders and backs and legs as they swung it, but they would not give up. Their hands were slippery and muddy and sweat trickled down their faces and under their arms and between their breasts, but each time the stone smashed into the door there was a crunch and rattle that seemed to loosen something further, and they thought, surely this time it must break.
The moon came out from behind a cloud, shining through the soft drizzling rain, and they put down the stone to examine the door more closely.
The handle was broken, and the wood all round the lock was smashed and torn into splinters. The metal lock was twisted and bent so that two of the screws had dropped out, but still, when they pushed against it, the door refused to open. It was loose, it rattled back and forth, but something held it.
‘One more try,’ Deborah said. ‘Can you manage?’
Sarah nodded, without speaking. Her breath came harsh and raw into her throat, and she was so exhausted by the effort of lifting the heavy stone that her hands were trembling violently - but she had no intention of giving up. She had never seen Deborah like this, so desperate, so determined. But it was also a joy to be
doing
something at last, not being a victim. I may be weak but I
will
overcome it, she thought. Not just for Tom, but for all children.
The moon went in. A gust of wind brought stronger rain from the west. They picked up the sodden slippery stone, stepped back, swung forward together - smash! It nearly fell from their hands, but nothing moved. They stepped back, swung forward again - the same. A third time, the last before they would have to drop it and rest - and this time as they hit the door it gave! Something wrenched out of the wood inside, the door fell open in front of them, and they staggered forward into the tunnel, carried forward by their own impetus, nearly dropping the stone on their own feet before they collapsed on the floor beside it.
They lay there for a moment, breathing heavily in short gasps of triumph.
‘Are you all right?’ Deborah asked.
‘Yes. We did it!’
‘First part, anyway.’ Deborah stumbled to her feet. The passage was quite dark, blacker even than the night outside. I should have thought to bring a torch, she thought. But she had been here in daylight, she knew the shape of what should be behind the door. She walked forward, one hand on the black slippery wall. Three paces, slight turn to the right, down two steps — a door. Locked, of course. She banged on it with her fists.
‘Tom! Are you in there?’
Silence. Just their own laboured breath in the dank narrow passage. And, oddly, the confused echo of voices from outside, far away. Oh no, Sarah thought. It was all for nothing.
Deborah shouted again. A higher pitch to her voice this time, a note of panic.
‘Tom! Are you in there? Answer me! It's Mother!’
Again silence. Sarah felt her breath sobbing from a new pain in her chest. It's too desperate, she thought, too futile. Surely someone was shouting outside, too? It sounded like a man's voice.
‘Karl-Otto!’
Then there was another sound. A tapping from the far side of the door. Not loud — like a mouse far away. Then a voice, small — ‘Mummy!’
‘It
is
him!’ Deborah said. ‘Tom! I'm here, with aunt Sarah! We'll get you out. Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ the voice said. ‘But I'm cold. Be quick, Mummy, please!’
‘Don't worry, we will!’ Deborah shouted. Then she turned. ‘Though God knows how, if they haven't left the key.’ She scrabbled back with her hands along the right-hand side wall, fumbling for the place in the darkness. 'It's usually here, on a hook somewhere. This is it — oh God, it's missing! Heaven help us! We'll have to smash this door in with the stone as well!’
‘Just a minute.’ Sarah reached out and gripped Deborah's shoulder in the darkness. ‘Ssssh! I think there's someone outside!’
Simon strode out of the house across the drive and the lawn that led to the wooded hill where the ice-house was. He had the Mannlicher rifle slung over his shoulder and the bayonet at the belt by his side. As he came near the hill he shouted out to the dark, silvery fields on his left.
‘Karl-Otto! Hey, Karl-Otto! Come to me here! Karl-Otto!’
He saw no need for silence or secrecy any more. Whatever Werner said it seemed to Simon a desperate plan to try to force the wounded Charles to go in the car to Craigavon. But nonetheless he was prepared to bring Tom to confront Charles in the house. There could be some pleasure in that. If Charles resists or tries to rescue the boy then I'll kill him there and then, and perhaps his loathsome little son as well, Simon thought. And then I'll flee to Germany.
It was revenge which interested him, not Werner's plot against Carson. That was just a means to an end.
He shouted again: ‘Karl-Otto!’
As he approached the wooded hill he saw a dark figure approaching him in the distance. It was still some two hundred yards away across the grey moonlit fields. A voice came back to him faintly, but clear.