by James R Benn
“We have a lot in common,” I said, holding the door open for her and glancing at the window looking out over the front lawn. “We both saw Holland fall from the tower the other day. You must have seen it too. You’ve got a perfect view.”
“I was getting tea, thank goodness,” Clarissa said. “Poor man.”
“Did you know him at all?” I asked, blocking her way enough to slow her down.
“It’s not encouraged,” she said, smiling at what now had become our private joke. “He seemed sad. Some of the mutes are simply quiet. Holland was deeply depressed, I think. Which may explain what happened. Now, please move aside. Dr. Hughes doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Sorry,” I said, moving out of the way and closing the door behind her. “People tell me I talk too much.”
“I’m surprised you let them get a word in edgewise,” Clarissa said, hustling off down the hall. She looked back and smiled, perhaps to let me know she was joking. Or to make sure she saw me exit the main doors.
Which I did, then turned around after a few steps. I listened for the echo of a door shutting and hoped Hughes hadn’t changed his mind, or that Clarissa’s office mate wouldn’t show up in the next minute or two.
I opened the office door and then jumped up on the windowsill set deep into the foot-thick wall. I tried to turn the latch, which was caked with rust and dried flaking paint. It didn’t move. I tried again.
Nothing.
I hit the latch with the heel of my palm, and the whole window shuddered under the impact. This was making more of a racket than I’d counted on, and I listened for the sound of hurried footsteps. But the hallway was silent. I pushed against the latch again, trying to think how I could talk my way out of this one if somebody walked in or spotted me from outside. I was basically spread-eagled against the tall window, perfectly framed, an obvious candidate for a padded cell.
The latch gave way. Grit and grainy rust rained down on the sill, covering my shoes. I wanted to test the window, but it was so worn and warped I couldn’t chance it getting stuck partway open. I hopped down, wiped away the debris, and left quickly on light feet, closing the door quietly behind me.
I had my way in.
And once in, it was a simple matter to pop the lock on Clarissa’s desk. It was a typical security error. Lock the files, then store the key in an easy-to-pick locked drawer. To be fair, she’d probably never considered anyone gaining access through the window.
I hustled back outside. I stood on the steps and took a deep breath, the cool mid-afternoon air sharp at the back of my throat.
I needed one more thing before I could relax and wait for midnight darkness. I strolled around the back of the north wing, leaving the walkway and weaving between the smaller buildings, most of them locked tight. Storehouses and work sheds, to judge by the tire tracks in the soft earth and lines of sawdust outside a carpenter’s shack.
Then I found it. A low stone building, a single story with light glowing through the windows. Just the place where I might find what I needed, the canteen for the Home Guard guys. Two soldiers stood by the door, smoking cigarettes and eyeing me with suspicion.
“Hey fellas,” I said, trying to sound upbeat and completely sane at the same time. “Is Sergeant Jenkins around?”
“Yeah, he’s inside,” one of them said. “But the patients don’t usually come around here. Never, really. You better head back, mate.” He sounded almost friendly, but the kind of friendly that could turn to mean if he didn’t get his way. Which was to have me gone.
“I know,” I said. “But they’re cutting me loose tomorrow, and I wanted to apologize to Sarge. We had a misunderstanding. Mostly due to me being bonkers at the time.”
“Going home? Good for you, then.” He still didn’t move away from the door.
“Well, not home. Back to the war. I’m not supposed to say anything else about it. You know how it goes,” I said. I figured they’d take me seriously if they thought I’d been given a clean bill of health, and I was about to have a return engagement with the shooting war.
“Best behavior, mind you,” he said, stepping aside and opening the door. “Sarge’ll give me what for if there’s anything less.”
I stepped inside and a half dozen heads turned in my direction. It was like walking into a neighborhood tavern in a strange town. A banked coal fire in a small stove gave off a warm glow, perfect for the Home Guards taking a break from making their rounds in all sorts of weather. A few rough wooden tables and a counter with a tea kettle, some mugs, and various items of gear were about it as far as furniture went. But it was cozy, even with the rifles stacked near the door.
“Boyle,” Sergeant Jenkins said. He had the seat of honor, close to the stove. But his greeting was nowhere near as warm as his feet must have been, stretched out to within inches of the coals. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to say I’m sorry, Sergeant. When we last spoke, my head wasn’t screwed on straight. I said some crazy stuff, and I wanted to set the record straight before I get released.”
“Well, I suppose I’ve heard worse apologies,” Jenkins said. He rose and extended his hand. “You feeling yourself then?”
“More every day,” I said as we shook. He invited me to sit. I joined him, the rest of the men relaxing as their sergeant did. I let the warmth wash over me as the murmurs of conversation rose once again.
“I haven’t seen you about,” Jenkins said. “You’ve been mad for walking. What happened?”
“The sleep cure,” I said. “Doc Robinson’s specialty. Forty hours solid.”
“Now that’s a nap,” Jenkins said, with a friendly laugh. “Did the trick, did it?”
“Snapped me out of it,” I said. “It was well-timed, too. Seeing Holland go off that tower was a shock. I thought I was seeing things, you know?”
“I wasn’t much surprised,” Jenkins said, nodding his head at the memory. “He was a lonely man. Some like being silent, it suits them. Holland wore his silence like a curse.”
“He never spoke?”
“Not that any of us ever heard,” Jenkins said. “Didn’t much go for company either. Some of them mutes sit together, like they know there’ll be no conversation demanded of them. But Holland steered clear of most everyone. He did sit with a young lass now and then. A mute like himself. As I said, not surprised. But a terrible thing, still.”
“He kept mostly to himself, but did anyone else approach him? Give him any trouble?” I asked, rubbing my hands in front of the warm stove, trying not to sound too nosy.
“Why?” Jenkins asked, cocking an eye at me. Friendly as we were, I was still a patient and he was a guard.
“I wondered what led him to make that decision,” I said. “I was a policeman before the war. I saw plenty of jumpers back in Boston, and even talked a guy down once.”
“How’d you manage that?” Jenkins said.
“I told him I couldn’t imagine the kind of pain that got him out on that bridge. I asked him to tell me about it. We got to talking, and finally he decided he didn’t want to die. At least not right then. I guess I’ve been curious ever since. What can make a guy take that leap?”
“For me, I’m glad I have no idea,” Jenkins said. “I won’t ask why you’re here, Boyle, but I’d wager some of these people have seen things beyond imagining. The Nazis are a cruel breed, but you know that much, I’m sure.”
“He may have seen horrors, you’re right,” I said, pausing for a moment in silent testimony. “You didn’t notice anyone having an argument with him, or following him around?”
“Can’t say as I did. You lads ever see anyone pestering poor Holland?” Jenkins shrugged as the younger men shook their heads and confirmed Holland was usually alone. “Sorry, Boyle, but you’ll just have to wonder. Now, we need to get back out on patrol.”
Jenkins stood and pushed his chair back. T
he other men gathered their gear and made for the door. Each one grabbed a flashlight from the counter. Torch, the Brits called it.
“Thanks for your time, Sergeant,” I said, moving slowly between the chairs as I followed the crowd, Jenkins on my heels. I eyed the torches being scooped up, while the smaller blackout lanterns were left behind. Small rectangular cases with a metal handle, they projected light in the red spectrum downward, enough to see where you were going but not enough to be visible from the air.
“What’s with the torches, Sarge?” I asked as we passed the counter. “You don’t use them in the blackout, do you?”
“You have been away,” Jenkins said as he reached in front of me to grab a torch. “New regulations now that Jerry’s not sending many bombers our way. Buzz bombs, yes, but we haven’t seen bombers in weeks. It’s a dimout nowadays. Light the brightness of a full moon is allowed.”
“Must make life easier,” I said, following him out as I surreptitiously stuffed a blackout lantern into the pocket of my field jacket.
“That it does, Boyle. Good luck to you, lad.”
I waved as we went off in different directions. Things had definitely gotten easier for me. The files would be simple to read in the faint red light. No bright lights for someone to spot from outside the building, and nothing to ruin my night vision. Life was as good as it got in the loony bin.
I felt the early evening chill as I made my way to the dining room, shivering as I stuffed my hands into my pockets, grasping the metal lantern. I had a decent plan to get in and read the files. But still, nothing felt right. So far, there was not a thing anyone had said about Holland that hinted at a motive. Or even a relationship with a single person at Saint Albans.
Except for Doc Robinson, and he wasn’t talking. From what I’d learned, Holland was likely to have been as uncommunicative with him in his sessions as he was the rest of the time. Maybe the files would tell the real story.
Maybe not. After all, the SOE and the OSS were not known for their fidelity to the truth.
Chapter Eleven
I stashed the blackout light in my room and headed to the dining hall for some chow. The place was emptying out, but I spotted a few familiar faces. Miller, the OSS guy, sat with two silent young women who ignored him as best they could. One of them, a painfully thin waif with her dark hair hacked short, looked like she was ready to ignore the whole world. Her friend, fuller of face with dark unkempt curls shading her eyes, tugged at her sleeves, trying to hide the bandages at her wrists.
Miller cackled and drew his finger across his throat, the punchline to whatever macabre story he was telling. Neither of the women laughed. The thin woman stood, her chair kicked back, brandishing a knife in her hand. A butter knife, but her grip was so intense I was sure she could plunge it into the soft skin of Miller’s neck, right where he’d traced the deadly line, her own bandaged wrist revealed in the swift movement.
Instead, she threw it onto Miller’s plate, splattering the remains of his meal across his chest. I thought about going over. I caught her eye, half-hidden behind the curls, and gave a nod. She didn’t need my approval, but I wanted her to know—what? That I’d back her up? Cheer if she took a fork to his eyeball?
No. I wanted her to know that I knew what it was like where she’d been. And that Miller was an idiot.
She nodded back and she guided her friend away from the table while Miller sputtered, dabbing at his khaki shirt. I got a plate of sausages and potatoes, a cup of tea, and took a seat by myself. Miller saw me and made his way over.
“Turn around,” I said, giving him nothing but a glance as I worked at the sausage, wondering what the hell it contained. “I’m in no mood for your bullshit. I’d tell you to leave those women alone, but you wouldn’t listen, and Shirley Temple will probably kill you in your sleep anyway.”
“Her? She’s crazy. Couldn’t even manage to kill herself. Slit her wrists in the wrong direction. You have to cut along the veins, not across them,” Miller said, flashing a smile straight out of the funhouse.
I pushed back from the table and walked toward him. I moved a couple of chairs, which scraped across the floor, the harsh noise echoing against the wood-paneled walls. I felt the rage build from my gut and coil in my clenched fists.
I stopped a foot short of Miller. He backed away.
“I told you to turn around,” I whispered, my hands trembling. He backed away, grasping at chairs as he scuttled off, finally turning around as he muttered to himself.
“Watch out for that one, young man. He is clearly insane.” It was Sinclair, his hands cupped around a mug of tea, a couple of tables away.
“He’s in the right place for it,” I said, heading back to my seat.
“Some of us are confused. And tired, very tired. But he has the eye of a maniac. You look half-mad yourself. But then all Yanks are mad, so it’s hard for me to sort them properly.”
“Mind if I join you, Sinclair?” I wasn’t in the mood, but he seemed semi-coherent, and I didn’t want to be rude to an older gent.
“I do. Don’t like company. But pay me no mind, lad, I’m an old wheezer and dodger, not worth listening to. Might get you and me in more trouble, see?”
I didn’t, but I simply nodded and went back to my table. I rubbed my eyes, feeling my temples throb and my heart pound like a bass drum in a marching band. My fork clattered against the plate as I tried to spear a bit of sausage.
The shakes. They were back. I switched the fork to my left hand and kept my right in my lap. I managed a few bites, but I’d lost what appetite I’d come in with. My hand trembled even as my heart rate eased up. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself.
It didn’t work. I guess forty hours of shut-eye wasn’t enough to fix whatever was wrong with me. I’d been hit with a sudden flash of anger, and although Miller deserved a punch or two, my guess was it wasn’t all about him.
I’d lost control, and if I wanted to get out of here, I needed Robinson and the other honchos to think I was ready to be cut loose. So I ate, because that’s what normal people do. I drank the tea, with a lot of sugar, because that’s what completely sane Yanks do in England.
Then I took the stairs to my room to rest before breaking into the hospital file room. Because that’s not crazy at all.
I stretched out on my bed to wait for nightfall. I thought about who might have been on that roof with Holland. Going by pure meanness, Miller was a good choice. He’d likely take a life out of sheer boredom. Even Sinclair, as slow-moving as he was, could tip a body over that wall easily enough. But there were too many possibilities to consider. It could have been a guard or an orderly, angered by Holland over some disobedience. Another patient who held a grudge, perhaps someone who knew him in the field. I knew I needed to find a clue in those files if I wanted to report back to Snow and prove I was compos mentis.
I awoke with a start. It was pitch black. I blinked my eyes until the luminous dial of my watch came into focus. Three in the morning.
Damn. I was lucky I hadn’t slept until dawn. After yesterday’s deep sleep, I didn’t think I’d be tired. I’d been wrong. I had to stop myself from falling back onto my pillow as I rolled out of bed and checked the view outside my window.
I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The main building was to my left. I could see faint glimmers of light on the third floor. Two rooms where the blackout curtains weren’t pulled down fully. Dimout curtains, I guess they were now called. Across the way, I made out a few subdued lights in the south wing, one on each floor, probably nurses and orderlies on duty.
Here in the north wing, it wasn’t exactly a prison, but the rear stairwell was locked at night. At the end of the corridor, at the top of the staircase that led down to the administrative wing, a guard sat at a small desk. Depending on who had the duty, he read, did a crossword puzzle, or leaned back and took a nap. It wasn’t exactly tight se
curity, but anyone would have had a hard time sneaking by him even if he was dozing.
Which was why I wasn’t going out by the staircase. I knotted my two sheets together and tied one end to the iron bedstead. I dragged the bed to the window, wincing as the metal scraped across the floor. I pulled hard on the knot, testing it before I tossed the sheets out the window. It held. Good news.
The bad news came as I looked down. The sheets didn’t reach the ground. Not even close. I didn’t mind a bit of a drop, but I couldn’t risk the noise I’d make hitting the ground. I hauled in my makeshift rope and added my spare wool trousers. That gave me the length I needed.
Out went the sheets again. Telling myself that the second story wasn’t all that high, I grasped the white sheet and went out the window, digging my boots into the crevices between the sandstone blocks where I could.
I heard the bed shift and felt a sudden drop of a few inches. Which seemed like ten yards as I hung on in the darkness, working not to send my boot flying into the first-floor window below me. I prayed that my weight wouldn’t flip the bed and send it crashing against the wall. Even if the guard was sawing some serious logs, that would get his attention.
I took a deep breath and pushed off from the wall, going down hand over hand. I dropped past the window, felt the wool of my trousers, and then my feet hit solid ground. I let go and rolled away, searching the shadows for any sign of movement.
Nothing. No running guards, no shouts of alarm. First part of the plan accomplished, no sweat.
Then I turned around.
Not that I’d had much choice, but using white sheets for my escape hadn’t been the best idea. Even with only a faint glimmer of moonlight, they stood out like bright beacons against the sooty sandstone, an arrow pointing right at my window.
Okay, so maybe my brain wasn’t working perfectly yet. I still had a good chance at this if I hustled. It was too early for anyone to be awake and gazing out their window, and late enough that the guards on duty were simply going through the motions, not conducting a full-scale search of the grounds.
