The Red Horse

by James R Benn

  “No, I don’t. I’m sorry. You’re not a spy, are you? Here to test me? I can’t be everywhere, you know.”

  “Hey, pal, I was only joking. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get another one when I’m released.”

  “You haven’t been here long enough,” he said. “Not nearly.” I thought it best not to ask how long he’d been a guest at Saint Albans.

  “Hey, I need to call you something. What’s your given name?”

  “No name,” he said, his head bowed. “No name.”

  “Okay, No-name, you want to grab a cup of whatever?”

  “No, no thank you. I have work to do. Must stay sharp, we could be called up again anytime,” he said, starting to move off. “And that’s all right. You may call me No-name. Because it’s no name at all, don’t you see?”

  “Wait,” I said, resisting the temptation to reach out and hold him by the arm. “How do you know so much about me? I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Ah. Put in a good word for me, will you? Reconnaissance and observation, two of the most important skills for a field agent. Must go. See you around, old boy,” he said.

  I was sure he would.

  I couldn’t resist looking up again at the clock tower. It hadn’t been keeping time since I’d first seen it, being permanently stuck at ten minutes before five. A skilled observer would know that.

  He’d seen something up there. Maybe now, maybe a few days ago when Holland came down the hard way. I went inside, nodding to Clarissa in her office. She didn’t nod back, probably because of the sentry standing by the door. A new addition to her office décor. I hoped they hadn’t decided to guard the place at night as well. I might need to make another visit.

  I stopped at the door to the tower staircase. It was unlocked. I pushed it open and listened. No footsteps, no voices. I made my way up the stone stairway, taking careful, quiet steps. I could feel a presence above me, like a cold breeze at my backbone.

  I opened the door to the top of the tower.

  It was Faith. Alone. Standing at the edge of the parapet, resting her elbows on the stonework, her gaze cast downward to where Holland had fallen.

  I let the door close quietly, so as not to startle her, but loudly enough so she’d hear. I took a couple of steps, so she’d know where I was.

  “Why?” she whispered, the word nearly lost in the wind as she drew her sweater tight across her chest.

  “I don’t know,” I said, surprised at the sound of her voice. I leaned on the parapet a few feet away from her. “I’d like to find out.”

  “Does it matter? He could have died over there,” she said, waving her hand in the general direction of the war, somewhere over the southern horizon. “Or he could have spent the rest of his life in a place like this.”

  “When you put it like that, it doesn’t seem like it matters. But it does to me.”

  “Why?” This time she faced me, looking me hard in the eye.

  “Because someone got away with murder, and they might do it again. There’s enough death to go around. You don’t think he jumped, do you?”

  “No. He wouldn’t. He was putting his soul back together, bit by bit,” Faith said, the sound of her voice fading into a whisper.

  “Did he tell you that?”

  She smiled, as if I had asked a silly question. “He was a mute, remember?”

  “I thought you were too,” I said.

  “When I want to be, which is often. He’d begun to speak a few words at a time, yes. But only to me, as far as I know. It was difficult for him,” she said. “Oh, look, the lords of the manor.”

  Below us, Major Snow led a group of men along the walkway, their heads bent close and their hands moving madly as they engaged in an energetic conversation. Too far away to hear, sadly. Doctors Hughes and Robinson were with another white coat I hadn’t seen before. The other two men might have been the guys I’d seen earlier pulling in, a civilian and an officer, both British, both with a few years on Snow.

  “What are they saying, do you think?” Faith asked.

  “I don’t know, but if they look up, they’ll call the guards on us. What brought you up here, anyway? And how did you get in? Isn’t that door kept locked?”

  “You forget we’re trained in the fine art of lockpicking. SOE agents, anyway, I don’t know what you Yanks get up to. As for what brings me here, it is Holland. He was so comforting to sit with. He’s gone, but I can pretend he’s right here. Or maybe he is . . .” She broke off, catching me looking at the bandages on her wrists. “Oh no, Boyle, I haven’t come up here to jump. I had my chance at self-slaughter. I couldn’t cut deep enough. But I did cut, give me that much.”

  “You and Iris both?” I asked.

  “Yes. It’s what brought us together here. The shared desperation and stupidity of failed suicide,” she said, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. We stood in silence, feeling the wind against our faces.

  “Do you want to go back?” I asked, thinking about my own time behind enemy lines as I tossed a glance to that distant horizon.

  “Yes. So I might feel alive again. Feel anything. Even terror would be welcome. Now, Boyle, one more question. Then I will descend the stairway into silence. It’s much better than putting up with inane conversation, don’t you think?”

  “I do. I just couldn’t keep my own mouth shut long enough to pull it off,” I said. “Here’s my question. Who would have wanted Holland dead?”

  “I truly do not know. But I wonder, did he make anyone here look to be a failure? Perhaps he was an embarrassment, a testament to faulty treatment. Or a botched mission.”

  I studied Snow and his group below as they took the walkway to the front entrance. It was a good question. “Maybe Robinson?” I said. But my only answer was the tower door slamming shut behind Faith.

  The noise caused Snow to look up, then quickly away. I studied the unknown officer, barely able to make out the crown and two stars on his shoulder boards. A colonel. Snow’s boss? Come to check up on him? Maybe that was standard after a patient death. Or maybe it was simply a routine inspection. The civilian had seen Snow’s upward glance and did the same. There was something about him, something familiar I couldn’t place. He tipped back his black homburg hat as he looked up, allowing me a good look at his face. Neatly trimmed gray mustache, round cheeks, finished off with bags under his eyes. An overworked bureaucrat, maybe a retread from the last war. Perhaps I’d seen him at SHAEF or in London.

  Before they’d gotten through the door, I was down the stairs, unwilling to sit through questions about what I was doing in the tower, and how I’d gotten through the locks. I knew a bit about lockpicking but there was no reason to let them know that, and I had no desire to rat out Faith. I eased the staircase door shut and darted out, as I heard the murmur of voices echoing in the foyer. No need to run into a gaggle of brass and high hats if I didn’t need to.

  I took a swing around the asylum to stretch my legs and think. My legs got more out of it than my brain, so I decided to treat my stomach to an early supper and see if that helped. Mutton stew was the evening’s dish, made tolerable by not much mutton and an abundance of carrots and potatoes. The food helped, and I began to think about my pal No-name. If he was writing anything other than jumbled scribbles in that notebook of his, he could be in real trouble. I needed to find him, if he wasn’t hiding out in the shrubbery.

  Upstairs, I checked in with the guard at the entrance to my floor and was about to ask if he knew where No-name bunked. He had a clipboard and a checklist in front of him, but instead of writing down my name and the time, he looked down the hallway and nodded.

  The crash of bootheels sounded, harsh echoes advancing down the hall as the guard stepped behind me, blocking my escape.

  I was trapped.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A couple of burly orderlies grabbed my arms and manhandled me
upstairs to the third floor. One was muscle-bound, the other thinner and in need of a bath. The guard darted ahead to unlock the door. He didn’t meet my eyes as he held it open, staring down at the linoleum as if the cracked and warped patterns were of intense personal interest.

  “Hey, what gives?” I asked, twisting my arms as I tried to figure out what the hell was happening. “Where are you taking me?”

  “You have an appointment,” the smelly one said. “Take it easy, mate.”

  “Okay, okay, so I missed my session with Dr. Robinson,” I said, remembering where I should have been hours ago. Not that we were headed for Robinson’s office. “No need for the rough stuff.”

  “Calm down, it’ll be easier that way,” the other orderly said, tightening his muscular grip on my arm. A third orderly approached us, leading Miller, who shuffled along, his eyes glassy and dazed, his haughtiness and bravado gone. He stared at me, his forehead wrinkled, as if he were trying to figure out how he knew me or what century it was.

  I didn’t like this.

  This hallway was as grimy as the third floor in the north wing, but when they steered me into a room everything changed. It was sparkling white, the windows spotless and clean. An exam table stood in the middle of the room, draped in a white sheet. A nurse stood next to a device in a polished wooden case, its protruding dials and knobs looking like something from a Frankenstein movie.

  “Boyle, is it?” This from a doctor in a white smock, the same fellow I’d seen walking with Hughes and Robinson. He was ruddy-faced and dark-haired, with a thin pencil mustache, the kind that looked good on Ronald Colman and in this guy’s imagination. He busied himself

  leafing through a file, glancing up to check my face against a photograph. “I’m Dr. Fielding. Dr. Robinson has scheduled you for a round of electric convulsion treatments. He’s explained it to you, I’m sure. Now hop on the table and we’ll get started. And don’t worry, it sounds worse than it is.”

  “No, he hasn’t mentioned anything about this,” I said, backing up a step. “What is that contraption anyway?”

  “Come, come, don’t be nervous, lad,” Fielding said. “Nothing to worry about.” With that, he signaled the orderlies who lifted me onto the table. The nurse cooed soothing words I couldn’t make out as a rising terror filled my mind. This was wrong. Robinson wouldn’t spring this on me with no warning.

  “I want to talk with Dr. Robinson,” I said. “Now.”

  “Sorry, not possible. I have his signed order here for a series of electric convulsive therapies. You’ve had ample time to discuss this with him. Now lie back on the table. It can be done the easy way or the hard way.”

  The orderlies decided on the hard way before I had a chance to respond. They shoved me flat, one of them then grasping my ankles and the other positioning himself at my shoulders in a smooth and well-practiced move. The nurse lifted the sheets on either side to cover me, revealing leather straps, which the orderlies cinched tight, immobilizing me.

  “What the hell is this?” I searched their eyes for even the slightest of sympathetic glances, but they were strictly business. “Please tell me what you’re doing, for God’s sake!” I could hear the fear in my voice, which had nothing on the panic flashing red in my brain.

  “Standard practice, Boyle,” Fielding said. He held a U-shaped instrument, which was attached to the box with the dials. The electric part of the therapy was obvious, since the box was plugged into an outlet with a heavy-duty cord. “We pass a current of electric energy through your brain. It simulates a seizure, which oddly enough helps to curb certain instances of mental illness. Robinson should have covered all this.” He shook his head at the failure of his colleague to follow the established procedure.

  Before I could protest, the nurse put a wad of gauze into my mouth and tied off the ends around my head.

  “That will stop you from biting your tongue,” Fielding said, setting electrodes at my temples. “The restraints are to keep you from injuring yourself, don’t worry about them. Now, the first few shocks will be at the lower end of the spectrum. We shall begin with one hundred and eighty volts for a few seconds. Ready?”

  I shook my head no.

  Everyone else said yes.

  I didn’t know what hit me. A sharp burning pain flashed through my head as my body arched against the restraints, muscles clenching and limbs writhing, my jaw trying to saw through the mouth guard.

  Then it stopped, and it felt like I dropped back onto the table from one hundred feet up. I tried to breathe, but I couldn’t get enough oxygen. I gasped as my chest heaved but no one was paying any attention. The orderlies looked bored, the nurse looked anywhere but at me, and Fielding studied his chart.

  “Good. Now two hundred, please.” The nurse worked a dial as I tried to ready myself. But I had no idea how to prepare, no defense against the shock of pain that seemed to have been everywhere, in every cell of my body and in the deepest recesses of my mind.

  “Stop this now! Immediately!”

  The voice boomed with authority. I recognized it, but not the man himself.

  “Turn that infernal contraption off and release this man!”

  “You can’t interrupt a medical procedure! Get out of here,” Dr. Fielding said. “Who do you think you are?”

  “Charles Cosgrove of His Majesty’s Foreign Office. And if you do not comply immediately, each one of you, you shall find yourselves posted to the most miserable, flea-infested field hospital in North Africa within twenty-four hours, I promise you.”

  It was a specific threat, delivered with authority, by a man I barely recognized. But the attitude, bluster, and tone were genuine Major Charles Cosgrove of the British Army, whom I’d last seen six months ago, not far from this spot, recovering from a heart attack.

  “What gives you the authority to make such threats?” Dr. Fielding asked, taking a step back as he did, putting some distance between him and Cosgrove’s indignation.

  “My authority comes from the highest levels of the British government and this American sergeant,” Cosgrove said, stepping out of the way as the clomp of boots heralded the arrival of Big Mike. It was an unbeatable one-two punch.

  Fielding gave in, removing the electrodes as the orderlies unstrapped me, and I spat out the mouth guard.

  “Tell me, Dr. Fielding,” I said as I sat up, fighting off a wave of dizziness and struggling to comprehend Cosgrove’s surprise appearance. “Did Miller just come from one of these sessions? He was in bad shape. Is he going to be okay?”

  “There is often a period of confusion after a full session. Some temporary memory loss is possible as well. But you had only one dose at the lowest setting. Nothing to worry about, I assure you,” Fielding said, his gaze darting nervously between Cosgrove and Big Mike.

  “But if you’d given me the whole nine yards, I might have ended up like Miller? He didn’t seem to know what the score was.” Which is how I figured somebody wanted me.

  “Yes. It’s a side effect that can last for several days. Longer, in some cases. But what’s this about?” Fielding asked, looking to Cosgrove for answers and getting none.

  Welcome to the club, Doc.

  “Good to see you, Major,” I said, easing myself off the table and ignoring Fielding. “You too, Big Mike. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “That would be a pleasure,” Cosgrove said.

  “Like old times,” Big Mike said with a grin, grabbing my arm and leading me out of that room.

  “Yeah, always in trouble,” I said, with a glance back at Fielding’s open mouth.

  I’d met Major Charles Cosgrove back in 1942. He’d been in uniform then, part of MI-5, the British security service. Colonel Harding and Cosgrove had worked together, which meant that I’d had to take orders from both of them. That was a trial with Cosgrove, since he was a British officer of the old school who looked down on Yank in
terlopers and their smart-aleck remarks. Which only led me to make as many smart-aleck remarks as possible. But we found a way to work together effectively. Until a heart attack laid him low and he ended up at Saint Albans.

  He was the officer I’d visited here, months ago. A lifetime ago. I hadn’t paid much attention to the other patients, since he was strictly a short-timer, housed in one of the smaller buildings out back reserved for VIPs visiting on a temporary basis.

  “I hardly recognized you, Major,” I said as we descended the staircase. He looked to be about fifty pounds lighter. The gray mustache he’d worn in the old-fashioned walrus style was nicely trimmed up, and with his well-tailored gray suit and neatly combed hair, he looked younger. A dapper gent.

  “Strictly civilian these days, Boyle. But I don’t mind the title. Wore the uniform so many years I rather think I still have it on. Come, we’ll catch up in Snow’s office and see if we can determine who’s bungled things.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re here, especially since this is where I saw you last,” I said, as I noticed another change. “And you’re not using a cane anymore.”

  “That heart attack was a godsend,” Cosgrove said. He didn’t explain, but his tone was fervent.

  We marched into Snow’s office. He was conferring with Robinson, and we seemed to have caught them in the middle of a hushed argument. They both rose, which I took as a mark of respect to Cosgrove. I wondered what he did at the Foreign Office, and how high up he was.

  “Boyle, thank God you’re all right,” Robinson said, setting down the telephone. “Fielding just called.”

  “I’m sure in the grand scheme of things God played a part, but it was Major Cosgrove who came to my rescue,” I said, taking a seat in front of Snow’s desk. Cosgrove walked briskly to Snow’s seat behind his desk and sat himself down, leaving no doubt as to the pecking order.

  Big Mike stood by the door with his arms folded, creating a pleasant sense of coiled menace. Snow and Robinson took the other chairs, and Cosgrove barely waited until their rear ends were settled in to go at them.