by Roland Moore
‘No!’ Esther looked terrified.
‘Let go of her!’ Connie waved the gun.
The other German was getting closer and she could see that he had a pistol. Connie didn’t have much time. And yet she couldn’t get a clear shot at Siegfried because of Esther being in the way. She hadn’t fired many guns in her time and there was no certainty that she’d hit him if she had a clear shot anyway. But Esther had to get out of the way.
‘Drop the gun!’ The other German got nearer.
‘Don’t listen, Connie!’ Joyce shouted.
‘Drop it!’
‘Connie, please …’ Esther sobbed.
Time seemed to stop. Connie was aware of the older German getting closer, raising his luger; Siegfried was holding tightly onto the struggling Esther; Joyce was running towards them.
Connie made a decision.
She lowered the shotgun.
Siegfried smiled; relief etched on his face.
‘That’s a good girl.’
But then Connie fired it at his leg.
It was the only part of him that she had a clear shot at. And at close range she knew she couldn’t miss. It exploded in a geyser of red and sinew.
‘Ahhhh!’ Siegfried screamed and crumpled to the ground, clutching his shattered ankle; writhing in pain.
As he fell, he released his grip and Esther ran away from him. She ran over to Connie. Connie fumbled for the hessian bag from her pocket, but the shells tumbled out onto the ground.
Emory glanced at the fallen, screaming Siegfried and ignored him. He levelled his pistol at Connie as he got closer. Joyce chased after him, the breadknife in her hand. But she was still ten feet away.
‘You betrayed us!’ Emory looked furious as he spoke in Channing’s vague direction. ‘It’s a trap.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Channing shouted.
There was no time for more debate. Emory wasn’t interested in discussion. He was interested in survival.
Joyce heard it but didn’t have time to process it. She was a few feet away now from the German as Connie picked up a shell, snapped the shotgun open and desperately tried to reload.
She wouldn’t manage it in time.
Emory shot Connie.
The gunshot pierced the silent morning air with a high-pitched whistle, hitting Connie. She didn’t feel any pain at first. She was aware of feeling like she’d been pushed and she could feel herself falling backwards as her head spun dizzily. Somewhere far, far away, she could hear Esther screaming and she was aware of something wet splashing her face. It was blood. She hit the ground, feeling small stones on the concrete pushing against the back of her head. Her arms flopped lazily down beside her; with the echo of the gunshot ringing in her ears. The shotgun fell onto the ground by her side.
Emory went to line up another shot to finish her off.
But Joyce had reached him. He started to turn, realising he was about to be attacked. Joyce acted quickly. She plunged the breadknife into his back. It sliced easily through the suit jacket and the shirt, embedding itself. Joyce felt the resistance to the blade as it met sinew and muscle underneath. Emory screamed. He turned round and fired off two shots in Joyce’s general direction. But his aim was desperate and reckless. The bullets whipped past her head as she ducked forward; using her momentum to push Emory over. The knife snapped off in his back as he hit the yard floor and he screamed even more loudly. But he still had the pistol in his hand and tried to bring it to bear on Joyce. She desperately tried to pin his arms down. She was surprised by the strength that he still possessed. But then he was desperate and wounded and he was fighting for his life. And that made two of them.
Joyce couldn’t hold down his hands. Emory strained to bring the gun up towards her face.
Why was Channing standing there? Why didn’t he help?
She punched at Emory’s injured arm and he released his grip on her. Joyce scrambled away to one side and got to her feet as Emory tried to grab her again. She staggered backwards falling onto her backside, but she was free of him. But then he scrambled to a sitting position and brought the pistol up. The barrel levelled with Joyce’s face as they sat opposite each other in the dirt.
This was it.
Point blank range with no escape.
Joyce was certain that she was going to die.
There was no way she could get away in time and no way could she grapple with him to get the gun. Not before he shot her anyway.
She thought of the photograph; the smiling faces on Friday Street. And in a split second, Joyce knew that if she was about to die then she’d meet her loved ones again; free of pain and free of suffering.
They’d all be together.
Time seemed to stop, and she didn’t notice Esther pluck the shotgun from the ground near Connie’s motionless body and run over. It was unloaded so Esther flipped it round and holding it by the barrel whacked Emory hard in the face with the butt; snapping his head back and shattering his nose. He fell backwards, knocked out cold; the pistol flying from his hand.
Time restarted.
Joyce could hear the wails coming from Siegfried as he writhed around on the ground in a mess of blood. Esther was standing motionless holding the shotgun by its barrel; the shock of what had happened hitting her. And then Joyce heard a faint whimper coming from Connie, who was lying flat on her back; her best crimson suit torn and ruined.
She was still alive!
Joyce hauled herself to her feet and staggered over to Connie. She held her by the elbows and gently shook Connie so that she’d focus on her.
‘Connie? Come on!’
Connie’s big brown eyes looked at Joyce. They glazed over. She gave a tight-lipped smile. Joyce assumed that she was going into shock as well.
‘How do you feel?’
‘I dunno,’ Connie couldn’t really think straight.
‘I’m so sorry I was late.’
‘It’s done now, innit?’ Connie licked her lips, nervous of what she was about to ask. ‘How bad am I?’
Joyce feared the worst and was scared to look. She forced herself to glance down. The left shoulder of Connie’s suit had a small hole in it and the crimson fabric was darkened with blood.
‘He only got your shoulder, I think.’ Joyce realised that this was probably a minor wound. ‘He only got your shoulder!’ Joyce said, excitedly.
But she was unsure what to do.
And then she remembered Doctor Channing.
‘Doctor?’ Joyce got up.
Channing appeared lost in his own world, standing numbly in the yard as if he too was in shock. Joyce supposed that traumatic events could do that to passers-by. But why hadn’t he helped?
‘Doctor Channing!’
He snapped out of it and rushed over to Connie, kneeling at her side. He found his voice. ‘Mrs Jameson? Can you, can you hear me?’
‘Yeah, think so.’
‘Fetch my medical bag, Joyce.’ Channing pointed to where it had fallen. Joyce walked as quickly as she could. She didn’t trust herself to run as her legs felt like jelly and she didn’t want to fall. That wouldn’t help Connie. She found Channing’s bag and turned to find Esther and Channing working together to take off Connie’s jacket. Esther had lifted Connie’s head slightly and Channing was pulling the sleeve of her jacket off.
‘I’m going to sterilise it and then dress it to stop the bleeding. When we get to the hospital, I can get the bullet removed. Is that all right?’
‘Sounds all right to me, Doc.’ Connie seemed reassured by his words.
Channing stared at the carnage around him; assessing what had happened and how it affected him.
The two Germans were on the ground, one of them possibly dead and the other in a lot of pain. The dead one knew of his involvement, but the younger one had never met him, had he? That was good. The young one couldn’t betray him to the authorities. The threat was over. He was dumbstruck by the brave and foolish actions of these women. What had they done?
It didn’t matter.
What mattered was how they viewed him now?
Did they suspect him?
That bloody German had mentioned being betrayed. He’d mentioned a trap. But maybe they hadn’t heard that. Yes, surely, they wouldn’t have heard it in the heat of the fight that was going on, would they? There were gun shots and shouting; they wouldn’t have heard. And even if they had, he could talk his way out of it. He could say that they misheard what the German had said. Or he could say that the German was clutching at straws as to what was happening.
Yes, he could get out of this.
When he went to help Connie Carter, Channing was buoyed by the fact that Esther and Joyce were helping him. They didn’t hang back or look distrustfully at him. No, they were interested in helping Connie and relaxed around him.
Perhaps they didn’t suspect a thing.
Within thirty minutes, Esther had used the telephone in the farmhouse to ask for help. Soon after, some American soldiers from Hoxley Manor arrived in a jeep. They helped lift Connie into the back.
‘Here, do you remember when I first came here?’ Connie was wrapped in a blanket to keep her warm and seemed in good spirits.
‘Yes.’ Joyce remembered it well. ‘You turned up in one of these jeeps, didn’t you? You were singing away to the soldiers that had given you a lift. We couldn’t believe it. Talk about making an entrance!’
Connie smiled. She was looking forward to seeing Henry. Joyce was certain that she would be all right. Esther went with her to keep her company. Channing had insisted that they all get themselves checked over at the hospital.
‘Thanks, Joyce.’ The Americans started the engine on the jeep.
‘What for? I was late,’ Joyce felt bad that she’d let them down.
‘But you saved my life.’
Joyce watched the jeep as it drove slowly away. Connie’s face looked back at her as it shrank to a miniature version of itself and finally disappeared. Joyce felt immense relief.
‘You should get checked too.’ Channing was standing beside her, watching the disappearing jeep. His voice had made her jump.
Joyce nodded.
‘I can drive you over there if you like?’ Channing smiled.
Joyce felt a strange, irrational feeling of unease. Why hadn’t he helped them when they’d needed him? Don’t be silly. This was good old Doctor Channing. He’d helped John back to health. He’d just frozen when everything escalated out of control, that’s all. People often froze.
She could trust him, surely?
Yes, she supposed she could.
‘Thanks.’ Joyce moved towards the farmhouse. ‘I’ll just get my coat.’
Chapter 16
Channing was driving too fast.
The lane was passing in a blur of skeletal trees and evergreen hedgerow; the engine straining and the wheels squealing at each turn. Joyce assumed he was concerned about Connie and her injury. Perhaps he wanted to do the operation on her; remove the bullet himself. But even so, the speed seemed excessive.
‘Can’t you slow down, Doctor Channing?’
‘I need to get to the hospital.’
‘But what’s the point if we end up wrapped round a tree? We’ll need a hospital ourselves.’
Channing made a small dismissive grunt and relaxed the accelerator. He slowed to a reasonable pace and Joyce felt more at ease as the car slowed, releasing her tight grip on the seat beneath her.
‘Happy?’
‘Why should I be happy?’ Joyce fixed him with a stare. But the doctor kept his eyes on the road, his hands gripping the top of the steering wheel. Had he forgotten the dreadful news he’d personally delivered to her? Sometimes she marvelled at the way men could be insensitive.
‘What I mean is that you must be relieved that those Germans are no longer a problem for you?’
Joyce nodded.
‘The whole ordeal must have been really unpleasant and terrifying.’
‘We did wonder if we’d get out of it alive,’
Channing continued: ‘You know, when I got there, I had been trying to convince the older one to turn himself in. I figured that he was in command. Was I right?’
‘Yes, he was the captain or whatever.’
‘I thought if he would give himself up then the younger one would follow. That was my thinking. And I nearly convinced them you know.’
‘What did you say to him?’
‘What do you mean?’
Joyce sighed and thought carefully about what she was about to say. The doctor seemed on edge and she didn’t want to antagonise him any further; especially when he was in control of a car in which she already felt unsafe. But she needed to tackle him on what Emory had said in the final moments. He’d said he felt betrayed or something similar, hadn’t he? What did that mean? She couldn’t let it go; as tempting as it was to close her eyes and let sleep wash over her. Joyce focused on steering the conversation so she could find out the truth.
‘I mean, you must have made them some promises?’
‘Promises?’
‘To convince them to turn themselves in.’
‘Ah I see,’ Channing continued to watch the road. ‘Yes, I suppose I did make some promises. General things like the fact he’d be treated fairly as a prisoner of war if he gave himself up. That sort of thing.’
‘So is that why he said you’d betrayed him?’
And there it was; the question out in the open.
The words hung in the air between them. The heavy silence that followed seemed to stretch to eternity. Joyce listened to the sound of the engine as she waited for him to speak. But a strange, terse little smile was playing on his lips. She didn’t know what he was thinking. Had she hit a nerve? Surely, he’d say something soon.
What did she want him to say? Why had she asked that? It was so annoying; especially as Channing thought Joyce might not have heard the German’s words.
Oh, why couldn’t she leave things be?
What did she expect him to say?
Channing mulled the possibilities, but as he thought everything through, he couldn’t stop a bitter smile registering on his features. After all the stress he’d been through, why did she have to ask him that? He’d been so careful, meticulous in planning for every eventuality.
Why couldn’t they all leave him alone?
When they’d left Pasture Farm, he’d driven fast, fulfilling some primal urge to shake off the tension he felt by seeing his surroundings flashing past. But that hadn’t helped. And then she’d asked him to slow down.
She had been needling him all the way.
Was she suspicious?
Channing wanted her to shut up. He wanted her to stop harassing him. He was so close to getting away with this. He couldn’t let her destroy things now. But it was so hard for him to think straight.
Come on, he was nearly home and dry.
Concentrate.
After a lengthy silence, Channing spoke, finally answering her question about why Emory had thought he’d betrayed them. The easiest way was to agree with the scenario that Joyce had given him. He had promised them safety in a prisoner of war camp, and they had thought he had betrayed them when the shooting started.
‘I should imagine so, don’t you?’
Channing glanced her way, fixing her with a craggy grin.
Joyce nodded and watched the road. The answer hadn’t made her feel any less uncomfortable. Other things were nagging at her. Pieces in a puzzle were falling into place. She hadn’t intended for that to happen; it was like her subconscious was piecing things together. She’d let them off the leash and they were following the scent on their own.
She remembered that Lady Hoxley had, for a time, suspected Channing of being a sympathiser for the Germans. But that had all worked out, hadn’t it? Channing had even saved Lady Hoxley from a real sympathiser; risking his life in the process. Yes, he’d come into the stables and shot the man dead. So he couldn’t have been working for the Germans, could he? But then why
did Lady Hoxley suspect him? There must have been something to make her suspicious.
Channing looked back at the road and Joyce tried to relax to allow her exhausted brain to make its connections.
What else was there to consider?
Ah yes …
Why hadn’t Channing told the Home Guard that they were looking for two airmen? Horace Winstanley had no idea that’s how many they were hunting and yet Channing had that key information from Connie and he had promised to pass it on.
So why hadn’t he?
She struggled to remember what had happened as she’d run out of the farmhouse kitchen. The exact details of what happened. Had Channing been surprised to find Emory there? She wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been her focus at the time. But there was something else about Channing when he’d arrived. What was it?
Then she remembered he’d had a medical bag.
Why did he have that with him?
He didn’t need it, did he? He was delivering a message to her. And he’d made no attempt to give her any sedative or medicine when he’d broke the news. There was no need for a medical bag. Unless he had it with him on the off-chance that she might need something after he broke the news.
That was one possibility she supposed.
The alternative was that he knew in advance that he might need it; because he knew he might have to treat injured airmen.
Joyce felt the hairs on her neck stand up and her stomach lurched. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility to think that Channing may have picked up their Morse code message.
She needed time to think; time away from Channing.
‘I want you to stop the car please.’ Joyce kept her voice as level as voice as she could manage.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I need to get out. I feel sick.’
‘No, you don’t.’ Channing voice was flat and emotionless. ‘What’s going on, Joyce?’
With her exhaustion removing any filter, it all came out, in an ill-advised and dangerous gamble. Joyce heard herself saying the words that she’d been mulling over in her head. But suddenly they were released into the wild.
‘Lady Hoxley was right, wasn’t she?’
‘What?’
‘She was right.’
