by Roland Moore
‘Right about what? What are you talking about?’ Once again, his voice was flat, unruffled. Chillingly cold.
‘You want me to spell it out?’ Joyce heard her voice crack with imminent tears. ‘You’re in league with the Germans. A sympathiser, aren’t you?’
Channing snorted in derision.
He put his foot down hard on the accelerator and the car squealed around a bend.
‘Why couldn’t you stop with your questions?’
He muttered the words more to himself than to her.
‘I’m right though, aren’t I?’
‘You want to know? I’ll tell you what I am,’ Channing glanced briefly at her, a strange enigmatic smile playing on his face. It chilled her to the bone.
‘I’m an agent for the British, for the War Office.’
‘What?’
‘I’m on your side, you stupid, stupid woman. I was employed to infiltrate a group of fascist sympathisers; gain their trust; become one of them. And that’s what I did. That’s exactly what I did.’
The road was a blur as Channing went faster and faster. She gripped the seat; her mind struggling to process what he was saying. It was crazy, wasn’t it? She followed her gut instinct.
‘I don’t believe you.’ Joyce was shaking.
‘Don’t be silly.’ Although it was the kind of thing you’d say to a child, in Channing’s mouth it was loaded with so much contempt it sounded like the ultimate derision.
‘You told Lady Channing that lie when you killed the sympathiser in her stables. But if it was true – and you were a British agent – doing that would have blown your cover, wouldn’t it? The rest of the group would have known you were a British agent after that. You couldn’t have gone back to them.’
‘I assume the rest of the group didn’t know what I’d done.’
‘Everyone knew. Your heroic act was the talk of the whole of Hoxley Manor and most of Helmstead. Word would have got back to them. And they wouldn’t have trusted you after that. I’m right, aren’t I? You’re not a British agent. You’re a sympathiser who was covering his tracks by killing that man in the stables.’
Channing said nothing, but his face was a collage of contempt and exhaustion. And then he spoke, raising his voice to be heard about the straining engine.
‘I’m a British agent.’ Channing insisted desperately. Joyce wondered if he repeated it enough he might believe it.
‘I don’t believe you.’
Channing looked like he was about to reply, but before he could say a word, a tractor filled their windscreen suddenly. There was no escape. Joyce instinctively tried to open her door to get out. Channing slammed on the brakes, but couldn’t stop in time. The Ford plunged head on into the tractor, sending Channing crashing hard against the steering wheel; the windscreen shattering over him. Joyce was luckier, managing to dive down into the passenger well and open the door as she was thrown forward. She tumbled out of the car as it hit the tractor and she rolled hard down a verge by the side of the road. Every branch and rock came up to meet her as she fell. The pain washed over her as she tumbled and eventually crumpled in a heap halfway down the embankment. She was still for a long while, knocked unconscious. But slowly sensation came back, and she moved, as if testing each limb to see if it was still attached.
Murmuring in confusion, Joyce struggled to get to her feet but, unable to cope with the dizziness of the fall, promptly fell backwards. She tried again, slower this time, and managed to crawl onto her knees and then up onto her feet. Her wrist was badly bruised, her ankle was twisted, and she had various cuts to her arms, but apart from that she thought she was in one piece. The car and tractor up at the top of the embankment were bathed in steam from the smashed radiator of the Ford.
She moved slowly down the embankment being careful not to tumble again. At the bottom she could see the end of the platform at Helmstead station. It was lightly occupied with passengers from an arriving train. A short engine with four carriages was parked in the station. None of the passengers were looking her way. Maybe none of them had heard the crash over the noise of the train. Maybe they were distracted with greeting or saying goodbye to loved ones.
Joyce waved, but lost her balance again. She tumbled forward onto her bad wrist. She winced and struggled to get up.
She glanced behind her.
She was surprised by what she saw.
A man was making his way down after her; his face a bloodied mess. Channing had survived and he was coming to get her.
Channing pulled himself off the steering wheel. Blood was pouring down his face and he was finding it hard to breathe. He knew he’d broken a rib or two in the impact and that the ribs had severed one of his lungs. But he had to block out the pain and the discomfort. He had to stop Joyce.
She could mess everything up.
He fumbled for his medical bag that had fallen into the footwell and opened it up with his blood-slippery hands. He pulled out the pistol, wiping his hand on his trousers to get purchase on it. Channing tried to open the door, but it was crumpled in the impact. Wincing in pain, he pulled himself over to the passenger seat and got out from Joyce’s open door.
Staggering from the car, the disorientated but uninjured farmer who had been driving the tractor glanced accusingly at him. Channing waved the gun in the man’s general direction and he obligingly disappeared from view.
‘I don’t want no trouble.’ The farmer retreated.
Glancing down the embankment, Channing could see Joyce about halfway down. She was struggling to stay upright and it looked like she was limping. She was making slow progress.
He had to deal with her.
Later, he’d tell people that she compromised his cover.
Yes, that’s what he’d do.
Channing tried to aim his pistol, but he was too far away and his hand was shaking too much. He had no choice but to get closer. So wheezing and groaning, he hurriedly made his way down the embankment after her as fast as he could.
Joyce scrambled down, nearly losing her balance again. Her ankle was becoming more painful to move, but she forced herself onwards. Channing was about halfway down the embankment above her. He had a pistol in his hand. She’d seen it glint in the light.
Could she reach the bottom, cross the rail track and get to the end of the platform before Channing could get a shot at her? The platform was about three hundred yards from the bottom of the embankment. She’d be safe then, amongst the crowds.
She had to try.
Joyce fell onto her bottom, skidding down the last few feet on a bed of shingle. She got to her feet. Channing was gaining on her, realising that time was running out.
‘Stop! Stay where you are!’ It was Channing’s voice further up the embankment.
The train was about to pull away. Joyce could see it gaining speed as it left the station. It was a four-carriage train, and Joyce knew that if she didn’t cross the tracks before it reached her then it would be a barrier in front of her. It would trap her on the same side as Channing.
The train moved closer and closer. The track was ahead in front of her. Joyce remembered her mother telling her to be careful about crossing train tracks. And here she was about to risk her life doing just that. But it was the only way she could escape.
Joyce ran desperately for the track. The train was closing. Channing knew he had to reach her. He lunged for her, missing the collar of her shirt.
But he managed to grab her arm.
‘Get off me!’
‘I can’t let you go!’ He brought the pistol round towards Joyce’s side. ‘I’m so sorry!’
The train sounded its bell, the driver spotting them at the edge of the track, but unable to stop in time.
Joyce threw a punch at Channing’s face. It didn’t connect with any solid impact, but it moved the gun off target and made him let go of her arm. She could feel the vibration of the train. It was that close. She could smell the burning coal and hot oil. Joyce had a split second to get in front of
the train or it would be too late.
Clang, clang, clang.
With its bell sounding, she leaped over the rails, falling in an untidy heap on the other side. There was a gunshot. Channing made the leap a second later, but the train thundered past. He didn’t make it to Joyce’s side. She felt a blast of wind from the train, forcing her to close her eyes from the dust it was throwing up.
Eyes tightly shut, Joyce pulled herself backwards, as the rest of the train went past and then, breathless with exertion, she dragged herself to her feet. The train disappeared in the distance. She opened her eyes.
She tried to make out where Channing was.
Where was he?
Where had he gone?
Had he been hit by the train and thrown backwards? She couldn’t see any sign of him. Joyce knew he must be there somewhere. There had been no scream; no sound of a body being hit. Of course, such sounds may have been blocked out by the sheer noise of the train going past with its bell clanging.
A man’s hand touched her shoulder.
Joyce jumped.
‘It’s all right, miss, you’re safe.’ The station master looked down at her, taking in the sight of a dishevelled young woman. ‘You took quite a risk there.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Your boyfriend?’ The grey-haired old man looked concerned.
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘That man?’ The station master sucked air between his teeth, pondering. ‘He may have been thrown some distance up the line or if he was unlucky, his clothes will have got caught, and he’ll have been dragged along,’ he said. ‘He could end up a way away before he falls.’
Joyce nodded.
‘So do you think he’s dead?’
‘I’m sorry, miss. I’d have thought so.’
‘No apology necessary,’ Joyce exhaled deeply.
It was over.
The station master helped her along the tracks to the station platform. He had a smell of brandy about him and Joyce imagined the station staff had shared a drink to commiserate having to work Christmas Eve. Joyce could see a small group of passengers looking at them as they got nearer. These people had arrived in Helmstead and hadn’t bargained on seeing anything so traumatic in this sleepy town.
The station master helped Joyce up onto the platform. She dusted herself down and straightened her hair. The onlookers were gazing at her, full of unanswered questions. Some of the women were smiling sympathetically. Some children were looking confused at what they’d just seen.
Joyce tried to process all their faces, but she was finding it hard to focus. Stars were swimming in her field of vision, and everything seemed distant and too loud. The sky seemed too bright. She knew what was about to happen.
The station master propped his hand underneath her elbow to stop her falling.
‘I’ve got you.’
‘I’m all right,’ Joyce’s voice sounded a long way away.
One younger man came forward, pushing through the cluster of people. He had a look of concern and surprise on his face. He seemed familiar. A slim-built man in his mid-twenties, blessed with good looks, kind eyes and dark brown hair – Joyce knew who he was.
But that wasn’t possible, was it?
With too much light in the sky behind him, John Fisher held out a hand to his wife.
Joyce thought of the photograph. All her loved ones on Friday Street. All of them were gone. And now, finally, she knew what had happened and the truth came to her with a feeling of serenity and calm.
Channing had shot her, hadn’t he? At the last moment as she jumped across the track, he’d shot her. She’d heard the gun go off.
And this was the end.
Yes, that’s what this was. But it was nothing to fear.
Joyce slid to the platform, feeling the cold concrete beneath her fingers. She didn’t feel any pain, not anymore. She wasn’t aware of where she had been shot. She didn’t need to look for a wound. She knew what was happening.
John crouched with her, a kind smile on his face. He was always there and would be forever and he was holding her as the darkness descended.
But there was a smile on Joyce’s face as it enveloped her.
Chapter 17
The night before Christmas.
Connie Carter opened her eyes.
The first thing she saw was Henry, looking down at her, a relieved expression on his face. He called for a nurse and then turned his full attention back to his wife. She realised that she was in the hospital wing of Hoxley Manor. Again. It was all familiar; the makeshift hospital. The high ceiling with its ornate coving, plunging down to built-in oak bookshelves; the hospital beds placed in rows in front of them on the parquet flooring. She didn’t like being such a regular visitor.
‘I’m making a right habit of this.’
‘You’re going to be all right!’ Henry bounced up from his seat excitedly.
‘What happened?’ Connie tried to speak but found it hard.
She saw Esther come into view. ‘You helped see off those two German airmen, that’s what happened.’
Before Connie could ask any more questions, a nurse arrived with a doctor. She didn’t know who the doctor was. It wasn’t Channing, but a small, Scottish man in a patterned waistcoat. They checked Connie over and the doctor looked into her eyes with a light before smiling at her.
‘You’re making an excellent recovery.’
‘What about my …?’ Connie needed to know.
‘It’s all right.’ Henry held her hand, ‘Our baby is all right.’
‘And we got the bullet out of your shoulder. The wound was clean, and it should all heal perfectly.’ The doctor glanced at his clipboard as he spoke.
‘That’s such good news, lovey,’
‘Yes, and we’ll expect you back on the farm in a few days.’
The words were followed with a distinctive chuckle and Connie knew that it was Frederick Finch. ‘I come back from Leicester and find out you’ve turned my farm into a war zone!’
She looked towards the end of the bed and saw that Finch was flanked by Iris and Martin as well. They all smiled at her. They had all come to see her.
‘We can’t leave you for five minutes,’ Iris looked happy and content, pleased to be with Martin.
‘We’ve asked if you can come out of hospital for a Christmas dinner tomorrow!’ Finch chuckled.
‘The doctors said no,’ Esther looked sternly at Finch.
‘But we’re going to spring you out for a couple of hours anyway. If you want to, of course.’
‘I do. Be lovely to see you all and have a chuckle.’
And then Connie realised there was someone she hadn’t seen, someone she hadn’t enquired about yet.
‘What happened to Joyce?’ She asked. ‘Where is she?’
At first no one knew what to say. Finch shuffled awkwardly. Martin and Iris looked at the floor. Henry smiled consolingly. But it was Esther that stepped forward.
She smiled kindly at Connie.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard, love …’
In the living room of Hoxley Manor, Lady Hoxley poured more tea into her best china cups, before handing them to the men from the War Office. They were called Bartholomew and Matthews; which sounded more like a firm of solicitors than the names of two agents. Bartholomew was the older and more experienced agent, the one who did most of the talking. Matthews was the trainee, who spoke little and watched his superior avidly for clues about how to conduct himself.
Ellen had told them about the last days of Richard Channing and they were all trying to piece together what had happened and what it meant.
For her part, Ellen had woken late on Christmas Eve with no understanding of what would have made her sleep for so long. She hadn’t been especially tired. Bartholomew pushed his wire glasses up to the bridge of his nose. He thought that Channing had probably drugged her to keep her out of the way. Matthews took a blood sample. Bartholomew thought that if the sedative had been something
like Bromide then it would hang around in the bloodstream. They would send the blood sample for testing, but he suspected it would show some signs of a sedative.
‘Have you found his body?’
‘Not yet, Lady Hoxley.’ Bartholomew took a sip of tea. ‘But I’m sure it’ll turn up. Without wanting to be graphic, bodies can be dragged quite a distance.’
‘Could he have survived?’
‘It’s unlikely.’
‘But not impossible?’
Bartholomew shook his head. Then he opened Manila envelope. Inside was a photograph of Siegfried Weber. Ellen didn’t know who he was, and Bartholomew explained that he was one of the Germans who had been holed up at Pasture Farm.
‘He didn’t interact with Richard Channing, so he doesn’t know if Channing was there to help them. He doesn’t know if Channing answered their call for help. The other German could have told us more as he presumably talked to Channing,’ Bartholomew sipped more tea.
‘But he died?’
‘Yes, he’d died at the scene.’
‘This is all a dreadful shock. Not about the German but about Richard. You think you know somebody and then they surprise you in such hideous ways’ Ellen felt betrayed by him. The whole debacle was forcing her to reassess every moment of their friendship as she searched for clues as to his double-life. ‘I suppose the big question I have is, was Richard a sympathiser or a British agent? It’s still not entirely clear to me. And it would have a bearing, as matters progress.’
She’d picked her words carefully, but both agents knew that she was referring to the type of funeral or church service that Richard Channing would have if his body was found. Would it be a hero’s send-off or the ignominy of a traitor’s passing?
Bartholomew chose his words equally as carefully.
‘We have no record of him working for us. But he could have been working for a special department.’
‘So we still don’t know?’
‘I’m sorry, but no,’ Bartholomew got to his feet. Matthews took his cue and rose as well.
‘And presumably you won’t necessarily tell me if you find out?’
‘Not if it conflicts with any ongoing work. Sorry.’
