Tamar

by Mal Peet

  Dart awoke on Sunday 18th March with a brain as busy as a pit of snakes. His mind must have been swarming in his sleep, because he could not tell the difference between dreaming and thinking.

  It would all work, the mechanics of it, as long as he got the timing right. Tamar would be in the barn at two in the afternoon, making the scheduled transmission. He’d have the headphones on, so he probably wouldn’t hear the ambulance anyway, but it would be best to cut the engine and coast into the yard, just to make sure . . . No, it was things, and the unpredictability of those things, that squirmed in his head. A burnt-out wire or sheared bolt in the engine of the ambulance, a cartridge jammed in a gun, an unforeseen incident on the road.

  Dart pulled his legs up in the bed and locked his arms around his knees, folding into himself. A lesser man would pray for luck, but he didn’t have to do that. He didn’t need luck, because he had inevitability. He would succeed in the same way that a river always reaches the sea no matter what tries to dam or divert it. And he’d been given Koop, his own malevolent little puppet, his instrument to use and then dispose of. There was nothing to fear.

  He went to the mirror above the washstand. The bruising was now nothing more than a shadow, a trick of the light. The split in his lip had crusted over; he would have to shave very carefully tomorrow morning. He held his hands out flat. He willed the trembling to stop, and it did.

  When Dart went into the kitchen, Albert Veening was sitting at the long table tapping ash from his cigarette into an empty cup. He wore a cardigan with unravelling cuffs and looked derelict. Dart went to the stove and found something that might have been coffee in a slightly warm saucepan.

  “How are things?”

  “Better, I suppose,” Albert said. “There are still four patients we daren’t leave unattended. Sidona is the worst. She’s convinced yesterday’s events prove that the angels have turned against her. She believes the Nazi bastard in charge of the raid was the dark angel Trago in one of his disguises. She has it all worked out, which means that her ordinary schizophrenia has become paranoid schizophrenia. Difficult stuff to deal with, religious mania. Especially when it’s so systematic. Thank God I’m an atheist.”

  “Have you visited our uninvited guest?”

  Albert carefully stubbed out his cigarette and put the dog end in his cardigan pocket. “Yes. I was up there half an hour ago. Can’t say I enjoy treating patients who greet you by pointing a Luger at your head. Mind you, I suppose he’s someone who does have reason to be paranoid.”

  “How is he?”

  “Bloody nasty. Apart from that, he’s doing surprisingly well. He’s a lot stronger than he looks. Yesterday opened up his wounds, of course, but they’re clean. He was on his feet when I went in this morning. He’d managed to walk around the room a few times. His temperature is normal again, which is a good sign.”

  Dart sat down. “Sister Agatha is right, you know. We can’t keep him here.”

  Albert leaned back and sighed. “Actually, this is exactly where he should be. He’s as crazy as a burning rat.”

  “Albert.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “For one thing,” Dart said, “I can’t keep him in the radio room until the damn war is over.”

  “True. He smells, apart from anything else. I suppose we should give him a bath. Although I wouldn’t want to be the one who tries it. Got any more cigarettes?”

  “I’ll share one.”

  “Thank you. Does Mr. de Vries have somewhere else he can go?”

  “He says he does, yes.”

  Albert looked up. “Not the Maartens place, is it? You mentioned that the other day, and I wasn’t happy about it. I wouldn’t want what’s-her-name, Marijke, to have to —”

  “No, no. Absolutely not. That was just, you know, the first thing I thought of. No, he says he knows a safe house.” Dart passed the cigarette.

  Albert said, “Where?”

  “He won’t tell me. He says he’ll direct me there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He wants to go tomorrow. He wants me to take him in the ambulance.”

  Albert coughed smoke. “Jesus, Ernst, that’s risky. Too risky. No, there has to be another way.”

  Dart scratched the back of his head like a man who has come, reluctantly, to a conclusion. “I don’t think so. I’ve thought about it. And to tell you the truth, I’d rather take that risk than keep him here. As Agatha says, he puts all of us in danger. That’s not right, Albert. You know it’s not.”

  “The Germans might not come back. They didn’t find anything.”

  Dart reached over and took the cigarette. “And that’s some sort of guarantee, is it? Look, I want him out of here. I have a job to do. Koop is a loose cannon. I can’t have him watching everything I do.”

  Albert Veening stared silently at his empty cup for some time. Dart’s foot was jiggling under the table, and he brought it under control.

  “Okay,” Albert said at last. “What time tomorrow?”

  Dart shrugged. “It doesn’t make much difference, as far as I can see. The afternoon is probably a bit safer than the morning. And it’ll give him a few extra hours to rest up. I’ll put fresh dressings on the wounds, maybe find him something to eat before he goes. Leave at one o’clockish? We’ll have to make sure none of the patients see him, of course.”

  Albert nodded.

  Dart put his hands on the table and pushed himself upright. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go and tell him.”

  Albert looked up. “Ernst? You’re a lucky man; you’ve lasted longer than most. You’ve survived two raids in less than seven days. I don’t know much about the laws of probability, but I’d guess that breaks them.”

  “I know what you’re saying, Albert. But I’m not relying on luck, believe me.”

  Dart went out into a day of broken light and raw wind and undertook the tedious business of servicing the ambulance. Then he went to the spider-infested gardener’s shed and dug out the precious can of stolen petrol, weighing it in his hand. Fifteen litres, maybe. More than enough. He funnelled the whole lot into the tank. Without expecting anything to happen, he slotted the crank handle into place and heaved on it. It kicked back viciously twice, then on the third attempt the engine fired. A cloud of outraged birds exploded from the elms. Dart rejoiced.

  When Dart backed into the radio room, Koop was sitting on the couch. His narrow bristled head and stringy neck protruded from the blankets he’d wrapped around himself; he looked like a damaged bird of prey in a filthy nest. He watched silently as Dart dropped a bundle of clothing onto the couch and set the big jug of lukewarm water, the flannel, and the towel on the floor.

  Koop peered down at them. “What’s that for?”

  “I thought you might want to get cleaned up.”

  Koop looked at Dart as though he’d used some unknown language. His right arm emerged from the blankets and picked through the mismatched and threadbare garments. “Classy.”

  “It’s the best I can do,” Dart said, sitting down on the chair with his back to the bureau. “Okay. Let’s go through everything again. The ambulance seems —”

  Koop held up a claw. “Let’s not go through everything again,” he said. “I’ve been stuck in this bloody cubbyhole of yours with nothing to do except go through everything again. And it occurs to me that there’s a little something you haven’t mentioned.”

  “Which is?”

  “The girl.”

  It had been coming. Dart had been expecting it and had thought he’d be ready.

  He said, “What girl? You mean the Maartens girl?”

  “Yeah, the Maartens girl. Seems like we forgot to talk about her.”

  “She’s not there. Our friend sent her to her relatives in Loenen when the shit hit the fan, after you shot Rauter. She’s not a problem.”

  “How do you know she hasn’t gone back?”

  “She hasn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s non
e of your damn business how I know what I know. She’s not there, okay? Do you think I’d be setting this up if she was?”

  Koop’s lips arranged themselves into a moist smile. “All right,” he said. “If you say so. Shame, though, in a way. She’s a piece, don’t you think? You reckon our heroic commandant has been getting some of that? I wouldn’t be surprised. I would, if I were him. I bet you would too.”

  The man was toxic. He fouled everything. It cost Dart an enormous effort of will not to hurl himself from the chair and crush him like a cockroach.

  He said, “You might want to use some of that water to wash your mouth out.”

  Koop raised an eyebrow. “Ah-hmm. Didn’t happen to touch a nerve there, did I, Doctor?”

  Dart’s foot was tapping again. “We’re wasting time,” he said. “Mar . . . the Maartens girl is irrelevant. Let’s try to keep our minds on the job, shall we?”

  The wind dropped away during the night, and in the morning when Dart went shivering to the window, the lawn was white with crystals of frost. When he coaxed the spluttering ambulance out onto the road just before one thirty, there was still a glittering whiteness in the shadow of the hedge. He looked through the plane trees at the great brick face of the asylum. Gerard was on the lawn, paused in his endless task of trapping clouds to watch the ambulance go by. Dart was surprised to feel a small pang of regret. He would, in spite of everything, miss the place. The nearside front wheel of the ambulance hit a pothole, and the steering wheel jolted in his hands. A muffled curse came from the back.

  Trixie Greydanus had interrupted her journey to Sanctuary Farm that morning to visit her grandmother’s sister. The old woman had been a devoted cigar smoker all her life and never failed to get bronchitis in the winter. This year, because she was so seriously undernourished, it looked likely that she would not survive. Trixie had done what little she could for her and was wheeling her bike back onto the road when she heard an approaching vehicle. Assuming it to be German, she retreated to the corner of the cottage to wait for it to pass. She was very alarmed when she saw it was the asylum ambulance, and although she caught only a glimpse of the driver, she was quite sure it was Ernst. Going in that direction he could only be heading for the farm, even though he was not due to go there until the following day. Did that mean there was trouble of some sort? Ought she to turn back, stay out of harm’s way? She stood at the roadside for almost a minute, anxious and undecided; then she mounted the bike and set off in the direction the ambulance had taken.

  Dart eased the ambulance to a halt a hundred metres before the gap in the willows and checked his watch. Koop’s head appeared over the back of the passenger seat, his teeth bared. Pain had brought beads of sweat to his forehead.

  “What’s up? Where are we?”

  “The track down to the farm is just ahead,” Dart said. “It’s not quite two o’clock. We’ll wait. You all right?”

  “Of course I’m not bloody all right. Riding in the back of this damn rattletrap would kill anyone, never mind someone with holes in him.”

  “You think you’ll be able to walk?”

  Koop’s head withdrew. “I’m getting out,” he said.

  “What? No —” But Dart felt the wrecked springs shift. He twisted round in his seat. Koop was sitting with his good leg already out of the back and was lifting the other with his hands.

  “I need to work this leg now, okay? No point falling flat on my arse when we get there.”

  He limped along the side of the ambulance and leaned on the bonnet, grimacing. Dart studied him: the hatchet-shaped face with its dark fur, the shabby reject clothes, the spare length of trouser belt dangling below his crotch. He seemed less than human. The world would not miss him. Dart lit his last cigarette, then took the cleaned and oiled Smith and Wesson revolver from his bag and slipped it into his inside pocket. He took two long drags on the cigarette and held it out of the window.

  “Here, finish this. Now listen: like I told you, I’m going to coast down the track with the engine off. I’ll need enough speed to get us into the yard. It might be a rough ride, so brace yourself. Come on, get back in. It’s time.”

  Marijke was at the foot of the stairs when the hall door flew open. She seized the banister because the shock threatened to topple her.

  “Ernst! What . . .”

  He looked desperate, panicky. He froze for a split second when he saw her, then grabbed her arm before she could recoil.

  “Thank God. I thought I might be too late.”

  She opened her mouth but couldn’t make a sound.

  “We’re getting out,” Dart blurted. “Right now. We’re blown. Grab whatever you need. Not much. A bag. Coat, shoes. Hurry, for God’s sake. I’ve got the ambulance outside.”

  “Ernst, please, what’s happened?”

  “We’re blown, I tell you. Betrayed. A call from Apeldoorn. Something to do with de Vries’s group being taken. One of them must have talked. Koop got away. He’s out on the heath somewhere. Never mind! Do as I say, Marijke. Get ready to leave, now. Where’s Christiaan?”

  “The barn.”

  She moved then, trying to shove her way past Dart. He took her by both arms and held her back. “No! I’ll get him.” He pulled her into a fierce and terrible embrace, then released her. She stumbled back against the wall.

  “We’ll be all right,” he said reassuringly; for a moment it was as if they were having a different conversation altogether. Then all his mad urgency returned.

  “Marijke, for pity’s sake do as I say. We have no time. Get your things, now.”

  She fled from him up the stairs.

  At seven minutes past two Tamar’s headphones went dead. He shifted his gaze from the notepad to the transceiver. The needle on the voltage meter had slumped to zero. Softly cursing himself for his carelessness, he pulled the headphones off and stood up. He went to the angle of the floor and thatch and dragged out the other battery. He had connected one of the two leads when he heard what might have been a shuffling footstep below. He crouched at the open trapdoor and looked down, seeing nothing.

  “Marijke? Darling, is that you?”

  When no one answered he waited a second, listening, hearing nothing. He lowered his head a little way through the opening. He was torn between caution and his anxiety about the signal; he could picture the British radio operator with her pencil poised, listening to silence, imagining terrible things. He went back to the dressing table, hesitated, then picked up his revolver and put it in his jacket pocket. He descended the ladder. The small windows to his left threw angled beams of strong dusty light across the aisle. Between these shafts there were areas of dense shadow cast by the partition walls; the sequence of brilliance and darkness confused his eyes. He was in the act of taking the gun from his pocket when something moved out from between two partitions on the right of the aisle: a tilted silhouette. It lifted an arm, and light fell onto the barrel of a pistol.

  Dart had almost reached the barn stairs when the shots — three, maybe four — split the air. He stopped dead, filled with a dreadful joy that almost made him cry out. Then he forced himself onwards, holding the revolver out in front of him with both hands. When he reached the upper floor he paused, peering through the baffling streams of light. There was a body sprawled beneath the trapdoor, half propped against the ladder. The head was thrown back over the left shoulder and Dart could not see the face. The clothes told him it was Tamar. He had obviously fallen through the hatch when Koop shot him. So Koop was still up there. Dart advanced down the aisle to within five metres of the body and stood ready to shoot him when he came down the ladder.

  Interminable seconds passed during which Dart could hear nothing but his own jagged breathing. The desire to look at the corpse was almost irresistible, but he kept his eyes and the gun aimed at where the ladder disappeared into the loft.

  “Koop?”

  He hadn’t meant to speak. The strangled whisper didn’t seem like his own voice, and it was as if he were under
someone else’s control when he moved forward. He stood in front of Tamar’s body and called again. “Koop? Koop, for Christ’s sake, man! Are you all right?”

  It was possible, Dart realized, just wonderfully possible that Tamar had shot Koop at the moment of his own death, that at least one of the shots had come from Tamar’s gun. He looked down at the body at last and saw that yes, Tamar’s revolver was lying close to the curled fingers of the right hand. He saw too that there were wet holes in the dark sweater and that the lower rungs of the ladder were slick with blood. The leather jacket was spread open, and there was more blood on the lining. Two identity booklets protruded from the inside pocket.

  “Koop! Can you hear me?”

  Nothing. Stooping quickly, Dart took the two IDs and wiped the blood from them on his sleeve. He thumbed one open and saw Marijke’s face. He stuffed the booklets into his coat pocket and again clasped the Smith and Wesson in both hands and stepped back. He opened his mouth to call Koop’s name again but the word died on his lips because a gun barrel jabbed into the base of his skull.

  “Boo.”

  “Jesus! Koop, you —”

  “No, don’t turn round.”

  “What? What are you —”

  “Shut up. Now, arms out straight sideways, gun in the right hand. Come on, do it!”

  Dart did it.

  “Slide the safety catch on, and drop the gun on the floor.”

  The pistol thudded onto the boards, and then the muzzle of the Luger was no longer pressed against Dart’s head.

  “Now you can turn round, sonny boy.”

  Dart turned. Koop’s gun was aimed at the middle of Dart’s face. It did not shake or waver at all. Koop’s smile was yellow, and his tone of voice was pleasant.

  “One of the things I hate about you,” he said, “is that you think I’m stupid.” The Luger gestured briefly at Tamar’s body. “He thought so too. But you’re worse than him. You really thought I’d be stupid enough to trust you. You thought you could use me. And that upsets me.”