by Colin Murray
I’ve come across a few American, tough-guy novels that talk about the lights going out, or the curtain coming down, or seeing stars, but none of those phrases really does justice to the explosion of intense white light and pain that briefly follows an expertly applied blow to the head with a blunt instrument.
TWENTY-FOUR
I don’t recall any of the American tough-guy novels I’ve read mentioning just how much your bonce hurts when you finally struggle back to consciousness after being comprehensively beaned. That seemed to me at that moment to be an important omission.
I didn’t want to open my eyes or even move. After a moment’s disorientation, I knew where I was and what had happened, but I was incapable of thinking beyond that. Alfred could do what he wanted with me. And he probably would.
Except when I did open my right eye – my left eye didn’t make it more than halfway, and I had a feeling that it might be like that for quite some time – it wasn’t Alfred’s bland features and crazed eyes looking down at me, cradling my head in his lap.
The eyes were not crazed at all. The features were anything but bland. And the lap was much more inviting than Alfred’s. They all belonged to Beverley Beaumont.
None of that made my head hurt any less, of course, and it did puzzle me, so I closed my eyes, lay very still and tried to put some coherent thoughts together.
I remembered lying with Ghislaine like this, but all we’d had to worry about had been whether Robert or the German army would find us first.
I opened my right eye again. ‘Where’s Alfred?’ I said.
‘I don’t know. Who’s Alfred?’ she said.
‘The type with the gun,’ I said. ‘The bloke who hit me.’
‘He ran away,’ she said.
I sat up and that hurt and I groaned. She gently pulled my head to her soft breast.
‘Ran away?’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘Because I shot him, I suppose,’ she said.
I groaned again.
Fortunately, she thought it was the pain in my head that had caused the groan, rather than the thought that she could find herself facing a charge of attempted murder. And me with her. After all, I’d supplied the weapon.
I took a deep breath and concentrated on ignoring the pounding in my head. ‘Where did you hit him?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
I took another deep breath. ‘Did you hit him?’ I said.
‘I don’t know. But I must have done,’ she said. ‘Why else would he run off?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘he wouldn’t have been running at all if you’d hit him anywhere important, so I suppose that’s something to be grateful for.’
She sent a stabbing pain through my head by pushing it away from the comfort of her bosom. ‘I thought that you might be a bit grateful for me saving your life,’ she said.
‘I am,’ I said. ‘Really. But I’m just worried about things. Like whether or not he’s coming back. Where did he run to? Which direction?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said again, irritatingly. ‘I just pointed the gun at him, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. I didn’t open them again until no bullets came out when I squeezed. And then he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.’
I would have laughed if I hadn’t known how much it would hurt. Alfred must have thought he was under attack from Rommel’s entire Deutsches Afrikakorps when four or five bullets – or however many had still been in the Luger’s magazine – came flying out of the dark, more or less in his direction. Though quite how she’d managed to fire the gun was something of a mystery.
‘You’re wonderful,’ I said. ‘Thank you for saving my life. My avenging angel.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she said, a little acidly. She obviously didn’t take kindly to being teased, even gently.
‘I don’t suppose you have any aspirin on you?’ I said. ‘Then you can add ministering angel to your list of accomplishments’
She shook her head.
I thanked heaven that it hadn’t been Ghislaine’s lap I’d woken up in. If it had been, there would have been a body lying next to me waiting to be disposed of. As it was, there wasn’t a chance that Beverley Beaumont had hit anything.
Unfortunately, I was soon to discover that not to be true. With a little assistance I struggled to my feet and, fighting an almost overwhelming need to vomit, walked unsteadily to the driver’s side of the Rolls. I was about to ask her if she could drive when I noticed that the rear tyre was completely flat. Even a cursory investigation indicated that a bullet had hit it. I wondered what other damage it had done on its way through. I had thought that she would have aimed high, but it seemed that at least one bullet kept very low indeed.
I could hear Les already: ‘I don’t care that it wasn’t you, Tony. What were you doing giving her a gun in the first place?’
Still, it would probably give Daphne quite a laugh.
It suddenly occurred to me that the fact that the Rolls’ tyre had been holed meant it wasn’t completely impossible that Alfred had taken a bullet. If he hadn’t been hit, where was he? It was possible that he wasn’t quite as icily fearless as he pretended. More likely, he had gone for reinforcements.
I was mulling this over when I heard the sounds of laboured breathing and soft footsteps muffled by thick grass. Alfred must have found his comrades more quickly than I would have liked.
I grabbed Miss Beaumont’s arm and pulled her down beside me in the road behind the car, putting my hand over her mouth as I did so.
And I waited to be discovered. It was all I could do.
Pretty soon they’d be outwith the field.
Outwith? Where had I got that from?
Then I remembered: one of the Scots at Arisaig on the commando training course used the term. It reminded me of my proudest moment at Church Road Primary.
There was silence, apart from something hooting and the breeze disturbing the leaves of the trees.
I once won a bet for Mrs Wilson.
The gate creaked open and then clunked shut. They were definitely outwith the field now.
She had been so certain that her class would know what ‘without a city wall’ in the old ‘Green hill’ hymn meant that she had bet the martinet Mr Thompson from the class next door a shilling. It hadn’t looked good for her when the prettily bovine Christine Milne, her top pupil, had leapt straight in with ‘there’s no wall around the city’ and the unpleasant Thompson had grinned evilly. After a protracted silence, during which Mrs Wilson’s lips had pursed and she had looked increasingly uncomfortable, I put my hand up. She took a second or two to recognize me. I then tentatively suggested that it just meant outside the city walls, and she smiled triumphantly. It was no great thing – I think I must have seen a French translation of the hymn that Maman had lying around somewhere. Old Tommo never forgave me and would give me a hard time afterwards whenever he could. I remember thinking that the shilling must have meant a lot to him.
Someone shuffled on the dry, packed earth by the gate, then stepped lightly into the road. Three or four others scuffed the ground nearby.
I braced myself.
‘Do you see anyone, John?’ said a dry, cracked voice I recognized.
‘No one here, David,’ was the crisp reply from the other side of the car.
I wasn’t sure that I was entirely relieved, but I stood up slowly, speaking as I rose. ‘That’s not quite true, Dr Jameson. It’s Tony Gérard.’
John, the man by the car, was already aiming a gun at me in the correct and approved two-handed stance.
‘What’s happened to this country?’ I said, holding my hands up, palms out. ‘Why does everyone suddenly have a gun?’
‘It’s all right, John,’ Jameson said. ‘I know this man.’
John lowered his gun and nodded at me. But I noted that he made no effort to reholster the thing.
‘Anyone would think this was the Wild West,’ I said.
‘John’s just doing his job,’ Jameson said very qui
etly.
There was another man with him and, behind them, standing by the gate, were Charlie and Emile.
‘It’s good to see you again, Mr Gérard,’ Jameson wheezed out. ‘And well, too. Your colleagues –’ he turned slightly and indicated Charlie and Emile – ‘were worried about you. They said they heard some shots.’ He took a step towards me. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’ I said.
‘Well –’ he turned towards Charlie and Emile again – ‘your colleagues said something about a kidnapping . . .’
I was conscious of Beverley Beaumont rising to her feet. ‘Actually, he isn’t at all well,’ she said. ‘He’s taken a very nasty bang to the head.’
Jameson looked at me.
‘Miss Beverley Beaumont, the kidnap victim,’ I said. ‘This is Dr Jameson.’ I paused. ‘Miss Beaumont is an actress. In films.’
Jameson stepped forward and inclined his head towards her. ‘Miss Beaumont,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid that I’m not familiar with your work. I hope you’ll forgive a dusty old scholar who spends too much time with his books.’
In the darkness and under his hat, it was difficult to detect the full extent of his disfigurement, but Beverley Beaumont still stared at him a little too hard.
‘Films are not everyone’s cup of tea,’ she said eventually. ‘Mine are not very distinguished.’
‘I have to ask,’ he said, ‘but have you been abducted? And was this gentleman involved?’ He extended his mittened hand towards me.
‘I was taken from my flat by force,’ she said. I noticed she was speaking very formally. ‘But this gentleman was on hand to rescue me.’
‘Miss Beaumont’s right,’ I said. ‘I’m not feeling too good.’ I leaned against the Rolls. The legs had just lodged a complaint, indicating a disinclination to support my weight. ‘But I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here, Dr Jameson?’
‘I just happened to be passing,’ he said.
I shook my head and instantly regretted it. ‘No,’ I said, ‘no one just passes this place.’
‘I do,’ he said. ‘Frequently. It’s a nice walk, and I have friends nearby.’
Yeah, I thought, and you always go for a walk with an armed companion.
He walked around the car and stood next to me, peering at my head. ‘My goodness,’ he said, ‘that’s quite a bump you’ve got coming up. We’d better get that some attention. We’ll drop in on my friends. A cold compress, a cup of tea and a little sit-down, and you’ll be as right as ninepence.’
He made an awkward gesture with his hand, as if he intended to pat me on the shoulder reassuringly but then thought better of it.
I was starting to feel very groggy. I sank down and sat on the ground, my eyes closed, my head between my knees.
I wandered in and out of consciousness for the next few minutes.
I was half-aware of a little kerfuffle when Charlie saw the Rolls’ flat tyre and then of another car arriving and being helped into the back of it, while Charlie and Emile banged and clanged with tyre levers and spanners. And there was me thinking that Rolls-Royces came with a mechanic strapped underneath.
Then, in the comfort of the back seat, I drifted away as the car purred along the road.
We stopped, and I struggled to sit up.
Beverley Beaumont leaned across from my right and, ineffectually but pleasantly, attempted to help me by placing one hand on my shoulder and the other on my thigh. Jameson, on my left, inclined his head towards me.
‘It’s a short walk from here,’ he said solicitously. ‘Will you be able to make it, do you think?’
I nodded and instantly regretted it as the now familiar wave of nausea swept over me. All I wanted to do was curl up and sleep for a week.
We left the car, its driver and John, the passenger in the front, and, very slowly, walked about a hundred yards along a frighteningly dark road towards a large, bleak-looking house skulking behind a high hedge and some tall, elegant trees.
I wondered why we were walking when then was a perfectly serviceable motor car to hand, but I was in that strange, concussed state where a curiously reckless euphoria battled with a permanent and intense headache and the thought didn’t go anywhere.
The sky, bright with stars, stretched above me, immense and breathtaking. I stopped, awestruck, to look up at it. I didn’t think I’d ever seen anything quite as impressive.
Beverley Beaumont – wearing her shoes again, I noted – waited with Dr Jameson by a narrow gap in the hedge.
The dove-grey skirt and jacket and her pale face and legs were a strong contrast to the black hedge and road and brought her forward into the foreground. Grand-père would have liked the shot. Jameson was visible only as a shadowy dark outline. And the hulking house brooded in the background.
I caught up with them, and we then made our way – me still a little unsteadily – to the big front door, which nestled at the back of a little porch.
Jameson looked at me apologetically and nodded at the black knocker. It took me a second or two to understand that he wanted me to use it.
I lifted it and tapped lightly. The bright, brittle, metallic sound hung in the air. At first, nothing happened, and I reached up to the knocker again just as a light flicked on in the hall.
The stained glass in the panels on either side of the door came to life. Deep reds and bright greens leapt out at me and spilled little lozenges of flickering colour on my drab suit. I looked down and realized that the step I was standing on was an intricate mosaic. Pieces of faded blue and yellow tile covered the centre of the step, apparently set into the yellow-brown stone surround. Everything was surprisingly fresh and clear. If my head hadn’t hurt quite as much, I would have been fascinated.
The door opened, and an elderly lady peered out suspiciously. She was thin and frail with pure-white hair and a sallow complexion. Her face was deeply wrinkled and the puffy bags under her eyes were violet.
‘Yes?’ she said, staring at me.
‘It’s me, Miss Hardiman,’ Jameson said quickly, removing his hat. ‘I said I might drop by.’
The old lady’s head turned slightly towards him, but almost immediately snapped back to fix me with a wary stare. ‘So you did, Dr Jameson,’ she said. ‘And who is this?’ Her voice was high, crisp and querulous.
‘This gentleman has been in an accident,’ Jameson said. ‘I know him.’ His voice cracked. He waved his left hand at Beverley Beaumont. ‘This lady is his companion.’ I noticed that those parts of his fingers that extended beyond the mitten seemed to be fused into a lump of angry, red flesh. ‘The gentleman needs some attention,’ Jameson continued. ‘I thought perhaps . . .’ He looked into the hall.
‘Of course, Dr Jameson,’ Miss Hardiman said. She stared at me for a moment longer and then stepped back. ‘Come in,’ she said uninvitingly, daring us to enter.
I shuffled to one side, allowing Miss Beaumont and Dr Jameson to precede me. I wasn’t sure if I was showing courtesy or cowardice.
The hall was wide and lit by a single, shaded bulb. A tall wicker basket by the door held two umbrellas. A narrow table against a wall supported a tall vase full of late daffodils and a telephone. A large painting hung on the opposite wall, between two doors. It was a wild and woolly landscape, a steep mountain pass. I guessed it was a romanticized view of Scotland. Certainly, it bristled with trees and foamed with cascades of white water. But there wasn’t a stag in sight.
Under Miss Hardiman’s unwavering scrutiny, I self-consciously wiped my feet on the coconut mat. And then, after she had firmly closed the door, I followed her along the hall and into the big, old-fashioned kitchen.
By the kitchen door, Jameson stopped. ‘I’ll leave you to it for the time being,’ he said, ‘and pay my respects. Is himself in the study?’
‘In the front parlour,’ Miss Hardiman said. ‘We have company.’
‘Jolly good,’ Jameson said. ‘The more the merrier.’ And he retraced his steps b
ack towards the front door.
Beverley Beaumont, who had been trying very hard not to stare at Jameson’s face and hands, and I followed Miss Hardiman into the kitchen, in my case dutifully, recognizing that my natural place in a resolutely middle-class house like this was below stairs, even if only in a manner of speaking.
‘Below stairs’ was, in fact, very comfortable, if more than a little warm because of the big, black range that ran along one wall. A battered kettle sat on it, puffing steam.
Miss Hardiman pointed me at a wooden chair by a long table. She then indicated a chipped enamel bowl with a blue rim to Beverley Beaumont, who eventually picked it up and went to the huge sink. She stood hesitantly by it before turning on the tap with some difficulty and filling the bowl. She brought it back to the table and dipped a flannel that had been lying next to it into the icy water. She wrung out the excess and then leaned towards me. The cool flannel felt good against my head, and I closed my eyes.
I opened them after a few seconds when Miss Beaumont took the compress back to the bowl. Miss Hardiman placed a small glass of water and a couple of aspirin on the table in front of me. I swallowed them with a gulp of water.
Miss Hardiman busied herself making tea in a large brown teapot, and Miss Beaumont did what she could to reduce the swelling above my left eye with cold water, a sodden flannel and a certain gentleness. Perhaps she really was an angel of mercy.
After a few minutes, Miss Hardiman left us with a pot of tea, two teacups with a blue floral design, a blue and white striped milk jug and a plain white sugar bowl. Miss Beaumont played mother to perfection and insisted on two heaped teaspoons of sugar in my cup, ‘for the shock’.
We sat in silence, sipping tea and listening to the creaks and ticks of the big, old house. Halfway down my second cup of tea I was starting to feel a little better. I lay back against the hard chair and closed my eyes again. I must have dozed for a while because when I opened my eyes again, and reached for my cup, the tea was stone cold.
‘The swelling has gone down just a little,’ Miss Beaumont said, smiling at me.
