The Journal

by John R McKay

  She was able to force Lange away, causing him to stumble backwards and she grabbed for her handbag which was still on the table. As Danny lay on the floor, his hand to his neck as blood poured between his fingers and as Lange tried to gain his composure, she was able to take a small aerosol container from her handbag and hold it up.

  Lange went again for Danny as he lay on the floor, slashing at him with the blade but Danny was able to put his arms up to protect himself, the blade cutting through the fabric of his jacket and piercing the skin of his arm.

  Suddenly Lange felt immense pain in his left eye and dropped the blade. ‘Fuck!’ he yelled at the top of his voice as the pepper spray from Julie’s aerosol did its work. He looked up, his left eye squeezed tightly closed and streaming with water, and swung a punch at her. He hit her on the side of the head, knocking her over the table to land in a heap on the ground next to Danny who was now up on his knees.

  The sound of people screaming and the terrible pain in his eye caused Lange to pause. He was aware that he had lost his hat and grey wig, which had come off when the woman had sprayed him with something and the waiter had approached and was hitting him across the back with the cane. People around were calling out for the police and he realised in that moment that he had to get away.

  He swung a final kick at Cooke, catching him in the chest and knocking him back down and then ran for the Boulevard Saint Michel, heading northwards to the Metro station.

  Julie got to her feet and moved over to Danny. ‘Are you alright?’ she asked.

  Wheezing, Danny replied, ‘Yes, I will be. It’s all superficial. He’s cocked it up again. Someone up there is looking out for me.’

  Julie turned to the waiter. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m a British police officer. Call the police. Tell them it was Sean Lange…..Sean Lange. Have you got that?’

  ‘Oui, Sean Lange,’ he repeated, nodding his head, still holding Lange’s walking stick.

  Turning back to Danny she said, ‘I’m going after him. He won’t have gotten far.’

  Leaving him on the ground still gasping for breath she turned and sprinted away in the direction Lange had taken. ‘Be careful, Julie,’ Danny wheezed after her. ‘Be careful.’

  The waiter approached him and assisted him to a chair, his mobile phone in his hand. After he had called the police he spoke to Danny. ‘Are you OK, monsieur?’

  ‘I will be,’ he said with a half-smile, holding a serviette to his neck to stop the flow of blood. ‘I will be.’

  #

  Julie ran as fast as she possibly could up the Boulevard Saint Michel in the direction of the Metro station. She could see Sean Lange about forty yards ahead of her. He was not moving as fast as she was but she judged that he would probably make the steps of the Metro station before she did. She hoped she would not lose him in the crowds of commuters as this was a busy station, with walkways heading in different directions.

  She shouted for people to stop him but they ignored her, not wanting to get involved or not understanding what was going on. They merely looked on curiously at this British woman running along the pavement, shouting and screaming.

  She saw Lange run down the steps of the Metro station at the junction with the Boulevard Saint-Germain which was not far from the café where she had met Danny that morning. She quickly followed him down, the pepper spray she had bought on her way to meet him held firmly in her hand.

  She got to the bottom of the stairs and saw no sign of him. The walkways where he could have gone went in only two directions, to the north and south and she had no idea which one he had taken. People passed her on their way to the exit and in desperation she shouted: ‘Does anyone speak English?’

  At that moment here was a young couple passing her and the man turned to her. ‘Yes love, we’re from Newcastle. Are you alright?’

  ‘Hi,’ said Julie. ‘I’m a British police officer. Have you passed a man about five feet five? He’s wearing a long coat and will be in a hurry. One of his eyes will probably have closed up.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ve just passed him not thirty seconds ago. That way.’ He pointed behind him and Julie ran in the direction he indicated. ‘What’s he done?’ he shouted after her but she ignored him and carried on running, vaulting over the ticket barrier.

  As she approached the platform she realised that she was too late and her heart sank. A train was pulling out of the platform and she had missed it by seconds. What made it all worse was that she could see Sean Lange, standing up and holding on to a strap that hung from the roof of the train. He looked out at her as the train moved away. She half expected him to smile at her mockingly but he did not oblige her. The impression she got from the look on his face was of a beaten man. A man who had given up.

  Julie turned away and walked slowly back toward the exit.

  #

  Seven hours later, Lange was sitting in the back of Ivan’s car. He wore a makeshift patch over his left eye but the pain was now beginning to ease off and he would be able to remove it soon. He could not fathom out why Cooke had been so hard to kill. Three attempts at his life and all of them cocked up beyond all recognition. He must have some sort of guardian angel, he thought to himself. The lucky bastard.

  He had only taken three stops on the Metro before getting off and had then found an alleyway in which to hole himself up. He had sat there pretending to be a vagrant for some time before he had contacted Ivan and explained his situation.

  Ivan had taken the address and had personally, along with one of his men, driven for five hours to come to Paris to collect him. He had told him to abandon everything and to leave all his things in whatever shitty little backstreet hotel he was stopping in. Ivan would provide him with what he needed when they reached Amsterdam. They had pulled in at the top of the alleyway and Lange had jumped into the car. He had never been so grateful to see his old friend in all his life.

  They had been driving for an hour when Ivan pulled over to the side of the road. He looked in the rear view mirror. ‘Your turn to drive, my friend.’

  ‘My eye,’ said Lange. ‘It’s not quite right yet.’

  ‘You have two, don’t you?’ he said, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door. ‘We’ve been driving for hours. It’s your turn now. It’s the least you can do don’t you think?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Lange, unbuckling his own seatbelt guiltily.

  Ivan quickly moved round to open the door to allow Lange to get out of the car.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Lange standing up at the side of the road and stretching. ‘God I’m stiff. All that sitting around on a cold alleyway floor all day.’

  It was then that he noticed the gun in Ivan’s hand, the silencer extending unnaturally towards him. He sighed and looked around. It dawned on him that Ivan had not picked this quiet road on which to change drivers, but had picked it for something a little more sinister.

  Lange looked into Ivan’s eyes. ‘Fair enough,’ he said wearily. ‘It’s what I would’ve done.’

  He did not feel anything. He was just aware of the finality of it all and that if anyone deserved a bullet to the head, it was surely he.

  Ivan dragged the body to the side of the road and rolled it down into a ditch. As he put the gun away he took one last look at his former friend and grimaced. Sean Lange was no looker, that’s for certain, he thought. That gap between his two front teeth was just plain unsightly.

  EPILOGUE

  SEVEN MONTHS LATER

  Danny got out of the car and opened the rear door to allow Grace to exit. Julie got out of the passenger seat, holding a bouquet of poppies, and joined them both as they looked at the entrance to the Faubourg d’Amiens Cemetery in Arras. Like the others they had seen in the couple of days they had already spent in Northern France, the monument to those that had fallen in this area so many years ago, was both magnificent and humbling.

  Danny had wanted to visit the grave of his great grandfather after findin
g out what had happened to him through Victoria Holbrook’s journal and had contacted the Commonwealth War Graves Commission to see if they could locate it. This had been remarkably easy as their records were extremely well kept.

  None of them said a word as they gazed upon the well maintained monument that afforded the entrance and Danny thought it a fitting tribute to all those men who had been killed here all those years ago. The cemetery contained almost two thousand seven hundred graves, the majority of them British soldiers who had died in the action of April and May 1917 and the sheer scale of the casualties amazed him. They had passed numerous cemeteries, just like this one, containing as many if not more graves and they had also driven past Vimy Ridge, where a huge monument to Canadian forces dominated the landscape and he had made a promise to himself that he would visit that site too, on their return to the coast the following day.

  He took out a piece of paper from his pocket, a printed email with the grave number upon it. He looked at the two women. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘here we are. Let’s go.’

  They slowly made their way, in silence at first, into the cemetery and looked around. The early April sunshine cast thousands of shadows upon the perfectly maintained grass, each individual white headstone touched by the sun. They were all the same, thought Danny, yet they were also all very unique.

  As they walked, he looked at some of the headstones. ‘Killed in Action.’ ‘Aged 21 years.’ ‘Aged 19 years,’ he read. Hemingway had been right, he thought, this truly was a lost generation.

  After a few moments he stopped.

  ‘Are you alright son?’ asked his mother, looking at him, concerned.

  ‘Yes I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I think I just need to sit down for a few minutes before we find it. To gather my thoughts, you know.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  They found a spot against the Flying Services Monument and sat against it, allowing the sun to wash over them. Danny closed his eyes and when he opened them he found Julie looking at his neck.

  ‘It’s healing well,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘They’re all fading now. I just hope the memories of how I got them fade just as much.’

  ‘You have nothing to fear now, Danny,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Do the Frenchies have any idea who killed him?’

  ‘They think it may be someone from Holland, but they aren’t sure. It looks like he managed to generate a few enemies in his time.’

  ‘I’m just glad it’s all over now.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Grace thoughtfully. ‘Me too.’

  ‘So,’ said Julie after a few moments. ‘Where are you going from here? What are your plans?’

  ‘At the minute I’m taking each day as it comes,’ replied Danny.

  ‘What about the Baronetcy? Are you going to make a claim?’

  ‘No,’ replied Danny. ‘That’s one thing I’m totally sure about. As far as I’m concerned Sir Peter Holbrook was the last one and it’s finished now. Anyway, he said in his will that he preferred the line to end with him and I see no reason for that not to happen. The Manor in Suffolk’s gone to the National Trust too, which is probably the right thing. Way too big for me. And I don’t fancy living in Suffolk anyway. It’s really pissed his brother and his family off no end, so that’s got to be a good thing.’

  Julie laughed. ‘Well there’s a man in hot water if there ever was one.’

  ‘So what’s happening with him?’ asked Grace.

  ‘Well the thing is no-one can prove he set Sean Lange upon Danny, but MI5 and the Flying Squad are looking into all his work. It looks like he’ll be going to prison for a long time. Abuse of power and all that, if for nothing else. I’m sure they’ll find something

  ‘The thing is. This is all a bit embarrassing for MI5. A top official abusing his power won’t go down too well with the press so don’t be surprised if it all gets a bit hushed up.’

  ‘I really don’t care,’ said Danny. ‘He can rot in hell for all I care.’

  ‘How did he know about the journal and what was in the will?’ asked Grace. ‘That’s what I don’t get.’

  ‘He was having an affair with one of the housemaids,’ replied Danny. ‘From what I can gather it seems a bit of a family tradition! She just so happened to be one of the witnesses. Simon Holbrook knew what was coming. If he couldn’t get hold of the journal then the next best thing would be me dead, then it would all go to him by default. He may have lost the Manor but he would have had everything else.’

  ‘What about the other houses and stuff?’ asked Julie. ‘What are you doing with them?’

  ‘I’m keeping the Kensington place. For a while at least. And the place in Barbados. Well, who wouldn’t want a place in Barbados?’

  The three of them laughed and Danny realised that finally, his life was beginning to be pieced back together. He was starting to feel that he had a future.

  ‘And what will you do with yourself?’ asked Julie.

  ‘I’d like to continue with some of the charity work Sir Peter did, to be honest. Clive Brown will assist me with it. Part time for him, of course, he is retired after all.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘he’s a nice man.’

  Danny looked at Julie. ‘And I may even write that play we spoke about in Paris. I will fill my time, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Good idea. And don’t forget to write a part in it for me.’

  ‘That was the idea.’ Changing the subject Danny asked, ‘What’s happening with your colleague, Jim Lea?’

  ‘He was lucky to keep his job. It’s only because of his impeccable service record and the fact that the bloke he hit didn’t press charges that he managed to keep it.’

  ‘Why didn’t he press charges? I thought he gave him a right good hiding.’

  ‘No idea. Maybe he thought that he’d won anyway, getting Jim’s wife. Who knows?’

  They sat in silence for a while until Danny stood up and said, ‘Come on, I think I’m ready now.’

  They found the grave three minutes later. It was just like the others, well maintained and spotlessly clean. It said simply ‘273411 Private John Cooke, 12th Fusiliers, Killed In Action, 9th April 1917, Age 26’. There was a regimental crest above the words.

  Danny did not know what to feel. ‘Killed In Action’ it said, but he knew that not to be true. And neither was the name. But then, he thought, he was killed and had been in battle many times before Arras. He deserved a memorial, this tribute. It was only fair.

  For some reason he felt a closeness to the man lying in the ground beneath his feet, a man he never knew, a man he had never known existed until a few short months ago. Why was that, he wondered? Was it some kind of telepathy, some kind of contact passed down through the generations? He did not know the answer or whether the feeling was fleeting and magnified by the things he had had to go through to get to this point in his life. Julie handed him the flowers and he placed them at the foot of the headstone.

  And then he remembered the dreams he had experienced a few months previously. The vivid, strange dreams that he had instantly forgotten on awakening. He suddenly remembered them all. And in great detail.

  He felt an overwhelming sense of contentment, something he had not thought he could possibly feel again and he looked around the cemetery and to the countryside beyond. This world, he thought, was very big. There was so much of it to see. So much to do.

  He turned to the two women in his life. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time to go. It looks like it’s going to rain.’

  I was alone, a thick fog encompassing me.

  I could not see a thing as it was so dense, so impenetrable. I moved my arms around but could feel nothing.

  I was lost.

  And then I suddenly became aware that in fact I was not alone, and could feel people about me. Many people, dragging their feet as they went by, all going in the same direction.

  I reached out my hands bu
t again they touched nothing.

  Turning my head in the direction that I sensed they were heading, I became aware of a light, a bright shining light attempting to penetrate the mist.

  Eventually the fog began to dissipate and I could see them, men, soldiers, slowly walking by, a confidence in their step growing stronger as the light pushed away the fog that had held them to a shuffle.

  I stood still and watched them pass. Many of them. Hundreds, thousands.

  Those at the back shaded in darkness but as they drew closer to the light their faces became clearer, recognisable as the people whom they once had been.

  And then one of them stopped.

  He turned to face me, not ten yards away. And I recognised him.

  And him me.

  He raised his hand to his helmet and tipped it in greeting.

  I raised my hand to return the gesture of acknowledgement.

  And then he turned back, adjusted his pack and continued on his journey towards the sun.

  THE END