Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  Jean led her into the darkness of the tall hedge and there, parked close beside it, was the old Peugeot van.

  Michel was opening the back door. He took Freymann’s arm. ‘In here. And you.’ He helped Peter up into the back. ‘Julie, you drive.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, unless you want to take the Sten.’

  For a moment she didn’t understand what he meant, then she realised he meant the gun. It was an ugly great thing: she wouldn’t have the first idea how to use it.

  She grasped her uncle’s arm. ‘Jean, thank you! Thank you!’

  ‘Don’t thank me! It was Michel.’

  ‘Take care of Tante Marie. And please, don’t get caught! Please!’

  He said gruffly, ‘Off you go! Quick! There’s no time to spare.’

  She hugged him and, climbing in through the passenger door, eased herself across into the driver’s seat.

  Jean was opening the gate. He disappeared for a moment, then came back into view and waved them forward. Michel swung on the starting handle and the old engine burst into life with an ear-splitting roar. Michel jumped into the passenger seat. ‘Out of the gate, turn right. Go!’

  Her heart in her mouth, Julie threw the gear lever into first and the van jumped forward. She pulled the wheel hard over and they shot out of the gate into the lane. There was no chance to wave to Jean.

  It was pitch black. ‘I can’t see anything!’ she cried.

  Michel reached down and flicked a switch. The lights came on but they had been well hooded: they cast only the faintest glow over the walls and hedgerows lining the road.

  Julie peered forward, trying to keep the speed up. A sharp bend reared up and she almost missed it. She pulled the wheel over and the bumper crunched into the wall with a loud bang. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Keep going!’

  They shot through a tiny village and then down a hill towards some crossroads. Julie almost asked, ‘Which way?’ when Michel said, ‘Straight over!’

  She kept her foot down and the van shot across the crossroads. Michel looked rapidly right and left, then stuck his head out of the window to look behind. He pulled his head back in and said, ‘Nothing!’

  Another hill, leading down to the estuary. Julie realised they were on the road to Kernibon. It was a dead end.

  As they neared the village Michel leant over and turned off the ignition. The engine petered out and they coasted down the hill in eerie silence. ‘Right at the harbour!’

  As they approached the bottom of the hill Julie resisted the temptation to brake too much and the van was still travelling fast as she yanked the wheel across. They shot round the corner and along the road encircling the landward side of the cove.

  Finally the van slowed right down and Julie pulled in towards the side. Michel jumped out, opened the rear doors and bundled the others out. Julie climbed out, trying to stop herself shaking.

  Peter ran up and took her hand, then they were following Michel along the side of the tiny harbour. Suddenly he lowered himself over the sea wall and, climbing down, disappeared.

  There was a slight clatter, some muffled movements, then Michel’s voice floated up. ‘The old man first!’ Freymann lowered himself gingerly over the edge and hovered for a moment, searching for a foothold, then he moved on down the wall.

  Julie peered over and saw that there was a metal ladder and, below, a small dinghy floating on the water. She sat Peter down and, turning him face to the wall, put his hands on the rungs of the ladder. ‘Careful. Take it slowly.’

  When he was safely in the boat beside Freymann and Michel, Julie lowered herself over. She hated heights almost as much as she hated boats. Finally her foot was in the boat and, wobbling violently, she threw herself into it. She fell awkwardly into the bottom, bruising her shin. She clenched her teeth and stayed silent.

  The boat was moving away from the wall. Michel was weaving an oar from side to side over the back. Julie watched him, amazed: she’d never realised he could do this kind of thing.

  Then she remembered when she and Peter had come to collect the sow, how they’d surprised him here at the harbour and how secretive he’d been.

  They were approaching the fishing boats moored in the centre of the cove. Perhaps Michel was going to hide them here, on one of the boats.

  The dinghy bumped alongside one of the smaller boats. Michel pushed the old man to his feet and helped him up the side. Julie went next and, reaching down, pulled Peter up beside her. Michel came last and tied the dinghy’s rope to the fishing boat.

  Julie looked around. It was a small boat, completely open and without so much as a wheelhouse. There was nowhere to hide.

  Michel was beside her. She pulled his sleeve and said, ‘Michel, we can’t hide here!’

  ‘No. But it’ll take you across.

  ‘Across?’

  ‘To England. That’s where you want to go, isn’t it?’

  Julie gasped and stared at him in amazement. ‘Yes but – in this?’ It was much smaller than the fishing boat she and Peter had taken from Morlaix three years before. She saw that there was a small bit of decking at the front which came halfway back to the mast. But otherwise it was entirely open. She could imagine the waves coming straight in.

  Michel said, ‘Right. Here are some waterproofs. Fresh water and so on are up in the bow. Not much, but it’s all I could get hold of.’

  He moved along the boat to the far end and Julie followed, a feeling of hopelessness creeping over her. ‘Right.’ Michel was saying, ‘Here’s the tiller, for steering, and here, the compass. Now, I’ll light the little oil lamp here, beside the compass, but keep it well masked until you’re clear of the land. Now there is an engine but there’s almost no fuel for it and anyway it’s too noisy to use near the land so I think you’ll be better off without it …’

  ‘Michel! What do you mean?’

  ‘The sails are quite straightforward. One large and one small. If the wind comes from ahead you’ll need both, otherwise you could manage with just the large one …’

  ‘Michel! What are you saying!’

  He turned to her and said harshly, ‘I’m sorry, I wish I could come with you, but I can’t.’ He shrugged. ‘I have to stay. This is the best I can do for you, Julie—’

  ‘No! No!’ She grabbed his arms and tried to read his face in the darkness. ‘I can’t, Michel! I don’t know what to do!’

  ‘But I’ll get the boat ready and rigged and I’ll sail out with you into the bay. Then all you have to do is point north—’

  ‘Michel, I can’t!’

  He took her by the shoulders and shook her slightly. ‘You must! It’s not ideal, I’ll admit, but it’s a damn sight better than getting caught by the Gestapo. And that’s the only alternative!’

  Julie stared at him in disbelief. She repeated desperately, ‘But I don’t know how to sail!’

  ‘I told you, I’ll get you going in the right direction. But we must go now! We’re losing the tide!’ He ran forward to the mast and started heaving on lines. Julie grasped the side of the boat and watched him, horrified.

  Peter was at her elbow. ‘Mummy, I can help … I think. Richard told me all about sailing … Mummy?’

  Julie looked down at the small pale face and automatically touched his hair. ‘Oh darling! I – wish I …’ Then she remembered what the Gestapo did to children and, holding the small face in her hands, she made an effort to smile. ‘We’ll do our best then, shall we? We’ll sail to England, shall we?’ But even as she said it she was filled with despair.

  Peter nodded and clutched at her hand. Up by the mast Michel was pulling on a rope. There was a great flapping and beating as a black sail rose slowly into the sky. Then Michel was leaning over the front of the boat, pulling hard on something. Suddenly he ran back, pulled another rope and dived for the tiller. Julie realised the land was moving sideways: the boat was free of its mooring. The beating noise diminished then stopped. She looked up at the sail. Its black curved shape soared up
into the darkness, huge against the sky.

  The mouth of the tiny harbour reared up ahead. Julie winced and drew back involuntarily. The high brick mole rushed past, an arm’s length away, then they were through, slipping rapidly out into the vast blackness of the night.

  Julie felt the boat move under her and grabbed at the side. She felt sick. It was a nightmare. She didn’t understand the first thing about any of it – not the first!

  Michel was calling, ‘Come here!’

  Lurching unsteadily across the deck she reached his side. ‘Now, listen very carefully. We’ve only got a few minutes. So listen! There’s a torch here just behind me in the bo’sun’s box. There are the waterproofs I told you about. Here—’ He placed her hand on the tiller, ‘– here is the tiller. You push it the opposite way to the one you want to go in. You’ll get used to it …’

  Julie stared into the darkness, her throat constricted and dry.

  ‘And now listen very carefully. The course …’

  After a while Julie realised he had stopped speaking and was moving away from the tiller, leaving it in her hand.

  ‘Best of luck, Julie!’

  ‘But—’

  Then he was untying something – the rope holding the dinghy – and climbing over the side.

  She almost screamed.

  The next moment he was gone.

  Chapter 26

  VASSON REACHED OUT and touched the painting. A tractor, bright red and crudely painted. Not bad, considering. Then it occurred to him – the mother probably gave the child some help with it. He imagined them sitting on the floor together, engrossed and happy in their task. The picture irritated him. He turned away.

  There was a model plane hanging from the ceiling, a second picture and some posters of Paris. Angrily he yanked the cover off the bed; it was unmade, the blankets neatly folded, the calico bolster without a pillow case.

  There was a wooden chest under the eaves. He pulled it out and, raising the lid, emptied the contents over the floor. Toys, clothes, old fabrics.

  Rubbish.

  As he moved towards the stairs his head brushed against the model plane. He pushed it impatiently aside. The fine thread holding it to the ceiling broke and it fell to the floor, one wing bent and broken. Vasson kicked it out of his way.

  He went down the narrow stairs to the room below. The woman’s room. It was clean and tidy, the bed neatly covered like the boy’s.

  She was expecting to be gone a long time, the bitch.

  He pulled open the drawers of the dresser. The top one contained underwear, carefully folded. Scattered between the clothes were sachets which smelled of herbs. He pulled everything out on to the floor.

  He leant down. In the next drawer were blouses, woollens – more rubbish. He threw them onto the floor as well. Impatiently he jerked open the bottom drawer. Papers. A ration card. Some letters. An old photograph.

  He leafed through the letters. They were in English. They were signed ‘Your Mother’. He stared at them, frowning. He didn’t understand English. He threw them back in the drawer. The photograph showed two people sitting on a beach. One was the girl, much younger, maybe fourteen or fifteen. She was very slim, her angular body clad in an unbecoming, old-fashioned swimming costume. She was looking straight into the camera, her eyes screwed up against the sun. Beside her was a woman, much older, rather fat, dressed in a tight frock with a floral print on it. The mother.

  Vasson flipped the photograph over and stared. There was some writing: English again. It said: Mummy and me. Cawsand. 1929.

  Cawsand. It must be a place in England. The girl was not Breton at all then, but English. A worse thought – she was probably an agent, planted in France to spy. The thought made Vasson angry and uneasy. He had the unpleasant feeling that he’d been cleverly and ruthlessly deceived.

  If Baum found out it would mean more stick and Vasson had had enough over the scientist. Vasson decided it would be best if Baum never found out.

  He slid the photograph inside his jacket. It offered no clues as to where the bitch was now. And that was what he needed to know.

  She had to be the key. She’d been with the scientist at the cliff. Now they were both missing. The girl must be hiding him.

  Suddenly, he jumped.

  A terrible cry came from the next room. Vasson shuddered and, bracing himself, stood up and went towards the door. He hesitated, half-revolted, half-fascinated by what he might see, then, his heart thudding, opened the door and walked through into the kitchen.

  Baum was leaning against the mantelpiece, examining his nails. To the left, three of his men were huddled round a chair. Vasson moved across the room, his eyes on the backs of the men, until he could see between them into the chair. He swallowed hard and stared, fascinated. The figure lay inert. The face was a mess, the nose a pulp of blood and bones, and the eyes reduced to slits between the purple-red swellings of cheeks and eyelids. Apart from the hair, the old woman was unrecognisable.

  Vasson glanced at Baum and raised his eyebrows. Baum made a face of disgust which indicated: Nothing.

  Turning his eyes back to the monstrous sight in the chair, Vasson lowered himself on to a seat in the corner. One of Baum’s men put his face down to the old woman’s and chanted, ‘Where is the girl?’

  The old woman’s mouth moved, as if to say something, then dropped open. With distaste Vasson saw that the gums were bare and devoid of teeth. She started to moan loudly.

  The man standing directly in front of the chair turned to his companion and said something in German. The other nodded and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out some cord. It was in two sections. They took one piece each and tied the old woman’s hands down to the arms of the chair. Vasson saw that they hadn’t tied her by the wrists but across the width of the hands. Vasson moved his tongue around his mouth to remove the dryness.

  The chant again. ‘Where is the girl?’

  The moan again.

  They leant forward and each took a forefinger. Slowly they bent the forefingers backwards. The old woman’s bloody eyes stared in disbelief, then she cried out, a loud shriek that filled the room. Suddenly she convulsed, her body arching upwards, straining against the cords, and she screamed, a long long, shrill, piercing scream. Vasson put his hands over his ears. The scream ceased. For a split second there was silence. Then there was an audible snap, quickly followed by another, and Vasson stared curiously at the two fingers. Though the men had moved away the fingers were still upright, at a strange angle to the hands.

  The old woman’s head had fallen back against the chair and she groaned, a long, low moan of despair.

  ‘Where’s the girl?’

  The mouth dropped open again and tried to speak. Nothing happened. The old woman began to shake her head from side to side, first slowly then more rapidly until the movement became frenetic, like a mad animal’s. Vasson felt uncomfortable and looked away. Suddenly the old woman’s head dropped forward and he realised she was unconscious.

  Baum shifted his weight and leant the other elbow on the mantelpiece. He said something in rapid German then turned to Vasson. ‘We’re getting nowhere.’ The muscles in his jaw fluttered under the unnaturally pink skin. He said with irritation, ‘What’s so sickening is to think that this whole business need never have happened!’

  Vasson snapped, ‘But if your men had covered the beach properly, they would never have got away! And—’ He stood up ‘– if the scientist had been properly guarded by the Navy, then he would never have escaped in the first place!’

  Baum glared at Vasson and whispered, ‘Don’t get clever with me, you little pimp!’ He raised a forefinger. ‘And don’t go spreading dirt behind my back. Just try, just try – and I’ll carve you into little pieces, little pimp!’

  Vasson smiled briefly. ‘Don’t get yourself in a state, my friend. We’ll just have to find a way. What about the old man? The woman’s husband?’

  Baum rolled his eyes with exasperation. ‘Yes! Yes! But where is he
now? Eh? I do not see him here, do I?’ He put a hand over his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

  Baum was right. They had nothing. Personally Vasson didn’t care a damn – he was fed up with the whole job – but there was bound to be a scapegoat and he had the unpleasant feeling that Baum would try to nail the whole mess on him.

  Wearily, Vasson sat down and lit a cigarette, thinking: It’s all that bitch’s fault; it’s she who’s fouled the whole thing up.

  The old woman groaned. Baum nibbled at one of his nails, roused himself, and nodded to his men. They moved in towards the chair.

  Simultaneously, there was the sound of boots crossing the front room. The door opened and a soldier appeared. He saluted and spoke to Baum in rapid German. The men looked quickly at Baum, their faces worried. Baum turned pink and looked apoplectic. There was a long silence, then Baum said very slowly in French, ‘I thought you had caught these people!’

  Vasson shifted on his seat and said carefully, ‘Most of them, yes.’

  Baum almost choked. ‘Why, then, are my men being murdered?’

  Vasson said sharply, ‘Where? Where were your men killed?’

  ‘One man. On the clifftop. Those filthy murdering swine … !’

  Vasson sat up and thought: Good God, why would they want to get down to the beach again …? What on earth? Then he closed his eyes and swore quietly. There could only be one reason. Oh hell. He said out loud, ‘Merde!’

  Baum looked at him quickly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘They were there all the time. On the beach.’

  ‘Impossible—’

  ‘They were there!’

  Baum looked at him sourly. ‘I don’t see how—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Vasson thought quickly. He tried to imagine where the girl’s friends would have taken her. He said, ‘If they’ve escaped from the beach that means they must have gone into hiding again, somewhere nearby …’

  ‘Ha!’ Baum exclaimed contemptuously. ‘But where!’ He shook his head. ‘I tell you, there’s only one way to find out. We take hostages and we shoot them tomorrow. Twenty. No! Thirty. The families of these murderers. That’s the only way!’