Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  ‘How different do you want to look?’

  Vasson made an expansive gesture. ‘Completely.’

  ‘The money?’

  ‘Here.’ Vasson reached in his pocket and threw some notes on the ground. ‘One thing—!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t want to feel any pain. Please.’

  ‘All right.’ The man stepped forward. The fear leapt into Vasson’s throat and he felt his knees begin to buckle.

  He made a conscious effort to close his eyes, thinking: Dear God, please let it be quick and not too painful.

  He needn’t have worried on either count.

  A fraction of a second later the boxer’s right fist smashed into his face.

  After the first shock Vasson never felt a thing.

  The big man put everything into his first blow. Backed by sixteen stone of still solid muscle, his fist sank deep into Vasson’s left cheek and shattered the bone. The force of the blow sent Vasson flying backwards against the side of the building. As he fell to the ground his head hit a stone and he lost consciousness.

  The big man finished the job in his own time. He sat Vasson up and smashed the nose a couple of times, just to make sure it was broken properly. He smashed the right cheekbone to match the left, which had been flattened. Then he paused for a few minutes while he examined the results. He decided a smaller jaw might improve things, so he broke that too.

  The eyes were difficult, of course. Not much one could do to make them look different. But he did his best, cutting the eyebrows deeply in a couple of places and, hopefully, thickening up the bones underneath.

  Finally he was satisfied that he couldn’t do any more without risking internal bleeding. He left Vasson lying on his side so that he shouldn’t inhale his own blood, and walked away.

  When he arrived at the nightclub where he worked he phoned a priest he knew and, disguising his voice, told him there was a seriously injured man down by the canal who couldn’t, for political reasons, go to a hospital.

  It wasn’t kindness. He just didn’t want the customer to bleed to death by mistake. He’d never killed anyone in his life.

  He promptly forgot all about the incident. Which was a mistake.

  Vasson never forgave him for calling the priest.

  Three weeks later the big man was found dead in an alley, a neat nine-millimetre bullet hole in his back.

  Chapter 34

  ST MARY’S POST office was crowded, the people waiting patiently in a long line. The woman behind the counter seemed slower than ever. Finally it was Julie’s turn. She stepped forward. ‘Good afternoon. Do you have anything for me?’

  ‘Name?’

  The woman always asked her that. You’d think she’d know by now. Julie suppressed her irritation and said calmly, ‘Lescaux. Madame Lescaux.’ It was the way the major from MI9 had addressed her in the first letter.

  The woman searched the rack but Julie knew, even before she turned round, that there would be no letter.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs er – Lascoo.’

  Julie managed a slight smile. ‘Thank you.’ She squeezed past the waiting people out into the main street, pausing to take a deep breath of the fresh May air. She crossed to the opposite pavement and began to walk, her eyes down, her face grim.

  Every day it was the same: no letter. More doubts. Less hope. Every day it was more of an effort to be cheerful, to cope with life.

  Some days it didn’t seem worth bothering at all.

  A voice said, ‘Afternoon!’

  Julie started slightly and looked up. It was a boatman, one of the men who ran ferries between St Mary’s and the outlying islands.

  She nodded and forced a smile.

  The man shuffled his feet and asked kindly, ‘Boy all right, is ’e then?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. He’s fine.’

  ‘Amazin’ ’ow they get over these things, these young people.’

  ‘Yes.’ Except, Julie thought, that he’ll never get over it. He had seemed all right after the sinking, even when she’d told him about David. But later, when the letter had arrived, and she’d told him about Jean and the others, then he’d changed. He’d become quieter, more troubled. Not the Peter she used to know.

  ‘You be stayin’ with us awhile?’

  She hesitated. ‘Er – Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Well, you always be welcome ’ere.’ The boatman looked down, embarrassed.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Bye for now, then!’

  ‘Bye.’ Julie smiled. ‘And thank you again.’

  She turned away with relief. They had all been very kind, the islanders, and they must think her ungrateful, the way she kept to herself and avoided their company. But she hated making conversation, particularly about the war. She just wanted to be left alone.

  She walked briskly up the hill until she came to a place high above Hugh Town. She sat on the ground, her hands clasped round her knees, and looked out at the view. She often came here in the afternoons when she was waiting for Peter to come out of school. The scene was wonderful: you could see St Mary’s Pool below and, away to the west, the glittering rock-strewn wastes that led to the open sea. To the north lay the Mediterranean-blue waters of St Mary’s Road and the vivid green, yellow-fringed island of Tresco and, beyond, the starker, less brilliant Bryher.

  There were rumours about these northern islands. It was said that fishing boats painted in French colours sometimes appeared from the open sea, crossed the sound, and disappeared between Tresco and Bryher towards New Grimsby Harbour. The craft were known locally as ‘the mystery boats’.

  Richard. He’d hinted at secret operations here in the islands. It would be just the sort of thing he’d have got involved with.

  She thought of him all the time.

  She thought of where he might be – in some hidden, secret place, perhaps. Or in a POW camp – it was just possible – or, when she was really depressed, she imagined him being cold and dead.

  She thought of Jean, too. And Maurice. And the others.

  She tried not to imagine what they had been through before they died.

  That – everything – was a terrible torment.

  But the thing that really hurt, now, was the suspicion that they – and she – had been forgotten.

  Why, otherwise, had she had no more news?

  She took the letter from her bag and looked at it for the hundredth time. She hated the very sight of it now: so efficient, so emotionless, so British: Dear Madame Lescaux … Thank you for letting me talk to you for so long … most useful … help prevent the loss of others … However I regret to inform you that news has now reached me from the other side … Your uncle, Jean Cornou, died in Rennes prison during the first week of April. So too did the agent known as Maurice, and at least ten others. Of your aunt I fear we have no news at present. If I receive any I will, of course, let you know … Deep regrets … You also enquired about Lieutenant Ashley. He has been posted missing. There is no record of him having entered a POW camp, nor of him being held by the German Security Forces. Indeed, there is no information about him at all. Enquiries have been instigated through the normal channels … Again, so sorry … If there is any news I will, of course, let you know. Some good news, however. The special parcel you delivered to me has been passed straight to the appropriate department and is receiving their immediate attention.

  It was signed A. E. Smithe-Webb (Major).

  She folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. She got up and paced along a narrow path that led to an old fort on the hill.

  He’d said he would let her know … That had been four weeks ago. Since then, nothing. It was driving her mad. She couldn’t believe there was no news at all. Something must have filtered through from the other side. If not about Tante Marie, then about the survivors of the réseau.

  And about the traitor.

  It must have been a traitor. It had to be.

  And she knew who that traitor was.

  There wa
s no proof, of course, but she knew.

  The cool, calm Major hadn’t believed her. He had listened patiently but he had been doubting, politely but firmly doubting. He had pointed out that ‘Roger’ – whose real name was Paul Fougères – had been vouched for and checked. Maurice had even had him personally identified. Perhaps, the major had suggested quietly, it had been someone else?

  The hill steepened, but Julie kept her pace, pushing harder until the path levelled off again. She liked exerting herself: it made her tired and that helped her to sleep.

  She sat on a rampart of the old fort and lifted her face to the warm sun. The islands were quite lovely now. Most of the heathland was covered in carpets of blooms – pink, yellow, white; flowers called sea pink, thrift, hottentot fig …

  But no amount of loveliness could make things right again.

  From the top of the hill it was possible to see some of the islands to the south-west. The tip of St Agnes and the beginnings of the Western Rocks. It was calm today. Hard to believe that they were the same rocks …

  David was dead. They’d buried him in the quiet, shaded churchyard at Porth Hellick on the southern side of St Mary’s, next to the dead from other shipwrecks of long ago. Every two days or so she walked there, picking a bunch of wild flowers from the hedgerows to place on his grave.

  There was only one consolation for his death. His package had been delivered. It was something at least. It was the only thing that assuaged her guilt.

  It was a quarter to four. Time to go and meet Peter. She made her way down the path towards the town and, reaching the school, waited outside the gate with the other mothers.

  Sharp at four a door opened and the children poured out, skipping and running and making a lot of noise. After a while Julie spotted Peter, slightly apart from the crowd, walking quietly on his own. Her heart went out to him. He looked so lonely.

  When he saw her he gave a small wave and quickened his pace. She leant down to kiss him. ‘How was it, then?’

  ‘All right.’

  They began to walk slowly down towards the town. ‘What did you do today?’

  ‘Oh spelling. And arithmetic …’

  ‘Do you hate it terribly?’

  ‘No,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘It’s all right.’

  They walked on in silence.

  Julie glanced down at him. He was frowning slightly. ‘What is it, Peter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  But she could see he was disturbed about something. ‘Come on. Much better to tell me.’

  There was a long pause, then he murmured, ‘I had a bad dream.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it before? What was it about?’

  He bent his head and she knew he wasn’t going to reply.

  They were almost into the town, only a few yards from the lodgings. Julie paused; she didn’t want to go into the boarding house while they were talking like this. Her eye caught the gleam of water down an alleyway between two houses.

  ‘Let’s go and watch the water.’ She led him across the road and down the alleyway to the sea. They sat on the harbour wall and Julie asked again, ‘What was the dream about, Peter?’

  Eventually he whispered, ‘Uncle Jean. And Tante Marie.’

  ‘And it was a bad dream?’

  ‘There was—’ The high voice faltered. ‘– the Germans took them away.’

  Julie stared out across the harbour. She often had dreams like that herself.

  Peter asked suddenly, ‘Is that where Tante Marie is, Mummy, with the Germans?’

  She replied quietly, ‘I don’t know. I wish I did.’

  He was silent again, picking at the stone wall with his fingers.

  Julie said impulsively, ‘Peter, suppose I went to London, do you think you could manage on your own for a few days? Mrs Eldon would look after you.’

  He froze. ‘Mummy, don’t go away. Please!’

  She took his hand. ‘It would only be for a few days. Promise. I – I’m going to find out about Tante Marie.’ She added, ‘And maybe Richard too. If there’s any news.’

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘I won’t be long, promise. It’s just that … I’ve got to find out. You do see, don’t you?’

  He looked crestfallen.

  She added brightly, ‘And I tell you what, since you’ve finished Swallows and Amazons, I’ll see if I can borrow another Arthur Ransome before I go in the morning. How about that?’

  There was the faintest smile.

  ‘But for now, how about helping me to send a telegram?’

  He nodded again.

  Julie jumped to her feet and, holding Peter’s hand, made her way back to the post office. For the first time in a month, she almost felt cheerful.

  Smithe-Webb looked at his watch and wondered when she’d arrive. The telegram hadn’t been very specific.

  She arrived, in fact, just ten minutes later.

  As soon as she was announced, Smithe-Webb and his assistant, Forbes, went straight down to the main entrance.

  She wasn’t difficult to spot. She was waiting by the main door, a slim, nervous figure pacing back and forth over the stone floor. She was wearing a dress that was shabby and rather too large for her. Refugee issue, Smithe-Webb decided. It made her look particularly vulnerable.

  ‘Mrs Lescaux?’

  She spun round, as tense as a cat. Immediately Smithe-Webb noticed the wound on her head which, though almost healed, was still conspicuous.

  He put out his hand. She shook it, her enormous dark eyes searching his face. He said straight away, ‘No news, I’m afraid.’

  She sagged visibly and looked down.

  Smithe-Webb said quickly, ‘Look, there’s a flat we use not far from here. Shall we go and talk there?’

  He led her by the elbow towards the door while Forbes went ahead and hailed a cab. During the ride she didn’t speak but stared disconsolately out of the window. Smithe-Webb asked politely, ‘How’s the head? All healed up now?’ She nodded vaguely and he didn’t bother to speak again.

  The flat was on the fourth floor of a mansion block in Victoria. Forbes unlocked the door and said cheerfully, ‘What about some coffee, then?’

  Smithe-Webb led the way into the sitting room and said, ‘Do sit down. Will you have some coffee?’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  She looked so thin and pale that he asked, ‘How about something to eat?’

  ‘Oh. Well, if you have anything …’

  As he’d thought – she’d had no breakfast. He told Forbes to dig up a sandwich and said to her, ‘Won’t be a moment.’

  She nodded. Smithe-Webb took out his pipe and tobacco pouch and began the solemn ritual of lighting up. Through the clouds of smoke he took a good look at her.

  She was in a bad way, obviously very depressed. When she smiled she was probably rather a looker – she had lovely eyes, a clear skin and a wide, sensuous mouth. But at the moment she was frowning grimly.

  Her eyes darted up to him. ‘No news at all?’

  ‘Sorry. We’ve put out a request about your aunt but … with no-one on the spot, well, it takes time.’

  She was nodding. ‘Yes, I understand.’ She looked at him again. ‘And Richard Ashley?’

  Smithe-Webb frowned and examined his pipe. ‘I have to admit that … the lack of news is worrying. He still hasn’t been registered as a POW.’

  ‘The Gestapo have him then.’

  ‘It’s by no means certain. All sorts of things could have happened—’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was very pale, sitting motionless on the edge of her chair. Forbes came bouncing in with a plate of food and a mug of steaming liquid and put them on a side table.

  She didn’t move.

  ‘You must eat!’ Smithe-Webb got up and put the plate on her lap.

  Mechanically, she picked up the sandwich and took a bite. The taste seemed to revive her and she began to chew. She said, ‘Major?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Lescaux?’
<
br />   Her eyes were suddenly hard and bright. ‘What about Roger – the man Paul Fougères? Have you had any more news of him?’

  ‘Apparently he was executed in Paris quite recently.’

  She looked startled. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Not absolutely … It’s hard to be definite.’

  She was shaking her head slowly from side to side.

  ‘You still think it was him?’ asked the Major.

  ‘Oh yes!’

  Smithe-Webb raised his eyebrows and didn’t reply.

  ‘I know it was. As soon as you have contact with Brittany again, you’ll hear it from there too, I’m sure! They’ll know by now! They always find out …’

  Smithe-Webb cleared his throat. ‘I – er have heard from Rennes, through another organisation—’

  She sat up.

  ‘Apparently no-one has heard anything definite.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘There’s no certainty it was a traitor. Apparently.’

  She stared at him, thunderstruck. ‘But it must have been. Can’t you find out more? Someone must know.’

  The doorbell rang. As Forbes went to answer it, Smithe-Webb looked towards the door with relief. ‘Look, there’s a chap from the Scientific Intelligence Service who’d like to ask you a few more questions.’

  ‘About the package?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  She nodded briefly. ‘All right.’

  The man from SIS was a round, balding man with pebble glasses – just what you’d expect.

  He pumped the girl’s hand warmly and sat down in a chair beside her. ‘I’m a sort of intelligence officer – but on the scientific side,’ he began. ‘I just wanted to ask you a couple of things, Madame. I hope you don’t mind—’

  ‘Not at all. Please go ahead.’

  The SIS man adjusted his glasses and began earnestly, ‘When Freymann told you about the – er – device, what else did he tell you? Did he say how he got hold of the plans, for instance?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Well, as I told the Major before, they were David’s own plans. He’d been working on them. As I understood it, they were his alone.’

  The SIS man nodded. ‘But did he say if anyone else knew about them?’