Staying Alive

by Alexander Fullerton

  Curtains then, all right. Leading to – all that business. In the course of it, discovering basic truths about oneself, not least one’s capacity to endure excruciating pain.

  As an alternative to revisiting the Cussecs area though, take this set out to Buzet? Less dangerous than transmitting on two nights running from the same location, probably. That had been a near squeak a few nights ago, but the Funkabwehr didn’t have to know she’d even been there, and there was a lot of forest, with more than one approach to it.

  Discuss it with him.

  She’d come to another exit, which she recognised as the one from which that young gendarme had stood watching her – and infuriating Jake – a few days ago when they’d been setting off for Canet-Plage. Smiling at the mental picture she had of him, in his cloak and kepi, confronting the Luftwaffe people with that air of slightly amused contempt.

  Drizzling again. And only – twenty minutes to two, still. When you were in a tearing hurry, time flew, when you wanted it to fly—

  To her left, opposite but this side of a more central entrance, a grey Citroen Light 15 had just swept in, was rocking to a halt with its front tyres against the kerb, where – unusually – there were several vacant parking spaces. She’d edged back under this doorway’s arch – instinctive reaction, but doing it with a degree of stagecraft, glancing up as if being dripped on and for that reason withdrawing into shelter.

  Driver getting out. Standard kit for La Geste – trench coat and soft hat. From the rear seat also on this side, that one’s virtual twin except for having a fatter, whiter face, emerging simultaneously and pausing with a hand on the open rear door, waiting for some other person to slide over and climb out.

  Marc.

  Marc.

  Rosie frozen. Trying to tell herself she had to be deluded: some flare of lunacy stemming from her jumpy, fraught imagination. It was him for sure, though – in that shabby old army greatcoat, rain-hat, pebble glasses glistening, already wet from the drizzle. And in no way the Gestapists’ prisoner: addressing them by the look of it quite affably, even excitedly, waving a hand in the direction of the telephones – direction of other things too, but this was plainly telephone business. Where in about fifteen or twenty minutes she would have been, to receive his call. Or if she’d arrived nearer the appointed hour – in a hurry maybe and in any case unsuspecting, blind to any such possibility, dementia such as this…

  Although she could see instantly how he or they might have pulled it off. Not having given it a thought until this second, but it was there in a flash. Shock galvanising the intelligence? Should have given it some bloody thought, not have used only station telephone numbers, both for calling and for him to call back on. This time after she’d called at noon, someone waiting for it in that bar in Perpignan would have called him – or them – in l’Ours Blanc, even.

  They’d gone inside – doubtless to check which box then merge into the shifting throng, Marc eventually nudging them with a whispered ‘There. That’s her coming now…’

  Nightmare in watery greyish daylight. Marc a traitor, a vendu – and the réseau blown. Not only the appalling, visible fact of it, sense of absolute enormity, but what it left you with – faced her with here and now – Jake on his way back from Pamirs, Déclan and company on the brink of action. Not even Déclan could have much chance of making it out, away – Marc knowing about Canet-Plage, l’Hôtel du Tennis and l’Etoile in Banyuls. Which – Christ – blew everything. He even knew where Déclan lived. Those three having gone inside she’d moved instantly, was by this time halfway across the forecourt – stunned, never having wanted anything as badly as in that moment she wanted Jake.

  17

  Jake said – eventually – ‘We can thank God the bastard didn’t know anything about Hardball. Nothing about Noé or Gustave – anything that matters.’

  ‘So it’ll go ahead.’

  ‘Damn sure it will. Incidentally, there’s been a change of exit plan – and that’s something else to be glad of, now. Marteneau was dead against going via Banyuls. The fact a beach pick-up can’t be relied on decided him against being separated from his team at all – he’d never liked it, only went along with it because it did seem to give the extraction of Gustave a better chance, and he disliked even that because the corollary was his men getting the short end of the stick. Not necessarily true, but how he felt – his decision, and with things as they’ve gone now thank God for it.’

  ‘Whole team with their Boches straight from Noé into the mountains.’

  He’d touched wood. ‘Have to warn Déclan. Through our tobacconist chum. Not a hope of getting it to him before the action, but—’

  ‘My fault, Jake.’

  ‘No.’ Firm shake of the head. ‘I should have been more explicit about cut-out calls – and have taken a more realistic view of Marc.’

  ‘He doesn’t know where you’ve been living?’

  ‘No. Or working. Only that I’m some kind of city slicker. Matter of fact he’s never made any serious attempt at finding out – despite wanting to know everything that’s going on. Getting damn few answers, incidentally – I’ve never thought of him as all that security-conscious. By nature a bit of a chatterer, I’ve thought and didn’t know the bloody half of it… Christ, Suzie, what a hell of a thing for you!’

  ‘Incredible. Staggering. Had me staggering, pretty well.’

  ‘Not surprised, not in the least. Action now anyway, postmortems if any much, much later. So – we’ll leave after dark. After Berthe gets home. I’m going to my flat now – phone my tobacconist on the way there – for Déclan – and collect a big wad of francs – luckily there’s a lot left of the cash you brought. Apart from anything else we’ll need plenty for the passeurs – they don’t risk their necks for nothing. Then—’

  ‘Banyuls and trans-Pyrenees?’

  ‘No option, is there. A beach pick-up’d be lovely but we couldn’t count on it, couldn’t wait anyway, just one day’d be too long – and Marc, damn him to hell—’

  ‘Hear, hear.’

  ‘Well. Be back soon as I can – with car, may leave it at the station – or Gare Routière maybe. This square could be under surveillance at any rate after sunset – the ambulance business, which incidentally may link to Marc – but meanwhile you pack a bag – all the warm kit you can get into it—’

  ‘Will you manage all right over the mountains?’

  Meaning his limp, his knee, and getting a hard look. ‘Yes, Suzie, I assure you—’

  ‘Transceiver?’

  ‘We’ll take it with us, yes. Might use it to put Baker Street in the picture – on our way. Or might use the one we dumped on Monday, drop this one in the Garonne. Let’s think about that.’

  ‘Food?’

  ‘I’ll bring what I’ve got, and recompense Berthe for whatever she can spare.’

  ‘Isn’t much in the house at all.’

  ‘We’ll just have to cope, Suzie. Forage along the way.’ Holding her. ‘You all right now?’

  ‘Better, anyway. Thanks to you. I’m sorry…’

  The sight of him on the doorstep half an hour ago had reduced her to tears. She’d told him most of it with his arms around her and her wet face close to his. But she was OK now.

  ‘About Banyuls, Jake—’

  ‘It’ll be a race, won’t it. He – they – don’t know you saw him at the station, won’t know we’re legging it, and he did know I’d be out of town a while. I’d say we may have a twenty-four-hour start on him. I won’t fool you though – we’ll make it, damn sure we will, but at the best of times that coastal railway’s bloody dangerous.’

  ‘Better run, Jake.’

  ‘I better had.’ He kissed her. ‘You’re marvellous.’

  ‘What made you say the ambulance ploy could have links to Marc?’

  ‘He’s in with the Gestapo – they’d surely know whatever results the detector-vans were getting, and on top of that there’s telephonic activity around Gare Matabiau.’


  * * *

  He was back before Berthe got home, old Rosie told me, and they’d had some cyphering to do. He’d parked the Mahossier, Jorisse Buick at the bus station – in case there might be any kind of lookout for them at Gare Matabiau.

  ‘I’d had another fit of the shakes while he’d been gone. I was young, you know, and still new to it. Especially to the feel of being hunted. Had my case packed, anyway, and the transceiver down from the attic, day and night crystals in an inside pocket, one-time pad… Once I had him back – ready to go, might say.’

  She’d also had her little cyanide capsule in its usual stowage – a small pocket inside the elastic of her knickers. However brutal the circumstances of arrest and imprisonment might be, a visit to a lavatory would surely be permitted, and a minute, half a minute, was all she’d need.

  (‘I’d actually practised it – gone through the motions. Would you believe it?’ ‘Believe anything of you, Rosie…’)

  Jake had called his tobacconist and instead of following the usual procedure – enquiring whether he had some particular mixture of pipe tobacco in stock, which would have led to Déclan contacting him in some way, setting up a rendezvous, he’d asked the man whether as a great favour he’d pass a message personally and secretly to their mutual friend. He’d said he would, bien sûr, and the message Jake gave him was Raoul is vendu, they are hunting us, s.q.p. – those letters standing for sauve qui pent. The tobacconist had begun to commiserate, he’d cut in with ‘Adieu, my friend’, and rung off.

  He’d also called Jacques Jorisse. The firm’s Buick would be found to have disappeared, as would their Associate, Jean Samblat. Gone off his head, run off with some girl, or both. There were commissions due to him that he wouldn’t be claiming, might be set against the value of the car? Jacques – thanks for everything…

  Rosie told me, in a taxi on our way to Number 1 Place Capitole, Les Jardins de l’Opéra, restaurant of the Grand Hôtel de l’Opéra, ‘Berthe took it hard, poor dear. Jake was as kind to her as he could be, and gave her sound, practical advice. She would be sad – troubled – for Suzette Treniard, whom she’d befriended and tried to get into a trainee nursery-school teacher’s job. Suzette, she might recall, had moved down here from Paris, had lost her husband in the British assault on the fleet at Mers-el-Kebir, had been hoping to locate an old aunt of her husband’s, meanwhile had had some money from the sale of an apartment in the Paris area but no secure future beyond that unless she could find this aunt who she was hoping might need her, being fairly ancient. The nursery-school idea – Berthe’s own – had been a possible solution, but now despite her efforts the wretched girl had just left without a word – no goodbye, no thanks. The only likely explanation is there was a man who used to visit and take her out for meals – middle-aged, lame, much too old for her, but – well, on a couple of occasions she was away for a day or two, taking an overnight bag with her, so – perhaps least said the better.

  Rosie told me, ‘It got to be embarrassing. Berthe said something like “To be frank with you, it’s not so much her departure that breaks my heart”, and he was – you know, trying to comfort her – while the best I could manage was to tell her I’d serviced the bike that morning.’

  * * *

  Then at the restaurant, or rather in its bar, we were on vodka martinis, which Rosie agreed with me have a lot going for them – hedging this with ‘Although I suppose we’d better take it a little easy, make sure of covering ground I need to before bedtime… Old Ben, I can tell you, used to make a real beaut of a vodka Marty, as he called them. His usual tipple was Scotch, mind you – had been gin in his naval days, then—’

  ‘Here’s to you, Rosie.’

  ‘Good luck.’ She was wearing her silver trousers and grey silk shirt this evening, ruby brooch and ear studs of course, and looked marvellous. Tasting the martini: ‘H’m. Not bad. Best go very easy on them though, d’you think?’

  ‘Will the ground we’re covering include Ben and the Brisbane yacht club?’

  ‘Middle Harbour Yacht Club. Brisbane’s number one – Australia’s, even…Well, no, I’d say that’s best kept for the morning. Yes, definitely. Tonight in fact I don’t need to rush it. Least, I think I don’t. Perpignan, Banyuls, that awful journey – apart from its awfulness there’s not all that much detail worth your while, I’ll give you a general picture – all right?’

  ‘If you think that’s the best way – and I’d have latitude—’

  ‘You’d take it, anyway. What one remembers mostly is just strain – about thirty-six hours of it. Wasn’t over then either, not by a long chalk… But – general picture then – Jake like a rock, with a steadying effect on me – which believe me I needed – both of us tense as banjo strings but in the presence of others – or each other, come to that – doing our best to seem nonchalant – and/or in love, which was mostly his idea. Although I admit I did have it in mind – between whiles, in a subdued sort of way. Didn’t feel – safe, you know? Ghastly bloody train – me from time to time dropping off out of sheer fatigue, waking minutes later with all of it thumping back into mind like as bad a dream as you ever had – realising in approx one point five seconds Christ, no dream, just how it bloody is, what we’re into.’

  ‘You get that much across all right, Rosie.’

  ‘And then you see, Jake getting killed.’

  ‘Oh, Rosie—’

  ‘Telling about it’s almost worse. In the train and then foot-slogging through the Zone Interdite, knowing damn-all of what was coming – OK, one never does, obviously, but I mean, thinking back to it like this, one does know what’s coming, one’s seeing the pair of us like through the wrong end of binoculars, but with the focus very much on him because it’s there, coming up just ahead…

  Letting that tail off; looking quizzically into my eyes, wondering was I still with her. Small shrug, and touching her glass. ‘Anyway – give you the prosaic start of it.’

  * * *

  It was dark when they left the house, after checking from upstairs windows that no watchers were visible in the square. Jake had left the Buick at the bus station, and there it was, attracting no special interest, just one in a line of other gazos, charcoal glowing in their burners. He’d been carrying the transceiver, was pushing it under his driver’s seat while she dumped her suitcase in the back with his; she asked him wouldn’t it be better to have it on her side and accessible – so if they were going to drop it in the Garonne he’d only need to stop on the bridge for a few seconds – or even just slow down.

  ‘We’ll hang on to it, Suzie. Getting to the other one would mean a diversion. Use this and ditch it later – anywhere.’ They’d composed the message and encyphered it while awaiting Berthe’s return. Pulling his door shut, switching on sidelights, starting up – which was always a bit of a challenge – adding as it fired, ‘Might send from the ruin we used on Monday, d’you think?’

  ‘Well – yes… Near Quillan, wasn’t it? Turning down through Limoux, Quillan, Perpignan.’

  ‘But not – as I’ll explain – directly to the station. We’ll have time in hand, and with a bit of an effort – anyway, still make the first train out… Have you got all your papers with you?’

  ‘Except no Ausweis.’

  Travel permit. Which until the recent occupation one hadn’t needed, and could still get by without, although there’d been warnings in newspapers and on posters. Jake did have the equivalent, good enough touch wood still to satisfy gendarmerie. On Mahossier, Jorisse business, he explained, under the Vichy system they’d had blank forms they could fill in themselves and authenticate with the office stamp, and he’d kept some handy for emergencies.

  ‘But I’ve got to break this to you, Suzie. You won’t like it, but I’m – the phrase is, “taking advantage” of you. Taking you on a jaunt of a kind that – well, say I shouldn’t have conned you into coming with me. I apologise, but it’s so much the obvious thing – in terms of – you know, for nine people out of ten disbelief’s suspen
ded?’

  On Boulevard de Bonrepos, rattling south through light-streaked darkness. She asked him, ‘Where to, this jaunt?’

  ‘Depends where we are when we’re asked. In the long run, what about Collioure? Pretty little place – and Banyuls’s just that much closer to the mountains and the border, more likely to arouse suspicions. Collioure’d maybe only raise eyebrows, if you see what I mean. The Brighton syndrome, even? Do you mind, Suzie?’

  ‘I suppose if it’ll save our bacon – it’s not exactly a new idea—’

  ‘Well, bless you!’

  ‘Get tickets from Perpignan to Collioure, do we?’

  ‘I think so. And the early train, allegedly so crowded the guards can’t get through to check papers or whatever else. But dumping this car now, I’m thinking of Canet-en-Roussillon – not far inland of the beach, a hike of ten or twelve kilometres back to the station – face that, could you?’

  ‘If you can.’

  Thinking of his lameness. But hell, if he was going to make it over the Pyrenees…You saw the limp, remembered a description of the accident, didn’t actually know the extent of the problem the horse had left him with but thinking He’ll probably manage whatever he sets his mind to. He was explaining, ‘Thing is, whoever had abandoned it there might have been picked up from the beach?’

  ‘Oh, that is an idea!’

  ‘If they were to find it soon enough but not too soon. For all Marc knows, could even have been the Hardball exit. Wouldn’t that rile ’em, just… I’m heading for the 113 now, incidentally. And just getting our act together, Suzie, if we were stopped around this stage I’d give Carcassonne as our destination. Hôtel la Barbacane – on the old city ramparts, grande luxe – sort of place one might…’ Glancing at her in the half-dark: ‘You could act as if I hadn’t sprung it on you yet – you might have wondered, but—’