The Running Lie

by Jennifer Young

  ‘Try me. I have an idea anyway—we’re on high alert. Something instigated by your father, if I understand it properly.’

  She turned back to the plane. ‘I have to see if John and Bobby are all right.’

  ‘My men will look after them. What happened?’

  Max exhaled. ‘They were making me fly to a rendezvous with the Soviets.’ Two men carried John’s limp body off the plane. Another soldier cradled Bobby in his arms. Max followed as John was placed on a stretcher. He looked grey.

  ‘Will he be okay?’ Max asked.

  ‘We’re going to get him to hospital, ma’am. Excuse us.’

  The stretcher was lifted into the ambulance, and the soldier holding Bobby climbed in after it. The door slammed in her face. Another two men carried Brian out of the plane, but no ambulance waited. A cloth fluttered down to drape him. Max stared at his body. She’d done that. She’d killed him. Her best friend’s husband. And shamefully, at the same time, the thought crept in that John must be alive or they wouldn’t have put him in the ambulance.

  ‘Max. Max.’

  She jerked her attention back to Peter.

  ‘Where were you supposed to fly?’

  ‘Bronholm Priory.’

  ‘Right. Hold on a sec.’ He spoke rapidly to two people behind him. One ran to a jeep, the other to the plane’s gaping door. Max shuddered, and Peter took her hand. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Max shook her head. ‘I crashed it.’

  ‘We saw your signals.’

  ‘The plane was perfectly fine. I killed him. I killed Brian.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll get you a cup of tea.’

  ‘What about…?’

  ‘We’ll detain them. Your father is on his way.’ He led her to a waiting jeep. ‘Was it blind luck or did you plan to land near us?’

  ‘I landed two planes here in the war. I thought—prayed this base was still open.’

  The jeep bounced across the rough field onto a road, and then Peter was quickly waved through security at the base. She followed him into an office filled with calm, sane, normal electric light.

  ‘Ouch. I thought you said you weren’t hurt?’ Peter gestured to a chair in front of a desk.

  Max raised her fingers to her cheek. She’d nearly forgotten, but now it throbbed freshly. Two men. She’d killed two men tonight. Peter said something to a young man, who left the room.

  ‘You look just the same,’ Peter said. ‘Please, sit down.’

  Except for the swollen face, the blood-spattered hands and… She tried to still her brain. ‘And you.’ He didn’t though. His hair, though still red, had thinned, and his stomach rounded against his uniform. His uniform. ‘When did you get to be a…?’ She reached for her memory of insignia and failed.

  He laughed. ‘Air Marshall. I look completely different, and you and I both know it.’

  The young man returned with an ice pack and a blanket. Peter draped the blanket around her. ‘You’re shaking. Here.’ He handed her the ice pack, and she rested it gently against her cheek. The throb intensified.

  ‘I command this base, so frankly, you chose well.’ The phone rang, and he listened for a few minutes and then replaced the receiver. ‘Your companions are at the hospital. The chap’s in surgery, and the kid is okay. Drugged, but okay, they reckon.’

  Surgery. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Somebody special?’

  Max nodded. A tap sounded at the door, and the young man returned with two mugs of tea. Peter passed one to Max, but she put it down on the desk untasted.

  Peter perched beside the mug. ‘Want to tell me about it?’

  ‘I made a huge mess of it all, Peter.’ She started to press her fingers to her eyes, but remembered the blood in time.

  The phone rang again. Peter spoke briefly, and then passed the receiver to her.

  ‘Max?’ Her father’s voice.

  ‘Dad. Is everybody—is Henry…’

  ‘He’s in surgery. Are you all right?’

  ‘I crashed the plane. And Brian is dead.’

  ‘I know, darling. I know. I’ll be there shortly. Can you tell Air Marshall Field what happened after you left me?’

  Max nodded, then said ‘yes’ aloud. Did Dad remember Peter? He’d met him once or twice. ‘Wait. Dad. Tommy said they have Mrs Dinsmore. Something about what his father had done and…’

  ‘Right. That changes things. Max, I have to go now. Tell Field that, get him to radio his men. Were the Dinsmores supposed to do a swap?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The phone clicked and she passed it back to Peter. She’d never heard her father sound so crisp. ‘I’m supposed to tell you that the Soviets have the Dinsmores’ mother. I’m not sure if it was a swap or…’

  Peter depressed the switch and rang someone. ‘Tell the men there might be a civilian, a woman in her…’ He covered the receiver. ‘Fifties?’ Max nodded. ‘Fifties. Right.’ He hung up the phone. ‘We sent another Dragon Rapide to Bronholm. Luckily, we still had one kicking around. Figured if we drove up they’d run.’

  Angus’s colonel had shared nothing with her on Mull.

  ‘Right. What can you tell me?’

  Should she start in Berlin? In Norfolk? She skipped ahead to the ball tonight, and Firmin and him beating John…

  ‘Did we apprehend him?’

  She shook her head, and Peter reached for the phone. ‘I killed him too.’

  ‘Max, you didn’t kill the chap on the plane. He died as a result of the plane crash. He should have stayed in his bloody seat, you know that.’

  ‘Bobby’s his son.’ Bobby and Samantha, growing up without a father. Poor Samantha would never even know Brian. She lifted the ice pack from her cheek.

  ‘Did you tell them to stay in their seats?’

  ‘I think so.’ The cacophony behind her, the scream of the wind against the chassis.

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘John—we took my father and Sir… anyway, them to safety and then we went towards the house. They said I should stay put, but I insisted on going with John. And…’ She flexed her fingers. Brown stains marked her left hand. Firmin’s blood. ‘I made a disastrous choice, and two people I love got shot.’

  Peter pressed the mug into her hands again. ‘Drink that.’

  She sipped, almost reeling from the strong hit of sugar. She summarised everything to the plane, including Mr Rawls’ betrayal.

  No knock sounded, but suddenly the door bounced open, and her father swept into the room and hugged her all in one motion.

  ‘Thank God you’re okay.’ His nose was as swollen as her cheek.

  Max longed to cry, to release the pressure in her chest, but nothing came. She held onto him tightly, as her heart pounded out a rhythm of dead, dead, dead.

  ‘Has Vivian been told?’ The words dragged out of her. Should she be the one to tell her?

  The phone rang, and Peter answered it.

  Dad shook his head. ‘We’re talking to the American Embassy, as you can imagine. Vivian’s asleep, so…’ He patted her back. ‘I can’t believe Rawls was involved.’

  With an infant? ‘She won’t be…’

  ‘Excuse me, sir. The Dragon Rapide landed.’ Peter glanced at Max, and then to her father.

  ‘It’s fine in front of her,’ Dad said.

  ‘There was a brief firefight, and then they captured four men. Two casualties on their side, none on ours. And they have a Bernice Dinsmore, who is being taken to the hospital for observation.’

  ‘Thank God. Max, I need to work. Field, could you see that Max gets… where do you want to go, darling? Home? The hospital? They’re all at Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. Have you had your cheek looked at?’

  ‘I’m okay.’ She closed her eyes and swayed. Hands guided her back to the chair. ‘I just want to wash up.’

  ‘And eat,’ Dad added. ‘Field, can you sort that?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The young man appeared again—Max couldn’t tell his rank—and led her to
a washroom. How had Peter even recognised her? Remnants of red lipstick smudged around her mouth, and her hair fell from a mangled updo—and the blood. Not just staining her fingers but her face. Even sweeping water over her cheek hurt. But if she looked like this, how much worse did John look? The industrial soap stung her hands, so she just used water to scrub at the lipstick and blood on her face. She tugged pins from her hair but wouldn’t let herself cry as she clutched one. Her fingers found a clump near the crown of her head. It flaked into dark brownish red bits. John’s blood, where he’d kissed her after she’d stabbed Firmin. With hot eyes, she pinned her hair back up in her normal style, although it stayed bumpy and uneven. But how could she care about her hair or skin when poor Vivian… she opened the washroom door. She didn’t want anything to eat, but a sandwich was placed before her. It took the dreadful taste from her mouth.

  ‘Your friends are still in surgery, but I can drive you to the hospital or to your home, ma’am.’

  ‘I didn’t thank Peter,’ Max murmured. ‘To the hospital, please.’

  Victor rolled down his sleeve in the brightly lit hospital corridor. Max ran to him and hugged him tightly.

  ‘You okay, kiddo?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yeah, I figured.’ He motioned to a chair. Max did manage to thank the young man, and Victor promised to drive her home. It was settled without her. Care for her handed over man to man, and Max tried to not grit her teeth. It hurt too much.

  ‘How is John?’

  ‘He’s lost a lot of blood. I’ve just donated.’

  ‘Can I…’

  ‘I think you need all yours right now.’

  ‘Is he awake?’

  ‘No. There’s a nurse over there that might let you see him. She wouldn’t let me. Sucked my blood though.’ Victor’s grin looked too thin.

  ‘I’m sort of scared to.’

  ‘He’ll be all right, Max.’

  ‘You didn’t see how badly Firmin beat him. Cut him. Before the gunshot.’ She twisted her hands in her jumper’s hem. ‘How did the party end?’

  ‘Briskly. Lady Bartlemas went to the hospital with Henry, and your father had me pulled from the party and asked me to meet you here.’ He pushed her. ‘Stop stalling. He isn’t even awake. Go tell that nice lady you’re his fiancée or girlfriend or whatever you call yourself.’

  Max stepped down the corridor. ‘Hello.’

  The nurse looked up. ‘Have you had your cheek looked at?’

  Max raised her hand to the swelling. ‘No. It’s okay. Could I see Mr Knox please?’ How long she’d called him Mr Knox, and how strange it sounded in her mouth now.

  ‘No visitors.’ The nurse gave a half smile. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Is he—will he be okay?’

  ‘I can’t discuss patients, I’m afraid. You should see someone about your face.’

  Max nodded. Maybe Victor would drive her home. But what would she do? If she stopped moving, what would happen? The physical pain was nothing. What would she tell Vivian? ‘Could I check on Robert Gould, please? He’s my godson.’ She swallowed. ‘Is anyone with him? Or Henry Marshall?’

  ‘And your relationship to Mr Marshall?’

  Max took a shallow breath. ‘He’s family.’ How on earth did she explain they had no blood tie, but he’d been part of her life forever?

  ‘Let me see.’ The nurse went down the hallway and turned a corner. A man came through a swinging door.

  ‘Dr Falkland.’

  Max turned, but she didn’t recognise him at all.

  ‘Excuse me. My name is Stan Burke. I work with John at the paper.’ He was American. Was it a cover for him too?

  ‘How did you know who I…’ How many other American sounding girls with bruises were likely to turn up at four in the morning at the hospital?

  ‘John might have described you.’ He grinned.

  Was she supposed to pretend she didn’t know what John really did? ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s tough; he’ll be absolutely fine. He’s still out from the surgery, but you can come back if you want.’

  Max nodded and followed Mr Burke. He held a room door for her.

  ‘I’ll wait out here,’ he whispered.

  She approached the bed cautiously. John’s face should have looked peacefully reposed, but rapidly darkening bruises looked anything but. Small butterfly bandages dotted the abrasions. Under his tan, the bits of unbruised skin had a paleness she didn’t like. The sheet was drawn up to his chest, although the thick bandage on his right arm showed under the sleeve of his hospital gown. At least this bandage remained white. A glass bottle of blood hung suspended from a metal frame, trickling down the tubing into his arm.

  Still. He was so still. Her fingers fumbled under his nose, and his breath brushed her skin reassuringly.

  Did the RAF base have a morgue? Where had they put Brian’s body?

  John’s hair wound around her fingers before she could stop herself, and she eased it back from his forehead. Her lips pressed against a clear patch on his face. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. What could she say when he woke up? How could she apologise for her stupidity? Did he even know about Brian? She smoothed the sheet, although it had been pristine already.

  The door opened, and the nurse entered. ‘Dr Falkland, you should rest,’ she said. ‘Mr Knox really isn’t meant to have visitors. Mr Marshall is still in surgery. And your godson has been driven home.’

  ‘By whom, please?’

  ‘Lord Bartlemas arranged a driver. The child woke up and wanted his mother. He’s fine.’

  Max nodded. Vivian wouldn’t be. ‘How long do you think John will be unconscious?’

  ‘Maybe a couple of hours. It depends on how he reacts to anaesthesia.’ She touched Max’s shoulder.

  Max nearly crumpled at the gentle pressure. John’s chest rose and fell evenly beneath her hand, like it had the first time she went to his flat. Only he wasn’t asleep. She pried her hand away. ‘Okay.’

  The nurse guided her out into the hallway.

  ‘I’ll let Knox know you were here,’ Mr Burke said.

  ‘Tell him…’ What? What could she possibly say? ‘Please tell him I’m sorry.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gestured to the nurse. ‘I’ll be back when he can have visitors.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EARLY MORNING PASSED in a blur. She showered away the blood, the water fading from crimson to pink as it swirled around the drain. Her eyes remained dry.

  Lucy brought her a tray with breakfast as Max tugged at the tangles from her hair.

  ‘Here, let me.’ She took the brush from Max. Her fingers were far gentler. ‘Mr Marshall’s woken briefly, which was a good sign, they said.’

  ‘Is Mother still at the hospital?’

  ‘Yes. I packed her a bag. She won’t leave.’

  Max had. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Remember that she isn’t injured,’ Lucy said gently. ‘How does your face feel? Have you had any aspirin?’

  Max shrugged. She couldn’t remember if she’d taken any or not. ‘Any news about John?’

  ‘I haven’t heard, but your father might have. He’s had a lot of calls.’ She put the brush down on Max’s vanity top. ‘Can you talk about what happened?’

  ‘No.’ Would she ever be able to speak about it?

  ‘Okay. Anything else?’

  ‘No, but thank you.’

  Lucy squeezed her shoulder and left. Max stared at her hands. How could she have killed Will Firmin with them? Her pink nail varnish remained. Knifing someone and purposely crashing a plane apparently didn’t lead to chips.

  A knock sounded, and Dad came into her room before she said anything. His eyes had started to blacken above his swollen nose.

  ‘We make quite a pair, don’t we?’ He smiled. ‘Mr Knox is awake. Doing well, they say. He’s asked about you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Max broke her cold toast into tiny pieces. ‘Has Vivian been told?’


  ‘Yes.’ He paced to her window. ‘She’s been told Brian died saving Bobby’s life, mine and yours.’

  ‘What about the plane? The choice I…’

  ‘It happened when the Dinsmores drove us all further towards the coast. Brian was a hero. There were no planes involved, and you were a kidnap victim as well.’

  ‘Dad, that’s…’

  ‘Max, listen to me. This is a matter of national security. It’s the official story, from both of our governments. Knox’s role won’t be discussed, nor will yours.’ He turned towards her. ‘Not to mention the fact that she’s been your best friend since you were tiny, and I consider her a second daughter. It would be unconscionable to let her believe anything less of her husband.’

  ‘He was trying to save Bobby.’ Because of Max. Because of Max’s choice on that damned plane.

  ‘Darling, you did exactly the right thing.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Officially, you don’t know this. Apparently, Samuel Dinsmore was a double agent. For years. When he killed himself, the Soviets took Bernice. Catherine and Tommy were threatened with her death if they didn’t deliver some information.’

  ‘Why didn’t they just ask for help?’ But Catherine would never ask for help.

  ‘Fear can drive people to atypical actions.’

  Tommy maybe, but Catherine seemed to enjoy the suffering of others. Of John. Henry. Not to mention Max herself.

  ‘Can I see Vivian?’

  Dad nodded. ‘Mrs Gould wants to take the children back to the States immediately. I suspect Vivian would appreciate some support. But darling, we should talk…’

  Max rose. ‘I need to see Vivian.’

  Max walked all the way down the guest room corridor. Past the yellow room, that would never host Catherine again. Sobs came from Mrs Gould’s room, but Max kept going. Past John’s empty room. She tapped softly at Vivian’s door and then eased it open.