by Jack Higgins
He shrugged. ‘We were ambushed. One moment we were advancing through the night, the next they were swarming all over us. We didn’t fire a shot.’
‘And what did they do with you?’ she said.
He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and leaned back against the wall. ‘There was a small Buddhist temple not far away. It was the headquarters of a Chinese intelligence officer named Colonel Li.’ As he spoke the name, his throat went dry and beads of perspiration sprang to his brow.
She leaned forward in alarm. ‘Are you all right?’
He nodded. ‘I’m fine, just fine.’ He moved past her and stood looking out of the window. ‘Colonel Li was an insignificant-looking little man with thick glasses and a club foot. Somehow he’d got wind that the attack was coming, and he wanted to know when. So he started to work on us.’
Laura Faulkner’s eyes widened. ‘What do you mean - started to work on you?’
He shrugged. ‘I should have thought you would have been reasonably familiar with the mediaeval trappings that go with interrogation of prisoners in this delightfully civilized age we live in.’
Her eyes were shadowed and she nodded soberly. ‘I see. Go on, please, and don’t try to spare my feelings. I’d like to know exactly how it was.’
Shane twisted his mouth into a tight grin. ‘On the first floor of the monastery there was one large room which had previously been the Abbot’s. Colonel Li used it for interrogations. Leading from it was a narrow corridor which contained five cells. The monks used to use them as a penance. He made us strip mother-naked in his office, and then had us locked into the cells. Charles Graham and I shared. The others had one each.’
She seemed to find difficulty in speaking. After a few moments she managed to say, ‘And what happened then?’
He shook his head. ‘We needn’t go into details. He came for us, one by one, that club foot of his sliding along the stone flags of the corridor. He tried for three hours, and nobody would talk. Finally he brought Charles Graham back to my cell and told me he was going to start again, only this time he was laying it on the line. Each man would be asked once to speak. If he refused, he would immediately be taken outside and shot.’
‘He must have been insane,’ she cried in horror.
Shane shook his head and said calmly, ‘No, he wasn’t insane. I don’t even think he derived any conscious pleasure from what he was doing. He was no sadist. That’s what made it worse. He was so unbelievably coldblooded about the whole thing.’
He took out another cigarette and rolled it between his fingers in an abstracted manner, and she said, ‘And this was how Simon died?’
He pushed the cigarette into his mouth and lit it. ‘That’s right. He was the first to go. I heard the shots fired outside, and some time later Colonel Li came into the cell and told me he’d got the information he required. He said he regretted having had to shoot Simon, but war was war. He almost sounded as if he meant it.’
‘And who talked?’ Laura Faulkner said quietly.
There was a moment of complete silence as she waited for his answer, and rain tapped against the window with ghostly fingers. He turned slowly, his face calm and expressionless. ‘That’s what I’ve come to find out,’ he said.
Her eyes widened. ‘You mean you don’t know?’
He shook his head. ‘About two hours later the temple was blasted by American fighter-bombers. That’s when the curtains came down for me.’
She got to her feet and, walking across to the easel, stood looking at the unfinished landscape. After a while she said in a peculiar voice, ‘Tell me something. What happened to your regiment when it attacked?’
Shane leaned down and gently ruffled the dog’s ears with his right hand. ‘I found that out yesterday when I called at the War Office. The attack was a complete failure. There were over two hundred casualties.’
She picked up a brush and palette and started to work on the canvas. ‘Did you tell anyone at the War Office what you’ve just told me?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s been too long. They couldn’t do anything about it now if they wanted to. I discovered the other four had survived and were all living in Burnham. The clerk in charge of the records office was most obliging. For some reason he’d got hold of the idea I was trying to arrange a reunion.’
She frowned, concentrating on a particular corner of the canvas, the brush steady in her hand, and said tonelessly, ‘And are you?’
He walked across the room and stood behind her right shoulder and examined the painting. ‘I want to know who spilled his guts to Colonel Li seven years ago,’ he said, and his voice trembled slightly. ‘I want to know so bad I can taste it. I know it wasn’t me, and it couldn’t have been Graham because he was in the cell with me the whole time. That leaves Crowther, Wilby, and Reggie Steele.’
She dropped the palette and brush, and turned swiftly, her eyes flashing. ‘And what will you do when you find out?’ she said. ‘What possible good can it do to know after so many years?’
He started to turn away without answering, and she grabbed for his lapels to hold him. One of her hands knocked against the butt of the Luger, and the breath hissed sharply between her teeth. For a moment she gazed up into his face, horror in her eyes, and then she reached inside his jacket and pulled out the pistol. ‘You fool,’ she said. ‘You stupid, damned fool. What good will this do? Will it bring any of those men back? Will it help Simon?’
He took the Luger gently from her hand and replaced it in his inside pocket. As he buttoned his trench-coat he said quietly, ‘Let’s just say I’m doing this for myself and leave it at that.’
She turned from him, hands clasped in agony. ‘What right have you to come and upset all our lives like this?’ she said. ‘It’s ancient history now. Dead and buried long ago. Why can’t you leave it there?’
He ignored her outburst and turned towards the door. As he reached for the handle she cried out sharply, ‘They’ll hang you! You realize that, don’t you?’
A peculiar, twisted smile appeared on his face. ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I shan’t be available.’
Something in his voice, some quality of deadness, caused her to shiver uncontrollably. ‘What do you mean by that remark?’ she said.
‘I mean that I’ll be dead, Miss Faulkner,’ he replied calmly, and there was a hard finality in his tone.
As he opened the door she darted across the room and caught hold of his arm. ‘What are you talking about?’ she demanded.
He shrugged. ‘That fall I had did more than restore my memory. It moved the shrapnel into a more dangerous area of the brain. It means that an attempt to remove it is essential. I’ve got a date with a brain surgeon at Guy’s Hospital one week from today. If I don’t keep that appointment I’ll be dead within a fortnight and the odds are a hundred to one against success. Quite a choice, isn’t it?’
He walked out on to the veranda without waiting for a reply, and descended the steps to the garden. Behind him Laura Faulkner was crying uncontrollably. He glanced back once and saw her standing in the doorway, the Dobermann by her side, gazing after him.
He followed a path round the side of the house, and when he reached the corner he looked back again, but this time the door to the studio was closed and the veranda deserted.
4
IT was still raining heavily as he walked away from the house, and when he reached the main road he hesitated on the corner, looking for a bus stop. There was a small general store opposite, and he bought some cigarettes and checked on Charles Graham’s address. It was only a quarter of a mile away on the main road into town, and he decided to walk.
He wondered if Graham had changed much. Seven years was a long time, but then Graham hadn’t been very old. He couldn’t be more than thirty-two or three now. As he walked along the wet pavement he tried to visualize the others. Wilby, a rough lout of a man with a long record of petty crimes, but a good soldier. Crowther had been a student, fresh from uni
versity, and Charles Graham had worked for his uncle, learning to be a woolbroker. And what about Reggie Steele? Shane tried hard, but was unable to remember.
It was something to which he was becoming accustomed by now, an irritating hangover from his illness that made him forget odd, unimportant things, leaving exasperating blanks in his memory.
He found Graham’s place with no difficulty. It was a large and pretentious, late-Victorian town house in grey stone standing remotely in a sea of smooth lawns and flower-beds. It had one unusual feature. Most of the second storey was taken up by a large conservatory, with a terrace that looked out over the valley to the town below.
Shane checked the address again, and then shrugged and walked along the drive to the front door. He pressed a button and a peal of chimes sounded melodiously from somewhere inside. After a moment or two he heard steps approaching. The door opened, a pleasant-faced, motherly looking old woman peered out at him. She was wearing a large white apron and there was flour on her hands.
‘I’d like to see Mr Graham if he’s at home,’ Shane said.
A look of complete astonishment passed across her face. ‘But Mr Graham never receives visitors, sir. Not since his trouble. I thought everyone knew that.’
Shane concealed his surprise and smiled pleasantly. ‘I think he’ll see me if you tell him I’m here. We’re very old friends. I’ve been away for several years, and we haven’t seen each other for quite a while.’
She looked uncertain and wiped her hands on the apron. ‘I’ll tell Mr Graham you’re here, sir, if you insist, but I don’t think it’ll do any good.’
Shane gave her his name, and she crossed the hall and mounted the broad stairway. He turned to the oak-panelled wall and examined some of the paintings hanging there. They were all excellent, mostly originals, and when his eyes fell on the exquisite Chinese vase on the table by the door he pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Whatever else had troubled Charles Graham during the past seven years one thing was obvious. It wasn’t shortage of money.
There was a slight cough behind him, and he turned to find the old woman standing there, an expression of amazement on her face. ‘Mr Graham would like you to come up to the conservatory, sir. It’s on the second floor. I’ll show you the way.’
He followed her up the thickly carpeted stairs. They passed along a broad corridor and mounted another flight of stairs to the second storey. Facing them was an oak door strengthened with bands of wrought iron, and she opened it and motioned him inside.
Rain drummed steadily against the glass roof, and a brooding quiet hung over everything. It was like stepping into a Turkish bath, and clammy heat enveloped Shane with a heavy hand so that sweat sprang to his brow and he peeled off his coat and draped it over a chair by the door.
The place was like a jungle, a mass of green leaves and trailing vines, topped by a profusion of exotic flowers, and a strange, heady perfume touched everything with invisible fingers, making him feel vaguely uneasy. Over everything there hung the hot, moist smell of the jungle, redolent with decay and rottenness, and he frowned and moved forward along a narrow path.
There was a vague, eerie rustling amongst the leaves on his right as if someone moved there quietly. When he reached the far end of the conservatory he found a table and two basketwork chairs facing the door which gave access to the terrace. There was no sign of Graham.
He hesitated, frowning, and then, as he was about to move forward to look out on to the terrace, he was suddenly aware that he was being watched. He turned and said sharply, ‘Is that you, Graham?’
There was a moment of silence and then a low sigh, as if a small wind had moved through the leaves. A voice said in a broken, hoarse whisper, ‘I’m sorry, Shane. I had to be sure. I couldn’t believe it was really you. I thought you were dead.’
At the sound of that voice Shane started violently. There was something horrible and uncanny about it. Something that struck a small chord of fear in his heart. He forced a smile, and said in a calm voice. ‘It’s me all right, Graham.’
There was a slight movement as the leaves in front of him were pushed away, and Graham stepped into view. Shane’s eyes widened in horror and the flesh seemed to crawl across his body. The man who faced him had snow-white hair and a face like something out of a nightmare. The eyes gazed steadily at him out of a mass of twisted flesh and scar tissue, and the mouth was like an open wound.
Slowly, horribly, that broken face twisted into a tortured smile, and Graham held out a hand. ‘Sorry to shock you like this. Perhaps now you’ll understand why I don’t encourage visitors.’
Shane took the outstretched hand and swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry, Graham,’ he said slowly. ‘I didn’t know about this. How did it happen?’
Graham shrugged, and motioned him into one of the chairs. ‘Never mind about me for the moment,’ he said. ‘What happened to you? The last I saw, your leg was sticking out from under a pile of rubble after they bombed that damned temple.’
He still spoke in that weird, croaking whisper. Shane offered him a cigarette and said, ‘I was badly injured. Mainly the brain. It caused a total blackout. I only regained my memory a few days ago.’
Graham gave him a light and leaned back in his chair. ‘It can hardly have been pleasant,’ he said, ‘but it sounds interesting. Tell me about it?’
Shane looked out across the valley to the town, hidden in the mist and rain below, and started to talk. At first he tried not to look at Graham, but he found it impossible to avoid glancing at him occasionally. Each time he did so he found the other man gazing at him unblinkingly.
When he had finished, Graham sighed heavily. ‘I was right first time. You have been dead in a way. This is a sort of rebirth for you. Very interesting. I’m sure the psychiatrists would find you a fruitful subject for study.’
Shane frowned, and glanced at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’
Graham shrugged. ‘An experience like yours would be enough to send a more delicately balanced person completely over the edge of sanity. After all, it must be a hell of a shock to wake up one morning and find you’re seven years older. It’s a large slice of one’s life. Can’t you remember any of it?’
Shane shook his head and leaned forward. ‘No, I can’t remember a thing except what the doctors have told me. But I remember those six hours in the temple before the bombs fell. I remember Colonel Li and the volley outside when they shot Simon.’
There was a moment of stillness, and Graham said softly, ‘So you remember that, do you? You remember our old friend Colonel Li?’
Shane shivered violently. ‘I can still hear that club foot of his in my dreams,’ he said. ‘Sliding along the corridor and halting outside the cell door.’
Graham sighed. ‘I must admit I find it difficult to forget him, but other things happened afterwards that pushed his memory well down into my subconscious.’
‘And what were those other things?’ Shane asked. ‘When I checked you through records at the War Office they told me you’d never been a prisoner. They had you listed as wounded in action and medically discharged. That’s one thing I couldn’t understand.’
Graham shrugged. ‘It’s very simple really. After the bombing I was pretty dazed but otherwise unhurt. The whole place was a shambles. There didn’t seem to be any other survivors and, to be brutally honest, I didn’t hang around to look for any. I found our uniforms in what was left of Colonel Li’s office. There wasn’t much left of the colonel, by the way. I pulled on the first battledress that came to hand, and got to hell out of there. They were still raking the place with cannon-fire as I went down the hill.’
‘And then what?’ Shane asked.
Graham shrugged and took a cigarette from a slim gold case. ‘I managed to get across the river.’ A faint smile touched his twisted mouth. ‘I was about two hundred yards from the Allied lines when I stepped on a land-mine.’
‘What a lousy break,’ Shane said.
Graham shrugged. ‘Anyway, they
did their best for me. Not a very good best as you can see, but there wasn’t a great deal left for them to work on. I couldn’t talk for a year, but finally they brought a German surgeon over and he did some new operation on my vocal chords. Now I can speak after a fashion.’
Shane couldn’t think of anything to say. He got to his feet and moved across to the window. ‘At least you’re not short of money, judging by this place.’
Graham nodded. ‘My uncle died the week before that last patrol. Remember when I got the letter from his lawyers? I promised you all one hell of a binge in Tokyo next leave to celebrate. When I got out of hospital I sold out to a combine and bought this house. It was the conservatory that appealed to me. I’ve made quite a hobby out of orchid cultivation. It’s a tricky business, you know.’
‘Were you surprised when you heard that Wilby, Crowther, and Steele had survived?’ Shane asked.
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ Graham told him. ‘Crowther was the first to come home. Apparently he was in a different camp from the other two.’
‘Have you seen anything of any of them?’ Shane said softly.
Graham shrugged. ‘There was a bit about Crowther in the local paper when he came home. I dropped him a line, and asked him to come and see me for old time’s sake. It wasn’t a very pleasant evening for him, and frankly we didn’t seem to have much to say. He got married a couple of years ago. The last I heard, he was a lecturer at the university.’
‘What about Wilby and Reggie Steele?’ Shane said.
‘I never bothered to get in touch with them, not after that uncomfortable evening with Crowther. I saw Wilby one Saturday night about a year ago as I was driving through town. He looked drunk, which was completely in character as I remember him. Steele runs some sort of a club in the town. The Garland Club, I think it’s called. Strip shows plus luncheon for tired businessmen. It’s the latest thing. I believe it’s quite a hot-spot during the evening as well.’
Shane didn’t reply. He stayed by the window, staring out into the rain, and after a short silence Graham said, ‘Are you going to look them up while you’re in town?’
