“Is this the copper?” Norman’s accent was heavy with phlegm and almost as thick as his coats.
“Yeah,” Cavanagh replied.
“Is he going in the cell?”
“Yes.” Cavanagh again.
“Is he coming out again?”
“Yes,” said Rossett.
Cavanagh nodded confirmation, so Norman shifted the shotgun a few inches and tossed a bunch of keys across to him.
“You take him in, I’m havin’ a sarnie.”
Rossett looked at Cavanagh.
“A sandwich,” Cavanagh said.
Rossett looked back at Norman and saw a thick doorstep of bread and cheese in his hand already heading for his mouth.
Rossett followed Cavanagh. Eventually they were in a low cellar space. Cavanagh stopped at a door. It was studded bare metal, rusted red, but still sounding solid as a fumble and jangle of keys got it unlocked.
Cavanagh looked at Rossett.
“It looks bad, but they are fed, watered, and unharmed.”
“Just open the door.”
“You have to understand, whatever it seems like, the Germans treat our people much worse.”
“You don’t have to tell me how the Germans treat people. Just open the door.”
Cavanagh did as he was told.
Rossett knew the hinges were going to grind and squeak even before the door started moving. When it was finally open, he stood in the doorway, staring into the bare-bulb half-light.
There were four men in the cell. They were all lying on thin straw mattresses, which in turn lay on military-style cots.
Neumann was lying farthest away from the door.
The bucket in the corner made Rossett’s nose wrinkle from twenty feet away.
“You’ll have to go in if you want to speak to him. Just knock when you want to come out.” Cavanagh sounded apologetic.
“Can’t he come out to speak?”
“Rules.”
Rossett dipped his head a little as he entered the cell.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Four prisoners on beds.
All eyes on Rossett.
“Are you a new prisoner?” The kid nearest to the door surprised Rossett by being English.
“No.”
“Have you come to get us out?”
“No.”
Rossett had never been very good at delivering bad news.
The kid lay back on the bed, pulled the thin blankets over his chest, and shielded his eyes with his forearm to shut out the world.
Rossett walked toward Neumann, who was over in the far corner. Neumann held up his wrist, and Rossett saw that he was manacled to the bed frame.
“John.”
“You doing okay?”
“I’ve done better,” Neumann said quietly.
Rossett looked at the young man in the bed closest to Neumann, who lifted his own wrist to show that he was also chained down.
“English?” Rossett asked him.
“Deutsch,” the man replied.
Rossett nodded, then sat down on the end of Neumann’s bed. “Have they beaten you?” he said quietly.
“They were rough, but I wouldn’t call it a beating.”
“Questions? Any interrogation?”
“They wanted to know who I was, and they were asking about the gold Bauer told us about.” Neumann dropped his voice down to a whisper. “You know, I think there really is gold. These people are desperate for it.”
“What did you tell them?”
“What could I tell them? We don’t have a clue where it is. I told them I was just a policeman, and that Bauer had mentioned it to me. That’s all.”
“Did you tell them about me?”
“Not much. I’ll be honest, they didn’t seem all that interested in me once they figured out I didn’t know where the gold was.”
“Who are these lot?” Rossett flicked his head toward the other beds.
“Two German drivers. Apparently they got lost on their way home from a brothel and were lifted off the street a few weeks ago. The English lad won’t say why he is here, or how long he has been here, so I’m guessing he is either an informer for us, or an informer for them. How did they catch you?”
Rossett looked back at Neumann.
“They didn’t.”
“You’re not a prisoner?”
“No.”
Neumann shifted a little, then leaned in close to whisper. “Are you in the resistance?”
“No.”
“John, you know I’m not a Nazi. You know I think all that stuff is bullshit. If you are resistance, I won’t judge you, but maybe you can help me? If you get me out, it’ll be our secret.”
“I’m not in the resistance, Erhard.”
Neumann processed the information for a moment.
“So why are you here?”
Rossett then rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head. He stared at the floor for a moment.
“Dannecker tried to have me killed.”
“Why?”
“I’m guessing it was because Bauer told us about the gold and he thought I was going to inform London.”
“You think Dannecker wants the gold?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose I would.” Neumann shrugged. “How did you get away?”
“Bauer helped me. He gave me cover, sniping at them and holding them off as I made my escape.”
“Why?”
“Because he wants me to kill him, or he wants to kill me . . . I think.”
Neumann moved a little more to try to get comfortable as the manacle rattled against the frame. “I don’t understand.”
“Join the club.”
“Why would he save you, just so that he can kill you?”
“Because he is mad.”
“Mad?”
Rossett shifted on the bed and tried to explain. “When I joined the army, we had this old sergeant major who’d been in since the ’14–’18 war. He told us about one of the lads he’d served with, who fought nearly all the way through. Proper fighting, lots of action. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“This bloke . . . well, the sergeant said this bloke was strange. He didn’t mix with the other lads, kept himself to himself, and he . . . he enjoyed killing. He said this fella got a kick out of it . . . the killing.”
“He was killing his enemy.”
“Yes, but this guy enjoyed it more than just that.” Rossett looked at the others in the room, then leaned in closer to Neumann. “He had things that he did.”
“Rituals?”
“Sort of. He got excited by it, he’d talk about it to himself. Draw pictures, write letters he never sent. He even hung about with the bodies in the trenches, talked to them . . . he was crazy.”
“Why didn’t they pull him off the line?”
“Because he was the best they had.”
“Like the Bear,” Neumann said quietly.
“Exactly like the Bear.” Rossett shifted a little on the flimsy bed. “My old sarge thought that this bloke used the war. It gave him a chance to kill without having to worry about being stopped or being arrested. If you are crazy and enjoy killing, what better place is there to be than in the madness of war?”
“I understand.”
“Apparently as time went on, this fella got worse. The sarge said he got reckless. It escalated. He started to do crazy things like going into no-man’s-land of a night on his own looking for German patrols. Some nights he would come back with bits of people . . . ears, noses, that sort of thing. It ended up most of the lads in his squad were more scared of him than they were of the Germans,” Rossett said. “One night, he went over the top and never came back, and that was that.”
“So the war drove him crazy?”
“Maybe, or maybe he just liked killing. Either way, the longer it went on, the worse he got. He felt invincible, and he wanted to be tested, so he could prove to himself he was the best.”
“Or maybe be put out of his misery.”
“Either way, he had to meet someone better than him, or else he was just going to keep going.”
“And the Bear thinks you are the one who is better than him.”
“I’m his final test.”
Neumann nodded. “So what are we going to do?”
“It isn’t ‘we.’”
Neumann rocked back. “You’re not getting me out of here?”
Rossett stared at him.
“Jesus, John . . . These people . . . You know what they do to Germans?” Neumann shuffled up in the bed onto his elbows.
“They won’t hurt you, Erhard.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ll tell them not to.”
“You think that’ll make a difference?”
“They’ll do as I ask.”
“These people, John . . .” Neumann tried again to make sense of it all. “You are just going to leave me here?”
Rossett stared at the damp concrete under his black leather shoes until he found a few words amid the grit and old straw.
“They took me to an execution.”
“What? Who?”
“Dannecker. He told that big sergeant of his, Becker, to take me.”
“And?”
Rossett shook his head as he continued. “It’s . . . it’s changed things for me. What happened today, it was like a slap in the face.”
“They tried to kill you, but—”
“This isn’t about me. It is about what is happening all over the country,” Rossett interrupted. “It isn’t just Dannecker, it’s all of them. All those soldiers, all those officers, all the HDT. It’s about them, and the things they are doing in the villages and towns all over Britain, all over Europe, to make this shit stick.”
“I don’t understand. What is—”
“I won’t be part of it anymore.”
“Part of what? John, please, you need to get me—”
“I’m not doing it anymore, any of it. I’m sorry.”
“We aren’t part of that, John, we’re policemen.”
“We are part of it.”
“No, you’re wrong.” Neumann reached his free hand out and touched Rossett’s arm. “You can’t leave me here, we’re partners.” He looked around the cell. “Look at this place. Look at it. They’ll kill me. These people are animals, John. You’re my friend. Please. I’m begging you. You can’t just go and leave me here.”
“I have to change.”
“You can’t leave me here.”
“They won’t hurt you, Erhard. I’ll kill them if they do. At the worst they’ll probably use you in a prisoner swap down the line.”
“No, no, John, you have to get me out now!”
Rossett went back to staring at his feet. “In the car, the other day, you sounded like a Nazi.”
“I’m not a Nazi.”
“You sounded like one when you said that your people just got rid of . . . rid of people like the girl.” He looked at Neumann. “Do you remember?”
“I have children, John. At least think of them.”
“Do you remember what you said?”
“Yes, but . . . that doesn’t mean I agree with it. I was just saying what had happened back home. I’m not like that, John. You know me. How could I stop that stuff?”
“The only way to stop it is to stand up to it. That’s the only way the madness ends.”
“When you get me out of this, I promise, I will.”
Rossett shook his head, then ran a weary hand down his face with a sigh.
“I’m just a dumb copper, Erhard. I just wanted to do my job and lock up bad people, but the war got in the way.” He pushed himself up off the bed and walked toward the door.
“You can’t leave me here, John.”
Rossett hammered three times on the cold steel, paused, then turned back.
“That’s just the problem . . . I can.”
The fire was roaring in the hearth. Someone had found two dusty armchairs and set them like bookends on either side of the fireplace.
Iris was in one of the chairs under an old army blanket, with her empty boots drying in front of the fire. Cavanagh nodded a silent greeting to Rossett and pointed to the other chair.
“Sit.”
Rossett sat and stared at Iris. She looked exhausted, mouth hanging open, head tilted back. Her cheekbones were lit from below. They looked like knives, and her eyes were fluttering hollow sockets. She seemed to sense that he was looking at her and shifted an inch or two, blanket rising and falling as she found her dreams again.
“It takes it out of her.” Cavanagh again. “She wasn’t built for all of this.”
“None of us are.”
“Some are better at it than others.” He passed Rossett a bowl of thick broth. “Eat.”
“What is up with her?” Rossett asked after a minute or two.
“Cerebral palsy. She was born with it and she was supposed to die, but she didn’t. Then they said she would never talk, and she did. Then they said she would never walk, and she did.”
“She’s a fighter.”
“Every day of her life, she gets up and fights all over again.”
“Does she have any family?”
“Just her dad, he ran this outfit, ex-army, a professional soldier, from the Great War through to 1936. He could have gone when the ships were leaving, but he stayed, and so did she.”
“Her mother?”
“Died in childbirth.” Cavanagh broke off so he could light a cigarette. “We’re her family now.”
He sounded a little shy, almost embarrassed, but Rossett saw that he meant it.
Rossett ate in silence until he finished the broth, then took a sip of cold tea from somebody else’s mug.
“Iris said you should sleep, relax for a bit, you’re safe here.” Cavanagh was sitting at the table, staring into the fire. Rossett nodded and let the heat warm his face and hands. The fire seemed to breathe as the embers waxed and waned behind the flames.
Eventually, Cavanagh gave him a blanket and left Rossett to his thoughts. He sat straight, blanket on his legs, hands on the arms of the chair, staring at the fire as the fire watched him back.
He knew he was in shock.
He was used to it.
The empty thoughts, jumbling and tumbling, wondering why he was alive when so many others were dead. In the past, too long ago, he had first felt it while lying in a ditch in France. A bird, maybe an owl, had been calling in the trees. Rossett had listened to it, clinging to the sound, holding it as a sign that life went on, that mankind couldn’t kill everything, and that he might survive and one day sit and listen to a bird singing and not be scared.
The fire popped. Rossett closed his eyes and saw the little boy at the Pier Head all over again. He drifted, thoughts, dreams, and nightmares. He didn’t know where one ended and the others began.
They came to him, same as they always did as he was lost on the edge of sleep.
The Jews.
The ones who had looked to him for help. The ones who had held out a hand and not had it taken. People thought he was a hero; people thought he was a fighting machine, a big man, a killer.
He wasn’t. He knew that. He knew how scared he was when he was left alone with the faces he had failed.
He thought about Neumann in the cell.
Another failure, or the start of getting it right?
“People need you.” Iris snapped him back to life.
“What?”
“You are what Britain needs: y-you, Britain’s hero.” Her voice was sleepy, it sounded like she was calling to him across a dream, and Rossett wondered if he had fallen asleep and not realized it.
“I’m tired of fighting. Tired of having blood on my hands.”
“Do something good. Join us. Be a hero again.”
“I—” Rossett broke off, trying to decide if he should say what he had started to say. His mouth made the decision for him. “I shake sometim
es. I don’t know why, but my heart pounds and I start to shake. It’s like I’m rattling apart from the inside out, and I don’t know why. I hear voices, I see things . . . from my past. I see them like they are happening all over again in my head.” Rossett lifted his hand from the arm of the chair, examined it in the shadows, then looked at Iris. “Does that sound like the hero you are looking for?”
“Are you complaining to me a-about shaking?”
“No.” Rossett smiled and went back to staring at the fire. “What about Neumann and the others in the cells?”
Iris pulled the blanket tight around her.
“W-we’re trying to be better than the Nazis.”
“Neumann is a policeman.”
The glow from the fire pooled in her eyes, danced, and then disappeared as she closed them again.
“He can g-go later, when this is over, you have my word. We don’t want to harm the others, but we are f-fighting a war.”
Rossett nodded and, satisfied, settled deeper into the chair. Eventually, after a minute or two, he spoke again.
“There was a little boy, a couple of years ago. He thought I was a hero.”
“Your s-son?”
“No. A little boy I rescued from hell.”
“So you are a hero.” Iris turned to look at him. “You saved him from hell.”
“I helped to create the hell he was in, and that’s why I can never be a hero.”
“Where is he?” She said it so quietly, Rossett could barely hear her over the crackle of the flames.
“He’s with a woman who helped me. They are safe.”
“You c-couldn’t go with them?”
“I tried.”
“And?”
“I failed. They got away, though, and that’s all that matters.”
“Did you l-love her?”
“I think so.”
“Him?”
“Yes.”
Iris nodded, then closed her eyes again.
“You’ll see them one d-day, John.” Her voice was distant as sleep carried her off.
“Maybe.” Rossett let her go. “Maybe one day I will.”
Silence again.
Chapter 14
“May I give you my condolences about the death of your father? It was terrible news, terrible indeed.” Michael O’Kane lifted his arms to allow one of Iris’s men to search him.
An Army of One: A John Rossett Novel Page 20
