Back at the chateau, she led Agnès to the privacy of her bedroom. The room looked out over the courtyard at the back and she caught sight of the old clockmaker mucking out after Valmy. It was nearly dark now. Malin had hung a lantern in the stable and in the throw of light across the cobbles the warm air was busy with bats.
Hélène opened the window and called out. She told Malin where to find the horse. Perhaps he could bring him back.
Malin gone, Hélène pulled the curtains against the night. Agnès was lying on the bed, her back turned away. Hélène settled beside her. A child of my own, she thought, stroking the girl’s hair.
‘I’m sorry I hurt you. These are difficult times. Forgive me.’
Agnès said nothing.
‘Why did he rape you? Did you provoke him? Did you upset him? What happened?’
‘Nothing. He was drunk. Otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered.’
‘What?’ Hélène was staring at her. At last Agnès rolled over. Her eyes were swimming with tears. Or maybe anger.
‘Who’d rape me? You don’t have to be kind. All you have to do is look. Maybe he did me a favour. Maybe that’s what I wanted, needed. Maybe I should have said thank you. Twice makes me lucky. Isn’t that the way to think?’
‘You were a virgin? This was the first time for you?’
‘Yes. He knew that. I know he did. Maybe that’s why he stayed so excited.’
Hélène rocked back on the bed. All she could think about was the carnage in Benoit’s kitchen, the sink overflowing with entrails, the sweet coppery tang hanging in the grey dawn, and the sheer madness of a man who first licked his blood-soaked finger and then scrawled himself a message on the bareness of his chest. This was someone obsessed by blood. Poor Agnès.
Hélène reached for her hand. Tiny stubby fingers. Bitten nails.
‘What are these?’ Hélène traced a pattern of thin scars that criss-crossed the inside of her forearms. ‘Is this the Boches? Is this their work?’
‘No,’ Agnès shook her head. ‘It’s mine.’
‘You did this yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Again no answer. She tried to roll over again but Hélène held her tight. This time she didn’t fight back.
‘Didn’t you think of telling someone? About Benoit?’
‘Like who? Like the police? Like that fat German who took you away the other day? I was watching, madame. I saw his face. I knew what he wanted from you. I know what they all want.’
‘You mean Germans?’
‘I mean men. All men.’
‘And you think he got it? Müller? You think I’d give it to him?’
‘No. But you give it to your other German. I know you do. Malin says his name’s Klimt. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what’s he got that the fat one hasn’t? Apart from a nicer belly?’
‘Maybe we’re close. Maybe that makes all the difference.’
‘Of course. And maybe he can do more for you than Müller ever could.’ She blinked, rubbed her arms. ‘Life in this country has become a negotiation. You see it everywhere. What do I have that might be valuable? What might make my life easier? I’m lucky. And you know why? Because I have nothing. No money. No appeal. Nothing that any man could ever want. Except when he’s very drunk and he finds himself raping a virgin. Here’s something else for you, madame. I killed two men in Lille. I shot them to death outside a bar. It was very late. And you know why I did it? Because they were both with French women. I told my réseau they were mercy killings.’
‘For who?’
‘For the women. And you know what my boss said? How he reacted? He laughed in my face. Because it turned out that both the women were whores. Business is business, is what he told me. And so is war. À la guerre comme à la guerre. Get by any way you can. And fuck the consequences.’
Hélène nodded. Her own mother had once used the same phrase. Take things as they come. If God gives you lemons, make lemonade. If Germans have money, and you’re drunk or desperate enough, sell them whatever they want. Was she – Hélène – any different? Hadn’t the mistress of the Château de Neaune turned this hideous war to her own advantage?
She put the question to Agnès. Be honest, she said. Tell me what you think.
‘I’m the wrong person to ask, madame. Without you, without this place, I’d probably be dead.’
‘That’s Klimt’s doing. Not mine. Thank him.’
‘He knows I’m here?’
‘Probably not. I’ve never told him and he’s never seen you. But he knows I offer shelter and he respects that.’
‘But what if he did know? What if you told him, if you gave him my name, if he took it back to Paris or wherever he comes from and checked his records and found I’d killed two of his precious soldiers? What then?’
‘I like to think it would make no difference.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he loves me. And because we all fight our separate little wars.’
‘À la guerre comme à la guerre?’ For the first time she managed a bleak smile.
‘Exactly.’ Hélène gave her hand a squeeze and apologised again for what had happened beside the bridle path. ‘I just had to do it,’ she said. ‘I just had to find out what’s going on with Benoit. You wouldn’t have told me otherwise. This war is here to stay and the least we owe each other is the truth.’
Agnès nodded. She seemed more relaxed. Hélène found a cushion for her head. Downstairs she heard the kitchen door open and close. Agnès drew her knees up, the way a child might. A thought seemed to have struck her. It was a real smile this time.
‘You know something, madame?’ Her fingers had strayed to her mouth. She began to gnaw a curl of nail. With as much gentleness as she could muster, Hélène took the hand away.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
‘That man, Benoit.’ Agnès was staring out towards the window.
‘Yes?’
‘Maybe I’m right. Maybe I really should thank him.’
‘For raping you?’
‘For making me less ashamed of my own body. I think he enjoyed me. In fact I know he did.’
‘And you?’
‘Second time was all right. Second time it didn’t hurt at all.’ Her eyes found Hélène. ‘What should that tell me, madame?’
Hélène didn’t answer. Her fingers traced the line of Agnès’ chin.
‘You’re beautiful,’ she said. ‘Just remember that.’
The girl nodded. She wanted to believe it. She found Hélène’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Hélène bent low and kissed her on the forehead. She could hear footsteps on the stairs. Then came a knock on the door. It was Malin.
‘Valmy, madame.’ The old man was gasping for breath. ‘He wasn’t there. He’s gone.’
23
Billy was back in Exeter late afternoon the following day. He’d booked a double room at the hotel in the name of Mr and Mrs Angell. His wife, he explained, would be arriving late from London. He paid for the room and made a reservation in the hotel’s restaurant before giving Don a ring.
‘Half past six,’ he confirmed. ‘We start with something special.’
The Zodiac Bar at the Royal Clarence was famous for its cocktails. It served fifty-one concoctions, many of them invented by the hotel’s resident genius. According to the woman on the reception desk, who’d taken a shine to Billy, Mr Ginger Wood was the toast of every officer who’d ever made the Royal Clarence his last port of call before returning to front-line service. She especially recommended a Gloom Chaser, the cocktail that had made Ginger’s name, and Billy gave it a trial run to get himself in the mood. Don arrived ten minutes later, by which time Billy knew he was already in trouble.
The cocktails took them through to dinner. Even the third plate of canapes made little difference. Two more Glooms had landed on the emptiness of Billy’s stomach and by the time t
hey sat themselves down at the table by the window everything tasted of Grand Marnier and curaçao.
Don fingered the menu. He’d borrowed a suit from his boss at the Palmview who kept a wide selection for every possible funeral, but he must have been a much smaller man than Don because the suit was short in both the arms and the legs. Billy, who was wearing his service uniform, told him it didn’t matter. They were here to toast Billy’s return to the front line. Who cared if they caught a glimpse of Don’s skinny white ankles?
They were still waiting to order when a big party arrived to fill a long crescent of reserved tables that occupied most of the restaurant. Even drunk, Billy recognised that this was a celebration. Maybe a wedding anniversary. Maybe a favourite son home from some distant campaign. The guests straddled three generations. The host, a man in his late forties, was wearing the uniform of an RAF Group Captain while a much older man carried the gold rings of a Vice Admiral on the cuffs of his jacket.
The Group Captain spotted Billy in his uniform by the window. There followed a chilly nod of acknowledgement and Billy knew at once the question he’d be putting to his lovely wife. How come a bloody flight sergeant can afford a place like this? Billy didn’t care. When his wife sneaked a look towards the window, Billy lifted his glass in salute. He might have been sworn to silence by his new friends at MI5 but it was comforting to know that he’d never again be under the command of a man like this.
The waiter arrived to take their order. Don wanted fish. Billy went for a rack of lamb. From the enormous wine list he chose a bottle of Pol Roger, half hoping the wine waiter would linger beside the Group Captain before arriving with the ice bucket. The price of the champagne would have kept him and his mum in groceries for at least a month.
Don had yet to fathom the real reason for Billy’s largesse. When he enquired for the third time, Billy repeated that he was off to fight the war again from the innards of some bloody bomber, training rather than killing, but Don had a real gift for putting the clues together and didn’t believe it.
‘So what’s happened? You’re different. Down in Paignton you were a bag of nerves. You’d got to the point where nothing made any kind of sense. Now you’re like a kid on Christmas Eve.’
It was a lovely image. The waiter had poured the champagne. Billy reached for his glass and covered Don’s hand with the other.
‘You should see the bed.’ He didn’t bother to lower his voice. ‘It’s a four-poster. Crisp white sheets. Lovely view.’
‘The cathedral?’
‘You.’ He clinked glasses. ‘Here’s to tonight. And all the nights to come.’
‘Amen to that. Should I apologise for Paignton? The bed could have been bigger.’
‘Never. Tonight’s a thank-you.’
Billy was aware of a lull in the conversation behind him. A glance told him that a couple of the women were taking a stern interest in the table by the window. He put it down to Don’s suit and told him not to take any notice. Don wasn’t fooled.
‘Discretion, my friend.’ He withdrew his hand. ‘Eat now, play later. Never fails.’
The food arrived. Billy had lost all interest in the rack of lamb but still sawed away at the chops. His right foot was wedged cosily between Don’s ankles. He wanted to touch this man. He wanted to make sure he was for real. Nothing, as he’d later confess to Hélène Lafosse, was ever more important.
Don wanted to know when Billy was next due leave. Billy played vague. He waved his fork in the air, invented lies about the flying schedule when it came to training squadrons, said he’d be back within weeks unless fog or a mountain got in the way.
Don leaned forward. His plate was nearly empty.
‘You’re making it up,’ he said. ‘The question I want to ask is why?’
Billy tried to get him into focus, to keep him in the very middle of this gently spinning room. Never had he felt so close to another human being. Even with Irene this kind of intimacy would never have been possible. This man read him like a book. He kissed his forefinger and settled it lightly on Don’s lips.
‘I love you,’ Billy announced. ‘Am I allowed to say that?’
Billy heard the scrape of a chair behind him. Then came the sudden weight of a hand on his shoulder.
‘My friend, you have just one minute to get out of this restaurant. Do I make myself clear?’
Billy looked up. It was the Group Captain. He had two faces. Then three. Billy could still feel the warmth of his breath against his ear.
It was Don who got him out of the restaurant and steered him across to the single lift. Mercifully the lift door was open. Billy closed his eyes, clutching Don, feeling the world rise beneath his feet. Take-off, he thought vaguely. Hamburg again.
The lift doors opened. Don hadn’t moved.
‘You’ve got the key?’
‘Key?’
‘To the room?’
‘Ah…’ the realisation that the op had been magically scrubbed put a big smile on Billy’s face. ‘… left trouser pocket. Gently, if you please.’
Don found the key, checked the number and manoeuvred him down the corridor. Once inside, he deposited Billy on the big double bed and locked and bolted the door. Billy splayed his arms and his legs and invited Don to help himself. Seconds later, he was asleep.
The rap on the door came shortly after midnight. Billy, still fully clothed, didn’t move. It was Don who slipped into one of the hotel’s dressing gowns and opened the door. Outside were two uniformed policeman and a civilian in a well-cut suit who announced himself as the night manager.
‘We have grounds for believing Mr Angell has falsified his reservation,’ he announced. ‘Are you his wife, sir?’
Don stepped aside. The smaller of the two policeman had already drawn his own conclusions. He stood by the bed and shook Billy awake. Then he hauled him to his feet and pushed him roughly towards the door. Billy had time to be sick on the carpet before asking the obvious question.
‘What’s going on?’
‘You’re under arrest, Mr Angell.’ The bigger of the two policeman this time. ‘And so are you, Mr…?’
‘Hennessey. Why the arrest?’
‘Contravention of the Offences Against the Person Act, sir. Buggery’s still a crime if you were wondering.’
‘You think we were making love? In his state?’ Don nodded at the spreading pool of vomit on the carpet.
‘That’s for the court to decide, sir,’ he paused. ‘I suggest you get changed.’
A police van was waiting in the darkness outside the hotel. Billy sat in the back, wedged against the bulk of his minder. The policeman stared into nowhere. Billy could feel his unease. The bloody Group Captain, he thought. A word to the hotel management and Billy’s glittering new career was going down in flames.
He asked the policeman what he might expect. No response. It was the driver in the front who replied.
‘Two years hard labour, mate,’ he grunted. ‘And that’s if you’re lucky.’
With Don aboard, they drove to the city’s police station. The sergeant appeared to be half asleep. He was an enormous man, overflowing his uniform, and spoke with a soft Devon accent. Nothing appeared to surprise him.
‘Friends are you, gentlemen?’
‘Always.’ Billy was reaching for Don’s hand. ‘Am I allowed a phone call?’
‘Depends. Does your mum know you’re up late?’
The question put a smirk on the faces of the two policemen. Billy ignored them. His brain was beginning to function at last. Never again would he put his trust in Grand Marnier with curaçao.
He had the London number on a scrap of paper in the breast pocket of his tunic. He laid it carefully on the desk in front of the sergeant. The sergeant reached for a pair of glasses. He had trouble with Billy’s handwriting.
‘Who’s this, then?’
‘Ask for Ursula.’ Billy frowned. ‘Or Miss Barton.’
‘Who are they?’
‘She. Just ask, please. Can you do t
hat?’ Billy ventured a smile. ‘Tell her it’s about Agent Thesp.’
‘Who?’
‘Thesp.’
The sergeant stared at him for a moment then eased his bulk into an office behind the desk. With the door open, Billy could hear him lifting the receiver and dialling the number. Then came a muttered conversation, difficult to follow, before the sergeant returned. This time he wasn’t quite so sure of himself.
‘Someone will be phoning back,’ he nodded down the corridor. ‘You’ll wait in the cells.’
Even in summer, the cells were freezing: bare walls, a wooden bench, a single, barred window. Billy was alone in the darkness. Don was in the cell next door. Twice he tried banging on the wall but there was no response. Slowly, the hours went by. Billy was suffering now, and his head had begun to throb. By the time the sky outside the window was pinked with dawn, he was shivering with cold. They’ve abandoned me, he thought. I’ve had my one chance and mucked it up. With luck, a two-year sentence might see him through to the end of the war but he had no taste for breaking rocks in some quarry on Dartmoor.
He thought of the walk he’d shared with Tam, up through the trees until they’d emerged on the crest of the hill. He could taste the wind. He could see the distant buzzard. And he could still feel that stir of anticipation sparked by the conversation over lunch. He should have listened to Ursula. He should have taken the train to Bath and said a proper goodbye to his mum. Room 328 had been a crazy thing to do.
The sun was up when he caught the approach of footsteps outside. Then came the turn of a key in the heavy metal door and the moment when the gaoler stepped aside to allow another figure into the cell. Billy looked up. It was Tam.
‘Laddie…’ he sounded amused, ‘… just what do we have here?’
Part Three
Aurore Page 17
