The '44 Vintage by Anthony Price Page B

chest—that’s right … Now, put your finger down your throat—go on …”
    Butler leaned forward until he lost his balance. His head struck something hard and rough, preventing him tipping over altogether. It was a stone wall, and he felt grateful to it for being there.
    Then he was sick again, and this time his stomach hurt with the spasm of it. He’d made a terrible fool of himself, but the sickness mattered more than the foolishness.
    Then he felt a little better.
    “Jack?” A hand touched his shoulder.
    Feeling better made the foolishness matter more than the sickness. He pretended not to hear the voice.
    “He still out?” Another voice, harsher and further away.
    “Doesn’t know whether it’s Monday or Christmas. Proper waste of good wine.”
    Taffy Jones.
    “But you got what we wanted?”
    Harsher voice.
    “Oh yes … spilled the beans he did, before he spilled his guts. Like taking chocolate from a baby.” Taffy Jones’s voice grew fainter. “I tell you—“
    A wave of nausea cut off the fading words. There wasn’t anything left inside him to throw up, but his stomach was still behaving as though there was. More than that though, he was angry that he was missing what was being said about him. Beans and chocolate weren’t things he wanted to think about, but there was something there which he must try to remember, and already he was beginning to forget it.
    The stone wall was hurting his head, so he put his hands flat on it and took the strain.
    That was better. And he wasn’t feeling so bad now either—he was just feeling awful.
    Also … there was something he had been meaning to ask Sergeant Purvis, and he had forgotten to ask it, and now he couldn’t remember what it was. Or he’d meant to ask somebody, and Sergeant Purvis would be more likely to give him a straight answer than Taffy Jones.
    Because like the Communist Party, Taffy Jones wasn’t to be trusted.
    The voices were coming back.
    “… get him put together. He can’t travel like that.”
    The harsh voice again—he couldn’t place it.
    Taffy Jones said something he couldn’t quite catch. Then— “… we can put him in the truck to sleep it off.”
    Grunt. “So long as he don’t vomit over the equipment.”
    Butler closed his eyes in the darkness. That grunt had been expressive of complete contempt. If there was anything worse than getting what one didn’t deserve, it was getting in full what one did deserve, he reflected miserably.
    A flashlight threw his shadow against the wall.
    He heard noises, voices.
    “Come on, then,” said Taffy Jones. “Let’s be having you.”
    Butler sat back on his heels.
    “Drink this.”
    He was about to protest that he didn’t want to drink anything when he felt the heat of the mug which was thrust into his hands.
    “Drink it up.”
    Not tea but coffee. Scalding-hot unsweetened coffee, black in the light of the torch. It burnt his mouth.
    “It’s too hot.”
    “Shut up—and drink up. We’re moving out, man.”
    “W-what?”
    “Drink.”
    Butler drank, feeling the fierce heat course down into him, cauterizing as it spread.
    “Get up.”
    He was past arguing. The cup was taken from his hands. His equipment was draped over his shoulders. First the webbing belt was clipped together, then his shoulder flaps were unbuttoned to receive the cross-straps and then buttoned over them. He was being put together again. Finally his Sten was hung round his neck and something was pulled down roughly on his head—whatever it was, it wasn’t his steel helmet.
    “Come on, then.” A hand propelled him.
    “Where are we going?” he asked hoarsely.
    “To the Promised Land. And you’re going to travel there in style, boyo. So make the most of it.”
    The torch flashed ahead of him and he saw men moving in its beam. Men loaded with equipment. Engines started up all around him. The light picked out a truck directly in front, a small three-quarter-ton weapons carrier. The tailboard was down and