ambulances.
“Nearly there, sir.” The marine braked and changed gear, and swore under his breath as he swerved to avoid a jagged hole in the road.
Kearton leaned forward, steadying himself against the door; he had recognized one of the buildings, or thought he did. It had an elaborate balcony, outwardly unscathed, and he remembered it from that day. The rest was a shambles, gutted houses, their contents piled just clear enough for the car to get through. Brickwork and charred timber, mixed with pathetic pieces of furniture, a doll, a chair with a newspaper wedged against it, as if waiting for someone to return.
More slowly now, crunching over fresh tyre-tracks; more uniforms at a checkpoint. The road was covered with sand, like a beach.
All that remained of the triple-sandbagged entrance.
Like hearing her voice that day. Defiant. I am home .
“Far as I can manage, sir.”
Kearton stood beside the car. Had something been trying to warn him?
The driver added helpfully, “Bit earlier than I thought. You never know, in this place.”
“Thanks.” He touched his cap. “Maybe you’ll be taking me back.”
He did not hear him reply.
He walked past piled debris, his shoe catching on a strand of barbed wire, and more sand.
A direct hit. Even the smell was the same. London, Portsmouth, Valletta.
He saw a low wall, massively built, a gate blasted from its hinges. Part of a building still standing, curtains flapping from windows like torn flags.
“Just a minute! Nobody’s allowed in there!”
It was the same lieutenant, Garrick’s aide, less smart and composed now, a tear in one sleeve, a strip of plaster across his cheek. But he tried to smile.
“Damn sorry, sir. You took me by surprise.” He shrugged, and winced. “Been rather busy around the old place!”
Kearton gripped his hand. It was shaking.
“I’m glad you’re OK.” He looked at the house; the curtains were suddenly still. “Were there many casualties?”
The lieutenant was staring around, although his eyes were blank.
“Some. I’m not too sure.”
He had had enough. Seen enough, done enough. And Kearton still did not know his name.
“Ah, here we are, sir!”
Like turning the clock back. The white coat, the patient smile. Why did they all speak like that?
The lieutenant said nothing, and was staring at Kearton now as if he were a stranger. Kearton watched them go, the medic still chattering as they picked their way over the rubble.
Someone else would come looking for him. Nothing had changed. Even if Garrick were to be replaced, or killed, once the wheels were in motion …
He pushed open a door. It was partly jammed, but he heard nothing fall. There was damage enough, and a shaft of dusty sunlight through part of a wall, which had been a room. Another door, but it was jammed or locked. Had she been here when it happened?
He heard brakes, another vehicle crunching to a halt. Voices.
He swung round and stared toward the shaft of sunlight.
She was standing with her back to the light, her face in shadow. Quite still, as if holding her breath.
Then she said, “I hoped it was you. Someone said—someone told me as I arrived.” She reached up to push some hair from her eyes. “I was afraid you’d hear about it. That you might worry …”
He did not know he had moved, but his arms were around here and her face was against his shoulder, and her voice was muffled. “You are here. You came.”
He felt her shivering. Then she said, “I wasn’t here …” and looked up at him, her eyes filling her face. “I was visiting one of our typists—the sick quarters. It was her birthday. Otherwise—”
She did not continue.
He looked past her, at the courtyard garden, half buried under debris which he recognized as part of the roof.
“Where will you go? Are you going to be all right?”
His hand was against her belt; he could feel her skin, her breathing.
She said, “It’s all arranged. It’s not the first time. I was just
“Nearly there, sir.” The marine braked and changed gear, and swore under his breath as he swerved to avoid a jagged hole in the road.
Kearton leaned forward, steadying himself against the door; he had recognized one of the buildings, or thought he did. It had an elaborate balcony, outwardly unscathed, and he remembered it from that day. The rest was a shambles, gutted houses, their contents piled just clear enough for the car to get through. Brickwork and charred timber, mixed with pathetic pieces of furniture, a doll, a chair with a newspaper wedged against it, as if waiting for someone to return.
More slowly now, crunching over fresh tyre-tracks; more uniforms at a checkpoint. The road was covered with sand, like a beach.
All that remained of the triple-sandbagged entrance.
Like hearing her voice that day. Defiant. I am home .
“Far as I can manage, sir.”
Kearton stood beside the car. Had something been trying to warn him?
The driver added helpfully, “Bit earlier than I thought. You never know, in this place.”
“Thanks.” He touched his cap. “Maybe you’ll be taking me back.”
He did not hear him reply.
He walked past piled debris, his shoe catching on a strand of barbed wire, and more sand.
A direct hit. Even the smell was the same. London, Portsmouth, Valletta.
He saw a low wall, massively built, a gate blasted from its hinges. Part of a building still standing, curtains flapping from windows like torn flags.
“Just a minute! Nobody’s allowed in there!”
It was the same lieutenant, Garrick’s aide, less smart and composed now, a tear in one sleeve, a strip of plaster across his cheek. But he tried to smile.
“Damn sorry, sir. You took me by surprise.” He shrugged, and winced. “Been rather busy around the old place!”
Kearton gripped his hand. It was shaking.
“I’m glad you’re OK.” He looked at the house; the curtains were suddenly still. “Were there many casualties?”
The lieutenant was staring around, although his eyes were blank.
“Some. I’m not too sure.”
He had had enough. Seen enough, done enough. And Kearton still did not know his name.
“Ah, here we are, sir!”
Like turning the clock back. The white coat, the patient smile. Why did they all speak like that?
The lieutenant said nothing, and was staring at Kearton now as if he were a stranger. Kearton watched them go, the medic still chattering as they picked their way over the rubble.
Someone else would come looking for him. Nothing had changed. Even if Garrick were to be replaced, or killed, once the wheels were in motion …
He pushed open a door. It was partly jammed, but he heard nothing fall. There was damage enough, and a shaft of dusty sunlight through part of a wall, which had been a room. Another door, but it was jammed or locked. Had she been here when it happened?
He heard brakes, another vehicle crunching to a halt. Voices.
He swung round and stared toward the shaft of sunlight.
She was standing with her back to the light, her face in shadow. Quite still, as if holding her breath.
Then she said, “I hoped it was you. Someone said—someone told me as I arrived.” She reached up to push some hair from her eyes. “I was afraid you’d hear about it. That you might worry …”
He did not know he had moved, but his arms were around here and her face was against his shoulder, and her voice was muffled. “You are here. You came.”
He felt her shivering. Then she said, “I wasn’t here …” and looked up at him, her eyes filling her face. “I was visiting one of our typists—the sick quarters. It was her birthday. Otherwise—”
She did not continue.
He looked past her, at the courtyard garden, half buried under debris which he recognized as part of the roof.
“Where will you go? Are you going to be all right?”
His hand was against her belt; he could feel her skin, her breathing.
She said, “It’s all arranged. It’s not the first time. I was just
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