Touching the Wire (15 page)

‘You can. If it’s a secret,
I won’t tell anyone.’

‘I know, sweetheart. There’s
something I have to do and I can’t explain. It’s something I should have done a
long while ago. I…’ He shook his head.

‘Grandpa?’

‘Go to sleep.’ He kissed her
goodnight, knowing it was goodbye, and staggered downstairs to put away the
knife. Any lingering doubt had gone. He made a cup of strong coffee and sat in
his chair, not daring to sleep. He had to be up in a couple of hours to meet
the minibus and this way he wouldn’t wake Jane getting back into bed. He took
paper and pen from a drawer, and began to write.

He crept up the stairs and
into his and Jane’s bedroom. He eased open his sock drawer and left his letter
with the precious diary. He moved across to the window and lifted the drape.
The houses opposite were blind, their windows curtained, their occupants
sleeping. The street lamps bathed the bricks and tarmac in pools of yellow:
light after light punctuated the night sky as far as he could see, leaving no
place of secret shadow, no place to hide.

A group of peacocking youths
with skimpily-dressed girls on their arms rabbled down the street laughing and
shouting. How little they understood their good fortune: youth, health,
freedom. They would throw away what his generation had fought and died for:
nothing given unearned was truly valued. Jane stirred, turned over and went
back to sleep. The light from the window picked out the silver in her hair,
caressed her cheekbone and fled across the hollow of her neck to make a
slumbering shape at the foot of the wall. What would she think of him if she
knew the truth?

He turned back to the
window. The joyful, carefree progress of the revellers faded into the distance.
He shouldn’t begrudge them their fun. He took a lingering look at the women he
loved and let the curtain fall back into place.

Six o’ clock saw him
standing at the top of the street. Faint stars in a cloudless night faded
towards dawn; frost sparkled in the glow from streetlights and his breath
curled upwards in the cold air. He shivered, pulled the scarf Jane had knitted
him tighter around his neck and raised the collar of his heavy overcoat. He’d
never deserved Tykhe’s gift of Jane, any more than he’d deserved her gift of
Miriam.

Headlights drew closer: the
minibus stopped. He took a last look at the street he’d made home for almost
forty years: he’d said his goodbyes, though they hadn’t realised it would be
forever. He’d promised them fish for supper.

He climbed on board,
cocooned in the camaraderie of his mates from the allotment. It reminded him of
past comradeship and places he hoped never to revisit, places he would never
escape. He closed his eyes to stop tears falling: everyone he loved, his very
reason for living was now part of a past he could never recapture. He had no
future but what future did he want without them? He turned his face to the
night, looking beyond his reflection to where the daughters of Night waited. At
least, this way, Jane, Jennie and the twins could keep their memories.

He rested his head against
the back of the seat and closed his eyes listening to the creaks and rattles of
the minibus as it negotiated potholes on its journey east. Memories were all he
had now. The creaks and rattles faded.

The door of the barn creaked
on its hinges: he threw loose straw over his body and hunched into shadows.

‘Chuck… it’s me.’ Albert
handed him a tin can, and took a paper bag from beneath his coat. ‘Tea… real
tea with milk… and no swamp water. Drink.’

The hot liquid burned down
his gullet. He passed the can to Albert.

‘No, it’s yours. Drink it.’
Albert passed him a paper bag. ‘Here, a real boiled egg… bread. Eat.’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘Yes. I saved this for you.
They said I could sleep here. They don’t have much. I promised I’d be gone in
the morning.’

He savoured the egg in small
bites, and tore chunks from the crust of fresh, buttered bread. It was a world
from the hard, grey bread and scrape of margarine of the camp. ‘You’re a
lifesaver, Albert.’

Breakfast was warm milk,
straight from the cow, and cock-crow saw them once again forcing tired legs
through snow. Each mile nearer to Miriam was paid for with frozen limbs and
aching muscles. He couldn’t feel his feet or hands; he hadn’t felt his feet
properly for days. Albert’s cough was worse, and frostbite and gangrene loomed
large in his mind: scarlet fever and starvation loomed larger. He had to reach
her today. How long had she been without medicines? Seven, eight, nine days?
He’d lost count. One foot followed the other with desperate effort. Part of him
longed to reach camp: part of him hoped never to get there.

The sun was already in the
west when they stumbled through the unguarded main gate of the camp. Smoke blew
across the ruins of Crematoria V. The Germans had been back to destroy more
evidence? If so, there was no sign of them now. A barrack in the men’s camp had
smoke rising from a chimney: someone had the strength to find wood to burn. In
Miriam’s camp not a soul stirred, not a light shone. Already the buildings had
an air of neglect and decay; windows were broken, and doors banged in the icy
wind.

He pushed open the door to
the infirmary and was met by the stench of death. Bodies… everywhere lay frozen
skeletal bodies, huddled together as if to draw the last vestige of warmth from
each other.

‘Dear God…’ Albert put a
hand over his mouth and nose. ‘Miriam?’

He shook his head. ‘This
way.’ In her bunk two still shapes lay under a huddle of blankets. He knelt on
the floor and lifted the blankets. A pale face, eyes staring at eternity.
‘She’s dead. It’s Ilse, Miriam’s friend.’ He steeled himself to lift the
blankets from the other body. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful.
‘Miriam?’ Her hand was cold. He leaned forward trying to feel the warmth of a
breath or the faintest pulse. ‘
Miriam
…’

A movement in the seat
beside him woke him; a hand on his shoulder roused him. ‘We’re here, Walt.
You’ve been asleep the whole damn way.’

He opened his eyes and met
the cold light of his last dawn. The time had come. His bag held a flask, and
sandwiches made with love. He pushed the thought away: he must not falter now.

Across the harbour a bloody
sun rose, lighting fishing boats that bobbed at their moorings. Seagulls
wheeled and screamed into a stiff breeze; white-capped waves broke, sun-kissed
beneath a wide sky, and banks of cumulus cloud, gold-rimmed with sunlight,
towered above the horizon.

The beauty stopped his
breath. A cloud partly obscured the sun and a shaft of sunlight lit a patch of
sea, far, far out. Okeanus, God of the Sea, father of Tykhe, beckoned and he
obeyed. He moved forward onto the boat that bobbed at the side of the jetty,
its diesel engine puttering and sending clouds of exhaust into the morning
air.  The white breakers cavorted with the Keres in their surf-white
gowns, sun-stained with blood. The daughters of Night were assembled, ready to
claim him and he would give himself willingly into their hands to protect his
family. Nemesis would finally decide if he’d earned the right to die.

He shivered, despite his
overcoat and life jacket, as the boat chugged toward the fishing ground: the
last time he’d been tossed on the North Sea had been in February too. At least
he’d been warm, stoking the boilers on a cargo ship Newcastle-bound from
Copenhagen, but the heat and flames, and the cramped hammocks below decks, had
stirred unbearable memories.

He raised his rod and cast
his line. The sea took the bait and the reel whirred. He felt the tug of a bite
like a tug at his heart. Jane and the twins would be waiting for their fish.
Eric leaned over the side and vomited, and Ted passed round rum to settle their
stomachs.

By early afternoon the wind
had picked up, blowing the clouds shoreward and whipping up the surf. The
fishing boat rose and fell with the troughs and peaks, now iron-grey and tinged
with red. The sun, never high, was sinking in the west and as the afternoon
wore on the temperature plummeted. They turned towards land and he shaded his
eyes.

The cliffs danced at bizarre
angles and his stomach plunged, hung suspended in mid-air, and then plunged
again. Behind him, spray or fog wreathed a horizon that appeared less sharp
with every passing minute, and seagulls stitched erratic patterns across the
sky. The skipper made for harbour, gripping the wheel and moving with the
rolling of the deck.

He clutched the rail. The
unexpected bad weather played into his hands: the gods favoured his decision.
His palms were sticky with sweat, his heart hammered in his ribcage and his
head whirled. He muttered a litany beneath his breath.
All have sinned and
fallen short of the glory of God.
He didn’t believe in God. Ted offered him
his hip flask: he grabbed it, took a swig and handed it back.

‘This bugger wasn’t
forecast.’ Eric took the metal flask and hung onto the bow rail.

The hatred which divides
nation from nation, race from race, class from class.
He had to sound normal. ‘Good job we had some fine fishing
earlier.’

‘It’s been a great day.’
Eric took another swig. ‘Pity the weather’s changed.’

‘Not a bad catch for a bevy
of gardeners.’ Ted took the rum Eric passed him. ‘We’ll be eating fish for a
month. Banana, anyone?’

‘Jane put one in my
lunchbox, thanks, but I think I’d be sick if I ate it.’

Eric pulled a pale face.
‘Edie put apples in for us. She knows as well as your Jane that you and
me
ain’t got a tooth between us.’

Ted threw his banana skin
over the side and the waves swept it away. ‘I’ve got a knife if you want to cut
one up.’

Eric shook his head. ‘On
this sea? I’d cut my bloody throat.’

He looked down into roiling
water. Storm clouds melded with the fog; fine rain lashed across his face and
blotted out the last of the crimson sun. The light was failing fast and other
fishing boats were returning to harbour, their navigation lights reflecting
brokenly in the waves.

He’d be hard to spot in the
gathering dusk. He didn’t want to be rescued and most of all he didn’t want
anyone to endanger their lives in the attempt.

A sail ghosted across their
bow and disappeared into thickening murk. ‘Look at that bloody idiot.’ Ted
clung to the rail with one hand and pointed. ‘Out alone in this weather. If
this fog gets any thicker some bugger will run him down.’

The wind gusted, blowing
holes of clarity into the fog. The boat bucked and yawed, and he grabbed for a
handhold. No-one was watching him. He looked down into the waves that would
swallow him. Now…  

‘
Man overboard.
’
Eric’s voice, laced with panic. ‘Ted’s gone over the side!’

The skipper swung the boat
in a wide arc. Men lined the rail, pointing.

He moved forward, hand over
hand to join them. ‘Where?’

Eric climbed recklessly over
the rail.

He grabbed Eric’s sleeve.
‘Eric, don’t be daft.’

‘Can’t let the old bugger
drown.’ Eric shrugged off his hand and launched himself into the cauldron of
water.

‘Skipper!’ He pointed into
the water. Someone shouted and waved. Searchlights strobed across the waves as
other boats responded to the S.O.S. The yellow of a lifejacket bobbed like the
banana skin behind them, caught for a brief second in the searchlight before it
disappeared into the gloom. He couldn’t leave his friends to die. He jumped.
Icy water closed over his head making him gasp. Breathe, breathe, breathe… His
heart raced. Cold shock… hypothermia. His mind whirled; he had what, four
minutes before his brain was too numb to function and the cold killed him?
He
could have told him: he’d done the experiments.

He struck out for the place
where he’d glimpsed the lifejacket, the wind and waves carrying him shoreward.
A searchlight picked up something and the boat came around as a lifebuoy was
hurled towards it. He struggled towards the patch of yellow and grabbed hold of
it. It was Ted and he appeared to be unconscious. He pulled the floating man
towards the lifebuoy and struggled to fasten the line around the limp body. He
was shivering uncontrollably. Three minutes… Ted had even less.

A voice, barely heard,
yelled from the blinding glare of the searchlight. ‘Hang on!’

The line went taut and Ted
was pulled towards the boat.

His arms were lead weights.
He was cold beyond feeling. ‘Eric.
Eric
…’ His thick overcoat dragged him
down. His lifejacket wouldn’t hold him. It was a sin to take one’s own life.
Miriam had fought for life with every breath. Jane and Jennie loved him… the
twins… He ripped the lifejacket off, went under and wrestled the buttons on his
overcoat. He freed one arm, and then the other, and clawed back to the surface.
He must control his breathing before his heart burst. Two minutes…

His lifejacket bobbed beyond
his reach. Eric was gone. He took a desperate gasp of salt-laden air and sank,
exhausted.

Lights flashed as he
surfaced again, appearing and disappearing with the swell.
Candles to burn…
Memories washed through his numbed mind, comforting, caressing. He’d only ever
tried to protect those he loved: Jane, Jennie, the twins, Miriam, the children.
He should have saved the children. Okeanus upheld him, Nemesis considered.