A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (32 page)

Bombs killed. A rehearsal – for bloody what? He felt he knew.

Tim tumbled into bed just before midnight. He was exhausted, but struggled with Heine in his dreams, as the bastard tried to strangle him with his black braces, again and again. After work the next day, his da was waiting in his Austin outside the engineering firm and drove him back to Easterleigh Hall, where Aunt Ver and Uncle Richard waited in their apartment. He repeated that Heine had agreed to do what was necessary to prevent the original of the letter surfacing. He said nothing of his mother's more damning hold over Heine.

By this time Evie and Aub had arrived with Bridie. He tried not to look at her, but how could he not? She waited by the door while the others sat talking nineteen to the dozen of how wonderful it was, how grateful they were, how James could continue his
life, go to university. Tim stood up. ‘You must remember that it will take time, and until then he is in jeopardy. There's a civil war raging.'

The talking stopped. Bridie stared at him. He said, ‘The leverage should be strong enough, but it's chaos in Spain, so you must keep on hoping until he's here.'

His da smiled at him, and nodded. Tim moved to Bridie, wanting to explain that he was no longer who she perhaps thought he was, just as he wanted to tell the others. She whispered, ‘I'm grateful to you, but I'm not sure James will be able to bear the thought that a fascist secured his release by using the Nazis, any more than I can.'

This time it was he who felt he had been punched. She left and he longed to chase her, tell her how sorry he was, that he had moved on, but something stopped him. Damn Potty. He fingered the mezuzah case.

Two hours later he used Richard's office telephone to call Potty on the number that Gladys had given him. He said, his voice low, ‘I need to know who the Jews are who occupied the apartment my mother now lives in. I need them out of wherever they are, with permission to settle in Britain, and a way of getting them here. Once this is arranged, although it is still a bloody joke, I'll do it, and I'll do it well.'

There was a silence. Tim waited, because he knew quite well that it was something that would not be
easy to arrange. However, those were his terms, and he was amazed at his strength, his coldness and determination.

Eventually Potty said slowly, ‘I think it can be done, but we need to maintain your cover at all times, to everyone but your parents, who already know. Forgive me, dear boy, but you know that you must resume and maintain your attendance at the Hawton BUF Meeting House, you must resume your Peace Club attendance, you must
be
a fascist, and no-one else may know you are not. No-one.'

The person he most wanted to tell was Bridie, but he knew that he couldn't. She must continue to hate him, in her uncompromising way, because that would maintain the illusion more than anything else.

Potty repeated, ‘Your dear parents, but no-one else.'

‘Yes, I agree, but first, I need that Jewish family safe. So I will wait. Incidentally, just to keep you happy, Millie has some proof about something that would give us an additional and powerful lever over Heine. It is her security. I will tell you when you find that family and have arranged their escape from whatever hellhole they are in – I suspect it is a camp.'

Potty said, ‘You're suitably tricky to be made for the role, laddie.' There was a click as the receiver was replaced.

He now understood why he hadn't told Potty the details of Millie's security earlier. He was learning about the politics of power, the need to keep something in reserve.

James, Ian, Frank, Boyo and Sergeant Miller were amongst a small band of about twenty who had been marched from temporary hellhole to temporary hellhole since their capture. They were exhausted, hungry and footsore, and trying not to lose track of time. Their idea of heaven was escape or a proper camp. All the time they marched they noted landmarks – the distant mountains, villages, hamlets, churches, farms – so that they could work their way back, should a chance to escape occur. There had only been one break-out possible, and two men had taken it. Both had been shot. The guards were too alert, too determined.

Christmas had been and gone, and they were into the New Year and were on the move again. Marching was too strong a word; they were straggling along a trail through the usual small olive groves, the occasional pine, and acres of scrub, stones and dust. James remembered his Uncle Jack saying that the relief he felt when he arrived at a camp with structure, routine, safety and order was immense.
Well, he could bloody well do with that – they all could.

Ian stumbled beside him, regained his balance, swore quietly, but James was looking at a clutch of derelict farm buildings in the distance, a wire fence strung around the perimeter. Sergeant Miller rasped, ‘Who knows, this could be a late Christmas present, our very own home from home, lads.'

His voice sounded as dry and cracked as James' throat felt. The guard at Miller's side gestured with his rifle. Miller grinned at him. ‘José, just passing the time of day.' José smiled slightly, and shrugged. He'd been with them from the start and must have been as sick of it as they were, but at least it kept him out of the firing line.

They shambled on and reached a fork in the track. Would they go left, which led away from the buildings, or right? They went right, and relief gave them some energy, and even the guards stepped out. Sergeant Miller ordered, ‘Straighten up, then. March, if you please. Remember who you are. Left, left, left.'

They marched the last three hundred yards, and in through the entrance, shoulders back. Now they could see that it was small enough to be a transit camp, yet again. Disappointment clutched at James; Ian swore; Boyo and Frank kicked at stones as they marched. They all scanned the wire for breaks, just in case. There didn't seem to be any, though there was another entrance at the far end of the camp,
with the gate hanging open, as though half derelict. It seemed devoid of other prisoners, and just a few soldiers loitered around. Yes, a transit camp. James knew the others would be feeling the same disappointment.

Sergeant Miller ordered a halt. They stood. Their own guards mingled with the other soldiers, back-slapping, chatting, smoking. Ian said, ‘I'd kill for a drag.'

Miller kept his men at ease. They waited. A small man strolled out from the roofless farmhouse, shouting orders in Spanish. James named him Garcia in his head. It was what he did on these occasions. He didn't know why, but somehow it helped. The guards who had accompanied them on the march looked at one another, and spoke to those already there, who shrugged and threw away their half-smoked cigarettes. One pointed to a barn set further back. José led their own guards over to its shade, and they helped themselves to water from a well before grouping together, lounging on the ground.

Garcia's men selected ten of ‘Miller's Men', as the twenty now called themselves, handed them picks and shovels, and pointed to the ground a short distance away, which looked as though it had once been a pit but was now half full of rubbish, sand and rocks. What it must have been used for James had no idea. Perhaps they protected some sort of crop in it during the height of the summer.

Ian was amongst the ten who were ordered to dig it out. James and the others had their hands tied behind their backs, and were forced to kneel a short way from the working party. They sighed, wondering what the game was this time. James felt the rope dig deep into his wrists and scanned the skies. Who knew, perhaps Garcia was expecting Russian planes? Was this his idea of a safety trench? Would there be a chance of escape? He shook his head. No, if he had to bet on it, it would be a game.

They'd given up protesting at the indignities they had suffered. The only thing to do was to put up and shut up, because it would end, the bastards would become bored. They'd be released, to find shade and sleep. Perhaps even water and food. To do anything else meant a bloody good hiding.

His tongue swelled in the heat. Their knees hurt beyond endurance. Sergeant Miller demanded water from Garcia for his men. He was ignored. He tried again. James saw Garcia mutter to a guard, who stalked across, lifted the rifle butt and calmly and clinically clubbed Sergeant Miller to death, in front of them, his hands still tied behind his back.

The shock rippled down the line. The diggers didn't see, working with their backs to them as they were, their shovels clinking, the rocks crashing as they threw them onto the edge. Boyo stared from Sergeant Miller's body, to James. His lips were cracked, his eyes blank with horror, and an inability to absorb what had just happened. It was the same
with them all. Their own guards were sprawled in the shade of the barn. James saw José start to rise. Another, Miguel, pulled him back down.

Was this a game? What sort of bloody game? James tried to speak but no words came. Garcia walked in front of him and the others, the smell of garlic oozing from him, mixing with, but not overlaying, the smell of Sergeant Miller's blood, which pooled and then seeped into the sandy ground. Ian and the working party continued to dig; James and the others continued to kneel, past the point of processing anything. The sun beat down, although it was winter.

Garcia fired questions at them in poor English. They refused to answer anything beyond their names, shock killing the pain of their knees. The smell of Sergeant Miller's blood was suffocating, and James thought he'd never be rid of it. They were invited to beg for their hands to be released so they could perform a fascist salute. They refused, and instead followed Boyo, who said, ‘We are fighting for a return to democracy.' Garcia smiled, gestured, and each one kneeling received a jab to the head with a rifle butt.

Finally Garcia seemed satisfied with the hole. The diggers were instructed to throw their shovels onto the far edge. It was only then that they turned. For a moment it was clear that they couldn't work out what they were seeing. James saw that some of their own guards had emerged from the shade and were talking amongst themselves, shaking their heads.
José hurried off, keeping to the shade of the buildings, and was hard to see. Then he was through the far gates, running down the track which skirted the hill.

Now Garcia was shouting and James, along with the others, was grabbed by the soldiers and dragged along the ground. He fought, twisting and turning, because they were heading to the pit, and now he dared to think what the game was that was to be played.

Boyo said, ‘No, they bloody don't.'

They were all fighting, leaving streaks of blood on the earth as jagged stones gouged flesh from their legs, but it was no good. They stopped on the edge of the pit. The guards wrestled them back into a kneeling position.

Frank said, ‘They could be just shoving us in?'

Boyo said, ‘Another bloody game?'

But no, there was Sergeant Miller. James' mind had frozen.

Several soldiers were aiming their rifles at the diggers, gesturing them out. They scrambled up onto the surface. They were corralled and forced away, held at gunpoint to one side. Their own guards were hesitating. Some stepped forwards, calling and gesticulating, then turning to look at the far entrance. José had not returned. Had he gone for help?

Garcia approached the kneeling line-up. They all watched as he stood at the end, by James, for a
moment. He drew out his revolver from his holster belt. Everything seemed so slow. The man didn't fire it. James breathed again, but instead he walked to them, and behind them. James could smell the garlic. He heard a shot, smelt cordite. Boyo fell to the ground next to him, dead from a bullet to the head. The officer kicked him into the pit as James peed himself.

Garcia shot every other one of them in the back of the head, and kicked them into the pit. Sergeant Miller's body was then dragged and tossed in too. James and Frank were amongst the survivors, all of them kneeling in their own urine. Ian and the other nine stood like stone, pale as alabaster.

Ian's group was gestured towards their shovels. They began to refill the pit, covering their friends. Two soldiers cut those left kneeling free of their binding. One laughed, the other didn't. His hands were shaking, and he too had paled. James and the others were given shovels. The handles of the shovels were hot. Above a raptor glided on the thermals. Everything seemed quiet. There seemed to be no clink of shovel on stone. Nothing. They worked like automatons, just seeing the earth, sand, stones. Their friends must be buried.

Could any of this be real? How could it be? As they finished, and rested on their shovels, and stared at the blood-soaked ground, their minds began to work. Slowly they felt the horror really take hold. James looked at the shovel in his hand. He turned
towards Garcia, who was smoking a cigarillo at a table that had been set up in the shade of the ruined farmhouse. On the table stood a carafe of wine. James lifted the shovel. He put one foot in front of the other, raising the shovel higher, heading for Garcia, the garlic-stinking officer who had killed his friends and his sergeant, his bastard bloody wonderful sergeant. Others were walking too.

Rifles were lifted, Garcia laughed. He gave the order. James took another step and then there was shouting. Miguel and the rest of their own guards were running towards them, their weapons out, but pointing at the soldiers, not at the prisoners. He didn't care. Another step, but then a rider galloped between them and Garcia, hauling his horse to a stop in a swirl of dust, sand, and the clink of a bridle. It was an officer, large, incensed, screaming his orders to his men, who ran behind him, panting, sweating, and there was José. He'd brought help, but too late. The air was full of outrage. James took another step. Garcia's men lowered their rifles but James and the others kept walking, shovels lifting higher, higher.

The officer set his men to face the prisoners then turned to fist the stinking Garcia to the ground, kicking aside the table. The wine spilled, red as blood. It seeped into the ground. It was then that James stopped, and laid down his shovel, along with the others, able, quite suddenly, to hear and see properly.