Blackstone and the Great War (14 page)

And that had sealed his fate!

‘But what exactly
was it
that he'd done wrong?' Blackstone said aloud, as he walked up the sharply inclined street towards the village square. ‘What was it that he needed to cleanse himself of?'

You're talking to yourself, Sam, said a voice somewhere in the back of his head.

Well, who else in this Godforsaken place
is there
to talk to? asked a second voice defensively.

You do whatever you want to do, but you might just end up talking yourself into a padded cell, warned the first voice.

I'll take the chance, countered the second.

‘Stop it – both of you!' Blackstone told the voices, and then realized that he was speaking aloud again.

He had reached the square, and paused by the limber. He reached out with his hand, and felt one of its huge wheels.

Suppose it was not there in the morning, he thought.

Suppose that when the redcaps brought Private  . . . Private  . . .

He realized that though he had great sympathy for the man's plight – and was angry about what he was being made to endure – he did not even know his name.

Call him ‘Smith' then.

Suppose that when the redcaps brought Private Smith to the square, there was no limber to strap the poor bastard to.

If he could just get the limber to the edge of the square – which would not be easy, but just might be possible – it would roll down the hill and be gone forever, he thought.

And in the morning, the redcaps would run around like headless chickens for a while, and then contact Captain Huxton, who, this being the army, would have to write a report – probably in triplicate – explaining why he needed a
new
limber.

The whole thing would take days, and in the meantime, Private Smith would get a little respite from all the pain and humiliation.

It was as Blackstone caught himself giggling at the thought of the redcaps' panicked faces that it occurred to him that he might be drunk.

What else would explain the action he'd just been contemplating? Who but a drunk would ever have come up with such a wild and fantastic plan?

And yet he was sure he'd had no more than two beers that day.

It was exhaustion – not drink – which was having this effect on him, he suddenly realized.

He had not slept since he left London, and that was over two days earlier. He needed to go back to his billet and grab some rest – before he
really
did something stupid!

The man stood in the shadows at the edge of the square, watching Blackstone examining the wheel of the limber.

Why was the detective doing that, he wondered?

Why hadn't he gone straight back to his billet – as the plan dictated that he should?

It had all seemed so simple and straightforward when they'd been discussing it earlier.

‘When do I start following him?' the man had asked.

‘When he's finished watching the company march out of the village,' the other had replied.

‘He might not be there.'

‘He will be.'

‘How can you be so sure?'

‘I can be sure because I understand him. He's at least as much an actor as he is a policeman, and he won't be able to resist the opportunity of showing us that he knows everything.'

Panic!

‘He
doesn't
know everything, does he?'

‘Of course he doesn't – in point of fact, he's on the wrong track entirely – but he
thinks
he knows.' The other had paused for a moment. ‘Once he's sure we've all left, he'll go back to his billet.'

‘He might not.'

‘He will. He has nowhere else to go. And anyway, he'll want to catch up on his sleep.'

‘Do I follow him all the way back to the billet?'

‘No, he'd be bound to notice that. Just stay with him long enough to make sure that's actually where he's going—'

‘You said that was where he would
definitely
be going. You said he had nowhere
else
to go!'

‘—and then give him time to get into bed and fall asleep.'

But Blackstone
hadn't
gone straight back to his billet.

Instead, he was just standing there next to the limber, pressing his hand against its large wheel, almost as though he were thinking about moving it.

‘I need help,' the man told himself. ‘I can't do this alone.'

And then he let out a gasp of relief as the detective abandoned the limber and started to walk towards the street which led to his billet.

Blackstone lit the oil lamp first, and a cigarette which he promised himself would be his last of the day.

If he only knew what Charlie Fortesque had done that was so wrong, then he'd also know why the young man had been killed, he mused.

And if he knew that, he would also know – with absolute certainty – who the murderer was.

He walked over to the window, and looked out at the street. There was only a pale moon overhead, and the cobblestones the street was made up of were barely distinguishable from each other.

He was glad the moon was so weak that night, because there were no shutters on his window – though, from the evidence of the iron hooks embedded in the walls, there once had been.

He wondered what had happened to the shutters, and guessed they had most likely been taken down and used for firewood. It seemed a waste that something which had probably been painstakingly crafted, by a man who had spent years learning his trade, should meet such an inglorious end, but then war
was
wasteful – war was about nothing
other
than waste – and he certainly did not begrudge the poor soul who had removed them the little warmth it would have brought him and his family.

He was surprised though, when he reached for the catch to close the window, to find that that was missing, too. Why, he wondered, would anyone have gone to the effort of removing something which, once removed, could have been of so little practical use.

He moved the oil lamp closer to what was the stump of the catch. It had been sawn through, probably with a hacksaw blade, and since the ragged edge still glinted, it was likely to have been done fairly recently.

He took out his cigarette packet, placed the remaining two cigarettes in his pocket, and doubled the packet over. Next, he closed the windows, and jammed the cardboard packing under the edge of one of them.

‘That should hold them well enough,' he thought, as he crossed the room towards his bed.

And then, as if eager to point out his folly, a sudden gust of wind from the street sent the two windows banging open before he had even had time to remove his jacket.

He thought about going back to the window, and making a better job of wedging it shut, but there didn't seem to be much point. If some passing girl wanted to climb through the window, throw herself on the bed, and ravage him, then she was more than welcome. And if some passing thief thought his lucky day had come, then he was in for a disappointment, since – apart from a second-hand suit, a shaving kit and some faded underwear – there was nothing much to steal.

Blackstone stripped down to his long johns, blew out the lantern, and climbed into bed.

ELEVEN

T
he town was dead. The streets were empty.

The enlisted men were all in their tents, playing cards, seeking silent self-relief under their blankets, or turning fitfully in a sleep which was filled with dreams of destruction.

The officers were in their billets, drinking whisky and telling each other – with varying degrees of conviction – that they were damn lucky to have a war come along just now, so they could show their true mettle.

And the whores lay still and sore in their beds, calculating how much money they had made that day – and how many more brutal embraces they would have to endure before they could afford to get the hell out of this place.

The man made his way along the same street which Blackstone had gone down half an hour earlier.

He was breathing heavily, and recognized that this was a result not of exertion, but of fear.

But why should he be afraid now, he asked himself?

He had been as brave under fire as most of his comrades. He could contemplate the possibility – the probability – of his own death on the battlefield without undue terror.

So what made this so different?

He wondered if it was because – despite the assurances he'd been given – there was a part of him which considered this to be a dishonourable act.

Yet how
could it
be dishonourable? Hadn't they all agreed it was necessary – that even if it brought his own disgrace, he would be acting for the general good?

He drew level with Blackstone's billet, and gasped at what he saw. He had known the windows would not be locked – that had been taken care of earlier in the day – but he had not expected them to be wide open.

What did it mean? How should he interpret it? Was he being led into a trap, or had fortune chosen to smile kindly on him?

He had been carrying his weapon in his fist, but now he stuck it into his webbing, to give himself a free hand.

He had only to step through the window, and he would be seconds away from completing his mission.

He was dreading what lay ahead, but at least, he consoled himself, it would soon be over.

They have made camp at the end of a long and punishing day's march in the Hindu Kush. Sergeant Blackstone posts sentries around the perimeter, tells his corporal to wake him up in two hours, then takes out his blanket and settles down gratefully in front of the fire.

He falls asleep immediately. It is a deep sleep, free from dreams of both his mother's slow death in the East End slum they shared, and the horrors he has witnessed during his time in Afghanistan. It is so calm and peaceful that he might almost be dead.

But though his mind has almost completely closed down, there is one tiny part of it – allied with his senses – which is sentry duty, and it is this small part which alerts him to the smell.

It is the odour of a man – and a man whose habits and diet are totally alien to his own.

Later, he will learn that the sentries he posted are all dead, but for now, as he slowly reaches under his blanket for his bayonet, all he knows is that there is an intruder in the camp.

The same breeze – which had treated Blackstone's cigarette packet wedge with such disdain earlier – wafted over his sleeping form now, and brought with it a reminder of that night in the Hindu Kush.

But this was
not
Afghanistan, he told himself, suddenly wide awake – and the smell of nervous sweat which was filling his nostrils emanated not from the body of a Tajiki tribesman, but from a man born much closer to home.

He could just make out a vague shape by the window – which must have been the intruder's entry point. He wondered what weapon his attacker – and he had no doubt this man had come to attack him – would use.

Not a gun! If he'd had a gun, he would have opened fire by now, spraying the bed with bullets. If he'd had a gun, it would already be all over.

A knife, then? Or perhaps a club?

But he could not use either of them effectively unless he had enough light to see what he was doing.

He would have brought a flashlight with him. He would have his weapon in one hand, and his flashlight in the other. And that was good, because he would have two things to think about, instead of just one.

If I was in his place, Blackstone thought, I would get as close to the bed as I could, then I would lift my weapon high in the air, and switch on the flashlight – aiming it at my victim's eyes. And the second that the flashlight found its target, I would swing the weapon with all the force I could muster.

The attacker – still no more than a malevolent black shape – slowly and carefully crossed the room.

Blackstone began counting to himself.

One  . . . two  . . . three  . . .

At seven, he calculated, the attacker would switch on the flashlight, at eight he would swing his weapon, and at nine there would be a dull thud as bones cracked and brains turned to mush.

Four  . . . five  . . .

The intruder had now reached the foot of the bed, and was coming around the side.

Six!

The beam of light cut through the darkness, hitting Blackstone squarely in the eyes.

Too soon – far too soon – Blackstone thought, as a bright yellow ball bounced up and down in front of his eyes.

The intruder had panicked, and switched on the flashlight before he was in the right position to launch his attack. And yet his very incompetence was working to his advantage.

Blackstone twisted his body round, and lashed out blindly with his legs. He felt the soles of his feet make contact with the other man's chest, and heard – though he could not see – his assailant catapult backwards, and crash heavily against the wall.

Pain shot though his left ankle – which had taken most of the impact from the kick – and the yellow ball still bounced before his eyes. But he knew that he had to follow through quickly, whatever state he was in – had to hope that the eyes would clear and the ankle would hold him.

The ankle betrayed him – giving way the moment he put any weight on it. He tried to compensate, shifting his weight to the other foot, but he had already lost his balance, and fell clumsily on to his attacker.

The assailant screamed, then wiggled out from underneath and crawled on his hands and knees towards the open window.

Blackstone made a grab at the fleeing man's leg, but the man was already out of reach.

The attacker struggled awkwardly to his feet, half-jumped, half-fell, through the window, and landed heavily in the street outside.

Blackstone's ankle issued dire warnings of what would happen if he attempted to follow, and knowing it would be pointless to attempt to defy it, he was forced to just lie there, and listen as the intruder hobbled clumsily up the road.