Night Sky (96 page)

His head fell back and he stared at Julie, pain and disbelief on the twisted scarred face.

Panting hard, Julie got unsteadily to her feet and looked down. The knife was still in her hand. Moaning quietly, she shook her head and walked backwards.

The sharpness stung into her foot. She cried out in pain and, dropping the knife, reached down. Glass. She got hold of it and pulled.

A movement
.

She jumped.

He was getting up
.

He had one hand on the ground, levering himself up, the other on his belly.

She growled, ‘
N-o-!
’

The knife!
Dear God, where was the knife?

He was on his feet now, swaying slightly, his eyes piercing into her, dagger-like.

She caught a gleam. The knife. At her feet.

He moved forward.

She grabbed for the knife. He was still coming. Her fingers gripped the handle and she held the knife out in front of her.
Keep away from me, keep away!

He paused, wary this time, keeping his distance, arms out, ready to spring.

He began circling, panting slightly. Occasionally he put a hand to the wound in his stomach.

She thought: I didn’t hurt you enough,
not enough
.

Then she saw that one hand was in his pocket, searching. He was pulling at something. It got caught in the pocket lining, but then it was in his hand, reflecting dully in the street light. A gun.

A gun. I can’t fight that. Can’t
—

There was a faint roaring from the street: a lorry. The sound grew louder until it filled the alleyway.

Vasson’s eyes flicked away, towards the street, and then down to the gun. Suddenly she realised he was fiddling with the mechanism, trying to make it work …

Now. It’s now or never. Dear God, I feel so weak
…

Wobbling violently, she gathered all her strength and lunged forward. She saw his eyes dart up, his hands rise in defence—

She raised the knife high above her shoulder and with a loud gasp plunged it forward and
down
, hard,
hard
at his chest.

The knife travelled forwards then stopped.

Was it in? Had she hurt him at all? She kept pushing, straining to push the handle in, sobbing, ‘
Keep away, keep away. Leave me alone. A-l-o-n-e!
’

At last she realised the knife was rigid, fixed in the man’s body. She let go and fell back.

Vasson looked at the knife in amazement. It was sticking out of his chest. A sharp pain pierced through him, worse than anything he had ever imagined.

He couldn’t believe it. She’d stabbed him again.
Hard
. She’d hurt him badly.
He couldn’t believe it
…

He gasped for breath. There was a soft gurgling noise. His lungs drew in liquid.

Very slowly, he slid downwards, first to his knees, then on to his side.

Wet black blood trickled from his chest on to the ground.

He lay still in the hope that the terrible pain would go away, the bleeding stop …

He felt very heavy now, his limbs like lead. Liquid was rising in his throat. He choked a little.

What did I do? Dear God, what did I do? It’s not fair, it’s not fair
.

His lungs expanded but found only blood. He panicked, gasping for breath. He felt as if he were drowning.

At last the realisation came – this horror would be the very last, this final prison the smallest, darkest room of all …

He wanted to cry out but the darkness was already closing in.

Why did you abandon me? Why?

Why are you abandoning me now?

I don’t understand
.

For a moment his face was contorted with pain and rage, then a look of shock and terrible sadness came over it. His eyes opened wider and wider. Blood trickled out of his mouth. Suddenly he gasped. The eyes rolled once, then were still, glazed and unblinking.

She stood, sobbing quietly, watching him. She stared at his eyes, horrified in case they should move again.

She shook her head slowly from side to side, moaning, ‘N-o’ over and over again.

There was a sound. A car in the distant street. She blinked and, looking hastily around her, hobbled back towards the darkness of the back alley. Her foot was still agony. She leant against a wall and felt the sole of her foot. There was still some glass in it. She pulled at it. A fragment came away. The foot was bleeding heavily; she was leaving a trail of blood. She tried to tear the bottom off her nightdress and make a bandage, but it wouldn’t come. She found a handkerchief in her coat pocket and tied that round the foot instead.

She hopped and hobbled back round the corner and down the alley towards the hotel.

The door was still open. She closed and bolted it and hopped through the kitchen to the lobby. It was empty. She climbed the stairs as fast as she could, walking on the heel of her injured foot, and reached the top landing. She found her shoes lying on the floor where she’d kicked them, and picked them up. The door of her room was closed but not locked. She went in, switched on the light, and locked the door.

For a moment she stood perfectly still with her eyes closed, then, methodically, she started to do what had to be done. She made a mental list: clothes, wash, change. She took off her coat and nightdress, which were both bloody, and wrapped them neatly in a bundle. Then she put on her dressing gown and picked up some day clothes. She went across to the bathroom and, trembling wildly, stripped completely and washed herself all over. She dressed and went back to her room.

The trembling had become a violent shaking. She ignored it and, taking out her writing pad, picked up a pen and began to write. At first she couldn’t keep her hand still, but she gripped the pen tighter and forced herself to concentrate. She wrote carefully, in plain block capitals. The first attempt wasn’t right and she tore it up and started again. Finally she was satisfied. The message was simple, but it would do the job.

It read:

PAUL VASSON. ALIAS LEBRUN, ALIAS FOUGÈRES, ALIAS THE MAN FROM MARSEILLES. TRAITOR, COLLABORATOR, MURDERER. BETRAYER OF METEOR AND TREGASNOU RÉSEAUX.

J
USTICE
!

She read it several times.

The way she had worded it, it shouldn’t lead to her. It could have been someone from Meteor,
anyone
in the Resistance.

It was two-thirty. Before she lost her momentum, she went quickly down the stairs to the kitchen, unlocked the back door and, after looking carefully up and down the alley, limped along to the corner. She looked ahead. The distant street was deserted. The body was still there, lying heavy and inert like a sack of coal. She limped quickly up to it and, averting her gaze from the staring eyes, put the piece of paper beside it and weighted it down with a small stone.

She forced herself to look at the body. Swallowing hard, she leant down and gripped the knife handle protruding from Vasson’s chest. She closed her eyes and pulled with all her might.

The knife shot out and she staggered slightly.

She looked over her shoulder and scurried back into the darkness, round the corner, and along the alley to the hotel.

She closed and locked the door, checked that she hadn’t dripped blood on to the floor from her foot, and crept into the kitchen. Carefully, she washed the knife, dried it, and returned it to the rack where she’d found it. Then she climbed quickly back to the fourth floor.

As she reached for her door handle she heard loud snoring from the room next door. The black soldier. It had to be. Asleep. She listened to the steady rise and fall of the snores and felt a wave of despair. The black soldier could give her away.

She went into her room and locked the door behind her, then turned off the light and lay down on the bed, fully clothed.

She stared at the dark ceiling and it suddenly occurred to her that the black soldier would probably remember nothing of what had happened, nothing at all.

There was a glimmer of hope.

That left the blood-stained clothes – they would have to be disposed of. She would throw them in the river, weighted down with a stone.

Then there was the hotel register. Yet the body was some way away. There was no reason why they should look here.

Even if they did, who was Juliette Lescaux?

No! She was safe.

She closed her eyes.

Who was Juliette Lescaux?
She didn’t know any more.

She had been someone, a long time ago.

The shivering started again, first gently then violently until her teeth rattled.

She pulled the bedclothes over herself, and, curling up into a ball, closed her eyes tightly against the terror of the darkness, desperate for the oblivion of the sleep she knew would never come.

S
UMMER,
1945.

There had been dancing and flag-waving on VE Day, cheering and hymn-singing on VJ Day, but for sheer uninhibited happiness there was nothing to beat the homecomings.

All over Britain there were joyous reunions, first in the privacy of homes and then outside in the streets and village lanes. People wept and laughed and hugged and shook hands, and realised that life would never be as sharp or intense again and weren’t sure if they were sorry or glad that the war was over.

For those not welcoming sons, husbands and fathers it was still a good time because the festivities took their minds off the austerity and bleakness that seemed to have become a permanent part of British life.

In the main street of Hugh Town, St Mary’s, a banner reading ‘Welcome Home’ was strung between two houses. The day before, no less than five men had returned: three soldiers, a sailor and a merchant seaman. It had been a day of great rejoicing.

Peter looked out of the window and giggled. ‘Mummy, there’s a soldier kissing Tommy Blair’s sister! Mummy?’

Julie came in from the other room and went to a mirror on the wall. She patted her hair, put on some lipstick, and viewed herself critically. Older, of course. There were tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and the sides of her mouth. Less young in other ways, too. The look in the eyes, mainly. She frowned and turned away.

Peter was still giggling. ‘Mummy, he’s hugging another girl!’ He turned to see if she had heard. He gasped. ‘Hey, Mummy, you
do
look smart!’

‘Not really,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s just my old suit remade, that’s all. Now, are you ready? Have you combed your hair?’

Peter came closer and peered at her blouse. ‘You’ve got Tante Marie’s brooch on!’

‘Yes, it seems a pity not to wear it.’ Tante Marie had died at Christmas – a welcome release under the circumstances.

‘And Mummy!’ He was jumping up and down now. ‘That smell! Have you put on
perfume?
’

‘Shush!’ Julie said impatiently. ‘We should go soon. Are you ready?’

‘Mmm.’ Peter shuffled off in search of something. A moment later he wandered back and asked, ‘Mummy, d’you think he’ll be different? You know …’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Will he
look
different?’

‘Good Lord, how should I know? Now hurry up and comb your hair. It looks terrible.’

The letter had been waiting for her when she returned from France in November. It came from Major Smithe-Webb at the War Office. It was brief and factual. Notification had been received from the Red Cross that Lieutenant Ashley was being held in a POW camp near Stuttgart in Germany.

She couldn’t believe it. Alive! She had been bracing herself for bad news for so long that it took her entirely by surprise.

Alive! Her first reaction was joy and relief. For
him
. Because he had always been so full of life and optimism and burning energy, and it seemed only right that he
should
be alive. For
him
. Because by staying alive he had cheated Vasson and that was a victory.

She was happy for herself too – at first. Then she had doubts. In Brittany, in the old days, everything had seemed so simple, a matter of right or wrong, and black or white. She had loved him with all her heart. She still did. And yet …

Nothing would ever be straightforward again. The events in France weighed heavily on her mind. She dreamed terrible dreams not only of Jean and Tante Marie and Maurice, but of blackness and running feet and blood … She often woke in the night, gasping for breath, crying out. At those moments she felt unbearably lonely.

Life with someone like Richard would offer love and security. Perhaps even peace of mind if—

If everything was the same. If he still loved her. If they both hadn’t changed too much.

You couldn’t stop people changing, she decided. It just happened. It was a long time since Brittany – two years. For him, two years in a camp. Now he was back home. With his family, his own people, the old way of life.

‘Mummy, I’m ready. Come on!’

She led the way out of the house and along the street towards the harbour, her face solemn and pale.

The boy danced along at her side. ‘It’s so exciting, isn’t it, Mummy? Will we go and have tea later, at the hotel, like we do on birthdays?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what we’ll be doing yet.’