The Lie (26 page)

That wouldn't be for some months, of course. Apart from the burns, which Simon had sustained before he managed to eject, he hadn't been too badly injured. His ankle had been damaged and there had been some bruising and fractures, but because he'd come down in the sea, he'd been relatively lucky. A fishing boat had picked him up soon after ditching, and he'd been rushed straight to the military hospital nearby. He would be scarred on his face and body, but he would probably be able to live normally when he was fully recovered.

Emily had felt no revulsion when she'd seen Simon's scars. It hadn't made her want to run away as Maura had when she saw John. She was genuinely concerned for him, upset and distressed by the pain she knew he was suffering, and yet she wasn't sure she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him or his family.

As she approached the little private ward where Simon was being cared for, a man came out and began to walk towards her. He was wearing a dark lounge suit, his black hair waving off a high forehead, his eyes dark brown and his generous mouth topped by a neat moustache. He was actually a very handsome man, she thought, possibly in his early forties.

‘How is my husband today, Doctor?' she asked, and saw an odd look in the man's eyes. ‘He isn't worse, is he? He hasn't had a relapse?'

‘No  . . .' The man glanced at his wristwatch – gold and very expensive, she noticed. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Vane. You've made a mistake. I'm not a doctor.'

He walked quickly away from her, seemingly in a hurry to escape. How odd, she thought. If he wasn't a doctor, why had he just come from Simon's room? Her heart quickened as she wondered if he had done something to harm her husband, and she opened the door without knocking.

Simon was propped up against the pillows. She saw that he was smoking, something his father and the doctors had absolutely forbidden, and as she approached the bed, she thought she could smell whisky.

‘Should you be smoking?' she asked. Simon had opened his eyes but was staring at a point somewhere beyond her shoulder as he usually did when she visited him these days. ‘Who did I just see leaving – that good-looking man with dark hair?'

Simon glanced at her then. He ignored her comment about smoking, putting the cigarette to his lips as she sat on the edge of the bed and inhaling deeply. It was a moment or two before he answered.

‘You must have seen Philip. He's a sort of distant cousin. We've known each other for years.'

‘Oh  . . .' Emily felt vaguely dissatisfied with his answer, though she wasn't sure why, except that she sensed he was not telling her the whole truth. ‘How are you feeling today?' He seemed more cheerful, so his cousin's visit must have done him good.

‘Bloody awful,' he said, ‘if you want the truth, but better than I have been, I suppose. The doctors tell me I was lucky.'

‘I think they're right. It might have been worse, Simon.'

‘You try it and see how it feels.'

‘I'm not saying it isn't awful for you, but the doctors here are very good and your father is very hopeful that surgery will help.'

‘My father doesn't have to have the bloody surgery,' Simon muttered angrily. ‘But Philip says I should stop moaning and start thinking about the future  . . .' A rueful expression came into his eyes. ‘I suppose I have been rather a bore these past few weeks  . . .'

‘You were entitled to be,' Emily said, with a smile. This was the first time he had been anything like his old self, which was understandable. ‘Besides, they had you on drugs for ages. I came several times before you even knew me.'

‘Poor Emily,' Simon said. ‘I haven't been fair to you, have I?'

Emily's heart caught. When he looked at her like that she remembered how she'd felt at the start of their relationship, like a young girl in love. She wished she still felt like that but however hard she tried, she couldn't – because at the back of her mind there was always a picture of another man.

‘You didn't ask to get shot down.'

‘But I knew it could happen.' He reached out to stroke the back of her hand as it lay on the bed next to his. ‘Do you want a divorce, Emily? I wouldn't blame you if you did.'

She couldn't answer him immediately. For weeks he'd ignored her and she'd felt like a bird, beating her wings uselessly against the bars of a gilded cage, but now there was an appeal in his eyes that held her fast. She must feel something for him despite all the doubts and suspicion that her marriage was a mistake. At the moment, she felt as if she were being torn in two, and it hurt like hell.

‘What do you want, Simon? Do you want to be free?'

‘I'm not going very far for the moment, am I?'

‘You know what I mean.'

‘Why do you ask? You're the one married to a man with revolting scars all over his body.'

‘I don't find them revolting.'

‘I bloody do,' Simon muttered. ‘I'm a sodding freak.'

‘That's not true, and I wish you wouldn't swear, Simon. I asked if you wanted to be free, because I wasn't sure that you liked being married to me that much.'

‘I did warn you I have moods, didn't I?'

‘Yes, but it was more than that. You know it was. Sometimes, at the start, it was all right but last time you were here – you were distant, Simon. You smiled at me, but you weren't really thinking of me. I sensed something – it was as if there was a barrier between us. I feel as if I don't know you. You're not the man I thought I'd fallen in love with that first day. Your eyes seemed to hold secrets. You never tell me what you're thinking  . . .'

‘That's a bit unfair, Emily. We haven't spent a lot of time together.'

‘Marcus got home leave twice as often as you. I think you didn't want to come home to me. You didn't want me here when I came to visit  . . .'

‘I couldn't tell you  . . . I was afraid of being shot down, of dying before—' He avoided her eyes. ‘Whatever I am, whatever my failings, I love you as much as I am capable of loving any woman, Emily. I don't want a divorce. Please don't leave me.'

Emily looked down at her lap, twisting her wedding ring nervously. She knew that she was caught, that it was impossible for her to break through the emotional ties he and his father had woven about her.

‘Vane wants me to run his convalescent home for him.'

‘Yes, he told me he was going to ask you,' Simon said. ‘It would give you something to do, Emily. I'll be tied up here for a long time, and after that I may go to America for treatment. I was going to refuse but Philip thinks I should go.'

‘It's your choice,' Emily replied. Clearly this distant cousin had quite an influence on him. His visit had changed Simon's attitude completely. Before, he'd been morose, hardly speaking unless forced, and he certainly hadn't talked to her like this. ‘You're the one who knows how important the treatment is for you. Successful surgery might make you feel better about yourself.'

Simon looked at her oddly, almost as if he were ashamed of something. ‘You've been very good, Emily. A lot of girls would have run away screaming. Father told me he is proud of you – that's quite a compliment. He likes you a lot.'

Emily was silent. If she could put aside her resentment at the way Lord Vane had taken over her life since his son had been shot down, she supposed she liked him too. It was considerate of him to offer a job, because most married women had to be satisfied with staying at home.

‘I'm not going to run away because you have a few scars, Simon. It would take more than that to make me leave you.'

‘Are you going to take on the job?' Simon ignored the comment on his scars, as if he didn't want to know. She understood, because he had been so very good-looking, and he must hate the thought of being scarred for life. Even though he had been luckier than many, he would still bear reminders of his burns for as long as he lived.

‘Yes, I think so. I haven't told him yet. Your father gets too much of his own way, Simon. It will do him good to wait.'

Simon gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘That's the spirit, Emily. Stand up to him. He will respect you for it.'

Emily bent down to kiss him lightly on the lips. She felt him stiffen, withdraw. When she moved away his eyes were closed, and she could see that he hadn't wanted her to kiss him. It was almost as if he found it distasteful to be touched by her.

‘What's wrong, Simon? I'm sorry if I hurt you.'

‘You didn't,' he muttered. ‘I'm tired. Go away now and leave me to sleep, will you?'

‘Yes, of course.'

Emily opened the door, glancing back for a moment before closing it behind her. Simon had asked her not to leave him, but he didn't want her to kiss him. When she thought about it, she knew that he had never truly enjoyed their love-making. Was there something wrong with her – something that made him reluctant to touch her – or was there some other reason? Something was nagging at the back of her mind but she didn't know what  . . . there was nothing she could really put her finger on. Simon's attitude just made her more certain that he didn't truly love her.

If she stayed with him it was likely that they would never have a true marriage, not the kind she might have if she married Terry – and yet what could she do about it? Terry would urge her to leave Simon, but she knew she couldn't bring herself to do it. She was going to give in to Lord Vane's emotional blackmail and take the job he had offered her.

Daniel heard the truck's engine splutter and die, and knew that there was no way he was going to keep up with the rest of the convoy. He glanced at his mate and saw the fear in his eyes. From the information they had, the Germans were half an hour or less behind them, and if they couldn't get this damned truck going pretty sharpish, they could be in trouble, because it was packed with explosives.

‘Look, grab a lift with one of the other trucks, Ted,' Daniel said. ‘I'll have a go at getting this running and I'll catch up with you at the other end.'

‘I don't like leaving you, Dan,' his mate said. But there was a nervous look in his eyes as they heard the sound of gunfire somewhere in the distance. It was probably an attack from the air on another convoy. ‘I wouldn't mind if we were dug in somewhere, but we're sitting ducks out here.'

‘Go on, get going,' Daniel said, and gave him a little shove. Just before Ted obeyed, Dan took a packet of letters from inside his jacket and shoved them into his friend's hand. ‘If you get off safe, send these for me, will you?'

‘Yes, of course. Good luck then.'

Daniel nodded. He jumped down from the cab and opened up the bonnet, peering inside. The carburettor was playing up again by the looks of things, but he had a spare in the back; it wasn't much better than the one that had just given up the ghost, but he'd been going to swap them over before the order to retreat had come through. He cursed as he started work, watching the convoy retreating into the distance. Maybe he was a fool to try and get this bloody thing going; he could have simply abandoned it, and yet he felt it was his duty to get as much equipment out as he possibly could. They were going to lose too much stuff as it was, to say nothing of the men.

Like Ted, he hated being stuck on this open road. The truck made too good a target, and besides, once he got going again he had no idea where he was headed. It had been a case of follow my leader, and take out as much as you can, those were their orders.

It took him nearly twenty minutes before there was a flicker of life in the tired engine, and then, just as it began to spark, a man came running towards him at full pelt.

‘The Germans come,' he said, in a heavy Greek accent. ‘You go quick.'

Daniel could hear the roar of motorbikes in the distance, and knew it must be the advance patrol that so often preceded heavier armaments.

‘They're not having this damned thing,' he muttered. ‘I'll blow the bugger to kingdom come first!'

The Greek raised his brows, lifting the flap at the back of the truck to peer inside, and then grinned. ‘You come. We go quick,' he said, and jumped into the driving seat, leaving Daniel to scramble into the passenger side as best he could. ‘We don't let the buggers have it. We have better uses, eh, my friend?'

Daniel saw his grin, realizing that he was dealing with more here than he had imagined at first. He knew that it was his duty to follow the convoy, but the Greek was in command now, and they were headed down a steep incline. The lorry was bumping and shuddering dangerously as they hurtled at terrifying speed, making Daniel shudder as he imagined the ammunition exploding at any moment. Finally they stopped behind a huge clump of boulders further down the ridge. It was only just in time, he realized, as the motorbikes went roaring by, and a few minutes later they heard the rumble of tanks and heavy armour.

Daniel thought they were sure to be discovered, but the rumbling went on and then, suddenly, it was quiet. He turned to look at his companion, who was grinning at him.

‘So now what do we do? I can't get this thing through to the coast now. Unless you know another route?'

‘I have the better idea.' The Greek held out his hand to Daniel. ‘I am Mikkos, yes? You British Tommy, no?'

‘Name is Daniel. Pleased to meet you, Mikkos.'

‘The British go and we surrender,' Mikkos said, and spat out of the open window. ‘But we are not finished. There are some of us who will not lie down and play dead. We make the buggers pay, yes? Your lorry has what we need to blow them up, yes?'

‘Yes  . . .' Daniel looked at him warily. ‘Are you suggesting you take this stuff for sabotage purposes?'

‘We make things bad for them for a while, yes?' Mikkos raised his brows. ‘You stay and help, no?'

The sensible thing would be to hotfoot it after the retreating British troops, Daniel knew. It was stupid to get involved with Mikkos's plans, and yet somehow it appealed. He'd felt like a scalded cat, having to run from the Germans again, and only a few weeks after he'd arrived. Besides, ten to one if he tried to make it through to the coast he would get picked up by the Germans. If it was a straight choice between working with Mikkos, who smelled like a goat but had saved his life, or sitting the war out in a German prisoner of war camp, then there was only one choice.