Читать книгу The Sons of Adam - Harry Bingham - Страница 26

At two in the morning, a motorcycle roared up outside a pleasant residential street in Arras. Late in October, the gardens were nothing more than a collection of black and dripping twigs, bounded on the street side by iron railings. Out in the street, a silvery motor-car stood in quiet splendour.

Tom stopped the motorbike, slammed the garden gate open, and struck the lion’s head knocker on the front door with three or four crashing blows. A few seconds passed without response, and Tom struck again, smashing the stillness of the night.

‘C’est qui, ça? Mon Dieu, je viens, je viens.’

From outside, Tom could hear the heavy door being unlocked, and as soon as the last lock was turned, he thrust the door open and entered. He strode past the housekeeper – sleepy, outraged, in dressing gown and curling papers – and stormed upstairs. He didn’t know which room he was looking for and flung open doors and slammed them shut again, until he came to the front room of the first floor. There was Guy, in pyjamas and his uniform tunic, standing at his dressing table, checking his revolver. As the door crashed against the wall, Guy turned with his hand just inches from his gun.

‘Stay right there,’ cried Guy. ‘Don’t advance another step.’ His hand was on the gun now, altering its position on the dressing table so he could snatch it up easily.

‘Leave the gun alone, you fool,’ said Tom.

‘Why have you come here? Who gave you permission to leave your post?’ Guy was backing away from Tom, towards his bedside, where a candle flickered smokily.

‘It was your idea to separate me from Alan, wasn’t it? You can’t bloody leave things alone, can you?’

‘It wasn’t my idea to slaughter the 21st and 24th. The poor bastards need officers. The idea at HQ is that we should give them chaps with a decent fighting record. Chaps like you.’

‘Alan’s every bit as good as me and you know it. Better. He looks after his men better than I do. He’ll keep his head better if it comes to an offensive. I personally don’t give a damn which division I serve in. I don’t care which pointless battle I’m sent to die in. But I will not be separated from Alan. Will not. Not by anyone and least of all by you.’

Guy had grown calmer now that his fear of an outright assault had passed. Something like his customary smirking crept back into his manner.

‘It wasn’t me that made the decision, was it? And though we need to bring in new officers, we don’t want to unsettle existing battalions, let alone take two officers from a single company. So it’s you or Alan, but not both. And that isn’t my decision, it’s Haig’s. You can go and argue it out with him, if you want. He’s just four streets away.’ He gave Tom the address.

Tom ignored the sneer. He paced around the room, which was of a pleasant size and pleasantly furnished – a far cry from the squalor of a front-line dugout. Tom fingered the silver-backed hairbrushes, which lay next to the revolver on the dressing table.

‘Alan thinks you don’t really hate me,’ he murmured. ‘He thinks it’s just an act you put on. But I know you better than that, Cousin Guy, and it’s because I know you that you hate me.’ Tom’s fingers had wandered from the hairbrushes to the gun. His thumb flicked the safety catch off, on, off, on, off, on.

‘Leave that,’ said Guy unsteadily.

‘I know who you are, Cousin Guy,’ said Tom again. He lifted the revolver, took the safety catch off and cocked it. He pointed it straight at Guy’s head. Guy was on the far side of the room, but it was an unmissable distance.

‘Put that down,’ said Guy, dry-mouthed. ‘Put it down. That’s an order.’

‘Down? Like this?’

Tom lowered the gun until it was pointing at Guy’s groin. The barrel gleamed dully in the meagre candlelight. The aim didn’t waver by even a fraction of an inch. Guy stood, mouth open, perfectly still, slightly on tiptoe, as though he could deceive the bullet into passing underneath him between his legs. Tom, meantime, looked hardly threatening; meditative, rather; calm. After a second or two, Tom dropped the gun back on the table behind him. The heavy metal clattered loudly on the waxed mahogany. Guy relaxed. His mouth closed and he came down from tiptoe.

‘You think I’m asking you a favour for my benefit,’ continued Tom, as though nothing had happened. ‘You think I’m asking because I can’t bear to be without Alan. That’s not true. Of course I want to be with him. He’s worth a hundred others, and he’s worth ten thousand like you – but he needs me, he needs me if he’s to survive this war. I don’t know why, but that’s how it is. You can do whatever the hell you want to me, Cousin Guy, but if you want to keep your brother, you’ll keep us together.’

‘You could be shot for this.’ Guy’s voice was husky, little more than a croak.

‘Oh, and one other thing. It’s no great odds to me, but I know Alan would prefer not to be separated from his men. He’s not quick to win their liking, but now he’s got it, he’d be desperately loath to start the whole business again from scratch. As they are now, his men would walk through fire for him.’

‘It really isn’t up to me.’

‘No. I don’t expect it is. But you’re a highly thought-of staff officer with the ear of General Haig. You can sort this out if you want to, just as you helped create this situation in the first place.’

‘I can’t promise anything.’

Tom smiled. His hand was on the door. ‘You don’t have to. When you wake up, you’ll remember that I deserted my post on the front line, stole a motorcycle, broke into your room, and pointed a loaded revolver at your head. So you’ll do everything you can, won’t you, cousin?’ Tom didn’t wait for an answer. He opened the door, and, for the second time that night, brushed aside the night-gowned housekeeper who had been listening at the door. His footsteps marched off across the landing and down the stairs. ‘Don’t forget, cousin, I know who you are.’

Ten seconds later, a motorcycle roared into life and shot off into the enclosing night.

It wasn’t long before Tom was proved right.

Five days later, Major Fletcher loped his way ape-like into Tom’s dugout.

‘Good news for you, Creeley. Mix-up at HQ. You’re sticking here instead of buggering off to the 21st. It’s a bloody shame from my point of view, though.’

‘I beg your pardon?!’

‘Won’t be able to get my millinery done for free. What? What? What?’

Fletcher roared with laughter at his joke and dug down amongst Tom’s belongings to find the bottle of whisky he kept there. Shellfire, heavier than usual that night, thumped the air and sent shock waves through the ground. Particles of chalk fell from the ceiling. Fletcher poured the whisky into a couple of mugs.

The earth quaked around them. They drank.