Читать книгу The Sons of Adam - Harry Bingham - Страница 37

Alan woke up in pain.

Somewhere there was danger; horror even.

He grabbed his revolver and held it out into the darkness, breathing heavily. He listened for shooting. There was nothing, only the continual thunder of distant guns. Half a minute passed. Alan tried to remember where he was.

He felt around him. He was lying on a straw mattress on an iron bedstead.

He could remember Guy sitting with him for some time during the day – or had it been the day before? He was still muzzy and couldn’t remember. He could hear the rustle of straw under him and the quiet sounds of the village beyond the window: a horse grazing, a mechanic trying to start a motorbike. He groped for a match, lit it, then found a candle and lit that.

He stared around the little room, looking for danger. There was nothing. He uncocked his revolver and laid it down.

But waking up had brought no peace. His heart was still beating a hundred and twenty beats to the minute and the sense of appalling tragedy was still with him. He’d have blamed his dreams, except that his sleep had been dreamless and the sense of disaster was stronger now he was awake.

Alan remembered his quarrel with Tom. Pain and anger flashed through him. Tom’s conquest of Lisette had seemed like a deep and deliberate insult. Although Alan had been three-parts delirious when he’d assaulted Tom, he was still deeply angry. But the flash passed. The quarrel was just a quarrel. Tom would apologise and mean it. Alan would take back everything he’d said and he’d mean it too. The quarrel was nothing.

Alan’s heart was racing with something else, something worse, something permanent. For a moment, he didn’t understand. And then he did.

Tom!

Something had happened to Tom.

Alan leaped from bed, found his trousers, groped round for his boots, but couldn’t find them. He remembered that Guy had taken them in an attempt to stop him from wandering, but there was a pair of hobnailed peasant’s shoes lying in the stable below and they would do. He grabbed his tunic, found the shoes, and ran out into the street. His body was absurdly weak still, especially his lungs, but his co-ordination had improved. He walked carefully across to the offices of the transport captain, hoping to borrow a horse.

The captain was there, bent over paperwork, swearing softly to himself. He looked up and broke into a smile. He liked Alan.

‘Well, well. Good evening to you, sir,’ he said, with a smart salute.

‘What?’ said Alan, returning the salute automatically.

‘I see you’ve got your just rewards at last,’ said the captain. ‘Thoroughly well deserved too, I might add.’

Alan looked down at his shoulder. He’d become a major while he’d slept. He shook his head, puzzled. ‘I’ve got my brother’s tunic, I don’t know how. I suppose he must have taken mine by mistake. Look here, can I borrow a horse? I’ll give it back in the morning.’

The captain whistled, sighed, looked at his infinite requisition dockets – but within ten minutes Alan had saddled up and was trotting his way through the darkness, heading for the front line, heading for Tom.