Leaning out of the wheelhouse, the captain called to them. ‘Are you two just going to stand there ogling the young lady, or is one of you going to offer her a coat?’
Both youths moved into action. The one with the Sten gun said, ‘Come on, let’s get you below… You can have my greatcoat.’
The ginger-haired youth reached out to grip her biceps, then hesitated and turned the movement into a gesture for her to move ahead of him. On unsteady legs she preceded him to the hatch, and down splintered wooden steps into a hold heated by a small stove and thick with cigarette smoke. Without speaking, ginger hair moved past her to take a heavy army coat down from a wall hook. The machine-gun holder, following them, took up a piece of blanket from one of the cases that they had been using as seats down here, and passed it to her. Still shivering, Polly dried her arms and legs and tried to blot the rest of the moisture from her clothing, thoroughly aware of the silence of the two soldiers and how they could not keep their eyes off her. When she accepted the greatcoat, shrugged it on and moved closer to the stove, the spell broke.
‘They spotted you from one of the pillboxes. How did you end up in the sea?’ asked ginger hair.
‘Toby, get that bloody kettle on!’ came a yell from above, giving her time to try and think of a plausible answer. Toby, the ginger-haired one, moved over to where one crate being used as a small table was cluttered with cups, tea-making stuff, and two overflowing ashtrays. Taking up a large teapot, he emptied its remaining contents into a nearby bucket, which by the smell of it also served a less sanitary purpose. He then spooned in loose tea. The other soldier unhooked his Sten gun and sat down on one of the lower steps, propping the weapon against his knee. He took a pack of Woodbines from the top pocket of his army shirt, knocked out a cigarette and lit up.
Not too bright: an oil stove and cigarettes down here. You’d think they’d be a bit more careful considering the load they’re carrying. But then I suppose you get blasé about that sort of thing after a while.
Polly desperately wanted to ask what Nandru was on about. She studied the crates stacked everywhere and saw stamped on them ‘Corned Beef, and in one case ‘Pilchards’. Over to one side were stacked hessian sacks, which she guessed contained potatoes.
Over to your left.
Polly glanced in that direction, wondering if Nandru was much closer to her thoughts than she would like, and observed a stack of metal cases roped down to hooks and partially concealed by a tarpaulin. On one of these she could see, stamped in white letters, the label ‘3.7 inch AA’, which meant nothing to her.
That looks like a shitload of ammunition.
‘Well, what happened to you then?’ asked the one with the Sten gun, shaking out his match then grinding it underfoot.
I’ve been thinking about this and there’s no easy story. Say you had a row with your boyfriend or something, and he tipped you out of his boat.
‘What’s your name?’ Polly asked the youth.
‘Dave,’ he replied, hoisting his Sten gun into a more comfortable position. ‘This is Toby, and the captain up there is Frank. What about you?’
‘Polly.’
Dave continued staring at her, evidently still waiting for an answer to his previous question.
Polly said, ‘Nandru… my boyfriend… he died and I was going to join him.’
The kettle Toby had just filled from a jerrycan clanged down on the cast-iron surface of the stove. He was staring at her with his mouth open, not knowing what to say.
‘Gurkha?’ Dave asked. Polly thought it safe to affirm this.
‘He died fighting then, I take it?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘I think he did.’
Oh, very funny. Now they’ll ask you where and when I was killed, and we don’t even know the damned date.
‘Where’d he cop it then,’ asked Dave.
‘He was killed at… in the desert. They said he died doing his duty.’
Dave stared at her for a moment. ‘He was with Monty?’
Polly numbly nodded her head.
Ah fuck, yes. Tell them I caught it at El Alamein.
‘Yes, at El Alamein,’ she added.
‘Yeah, well that Rommel was a tricky sod, but the bastards are on their last gasp now,’ said Dave. He gestured at the ceiling with his cigarette, and they all paused to listen to the distant gunfire. ‘Probably trying to hit Marconi again. That’s one they haven’t given up on,’ he finished.
Polly did not know what to say to this. She had heard the name Marconi once but could not remember in connection with what. Dave observed her for a moment, then took out his cigarette packet and held it out to her. Polly stepped over to him and took one, then stooped low to light it from the match he struck and cupped for her. Drawing on it, she found it tasted of nothing but burning paper and gave her no satisfaction at all.
‘You were going to kill yourself?’ asked Toby, then got a warning look from Dave and flushed with embarrassment.
‘I was,’ said Polly, ‘but now I wonder if that might just be giving in to the fuckers.’
Silence immediately followed and, glancing at the two youths, she realized they were shocked by her swearing. She moved to one of the crates and sat down. Drawing on her cigarette again, she got a bit more of a hit this time, and immediately sensed movement from the thing on her arm. She took another drag, ignoring it.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘If I told you that I’d have to shoot you,’ said Dave, in mock reproach.
‘OK,’ said Polly. Glancing over at Toby, now pouring boiling water into the teapot, she tried to remember the last time she had drunk any tea. Her mother used to make it and, ever since, the stuff had left a bad taste in her mouth.
‘No big secret,’ admitted Dave. ‘Cock-up on the supply front from Heme Bay to Knock John. So we’re running some stuff down from Goldhangar to keep ‘em going for a week or so. We all know something big is coming up.’
‘Knock John?’ Polly repeated, before she could stop herself.
Toby said, ‘I always wanted to go out to them. I’ve never seen them.’
‘Not many people have,’ added Dave. Then, to Polly, ‘Knock John naval fort is where we’re heading. It’s one of the Maunsell sea forts.’
Polly nodded as if she knew what he was talking about, and hoped Nandru would be able to fill her in. While she waited for his input, she sipped from the tin mug Toby handed her, and the memories became more painful than ever before.
Consciousness returned ungently and Tack found he could not move. Staring up at dusty beams, he at first thought the assailant had broken his neck. But it wasn’t the beating that had paralysed him. The familiar sensation of imperatives dissolving in his skull told him that he was connected, as did the raw pain at the back of his neck where his interface plug was located. It was apparent someone had done some home surgery, on this dusty floor he lay upon, to access the plug and connect him up. He was being reprogrammed, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Movement to his left, but he could not turn his head to look. Someone said something in a language he did not recognize, then went on with, ‘Ah, you took your time, but then I suppose that’s to be expected. You AD humans are soft and riddled with imprecise genes.’
The face of the white-skinned man loomed above, his expression contemptuous.
‘You knew the fundamental laws of evolution and you ignored them. You bred strong diseases and weak humans, poisoned with a shitload of inherited idiot programming. You, Tack, have been doubly programmed. And your second program is about to be replaced.’
The stranger liked to talk, that was evident. Tack listened as best he could, through the white noise in his brain, as imperatives were changed and new instructions melded into place.