When they were out of sight, he slowed to a halt to consider the situation. Again he had to pull at her thin, dark-haired arms that were now bound suffocatingly tight around him. The ride seemed to have terrified her. She climbed off. He could see her short legs trembling. She was his possession. A girl. He felt the warmth of her body still on his back. He smelled the acid smell of her body. But there was nothing he could do or could consider doing. He couldn’t take her with him. He couldn’t have her and then send her back. He wouldn’t do anything, he corrected himself. He was a gentleman and so forth. He took hold of her, however, and hugged her, his nose in one small ear, holding her tightly enough that he could feel her small breasts against him, the strong length of her body pressed against his. He felt it and let go, pushing her away again. He pointed at the motorcycle and said, ‘It won’t ride.’ She stared. He made large x-shaped gestures to tell her that it wasn’t working. He said again, ‘It will not go. It will not go.’ She gave no sign of understanding. ‘Home,’ he said. ‘You go home.’ Still she didn’t move. He pointed back up the hill and shooed her away. Finally he took hold of her shoulders, turned her around, put one hand on her left buttock and pushed. She understood. She ran and didn’t look back.
In the villa that night, Will indulged himself and masturbated. He knew that he’d done the right thing but now he imagined himself throwing her down onto that stony track, pulling the clothing from the helpless girl and fucking her there and then.
13
It was a pleasure the following day to sit in the office and type up his report. Cigarette, coffee, the hammering of the typewriter keys loud in the bare, high-ceilinged room. Briefly, he stood up and walked to the window and looked down at the harbour that was seething with brown uniforms of newly arrived men and the turning cranes lifting crates and machines. Returning to the desk he continued describing his singular exploit. The account was dryly factual, understated in what Will imagined was the best Whitehall style; nevertheless the image of his success shone out, not gaudily painted but emerging from the essential substance like a profile on a coin.
And it seemed that word had already spread. In the afternoon an Arab arrived at the office and asked specifically to speak to Mr Walker. Will was called out to meet a small, unhappy, very tidily dressed man who shook him by the hand and said, ‘I understand you are a friend of the Arab people.’
‘I am,’ Will answered. ‘I mean, I’m here in a sense representing the Allies. We’re here for every …’
‘Yes. That’s good. Do you smoke?’
‘Thank you, yes.’ Will accepted the proffered cigarette.
‘I can bring you many boxes. Good American tobacco, if you like it. So. As a friend I ask you, go to the French prison and ask to see the fish pool.’
‘The fish pond?’
‘Yes, the fish pond. Where you keep fish in a garden.’
‘And what is it?’
‘You will see.’ The man’s small brown eyes were urgent, his mouth set. ‘Go and ask like that and you will surprise them and they will think you know everything already and they will show you.’
‘But I don’t know anything because you’re not telling me.’
‘It’s better not to know. You’ll find out when you get there. Then you will know what to do. Goodbye now, friend.’
‘What? I beg your pardon, but what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying I go now. Thank you again. The fish pond.’
14
It was all happening. That night after a good meal accompanied by the oily aromatic local wine the sky began to vibrate. Captain Draycott knitted his hands and leaned forwards over his plate. He said, ‘Oh dear.’
‘Is that …’
‘I fear it is. Yes. Christ. There it is.’ Anti-aircraft guns began hacking from their positions around the port. An air raid siren started it, its long loops of panic rising and falling and rising again. The men sat still and thoughtful.
‘Should we not …?’
‘What?’ Henderson asked, challenging them.
‘Go somewhere. Downstairs. There’s a cellar, isn’t there? I haven’t looked.’
‘You haven’t looked? You’re Field Security and you haven’t looked?’
‘Yes,’ Captain Draycott answered, ‘that might be a sensible prec—’ The rest of the word was lost inside the loud detonation of a bomb.
‘That was close.’
Three of them got up and headed for the door.
‘Don’t shit yourselves, boys,’ Henderson shouted through the noise. He was lighting his pipe, slowly applying the flame to the circle of tobacco.
Draycott was pale, staring. He breathed noisily through his teeth.
‘It’s like being back in London,’ Samuels said.
Will grinned at him. ‘Is it?’
‘Yes. Night after night of this.’
‘Fine old time,’ Henderson said. ‘Grabbing handfuls of fanny in the Underground shelters.’
‘Not exactly.’
Planes were now directly overhead, shaking the room. The chandelier jumped and skipped on the end of its chain. The guns were going mad. Draycott leaned forward and vomited then got up and tried to walk out. He stumbled. Someone was in his path, lying under the table saying, ‘Please, Mother. Oh, Mother. Oh, shit shit shit shit.’ Draycott looked down, bewildered, then hurried out.
Samuels shouted, ‘Seems sensible!’ Another bomb fell and its light flashed at the window.
Seeing Samuels about to go, Will leaned forward and grabbed his wrist, holding him there. Samuels looked back at him, confusion in his eyes, apparently trying to hear what Will was saying and then realising, trying to twist his arm free. Will held him and held him, and then let go. Samuels swore at him as he turned but Will couldn’t hear through the engine noise, the firing and explosions.
Will’s body felt very light and thrilled, like he wanted to dance. He got up from the table and rushed out onto the terrace from where he could see the swinging diagonals of the searchlights, one catching the sea as a bomb dropped into it and cast up a brief tower of black water. The light of the guns stuttered. Fires were taking hold in parts of the city. From a gun position behind him, anti-aircraft fire was dropping red-hot shrapnel onto the terrace. Will could hear it tinkling as it hit. A bomb fell so close that he felt the hot wind on the side of his face, stinging with masonry grit. Still he felt invulnerable, exalted, charged and powerful and really there. He was haloed in his own safety. He was with his father in courage. He was in his presence. It was like they were brothers.
15
The prison was a square building with a central courtyard. A bomb had smashed one corner to a heap of rubble. Rather poetically, from the exposed walls above, twisted iron bars had been blown back like a curtain in a breeze. Apparently three men had been killed. Will could see others, unhoused, chained together, waiting in the courtyard.
Perhaps this confusion might be to Will’s advantage. The clerk or whoever he was behind the desk was evidently without sleep, blinking dry eyes, holding a cigarette in slightly trembling fingers.
‘I’m here from Allied Field Security,’ Will informed him.
‘Name.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Your name.’
‘My name is Walker. I’m here from Field Security. This is my pass and I’m here to see the fish pond.’
The man blinked and took the card from Will. The holder of this card is engaged in SECURITY duties, in the performance of which he is authorised to be in any place, at any time, and in any dress. All authorities subject to Military Law are enjoined to give him every assistance in their power, and others are requested to extend him all facilities for carrying out his duties. The man looked up at Will and back down at the pass.