"Billy," she said.
I mouthed her name, so no one else could hear. Her blue eyes flashed. We looked at each other. What was there to say?
I decided "I love you," was right.
She looked at me a long time.
"I love you too," she whispered.
I had never said that to a woman before. Or heard it. Hell of a time and place. I pulled myself closer, the muscles in my forearms quivering as they took almost all my weight. Harding was pushing up on the soles of my boots as I strained to get just a little closer. I could feel his hands shaking.
"I'll get you out of this, I promise," I said.
"Get yourself out, Billy. The SOL men are fanatics."
"I know." I didn't want to tell her how I knew. "What's going to happen to you?"
"I don't know," she said, shaking her head. "I don't know what went wrong. We must have been betrayed." There was hurt in her eyes, as if she were wondering which of her friends was the traitor.
"We'll be out soon," I said. "There's no way they can keep us here. The whole U.S. Army is on its way. I'll find you. I promise!"
"You can't mention my name, Billy. If they find out…"
"I know, I know. The best thing now is for you to keep quiet and pass as another kid caught up in all this."
I wished I hadn't said it like that. She was so much more. She looked away for a second. I sensed I'd hurt her.
"We almost did it, you know," she said.
"Yeah, I know. Me, I didn't even get close."
"We're quite a pair, aren't we?" She tried to smile and winced, as she shifted to get closer. I could tell she was in pain.
I looked at her face, the face I saw in my dreams every night, the face I dreamed of kissing in a place far away from here. The first time I had seen that face, lightning had cracked the sky and thunder rolled like waves over the hills. She'd been mucking out a barn at Seaton Manor when we were introduced by her sister Daphne. And despite that, and the fact that she was English through and through, committed to serving her country while I was Irish-American, and less than enamored of England and all she stood for, we had fallen for each other. Hard.
We were choking on sand and blood and smiling at each other, desperate to be closer. I wanted to cry out and make this all go away, to just go home with Diana, wherever that might be. Boston, London, it didn't make any difference. We were inches away from each other and this could be the last time we'd ever be together. Her face was bloody and dirty and beautiful and I knew she was scared. I was scared. My heart was breaking and I was terrified and I realized I had never felt this happy before, just being with her for a few seconds, here in this dusty prison courtyard, a world away from everything.
I heaved myself forward and felt my feet leave Harding's grasp.
Diana inched herself closer and pressed her face against the bars.
"Billy," she said, tears sliding sideways across her face, as she struggled to move nearer still. I didn't have breath to spare, I couldn't say another word. My boots scrabbled at the bare wall, trying to find a hold. I anchored my jaw on the concrete sill next to the bars. There was no more strength in my arms.
Our lips touched. I tasted blood, then fell away.
It was like falling in a dream, when it takes a long time but then you hit the ground and all the air comes out of you and you wake up. Except I was already awake.
Harding got me on his shoulders again but by the time I managed to hoist myself up next, all I saw was legs moving away, toward the trucks. I couldn't hold on any longer; my arms were gone, weak and shaking. I slid down to the floor and cradled my head in my hands. Sticky blood from my cheeks and jaw oozed between my fingers and I could feel gritty flecks of concrete flake away from my face as I rubbed my eyes. The worst thing was, I felt relieved Diana was gone. I didn't know if I could take seeing her again, tied up like that. I wanted to be with her, to keep her safe, not to hang onto bars while she threw herself to the ground for half a kiss before they took her away to who the hell knows where. At first, all I could think about was her, until I forced myself to recall images of home and work back in the States.
A memory came to me, a crazy one, of the time I was walking my beat in Boston and a car almost hit a lady crossing the street against traffic. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, didn't want to believe it. It was headed straight for her, then swerved, just missing her. I had felt relief, and my whole body loosened up. She stood there, scared out of her wits, and surprised she was still alive. I can still remember the look she gave me, joy and fear mixing at the sudden shock of near-death, then salvation. Then another car sped around the corner and hit her straight on, sending her flying as she bounced off the hood and rolled to the ground, arms and legs bent in different directions and no look at all on her face. I stood there, shouting "No, no, no," jumping up and down, trying to will away what I had seen, feeling guilty I hadn't been able to stop it.
I lifted my head from my hands and let it fall back and hit the wall with a thunk. It hurt and felt good at the same time, knocking my thoughts off that track for a second. I tried to think of something positive. A little part of me was still happy at the memory of those eyes, of Diana looking at me and getting close enough for a kiss. A flicker of joy crept up but then I felt fear. I might never see her again. She might die, still wondering where I was and when I was going to come for her. I felt jittery, as if something was about to happen I wasn't ready for. And I thought once more about that lady in Boston, looking at me in the last seconds of her life, a guy who stood there flat-footed, doing nothing.
Chapter Five
Hours passed. There was nothing to do, which usually would suit me. I'm not the kind of guy who thrives on adventure. Give me a nice routine, like walking my beat back in Boston, stopping at a diner for a cup of coffee, flirting with the waitress, twirling my baton out on the sidewalk, and watching the world go by. Seeing the same folks in their shops every day. Church on Sunday. Opening day at Fenway every April. Stuff like that.
Guys like Harding, and maybe every other GI I've run into, they all want adventure. Win the war, get a medal, whip the Nazis, smash the Japs. Me, I figure it's easy to talk tough but a lot harder to stay tough when the lead starts flying. It's not that I'm unpatriotic, I just don't have enough imagination to convince myself that war is going to be like it is in the movies. I've seen too many gunshot wounds up close to believe that. That's why I appreciate a nice, predictable, routine, boring life. Sure, you could get hit by a bus, or if you're a cop you might be one of the unlucky bastards who gets shot every now and then, but the chances are slim. The risk is a lot bigger roaming around North Africa, dodging bullets.
I thought I had it made back in Boston. I sure never thought I'd end up in a jail cell, much less a stinking Algiers jail cell. I was just enjoying being called Detective and then what happens? I get pulled out of civilian life and thrown into the army, where not even Dad's political pals could keep me out of this war. Getting into another fight alongside the English hadn't played well at the Boyle household. The Holy Catholic Church, the Boston Police Department, and the Irish Republican Army are a pretty big deal at home, although not necessarily in that order. My Dad and two uncles had gone off to fight in the Great War. Alongside the English. Only two of them came back, and they were pretty bitter. So I'd been brought up to believe that the only thing worth dying for, other than family and a brother officer, of course, was a free Ireland. One night, right after Pearl Harbor, Dad and Uncle Dan laid it on the line for me. It took a few beers at the tavern before they got around to it, but I knew something was up when Uncle Dan drained his fourth draft and told me this wasn't our war because no one had attacked a Boyle, or Boston, or any part of Ireland. Uncle Dan's a cop too, a detective just like my Dad. He's also a real IRA man, unlike Dad. He didn't like the idea of another Boyle dying for the "fucking Brits," but other than that sentiment, which I couldn't really argue with, they didn't have much of a plan.