Smith turned to Machen and breathed the words, “Mr Machen, when you look at the stained glass window, what do you see?”
Machen looked from the face of St. George in painted glass, with the light of the dying sun shining through, to Smith. “I…”
Smith turned suddenly, tilting his head to one side, listening.
Machen began again, clearly puzzled by the man’s reaction. “I see the face I imagined all those years-”
Smith held his finger to his lips. “Just a moment,” he whispered. “I don’t think we’re alone.” He moved to the centre of the aisle and looked back toward the entrance doors. Beneath the archway that supported the tower above it was a void of deep shadow. I did hear something, he told himself. Or was it a sound? Perhaps it was more a sixth sense, warning him that someone had slipped into the church. He recalled the same feeling earlier when he’d sensed that he was not alone in the street; almost a primitive residual instinct, signalling that — what? He was being watched? Followed?
“Wait here a moment,” he told Machen, then moved quietly between the bench pews. He saw no one, but he thought he heard footsteps as light as feathers brushing the flagstone floor to his right. By now the daylight was almost gone. With blackout regulations in force there was no artificial lighting. The only illumination was the afterglow of the sun throwing ghostly projections from stained-glass windows onto pews, stone columns and white-painted walls. Smith turned and retraced his steps toward the altar, and multicoloured images of saints, unicorns, lambs and cherubs flowed across him, dappling him in greens, golds, reds and heavenly blues.
Maybe it’s this place, he thought. It’s working on my imagination, especially as this was the birthplace of Machen’s story. Then there’s the stained-glass depiction of St George, and his face… It’s like a firestorm in my mind. Truth and make-believe are stirring themselves together.
He glanced toward Machen, standing there with the light shining around him, looking every inch a saint conjured from the distant past, his silver hair changing colour as the remaining daylight seeped through the church windows. Machen watched him approach.
“Anyone, lieutenant?”
“No. My imagination’s getting a little jumpy of late.”
“No small wonder.” Machen turned to the stained glass of St George. “Now, this image. It dates back to the sixteen-hundreds. I should very much like it if you were to stand beside it so that I can…”
Machen continued speaking as Smith’s attention was drawn to a statue carved in dark wood. It stood so close to the lectern that Smith thought it formed the central column. The statue was in deep shadow and he could make out barely any detail, but for some reason he could not tear his gaze away from it, from the hard, rounded head to the over-large eyes that glinted eerily in the depths of that shadow. Machen was still talking about comparing the image of St George with Smith. Of collecting a camera. Of bringing respected individuals who could verify the uncanny similarity. Only Smith was no longer listening. The statue… there was something wrong… the silhouette was man-sized. And it did not obey any sculptor’s convention. Not the prime attribute of the statue which was: a statue shall not of its own volition move…
A rush of ice plunged down Smith’s backbone. The statue glided smoothly forward. Machen had still not noticed, and he continued talking, enthralled by the similarity between the painted representation and the flesh-and-blood figure of the lieutenant standing beside to him. “Remarkable, quite remark able. Of course, there are some that will dismiss it as coincidence… pure coincidence. But if I’m not-.”
“Mr Machen, stand back.”
“Pardon?”
“Back… get out of my way.” Smith unbuckled the holster flap and drew out his revolver.
“Lieutenant… Delamare, what on earth’s wrong?”
“Keep back.” Smith moved forward, pushing the old man to one side as the dark figure glided out of the shadows. It passed through the blood-red projection of Christ on the Cross. Dolorous. Martyred. The magnified eyes were momentarily superimposed on the large eyes of the man now approaching. A crown of thorns slid over the glossily dark head.
Then Smith realized why the eyes were so large and unblinking. As the man emerged from the dappling of refracted light Smith saw his goggles, the leather flying helmet sheathing his head, the pilot’s tunic and leather-gauntleted hands.
“Dear Lord,” Machen breathed. “That uniform is Luftwaffe!”
Smith cocked the revolver with his thumb and aimed. “Stay where you are. You are now a prisoner of war. Do you understand? Stay back.”
The man merely grinned. The goggles flashed red, green, yellow as he moved forward.
“Nein,” Smith barked. “Neinl Halt!”
But the German pilot did not stop, and neither did his smile falter. He moved forward faster, breaking into a run, heading straight for Smith.
Smith fired two shots point-blank into the man’s chest. The German charged into him, pushing him back. Smith tried to resist but his feet slid on the floor — his attacker’s muscular strength was formidable. Effortlessly the pilot shoved him back and back, until he slammed into a stone pillar with enough force to wind him.
And then the pilot’s hands found Smith’s throat to crush with agonizing ferocity. Instantly the air locked in Smith’s lungs; he could not breathe, could barely move. He could only look into the smiling face of the pilot, the eyes masked by the tinted goggles. As Smith’s vision blurred he saw Machen stride up behind the pilot, grab him by the tunic and try to haul him back. Despite his age, Machen possessed the powerful build of his countrymen, with long muscular arms that succeeded in breaking the pilot’s grip from Smith’s throat. However, the pilot repositioned his hands to force Smith backward again, as if trying to crush him into the stone walls of the church.
Smith grunted a breath into his lungs. Then, realizing that he still held the revolver, he jabbed the muzzle into the man’s side just above his right hip and fired a.38 calibre round through his body. It must have torn through kidney and intestine alike.
Even though the German twitched as the bullet passed through him, it did not shift his expression. The smile remained fixed — immobile, as if carved on that grey face. With his free hand the pilot struck back at Machen, knocking the old man to the church floor where he lay stunned by the uncanny force of the blow.
Then, with the speed of a striking cobra, those black gauntlets sliced through the air to seize Smith by the throat, once more squeezing his windpipe shut. Blood thundered in his ears. His vision blurred. Behind his attacker he saw Machen try to stand, but fail. Instead the writer sat supported by one hand, unable to act to save Smith, but still able to watch his imminent demise. Even though the lieutenant struggled with every shred of his strength, he could not break the steely grip on his throat. In front of him the German’s face distorted and rippled as Smith’s senses began to fade away.
And then the pilot moved that ballooning, shapeshifting head closer to Smith’s. The dark lips parted and a voice hissed: “Alea jacta est.”
For a second the man reverted to statue-like stillness. Then the pressure vanished from Smith’s throat, and the pilot crumpled to the floor with the limpness of an empty sack. Smith gasped a few frantic breaths. Air had never tasted so sweet or cool. He tried to cock the revolver in case the man renewed his attack, but his hands were still weak. Instead, he steadied himself against the pillar with his free hand while breathing deeply. The pilot lay flat on his back without moving. Maybe those pistol shots had hit their mark after all.