Against the Tide (30 page)

‘What's this? Who followed him?' Eric broke in.

‘The two I told you about on the phone, the ones who've been keeping watch on this house –'

‘They're not here now, are they?' He hurried to the window, peering through the curtains.

‘Can you see any cars?'

‘No, the road is clear.'

‘Well they're probably having a cup of tea at the town hall. Relax, they were just trying to intimidate the lad.' Fred looked at me and touched his finger to his lips.

‘Well you'd better be extra careful.' Eric turned and sat down again. He stared at me. ‘You've done some sterling work, Jack, but now I must ask you to stand back. Try to forget about all of this. I think I can speak for the party when I say how grateful we are for your help. Without it we wouldn't have this information and –'

‘And what? I just don't see how my helping with all this has any point unless you do something about it.'

‘And what would you have us do, young man?' Eric snapped. ‘Who would we inform? You've already confirmed that your own politicians are aware of what is happening. They might even be involved in it. There is some financial advantage for this island in any arrangements that might be made. Some of your leaders have realised that you need to have more than pretty cows and ugly tourists to keep this island solvent.'

‘But I think I know someone who should be informed. After all, it's his committee members who –'

‘No, Jack. You must not tell anyone about this – especially Ralph!' Fred exploded and thumped his fist so hard on the table that his mug of tea fell onto the tiled floor with a splintering crash.

Malita jumped up and fetched a brush, pan and cloth while Fred simmered in his seat. ‘It is too dangerous for you. I forbid you to mention this to anyone. Do you understand?'

I nodded my understanding even though I disagreed. These Communists were all talk. Marxist theory wasn't going to stop Hitler. Once Eric was out of the way, I might tell Fred about my plan, though the more I thought about it, the more risky a venture it appeared. The best solution was to get the lot of them thrown off the island. What to do?

Is this what Hamlet felt as he agonised over action versus inaction? I believed I could see the right course to take, but the strong pull of Fred's tide of disapproval was sweeping me backwards.

29

Wednesday

As a symbol of Hamlet's dilemma, I thought the ceiling fan, whose hesitant rotation failed to stir the thick air in Jurat Poingdestre's oak-panelled office, was almost perfect. Even though it was active, it was moving in a small circle – just like Eric and Fred.

For such a senior politician, Uncle Ralph's limp handshake held little promise, so I wasn't surprised that inaction seemed to be the order of the day. If only those labourers drilling a road through my head would understand that. Fred's
vino tinto
would be better used for cleaning the silver.

I'd decided not to mention diamonds but as soon as I had started the story about Germans pretending to be Dutchmen, the good jurat had interrupted and asked if Red Fred was involved. I'd glossed over my uncle's role and focused on the issue of their meeting with members of the Finance Committee, but its president didn't seem concerned. Perhaps, as Fred had suggested, he had approved it.

Why were Eric and Fred so determined that I shouldn't try to get the Germans thrown off the island?

Couldn't they see that with them out of the way, the diamond deal would collapse and Hayden-Brown would be stuck with his samples? That way I wouldn't have betrayed Caroline's secret, nor would I have risked my neck to make a tiny dent in Hitler's plans.

My head throbbed with frustration. Was I just angry with Kohler, wanting to hurt him because of his involvement with Caroline? Or because I felt an intense dislike for his sneering attitude and disdainful superiority?

Ralph looked alarmed. ‘Are you feeling alright, Jack?'

I realised I'd been staring at the fan while punching Kohler about in my mind.

‘Not really. I think it's wrong to let these Germans get away with lying like this.' My anger was beginning to rise, swamping my sense of stupidity, fuelled by the deliberate, bureaucratic calmness of my uncle.

A sequence from the
Merchant of Venice
started to play in my head. Gratiano, crimson with anger shouts at me across the stage, “
Can no prayers pierce thee?”
Playing Shylock, in a scene where everyone was against him, I'd always derived great pleasure from my line in response, especially as the loquacious Gratiano was played by that racist, Surcouf. “
No, none that thou has wit enough to make!
”

I felt like the desperate Gratiano now, even though I wasn't pleading for my friend's life. I wanted to be listened to but didn't have the “wit” to convince these cynical adults who couldn't see right from wrong.

‘I'm sorry, Jack, but this isn't any of your business, and my idiot cousin shouldn't have got you involved.' He leant back in his chair and squinted over half-moon spectacles at me. ‘I see you are in school uniform – shouldn't you be in lessons?'

The ultimate adult put-down. I stood up and turned towards the door. ‘Yes, Jurat Poingdestre, I should be in school, but I asked to be excused so that I could come to the States Building to work in the library. I wanted to see you because I thought this matter was important. It seems that I was wrong.'

I opened the door but stopped on the threshold. ‘Perhaps the police might be interested in illegal entry into the island. I think I'll find out.'

‘Jack! That would be most unwise.' Uncle Ralph lurched forward in his seat, his eyes blazing.

I closed the door, wondering if the fan would be able to cope with the sudden rise in temperature. I had no intention of speaking to the police but Uncle Ralph didn't know that.

I crossed the corridor and took my pounding head into the canyon of bookshelves. Perhaps an hour or so checking up on Fred's beliefs would give me a new perspective. In truth I felt like vomiting over the issue desk – or would that be classified as a “return”?

An hour trying to unravel the capitalist plot to “crush the workers” had turned into a whole morning and my head was spinning as fast as the wheels of
Boadicea
as I urged her through the lanes. Each piston slap reverberated in my head. I would take the pledge, write my name in blood if necessary, and never touch the Devil's brew again.

It was oppressively hot so I stopped briefly at Five Oaks to remove my blazer and strap it to the pillion so that I could enjoy the cooling breeze of the big bike's passage.

I turned into the sunken lane bordering the farm. The hawthorne and willow sprouting from the hedgerows was out of control. Grasses and ferns tried to reach each other across the narrow divide, guarded at intervals by robust oaks and sycamores. It was beautiful, but in need of the biannual haircut known locally as the
branchage.
There would be an inspection the following week and my father would be fined by the parish if he didn't get our Breton workers out there with their scythes and sickles soon.

I was so preoccupied with the scenery and swerving to escape the grasping weeds that I had to brake hard to avoid a car blocking the end of the lane. There was no room to turn the eight-foot long beast so I dismounted and pulled her onto her main stand.

Two men were poking about in the boot of a black Talbot 105 saloon and looked up when they heard me. One was wearing a cream linen suit and a panama hat. The other had rolled up his shirtsleeves, and his jacket was draped over the boot floor and rear bumper, obscuring the number plate. I stopped by the handlebars as the one in the suit moved towards me.

He tipped his hat and I nodded in return. ‘We have a problem with a flat tyre and can't find the right tools to change the wheel. Do you know where we might get some help? Is there a farm nearby?'

His speech sounded unnatural to me, as though he was trying hard to speak polite English and disguise an accent. There were faint echoes of Saul in his inflections.

As he had taken off his hat, I had caught a glimpse of a balding head with some scraggly hair over rather neat little ears. His eyes were a dull blue, his mouth twisted to the left, his nose red-veined, and bearing the signs of several collisions. His voice was soft but he looked anything but.

The other, shorter, man stood up and looked at
Boadicea
. ‘That's a fine motorcycle. Do you mind if I have a look?'

The accent was harsh, as though English wasn't his first language. I nodded as the wiry fellow, with a well-lined, feral face and broad grin, slid past me to examine
Boadicea,
like a fox on his way to the hen house.

‘Eh, look at this.'

I turned and felt the older man at my shoulder.

‘It's an SS 100. Didn't that Arab lover get killed on one of these?' He looked at his companion. ‘It couldn't be the same one, now could it?'

The older man's mouth twisted into a sly smile, revealing stained teeth.

Not again. What was it about this bike? My head was already clanging so much, I hadn't heard the alarm bells. Who were these two? What did they know about
Boadicea
and what the hell were they doing in the lane?

I moved to the side and peered through the shade at the front left of the car. The tyre was fine, the rear was as well. I moved to the right. There was another man sitting in the driver's seat. He tipped his hat and grinned at me. I ignored him and started forward to look at the other front tyre closely but found the bulk of the older man blocking my path.

‘There's nothing wrong with your car,' I pointed out.

‘Steady now, Jack.'

I shrugged off the restraining hand and took a step backwards. ‘How do you know my name?'

‘Excuse me if I don't introduce myself but we know a lot more about you than your name, Renouf. We just want to have a quiet word with you, give you a message.'

I sensed the younger man moving in behind me. I was alone this time – no chance of Cookie arriving on a white charger. These men exuded more confidence and sly menace than the two in the Jaguar. Were they connected?

I stood my ground and tried to keep my voice firm. ‘What message?'

It was so sudden I didn't even have time to react. I crumpled to the ground, clutching my back, my whole being focused on the burning pain in my side.

‘That's a problem with being young and skinny, not much fat to protect your kidneys.' The younger man stood over me. ‘Just a small tap, but you'll be pissing blood for a couple a days.'

The older one doffed his hat again. ‘Well, that's the message. Keep your nose out of other people's affairs.'

‘I think he's got it, Alf. Let's get him on his bike, now, tidy things up a bit.'

They bent down and, with surprising ease, pulled me upright and frogmarched me to
Boadicea
. I was gasping in agony, trying to twist away from the pain but it was unrelenting. They hauled me onto the bike, forcing my legs astride the tank. Alf held on to the front brake while the other man pushed the bike off its stand. They supported it while I gritted my teeth to swallow the pulsing pain.

Alf leant in close, his breath a mixture of stale tobacco and other unhealthy habits. ‘Just so there is no misunderstanding, or any attempt to make a complaint.' He reached into his jacket and pulled out a leather wallet. He let the flap drop in front of my face. Shafts of sunlight, filtering through the trees, highlighted the metal badge.

My eyes could barely focus but I recognised a crown and royal crest before the wallet was whipped away again. Alf nodded and they stepped away from the bike.

I was too slow to react and it toppled over, trapping me underneath it, the pain from my left kidney overwhelmed by a panic rush as the full weight of the machine collapsed onto my left leg.

They inspected the scene.

‘Unlucky accident. You should be more careful with a powerful bike like that. Still, no real damage done.' Alf wrinkled his nose at the smell of petrol as it seeped out of the carburettors and along my leg. ‘You know, Carl, I think I fancy a cigarette.' He patted his pocket and withdrew a sliver case. He extracted a cigarette and slipped it between his lips. He patted his pockets again in a pantomime. I heard a match strike.

Carl leant forward and lit his fag for him.

He turned back to me and held the lit match close to my face. ‘Now wouldn't it be a shame if I dropped this?'

My teeth were chattering with fear.

He laughed and tossed the match into the hedge – away from the petrol. ‘Take care now, young man.' He patted my head.

They both laughed and, without a backward glance, strolled to their car, closed the boot and drove off.

I lay still, fighting the waves of nausea as they broke over me. I tried flexing my left leg and relief surged through my body as I realised that all my muscles responded.
Boadicea's
tank had taken most of the weight of the fall and the sturdy rear forks had absorbed the shock. It was very awkward and painful but I could move the leg a few inches left and right. I would have to use my hands to lever it out from under the frame.

I could wait but it was unlikely anyone would use this road for hours unless they were going to the farm.

I was worried about the petrol. Eventually it would evaporate but, until then, any spark could set me alight. I had to make the effort now.

I bent my right leg and manoeuvred my knee until it was pressed against the petrol tank. Burning pain shot through me again as I twisted my arms to get some leverage on the frame.

I took a deep breath, pushed hard with my right knee, scrambled out from under the bike and fell backwards into a patch of stinging nettles.
Boadicea
groaned in protest and slumped into the hollow I had left behind.

My left trouser leg was ripped from thigh to ankle and soaked in petrol. I undid my black college shoes and struggled out of the ruined pants. A quick examination of
Boadicea
revealed that the handlebars were bent and there were scratches on her tank but there was no serious damage.