Some Day I'll Find You (25 page)

He walked quickly across to her and after a moment, placed a hand hesitatingly on her shoulder.

‘This must be so difficult, so impossibly hard for you. I’m sorry, darling.’

Don’t call me that! You have no right to call me that, not now!

It was almost as if she had spoken aloud.

He took his hand away. ‘Forgive me. I had no right to call you that.’ He looked around them. ‘Please don’t go. Stay and have lunch with me. I promise that everything I
tell you will make perfect sense. I want you to understand the whole thing. At the moment this must seem utterly surreal to you . . . I bet you feel like Alice in bloody Wonderland.’

Seeing him standing there, solicitous and concerned, and so unutterably
real
and solid, Diana’s resolve began to fade. It
was
only lunch, after all. She was being silly
and superstitious.

He gestured to the phone booths. ‘Look, call home. If you can’t work it out today, never mind – we can meet here tomorrow, or the next day, or wherever and whenever you like.
I’ll leave it completely to you.’ He pointed to the men’s room. ‘I’m just off there. See you back at the table and you can tell me what’s happening.’

He smiled at her as he walked away, and then turned over his shoulder and called: ‘I hope it’s a yes, though. I’ve already ordered for both of us. Sea bass. It’s rather
good here.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said, sitting down at the table. ‘Stella’s tutor can stay for the rest of the afternoon. They’re off to play
tennis.’

‘Splendid.’ James didn’t look especially surprised, Diana thought. He was busy with the wine-list. She sat back and studied him.

He was still her James, she decided. Completely relaxed, given the extraordinary circumstances. She wondered if anything ever really threw him off-balance. She could hear him humming to himself
as his slim brown fingers moved down the
carte du vin.
He glanced up and grinned at her.

She shivered. He was gorgeous.

Once, he’d been hers.

He ordered their wine and turned to her. ‘What? What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking that this is the strangest day of my life. I can’t believe this is happening, James. I can’t believe you’re alive and here in Nice. I swear I
wouldn’t be surprised if my brother materialised at the next table.’

‘Christ, I would,’ he replied. ‘I’m not one of the undead, Diana, although I almost felt like it the day I was shot down. I was absolutely certain I was about to die when
I jumped. In fact, all the time I was staggering to that village, I kept wondering if I
had
died and it was just my ghost wandering around. I remember thinking—’

‘Of me? Did you think of me, James?’ she interrupted.

He looked steadily at her. ‘I won’t lie to you, Diana. No. No, I didn’t. And we’d been married that very morning, hadn’t we?’

She turned her head away so he wouldn’t see the tears that suddenly pricked her eyes.

‘I didn’t think of anyone other than myself, not that day, and not for a long time after. I felt I’d been given a second chance, a new life. I knew I couldn’t go home so
I suppose I blocked you out of my mind. For a time. Only for a time.’

‘How much time, James? Until today? Until an hour ago?’

His head fell to one side and he gave her a crooked smile. ‘No, my love,’ he said. ‘From almost the moment I arrived here in Nice, ten years ago. Don’t diminish yourself
through my eyes, Diana.’

Two waiters arrived with their food and wine. One filleted the fish at a little side-table next to theirs, the other poured rosé. Their course served, the waiters hurried away.

Diana and James ate in silence for a while. James took a swallow of wine before continuing.

‘The village was called Licques,’ he said. ‘I remember thinking that was appropriate. I was feeling pretty licked by then.’ He smiled faintly. ‘But I’ll
always remember it, whatever it was called, until my dying day.’

He gestured to her glass. ‘Go on. Have a drink, Diana. Trust me – you’re going to need it.’

The village street was almost deserted. Brick-built terraces faced each other, divided by a procession of lime trees planted down the centre of the road. The only person in
sight was a girl of about seven, sitting on the kerbside playing with a doll. She proffered it to James as he stopped in front of her. She didn’t seem the slightest concerned by his scorched
and bloodied appearance.

He politely declined the toy before asking her: ‘Can you tell me,
ma petite
, does a doctor live in your village?’

She pointed instantly down the street. ‘There. The big white house on the left. Dr Lain lives there.’

‘
Merci
.’

She gave him a little wave as he lurched away, and returned to her doll.

Sure enough, 100 yards or so further on there was a drive set at right angles to the street. He could see elm trees sheltering a solid white stone-built house at the bottom of the drive. A
polished brass plaque on one of the twin gateposts at the entrance announced that this was the
Résidence et Cabinet Médical de Dr Hubert Lain
. He staggered down the drive
until he reached a wide front door, which stood between modest whitewashed pillars.

James yanked the bell-pull, and when no one came, he hammered on the brass knocker. Then he jerked at the bell-pull again.

At last he heard footsteps approaching from the other side of the door and a man’s voice called out gruffly, ‘
Oui? Qui est là?’

‘It is I,
monsieur
. . . I have an injury. I need urgent assistance.’

After a moment he heard bolts being shot back and a key turning in the lock. The door opened a fraction and a big man of about sixty peered out. He was rubicund and fleshy and sprouted
extravagant nasal hair. A stained napkin was tucked into his shirt collar; the man must have been having his supper.

The moment he set eyes on James the doctor’s face contorted in panic and he tried to slam the door shut again.

He’s clocked the RAF uniform
, thought James.
Doesn’t want to get involved. Can’t say I blame him
.

He managed to jam his good leg into the gap and forced his shoulder against the door. His back blazed with pain.

The Frenchman was pushing hard against the other side, shouting at the top of his voice. ‘
De rien ici pour vous ici
.
Je ne peux pas vous aider!
’

‘OPEN THE DOOR!’ James bellowed. ‘You’re meant to be a doctor! OPEN IT!’

‘
Non!
’

Ah, thought James, so you understand English then. Right. He reached down into his flying boot, where he kept his service revolver. A lot of the boys carried them when they knew they might be
flying over France. He pulled it out and shoved it into the gap above the doctor’s head.

‘OPEN THE DOOR, YOU BASTARD! I NEED HELP!’

‘
NON!
’

James pulled the trigger and there was an earsplitting bang. The man on the other side screamed and fell backwards, and James shouldered his way in. They were in a little vestibule, the
Frenchman trying to squirm away from him into the main hall behind.

‘
Ne tirez pas!
Don’t shoot!’

‘I will if you don’t bloody well pipe down!’ James dropped awkwardly onto one knee and shoved the barrel of his gun hard against the man’s temple. The doctor immediately
lay still. ‘You speak English, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re the doctor, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m RAF. Spitfire. I’ve been shot down and I’m hurt. My leg’s been hit and my back’s bad. I want you to dress the wound and give me painkillers for my back.
Understand?’

The man scrambled to his feet, James covering him with the revolver. ‘How dare you come into my house in this way! You must leave immediately! I insist that you—’

James clicked the hammer back. ‘If you don’t do exactly as I say, I’ll put a bullet in
your
leg, all right?’

The doctor glared. ‘Yes, of course – you have the gun,
monsieur
, do you not? Very well. I will go and get what I need. Wait here.’

‘Bollocks. I’m coming with you.’

The doctor led the way through the house to his surgery on the other side, James’s gun at his back. When they got there, the Frenchman turned around to face the pilot.

‘
Monsieur,
I refuse to work under these conditions. I will not treat you at the point of a gun.’

‘Yes, you damn well will.’ James hauled himself up on the narrow brown leather examination couch that was bolted to the wall.

‘OK.’ He ostentatiously put the gun down by his side. ‘But this stays here – and remember, it’s cocked.’ He stuck his bloodied leg out and winced. ‘Take
a look.’

The doctor pulled a wooden stool from under a desk and propped James’s foot on it. He carefully unwound the sodden silk scarf and dropped it on the floor.

The gleaming shinbone had vanished. It was now covered by a large clot of congealed blood. The entry wound remained clean, but had turned almost black. A strange rippling bruise circled the dark
hole.

The doctor grunted and stood up, turning to a zinc cupboard on the wall behind him.

‘It is not so bad, I think,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘The wound is clean. The bullet has passed through so there is no need for an operation
.
And the bone is not
broken. You have been lucky,
monsieur
.’

He turned back clutching boxes and bottles. ‘Iodine to wash the flesh – this will hurt – then powder to sterilise and disinfect. I will not make stitches; the wounds will close
by themselves in time.’

‘Fine. Get going, then.’

Now the man was all business, swabbing, dusting, and pressing thick gauze wadding into the pulverised flesh. He took a long cotton bandage and wound it expertly around the whole area, tying it
off with a flourish.

‘
Voilà!
We are finished, yes?’

‘No, we’re not. I told you – I want painkillers for my back.’

The doctor nodded and gestured through the doorway of the surgery to a room on the other side of the corridor. ‘Of course. I will go to my dispensary. Please wait here.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

The Frenchman stamped his foot. ‘
Monsieur!
Enough of this nonsense! My dispensary has no other door than the one you see, and look,’ he pointed to his desk, ‘my
telephone is in here.’

James looked at the ancient ebony instrument with its beautiful pearl inlays.

‘So you must understand,’ the doctor continued, ‘I can go nowhere and speak to no one. May I now please be allowed to do my job?’

James nodded reluctantly. ‘All right. But I’ll be watching that door. And I want you back here in two minutes.’

‘Certainly.’ The doctor exited the surgery and vanished into his dispensary.

James could hear the opening and shutting of drawers and the sound of general rummaging. Then all fell silent, except for the doctor’s tuneless humming.

‘Hey! What are you doing in there?’

‘
Mon Dieu!’
came the exasperated, muffled response. ‘I am making up your pills,
monsieur
! A little patience, if you please.’

‘Well, hurry up.’

More silence. Now, even the humming had stopped.

Then he heard it.

The faintest click from the telephone on the desk.

The lying bastard. He’s got an extension
.

Gripping his revolver, James slid off the couch and crossed the surgery and corridor as quietly as he could, gently nudging the dispensary door ajar.

The Frenchman was ten feet away, on the opposite side of the room. He was hunched and, sure enough, held a telephone to his ear. He was whispering into the mouthpiece. ‘
Bonjour?
Bonjour? Il y a quelqu’un?
’

James could hear the tinny response but wasn’t able to make out what was being said. But he saw the doctor’s shoulders sag with relief.

‘Ah, Dieu merci, Capitaine! Je suis le docteur de Licques. J’ai un homme
—’

If he’d been closer to the man, or able to rush across the room, he would have pistol-whipped him to the floor. That’s what James told himself afterwards. But now he pulled the
trigger without hesitation or compunction. The doctor’s face smashed into the wall, his back arching under the terrific impact of the bullet that struck him just to the left of his spine,
blowing out most of his heart through his chest. The man slid to the floor in total silence.

James lurched across the room and, with a single blow of his gun-butt, smashed the wall-mounted telephone into pieces. The wires hung limply from the plaster. The
gendarme
on the other
end must have heard the crash of the gunshot, but there was nothing James could do about that. Nevertheless, he cursed the body that lay motionless at his feet.

The doctor of Licques had treated his last patient.

‘I said I’d tell you everything.’

Diana had gone very pale. She sipped her water and watched James carefully over the rim of her glass. Putting her tumbler down with care, she spoke at last.

‘That man helped you, and you shot him in the back. You didn’t have to kill him, James. You could have tied him up, or something.’

He sighed, and pushed his hair back from his forehead with both hands. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong, Diana. He was turning me in! The French police wouldn’t have hesitated to
hand me over to the Gestapo for interrogation. I killed him just as he was about to tell them he had a British pilot in his house. He gave me no choice. If I’d waited one more second
I’d have been done for. The man was a collaborator.’

She thought this over for a few moments, before her eyes suddenly widened.

‘Oh my God. You were
always
going to kill him, weren’t you? Once he’d given you what you wanted. You wouldn’t have tied him up; you knew he would have got free
eventually and called the police. That’s true, isn’t it?’

He inclined his head. ‘Very good, Diana. Yes, I realised from the moment he forced me to draw my gun that I’d have to kill him before I left. But don’t you see how your mind
just followed
exactly
the same logical path that mine did that day? The stakes were incredibly high. You’re beginning to understand that now, aren’t you? Come on –
aren’t you?’