'48

Her gaze went past me towards the window and the oncoming day was reflected in her hazel-brown eyes.

'His clothes were alight when he jumped, and - absurdly, he said - he was more worried about the fire becoming a beacon in the night sky than burning to death. The rushing air put out the flames, though.'

I thought of the scars on the German's back and neck and wondered at his courage. To parachute into enemy territory in the middle of the night, then to hide himself while search parties scoured the countryside for survivors, badly burned and alone, well, that took a rare kind of guts. Another thought occurred to me.

'He told you there were seven others with him in the Junkers? That kind of bomber only carried a crew of four.'

'It wasn't a normal crew. They all had official papers on them giving them Slavic names, not German. If they got caught their cover story was to be that they were Polish and Czech freedom fighters who'd stolen the plane to escape to England so they could carry on fighting with the Allied Forces.'

I clicked my fingers. 'Exbury Point'

'What?'

'I remember hearing something about a mysterious German bomber crashing at Exbury Point, near the Beaulieu River where assault landing craft and barges were being made ready for the invasion of Europe.

Rumours were that all kinds of secret activities were going on there -'

'Yes, that was it. He said German Intelligence had learned that pilotless rocket aircraft were being tested along the inlet from the Solent and it was his job to discover how far ahead the British scientists were with their experiments. Only three men on the Junkers were meant to parachute into the area - the rest were crew members, but with the same kind of papers as the spies in case the worst happened.'

'And it did.' The end of the cigarette glowed brightly as I drew on it 'But how the hell did Stern get by after he'd jumped?'

'He hid for two days, then was able to reach his contact in the New Forest when the commotion died down.'

'But his burns...'

'He was a bit special, wasn't he?'

And some, I thought, guilt over my treatment of this war ace nagging at me. 'What happened to him?' I asked.

'Well, he stayed in the area feeding back information to his bosses until the invasion took place. He said it was important for you to know that he did very little harm to the Allied Forces' efforts down there, because once the counter-invasion of Europe had started - which was very soon after he'd arrived - his intelligence reports had hardly any value. All he could do was try and survive himself.'

I blew smoke and crushed the cigarette stub against the bare board floor, my fingers brushing against the pistol lying there. When I rolled back, Cissie was propped on one elbow, looking down at me. Her curls fell loose over her face again.

'Hoke?'

I didn't answer, just stared back into her eyes.

'We imagined they were all evil, didn't we? The enemy, the whole German race, I mean. We thought they were all the same.'

'They started the whole goddamn thing.'

'Hitler started it'

'And the German people went along with him. People like Stern.'

'We bombed their city first'

'Your country only retaliated for their first raid on London.'

'It was a mistake. The German bomber was off course. They hadn't meant to bomb civilians. And our own government knew that when they ordered the raid on Berlin. Hitler's answer was the Blitz on London.'

'Stern told you this?'

'He was dying, he wouldn't have lied. I never believed all the propaganda our government put out anyway, just most of it. Like everybody else, I suppose.'

My eyelids were beginning to feel heavy once more. Cissie had a point, but I didn't have the energy to agree or disagree. Either way would've meant more debate and I was just too beat for that

'Hoke?' She thought I'd fallen asleep.

I murmured something, or maybe I just groaned.

'The last thing Wilhelm wanted you to know was that he didn't mean any of those things he said at dinner. He was just tired of your goading, he wanted to strike back and he regretted it. He despised the Blackshirts too. He said they aligned themselves with the worst of his countrymen, the bigots, the Fascist bullyboys. That's why he didn't join them last night. In fact, he said if he could live he would help you in your fight against them.'

'I'm not fighting the Blackshirts, Cissie. I've always run away from them.'

Then why d'you stay here, Hoke? Why didn't you leave the city years ago?'

My mind was drifting and I found it very pleasant. Too much to do.' I mumbled, giving in to the creeping lethargy. The mattress beneath us may have been musty and full of lumps, but I seemed to be sinking into an overwhelming softness. Something was shaking my shoulder and I turned away from it. The voice persisted though.

'What, Hoke? Tell me what you have to do? Tell me...'

I was gone and soon, so was the voice. Mercifully, my sleep was dreamless.

I think it was the warmth on my face, the blaze against my eyelids, that woke me. My eyes opened and I turned away from the sun's rays, disturbing Cissie, whose arm had been curled around my waist Our faces close, she blinked at me for a few moments; she didn't move away.

Everything came at me in a rush and I was suddenly alert, leaning on one elbow to check the open bedroom door, then turning towards the dirt-smeared window, squinting my eyes against the sunlight forcing its way through.

'What is it?' My reaction had frightened her.

I listened for a full minute before replying.' It's okay. We're safe.' I couldn't really be sure of that until I'd taken a look outside, back and front of the house, but I didn't sense any danger right then and my instinct had always been reliable. I lay back on the thin pillow and realized I was aching in a hundred different places and hurting in a few more.

There was dried blood on my arm where they'd tried to bleed me last night, and the incision still throbbed a little. My shoulder was stiff, the dressing that had covered the bullet graze now missing, and various cuts and bruises reminded me of the hell I'd been through these past few days; even breathing too deeply caused a dull pain, but I could tell my ribs were only bruised, not cracked, otherwise that pain would've been a whole lot sharper. My ankle felt okay, although a mite sore, and I rotated it one way, then the other, just to test it: it complained sure enough - a sudden twinge, was all - but there was no swelling any more, so I knew I could get around okay. Anything else - cuts, gashes, sores and contusions

- didn't matter there was nothing to cause me serious problems.

The back of Cissie's hand brushed against my cheek. 'What's the diagnosis? You going to live, Hoke?'

'I reckon.'

Lifting my head from the pillow, I inspected the room, checking all was as I'd left it from my previous visit some months before. I hadn't had the chance before we'd fallen asleep in the early hours, and the room had been dim anyway; now I saw it was the same as always, the kids' clothes on the armchair, the fireplace full of cold ashes, the door to the corner cupboard that was stuffed with more clothes and only a few toys and comic-books still slightly ajar.

'How're you feeling?' I asked when I was satisfied nothing had been disturbed.

'My legs feel like they've run a couple of hundred miles and my arm's still sore from the grip one of those Blackshirts had on me, but otherwise, 'cept for some bumps and bruises, I'm fine. I think.'

As she followed me in scanning the room I studied her profile. Her jaw was good and firm, her nose neither dainty nor dominant, kind of just right, the thin scar across its bridge white against the dirt on her face. There was dust and glass in her singed hair and the evening dress was mussed up, torn in places, but like me, she'd suffered no serious damage.