“It’s alright, Daphne,” said Bliss rushing to comfort her, but it wasn’t alright. The horrific memories had not faded with time, nor had they become any easier to bear, and she bit her knuckles furiously as the vivid scenes forged their way to the surface: an American troop truck … six G.I.s on 24 hours R amp;R, and a dozen or so others going on eternal leave.
“Don’t look at the stiffs, Miss,” warned the driver as he stopped to pick her up at the roadside on the outskirts of a bombed town. Clambering in beside him she ignored the warning and turned instinctively, then found herself wondering whether the “stiffs” were the dozen or so corpses on the floor, or the six haggard-faced soldiers staring into the clear blue sky. Following their gaze she found a screeching skylark wheeling above a moon-scaped cornfield and envied it its freedom, but looking back at the men, she realised they had not seen the bird — they were just staring.
For more than an hour decimated villages rumbled by, the ruins still quaking from the distant thunder of canon fire, and stoic-faced Normans turned their backs, burying their dead or staring in disbelief at their wrecked homes.
“Good luck, Miss,” the driver shouted as she dropped down from the cab outside the hospice. “I hope your friend will be O.K.”
“Thanks,” she yelled, giving a friendly wave to the G.I.s as the truck roared away, but none responded — each too busy contemplating the fact that ten years of their life’s movie had ripped through the projector in the past ten days; wondering how much film was left on the spool.
“I couldn’t see Rupert’s face at all,” Daphne mumbled through the tears. “Just bandages with a couple of holes to breathe through, and another with a feeding tube in what was left of his mouth.”
“This is Major Dauntsey,” the nurse had said, more by way of identification than introduction and Daphne’s heart had sunk.
“He couldn’t see me and couldn’t talk,” she continued, omitting to mention that the crushing disappointment had forced her to her knees. “He didn’t even have a hand that I could squeeze to comfort him.” Her one hope of finding someone or something to stabilise her thoughts had been dashed. For the two days it had taken to reach him she had pushed the pain of dead babies and massacred soldiers to the back of her mind, while searching for images of streets, pubs, shops and people they would have in common, fully expecting that, within seconds, they would find themselves chatting as amiably as long forgotten schoolfriends; perhaps sealing their bond with a kiss, maybe something more if he was capable — after all, it wasn’t as if he were a complete stranger. And it wasn’t as though Doreen was the sort who’d be too concerned, even if she found out — not that she would.
“I’m ashamed to admit this, but I screamed and ran,” she confessed to Bliss, adding, “If something that horrible could happen to the shy little boy who lived up the road …” The words failed as she sobbed in the handkerchief, then she tried again. “I think it was because I had known him. All the others, even the baby, were strangers.”
“But you said that whatever happened to you had been Rupert Dauntsey’s fault,” Bliss reminded her. “What did you mean.”
“I don’t expect you to believe this,” she started, looking him carefully in the eye, “but it was as if I’d somehow got on the wrong planet and didn’t know how to get back to Earth. I think in some silly way I was expecting Rupert to lead me. You see, I’d done my job — killed all the people I was supposed to kill. Now what? They never told us at the training school and we never asked. I suppose we all knew, deep down, that we wouldn’t survive, so it was tempting fate to even consider what to do afterwards. But, because I survived, I was lost — not physically. I was lost because my mind had already accepted the certainty of death and had made no plans for the future.”
Samantha’s words still buzzed in his mind from the previous night and took on a greater relevance. “You’ve got to have a plan, Dave,” she had said and he glanced at the wall clock: 7.35 am. Superintendent Donaldson would be in at 8.00 with his sights on a chocolate digestive.
“You were telling me about Hugo,” he pressed Daphne, knowing that by 8.05 Donaldson would be informed about the goat, if someone hadn’t already snitched, and by 8.10 he’d feed an empty biscuit packet in the shredder and call the chief. By 8.15 the phone on Bliss’s desk would ring and his career would be over. London’s Grand Metropolitan Police Force wouldn’t take him back and the Chief Constable of Hampshire would be happy to see him go. “We want it to be your decision, Dave,” someone would tell him with a compassionate hand on his shoulder, thereby avoiding any suggestion he was being pressurised. “Of course — you could always go back to the safe house … ” they’d say, somehow leaving the sentence hanging, unfinished. Or I could do myself in and save everybody the trouble, he smiled to himself sardonically.
“I’m afraid Hugo used me rather,” Daphne said finally, and, from her tone, expected to end it there. But Bliss was coercive, if not downright insistent. Holding her spray-can hostage he said, “Come on, Daphne, you may as well tell me. It can’t be any worse.”
Her face clouded in shame. It was worse, much worse.
“I have to go,” she said, panic forcing her to her feet.
“I have to go,” she repeated, her eyes searching frantically for a way out, and she headed for the door but was drawn back to the canister of polish. Reaching with a shaky hand she muttered “I have to go” again, and began pacing around the room, eyes everywhere, mumbling, “I have to go … I have to go … I have to go,” like a malfunctioning robot.
“Calm down,” said Bliss, and she froze in the middle of the room, unable to catch her breath.
“Daphne,” he called, going to her aid, but she fended him off and began panting hysterically, her nerves going haywire, jangling her limbs and twitching her face. He grabbed her by the shoulders but she wrenched free and paced some more.
“Stop it,” she told herself. “Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.”
Then she paused again, gasping deep breaths, threatening to hyperventilate as she tried to stop the pictures in her mind.
Bliss, alarmed, picked up the phone. “Control room — call a Doctor …” But she slammed her hand on the cradle. “No, No. I’m alright, Chief Inspector. I’ll be alright.”
“Sit down then,” he said, easing her into a chair and giving her a glass of water.
The phone rang — the control room sergeant, confused, calling back.
“No,” explained Bliss, “Miss Lovelace has had a bit of a turn in my office but I think she’s alright now. I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you,” she said and slumped back with her eyes closed, thinking — what possible difference does it make now. So you posed naked for Hugo; posed for his friends; more than posed; more than one friend. Hadn’t you been flattered — so many beautiful French girls to choose from, yet they preferred la petite tarte Anglaise.
She didn’t explain in detail, wouldn’t have known how to express herself. “I let men take advantage of me,” she said, simply, her head bowed in her hands. “It seemed to make them happy.” Then she paused, wondering whether to elaborate; if to justify; how to justify. Yet she had justified it at the time — forcing herself to believe that she did it for food; for shelter; for love. And wasn’t it love? Didn’t Hugo love her? Wasn’t it always Hugo who had comforted her battered body to sleep at the end of the night — on a couch reeking of hard sex and cheap cigarettes, in his studio surrounded by paintings that never showed the bruises.
“I used to sit on a canvas stool in a little square in Montmartre while Hugo painted me,” she went on, skipping the humiliation and passion, recalling the brightly coloured umbrellas and the oily smell of paint. “And one day an instructor who’d taught me unarmed combat in England wandered by when Hugo was in the bar. He stopped, flabbergasted. ‘You’re dead,’ he said, and I really wanted to believe him. It would have made things so much easier for me. I even pretended he was mistaken, told him where to go — in French, but he was insistent, and I came to my senses and realised what I was doing to myself — what Hugo and his friends were doing to me.”