Psychomech (4 page)

Schroeder nodded painfully. ‘A lesson,’ he whispered. ‘Never mix business with pleasure. We were to fly from here straight to Australia. I should not have brought them with me.’

‘But you could not know,’ Koenig told him.

Schroeder frowned, his entire forehead wrinkling. ‘It’s so hard to remember. It happened so fast. There was someone else, a young man. Tall. A good-looking boy. Ah, yes! A Redcap. A British Military Policeman. What of him?’

‘He lives,’ said Koenig. ‘He is blind. There were lesser injuries—a few, not many—but his eyes are finished.’

Schroeder considered this, managed another nod of his head, then a slow shake. That is very bad,’ he said. ‘He saved me, my child, my wife. Saved our lives. And he is blind…’ He lay silently for a moment, then came to a decision. He gripped Koenig’s hand. ‘Keep tabs on that young man, Willy.’ He paused again. ‘He… told me his name… but—’

‘Richard Garrison, Thomas.’

‘Yes, that was it. Later, when things are better, then I shall want to know all about him.’

Koenig nodded.

‘Right now I must sleep, Willy,’ Schroeder eventually continued, his voice weakening. ‘But first, there are things…’

‘They have been done, Colonel—er, Thomas,’ said Koenig. ‘This is a private place. Nine of our best men are here from Germany. You are perfectly safe. Urmgard and Heinrich are in Koln. They, too, are protected. As soon as you are well enough, we fly to Siebert’s sanatorium in the Harz. It will be better for you there.’

‘And my doctors?’ Schroeder’s voice was fading away.

Koenig put his lips to the Colonel’s ear. ‘Their doctors patched you up. Ours were here within hours. They said your internal injuries would have killed any other. Blast is a funny business. It crushed your insides. But it didn’t kill you. Not you, Heir Colonel, not you.’

Schroeder’s eyes were closed. He was drifting away. ‘Garrison,’ his whisper was a mere breath. ‘Do not forget… Richard… Garrison…’

‘I won’t,’ Koenig whispered. He placed his master’s hand on the bed, released it gently and stood up.

Major John Marchant and Corporal Richard Allan Garrison, both of them immaculate in number two dress uniforms, were met at the airport in Hannover as promised. In fact their reception was better than any promise might have foretold. Certainly better than the Major would or could have expected. Mere Majors were not used to metallic silver Mercedes motorcars awaiting their arrival on the landing strips of large international airports. Nor were they accustomed to the ease—the complete waiver of all normal disembarking procedures, including customs—with which certain persons of more influential orbits come and go in the world of affairs, and which they occasionally employ to make the passage of others easier. Quite simply, Marchant and his blind charge were picked up, driven out of the airport and into the city, and all with never so much as a glimpse of the interior of an airport building.

Richard Garrison on the other hand was not surprised, and not especially interested. There were a good many other things he should be doing and this to him was all a great waste of time and money. He could understand this man Schroeder’s gratitude, could see how ill at ease the industrialist might feel at his disablement, but what could the man possibly hope to do for him? Did he intend to offer him money? Garrison’s pension (the thought brought a wry smile to his lips: ‘pension’, hah!—to be pensioned off at his age!) and compensation would make him relatively independent. Financially at least. And then there would be supplementary grants from at least three Army funds. No, money would not be a major problem.

Getting to grips with his blindness, however… now that would be quite another matter. And he did not want to be—would not allow himself to become—a burden to anyone. People had their own problems and solved them as best they might. Garrison had long ago decided that he must solve his own. So what exactly did this Thomas Schroeder hope to do for him?

‘Possibly,’ the Major had hazarded aboard the plane, ‘he wishes to thank you personally, and in some more or less concrete manner. I believe he’s a rich man. Now I understand you’re well satisfied with what you’ve already got out of all .this,’ (he had silently cursed himself for an unfortunate choice of words) ‘but in the event he should offer you money, it would certainly not be in your best interests to refuse him.’

‘It would make more sense and be a better deal if he offered me a job,’ Garrison had answered. ‘One I can handle without eyes.’

‘You’re a strange man,’ the Major had commented, frowning. ‘You hardly seem to miss your sight. I mean—’ He paused.

‘I know what you mean.’

‘I don’t think you do. I meant simply that I know a lot of much harder men who would have broken up—or broken down—if they’d suffered your loss.’

‘How do you know they’re harder?’ Garrison had asked. ‘And do you mean hard or hardened? Let me tell you what hard is. Hard is being seven years old and seeing your Mom and Dad falling out of love. It’s being brought up by an uncle who strangles your kitten as a punishment for shitting yourself with diarrhoea when you get caught short. It’s being fifteen and mad in love for the first time, and finding your girl on the beach with a friend who happens to be screwing her arse off. And it’s a hell of a lot of other things in between. These are the things I call, or used to call, hard: things that happen to you when you’re not really to blame. Things that hit you out of the blue, when you’re least expecting them and can’t fight them. And each bit of hard adds a thin layer to your skin, until you’ve a hide like an elephant.’

‘Your life?’ the Major had asked.

‘Some of it,’ a curt nod. ‘There were other things, as I’ve said, but I’ve killed off the memories. Do you understand that? In my mind, I’ve killed them off. There’s nothing bitter in there any more.’ He had shrugged. ‘Once you know how to do it it’s easy. This blindness is something I’ll kill off too. Hell, this has nothing to do with being hard! I knew what I was doing when I joined the Army, and when I volunteered for NI. And when I took Schroeder into the Europa, I… I somehow knew—I mean, I really—’

‘But—’ Marchant had started to speak when Garrison faltered.

‘Look,’ the Corporal had turned on him then, his face dead white around and behind his dark glasses. ‘The only difference between you and me is that you can see. I have to learn to
“see”
all over again, and without the benefit of eyes. But I’ll tell you this: when I can see again, I’ll see a damn sight straighter than you. For one thing, I won’t have the problem of peering round a big fat stiff upper lip!’

‘Sir!’ Major Marchant had snapped, and immediately wished he could bite his tongue off. He had only recently achieved his majority and enjoyed being called sir. He had been “sir” as a Captain, of course, but somehow it hadn’t meant so much. Now, this Corporal—this blind Corporal whose confidential reports had never failed to note the chip on his shoulder, or rather the absence of chinks in his armour—seemed to be trying to make a mockery of the whole thing. The man was an opportunist, without doubt, and he certainly intended making gain out of his disability. His insubordinate attitude was sufficient proof of that. Very well, fair enough to play the game for monetary gain; but to take advantage of a senior officer’s natural compassion—

‘Sir?’ Garrison had slowly answered. ‘Listen,
sir
. In a couple of weeks’ time the Army is going to boot me out. Pension me off. Send me a card every Christmas and a copy of the Corps Journal four times a year. Hey! And you know something, they’ll really
do
that! Some idiot will send Journals—and me blind’ as a bat! And you want me to call you sir? Now? What’ll you do if I refuse? Court martial me?’

After which they had sat in silence. The journey had not been a pleasant one.

Similarly irritating for Major Marchant was the way in which Garrison accepted the idea of a silver Mercedes waiting alongside the runway as the big jet trundled to a halt. He hadn’t even smiled at Marchant’s exclamation when he and the Major were called forward, first to disembark. Then there had been the curt, typically German handshakes at the foot of the travelling ramp, and Marchant shown into the rear of the car while the uniformed chauffeur took Garrison’s white stick and assisted
him
into the front passenger’s seat. But then again, it was Garrison this mysterious German industrialist wanted to see. Major Marchant could not then have realized, however, the very small part he himself was to play in the rest of the thing.

He was soon to discover his own insignificance, though; for as the great silent silver Mercedes drove out of the airport and into Hannover itself Koenig half-turned and said: ‘Excuse me, Herr Major, but at which hotel have you arranged accommodation?’

‘Hotel?’ Marchant raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Herr, er, Koenig? We are to stay as the guests of Thomas Schroeder, at his estate in the Harz.’

‘Ah, no, Herr Major. It is you who are mistaken. The Corporal is to stay there. No such arrangements have been made for you. A message was sent, but obviously too late.’

‘But, I—’

‘The Colonel’ has instructed me that in this case I am to take you to the Hotel International in Hannover. You shall stay there at no expense to yourself. Whatever you need, take it. If you wish for something, ask for it. If they haven’t got it, demand it and it will be provided. Enjoy your stay. The Colonel owns the Hotel International, of course.’

‘But—’

It was the Major’s day for buts.

‘Your luggage will arrive at the hotel only a little while after you yourself. I hope all will be to your satisfaction.’ Koenig smiled pleasantly over his shoulder.

In the back of the car Marchant sputtered, finally burst out: ‘The Provost Marshal himself has ordered me to accompany Corporal Garrison and attend to his best interests. I cannot see how—’

‘His best interests are being attended to, I assure you,’ Koenig answered.

‘You assure me? But you are your master’s chauffeur, and—’

‘And he has instructed me to speak for him,’ Koenig smiled again. ‘Anyway, the Colonel has already spoken to your Provost Marshal. Less than an hour ago they talked on the telephone.’

They did? A Colonel, you say? But what has this Colonel to do with Mr Schroeder?’

‘Why, they are one and the same!’ said Koenig. ‘I thought you knew. Perhaps you weren’t briefed too well.’

‘Oh,’ said Marchant, and he sank back into the deep luxury of his seat. His voice was much calmer now. ‘Yes, you’re quite right. I don’t appear to have been briefed too well. So Herr Schroeder was a Colonel, was he?’

‘Was?’ Koenig turned, unsmiling, to stare at him. His eyes had turned cold and beady. ‘Oh, but he still is, Herr Major. To some of us, he always will be…’

After dropping off the Major they stopped again on the autobahn near Hildesheim, where Koenig said: ‘I can see you do not like that white stick. Very well, leave it in the car. Here, let me take your arm.’ He guided Garrison into a restaurant and to the door marked ‘Herren’, and while the Corporal answered the call of nature he ordered drinks and Zigeuner-schnitzel.

When Garrison left the toilet Koenig was at the door to meet him. ‘Was it difficult?’ he asked.

‘What, taking a leak?’

‘No,’ the German grinned. ‘Finding your way out of the toilet.’

Garrison shrugged. ‘Not really.’ He sensed the other’s nod of approval.

‘Gut!’ Koenig took his elbow. ‘The Colonel was right, you see? He said these so-called aids—these white sticks and armbands—were merely embarrassments. How do you say it?—“encumbrances”!’

He led Garrison to a table and guided him into a chair. ‘What kind of a man is your Colonel?’ the Corporal asked when he was comfortable.

‘But you met him.’

‘Too briefly, I’m afraid. And the circumstances were—’ Garrison pulled a wry face, ‘—difficult.’

‘Ah, yes, of course,’ said Koenig.

Garrison nodded. ‘The events of that day are still a little blurred. Fuzzy in my mind. I suppose they always will be.’

‘I understand,’ said Koenig. ‘Well, the Colonel is a man to be respected. People who do not know him—complete strangers—when they meet him, obey him. He has a power, a strength. He was a marvellous officer. And he is a marvellous man. No, that is not quite true. According to the letter of the law, he is probably a very bad man. For one thing, he pays not taxes. Or only as much as he wishes to pay. He does not take kindly, you see, to the laws and rules of others.’

Garrison laughed. ‘I like him already.’

Koenig also laughed. ‘Oh, you will like him. I believe you are much alike.’

‘What does he do?’ Garrison asked. ‘I mean, I know he’s an industrialist, but—’ He paused, listened to the chink of glasses as the
Kellnerin
delivered their drinks. After she had gone away he leaned across and whispered: ‘She’s pretty, she’s young, and she smiles a lot.’

‘How do you know?’ Koenig whispered back.

‘Only a young, smiling sort of girl could wear that perfume,’ Garrison answered. ‘Also, her thigh where it pressed against mine was very firm—and very friendly!’

The German laughed and nodded. ‘Again the Colonel is right. He says: “Blindness is only a word for having no eyesight.” And he also says it is too often used as a synonym of idiot or cretin or vegetable. Well, you may be blind, Corporal Garrison, but you are no vegetable!’

‘You must call me Richard, Willy,’ Garrison laughed out loud.

‘No,’ the German shook his blond head. ‘That would not be right. I am after all merely a gentleman’s gentleman. It would be to demean you. Nor must I call you Corporal, for that also is to belittle you. You see, I was a Feldwebel! No, I shall call you sir—when others are listening, anyway.’

Garrison sighed and shook his head in mock despair. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘no more of that shit! I had all that once today with Marchant.’

‘Ah?’ Koenig’s eyebrows went up. ‘Yes, I suspected something. Weil, the Colonel is not like that.’

‘You were telling me about him?’ Garrison prompted.

Koenig nodded, just as he would if Garrison had sight. ‘I do not think he would mind our discussing him. He was a Colonel at the end of the war. So many young officers were. I was his youngest non-commissioned officer, his batman if you like, though in fact I was more his bodyguard. We were members of—’ he paused. ‘The SS.’