Shoes for Anthony (36 page)

‘Gaslighting,' explained Piotr, as we stood queuing for the tickets, ‘it's form of psychological abuse.'

‘He won't know what psychological is,' said Bethan, who was rooting around in her handbag. ‘Where's my purse? Could have sworn …'

‘It's all right,' said Piotr. ‘My treat.'

‘I do know what psychological means,' I chipped in. ‘It's stuff to do with your mind. It's what a psychiatrist tries to cure. If you've gone off your rocker.'

Piotr's eyebrows raised in admiration. ‘See!' He beamed. ‘I know a clever fellow when I see one. You're entirely right, Anthony.'

‘What sort of abuse, anyhow?' said Bethan, clipping her handbag shut and tapping at the bottom of her upturned curls with her fingers.

‘It's when victim is gradually manipulated into doubting what is real.'

‘Like what?' I asked, frowning. ‘How can you make someone not believe something that's real, like?'

‘We'll have to watch the film and find out. Hello, Gwennie. Three sixpence seats, please.'

‘Oh, hello,' said Gwennie, pursing her lips. ‘Hello, Bethan. How's your father keeping?'

‘Not too bad, thank you,' said Bethan. ‘He's not getting any worse. That's the main thing.'

Gwennie nodded and handed over the three small cardboard tickets. ‘I'm devastated, thanks for asking.'

I exchanged a small, puzzled look with Bethan.

‘My beau is leaving,' Gwennie said, taking a small dotty hanky from the inside of her sleeve and dabbing at the end of her nose. ‘No doubt to be killed by the wretched Germans. I am abandoned, Bethan. Abandoned.'

‘Leaving?' I said, stretching up to rest my elbows on the sill of the booth. ‘When?'

‘Days!' declared Gwennie. ‘Maybe tomorrow. Who knows? I shall be a widow!'

‘But you're not married, Gwennie,' said Bethan.

‘Doesn't matter. I shall be a metaphorical widow, which, in many ways, is worse.'

‘He might be all right, you know,' said Piotr, kindly. ‘Not everyone who goes into combat is killed. I wasn't.'

‘He's got no chance,' persisted Bethan, shaking her head. ‘He can't cross a room without hitting a shin. I don't know why I fell for him. But I did! And now he's leaving! Oh, by the way, Bethan, I'm telling you this in the strictest confidence, you understand. Don't mention this to Alwyn, will you?'

Bethan gave a small snort. ‘Don't worry, Gwennie, I won't. Always best to keep your options open.'

Gwennie gave a small, tight smile and then, looking over Piotr's shoulder, shouted, ‘Next!'

‘Here,' said Piotr, handing me my ticket as we walked towards the doors. ‘That's for you. You can choose where we sit.'

‘Piotr!' a voice called from behind us. We swung round. It was Alf. He looked agitated, his chest heaving. ‘Mrs Jones said I'd find you here. You have to come with me, now.'

‘Get off, Alf Davies,' said Bethan, stepping forward. ‘He's taking me and Ant to the pictures. He's bought our tickets and everything.'

‘No,' said Alf, his voice tight and urgent. ‘You don't understand. We've found the German.'

Bethan rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, I heard about this morning,' she began. ‘That poor man. Who've you captured now? A postman from Cardiff?'

‘Bethan,' said Alf, his voice low and quiet, ‘I've been sent to fetch him. A man's crawled off the mountain. Captain Pugh found him. He's pretty bashed up. Broken leg, bullet wound, the lot. He's in uniform. He's unconscious.'

‘Unconscious?' said Piotr, stepping forward. ‘So he hasn't spoken?'

Alf shook his head. ‘Nothing but groans and mumbles. I reckon he's been up that mountain the whole time, nothing to eat. He must have broken the leg coming out the plane. He's as weak as a kitten. You're the only one who's seen him, Piotr. You have to come. They've got him in the Labour Club. Captain Willis is there, waiting for him to wake up. They've sent for Dr Mitchell. Once they've got some morphine into him, they might be able to get some sense out of him.'

I don't think I'd ever run faster. Alf led the way, Piotr at his heels. Behind me, Bethan, chased by Gwennie, was making after us. Was it really true? Was this the man we'd all been looking for? Word had travelled fast and the front doors of the Labour Club were crammed with people trying to get in. Captain Pugh was holding them back, rifle braced across his chest.

‘I've found him!' Alf called out, as we ran up to the steps.

‘Let them through,' shouted Captain Pugh. ‘Come on, step to one side. Official business. Malcolm, you take over here, keep everyone back. Have the rifle.'

He unhooked the gun from his shoulder and handed it over to a rather startled-looking Malcolm. ‘If anyone tries to get in,' he whispered, ‘do I shoot them, then?'

‘No, Malcolm,' whispered Captain Pugh. ‘You can't. It's got no bullets. Just make a show and look like you're in charge. Captain Skarbowitz,' he added, turning back to us. ‘Follow me.'

It was a peculiar scene. An area had been cleared in the saloon bar, with a large table placed in its centre. A man was lying on it, one leg bent and unnatural looking, the other splayed to one side. An arm was hanging off the edge of the table, limp and lifeless, while the other was draped across his face. There was a patch of something dark and brown across his tunic, long-dried blood, by the look of it. Sunlight was beaming in from a high window, illuminating the room in soft tones. The mood felt solemn, almost devotional, and as I saw him, I didn't feel what I expected. There was no anger, no need for revenge. I was simply filled with sadness.

Captain Willis was standing, hands held tightly behind his back. Hearing us enter, he turned, his face grave. ‘Well, looks like I was wrong. I don't think there's any doubt we have our man,' he said towards Piotr. ‘He's in a pretty bad way. By the looks of that leg, gangrene has already set in. Curiously, he's got a bullet wound in his chest. How he's survived this long, I'll never know. All the same, take a look at him, would you? Formal identification and all that.'

Piotr nodded and approached the table. Lifting the man's arm that lay across his face, he took a good look at him, then placed the arm lower, across his chest. He turned back to Captain Willis. ‘It's him,' he said, quietly.

I crept forward, wanting to see the man's face. It would make things easier if he looked mean – tight, tiny eyes, jutting cheekbones, a scar that proclaimed great evil – but he had none of these things. He looked terrible, his skin yellowish and sweating. His lips were cracked from dehydration, his cheeks sunken, but his jawline was square and true. His nose was neither bent nor hooked, instead it had a refined quality, thin and tapering, and his eyes, half-open, were framed with noticeably long lashes. He may have been in a reduced state, but he was clearly a handsome man. He gave out a small moan and his face rolled away to his opposite shoulder.

‘Has he said anything yet?' said Captain Pugh.

Captain Willis shook his head. ‘He's in shock. We'll get Dr Mitchell to give him some morphine, then we might get some sense out of him.'

‘Piotr,' said Bethan, resting a hand on his forearm. ‘Go fetch Mam.'

Piotr nodded and slipped quietly out the back.

We all stood, our eyes fixed on the man's mouth. We had our German. Now all he had to do was talk.

Emrys was being held back.

‘Let me at him!' he shouted, his face red and looking fit to burst.

‘Calm down, man!' yelled Captain Pugh, gripping him by the shoulders. ‘Look at the state of him! One punch and you'll kill him.'

‘What's the matter with you? Protecting a German? Think of who you are, man!'

‘Please,' said Captain Willis, stepping in, ‘he may have vital information that might help our boys about to leave. Hurting him further won't help them. And look at him, he's going nowhere.'

‘Be the better man, Emrys,' shouted Captain Pugh, struggling to hold him back.

‘Emrys!' said Bethan, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Father wouldn't want this. Let your rage go.'

Emrys' eyes were wide, his face filled with anger. He stared at Bethan, his frustration burning deep, and with a roar, he tore himself away, kicking a chair across the room as he did. We knew to let him be.

Malcolm wasn't doing that good a job of keeping people out, and neighbours were creeping in, talking in hushed tones, filling the spaces in the saloon bar and waiting for the man to come round. Bopa crept in behind me.

‘
Diawl
,' she said, taking first sight of him. ‘Terrible state. Wassup with him? Hurt, is he?'

‘Broken leg, parched half to death. Bullet wound, too, apparently,' whispered Bethan.

‘Bullet wound?' said Bopa, shaking her head. ‘He must have a will of steel to still be alive.'

‘At least we can put one theory to bed,' said Captain Willis, his voice soft and low. ‘There's no way this man killed a child. He can barely move, let alone stand. He couldn't have pushed Adrian Jenkins off that ridge, and certainly no way could he have run away. I know you blamed yourself, Anthony,' he added, casting a look down towards me, ‘but if you can, take comfort that Adrian's death was truly an accident.'

Bethan put her arm about me and gave me a small squeeze.

‘I never thought,' whispered Bopa, who had pushed further forward to get a better look, ‘that I'd feel sorry for a German. But,
diawl
, that's something terrible. Christ, when Dr Mitchell gets here, I wouldn't be surprised if he takes him out the back and hits him round the head with a spade like a wounded badger. Put him out of his misery, like. What's he called?'

‘He hasn't spoken yet,' murmured Bethan.

‘I'd sit with him, hold his hand, for comfort,' said Bopa, folding her arms. ‘But it doesn't seem right, somehow, what with him being the enemy, 'n' all.'

The room was now packed with familiar faces: Mr Hughes, Old Morris, Jones the Bible, my teacher Miss Evans, Fez, Bozo, Arthur Pryce. It had been true: there had been an enemy among us, but now there was a comfort in us being together, a village reunited. I looked back towards the table, the man's chest lifting and dropping, the forefinger of his left hand twitching, the occasional low, wounded moan.

Mam had arrived with Piotr, and he led her through the crowd so that she could stand with us. She caught sight of the man lying on the table and gasped, her hand rising to her mouth. ‘Is he dead?' she whispered.

‘Not far off,' said Bopa, leaning in. ‘He's breathing very shallow.'

It was odd, this reverential hush. Only this morning, the same people had been trying to murder a man from Rye whose only crime was to turn up in Treherbert wearing a spotted dickie bow. Yet here they now were, heads dappled in muted sunlight, gathered about a dying man, caps in hand, as if they were witnessing a profound mystery. It was terror. That's what it was: terror of anyone or anything different; terror of change. The war had come, the pit was closed, our habits tossed and broken, and this man was the embodiment of all that: the bogeyman captured.

‘Let me through, please,' said a voice behind us. I looked over my shoulder. It was Dr Mitchell, his face a little red, his breath hot with something alcoholic. He pressed past me and stood still, staring at the empty vessel in front of him. ‘Oh, my,' he mumbled, placing his bag onto an empty chair.

‘His leg is badly broken,' said Captain Willis, stepping forward. ‘He's dehydrated, cold and clammy to the touch. He's disorientated and feverish. He's been mumbling but nothing coherent. What I need is for you to bring him round so I can speak to him. Dr Mitchell, I must impress upon you the urgency of this matter. If this man was sent here to gather intelligence, we need to find out why he was here, what he knows, and what he has communicated back to Berlin.'

‘Yes, yes,' Dr Mitchell muttered, reaching for a handkerchief in his jacket pocket. He wiped his forehead, his hands trembling. ‘Has anyone given him water?'

‘No,' replied Captain Willis.

‘I need to get some fluids into him if he's going to …'

‘Doctor,' interrupted Captain Willis, ‘I need him awake. Fluids will have to wait. Give him pain relief and a stimulant.'

‘But that might kill him,' retorted Dr Mitchell, his voice tight and anxious.

‘Please, Dr Mitchell,' insisted Captain Willis, ‘this man could die at any moment. I have to speak with him. Needs must.'

Dr Mitchell adjusted his spectacles. He was a village doctor who dealt with coughs, colds, the odd outbreak of mumps. Like all of us, he was not prepared for the stench of war, the ruthlessness of it. Needs must. We all knew what it meant. Wake up the German long enough for him to talk and then let him die.

I looked up towards Piotr. His face was concentrated, his gaze fixed, one hand deep in his jacket pocket. He looked down at me, his gaze intense and serious. ‘Don't worry, Anthony,' he whispered, and placed his free hand on my shoulder.

Dr Mitchell reached towards his bag and pulled out his stethoscope. ‘Actually,' he said, with an embarrassed twinge, ‘listening to his chest is entirely redundant. I'll just … ummm …' He folded the stethoscope back into the bag and, instead, pulled out a hypodermic needle and syringe, along with a small vial filled with a clear liquid. ‘I can give him morphine,' he said, quietly. ‘For the pain. And then' – he cleared his throat – ‘I can use smelling salts to bring him round.'

Captain Willis nodded.

I watched as Dr Mitchell upturned the vial and inserted the needle into it. Tapping it with his forefinger, he pulled down the syringe until it was full, and then, discarding the empty vial, he let a little of the morphine shoot out from the needle's tip. Rolling up the man's sleeve, he searched for a vein and then plunged the needle into his arm. The German gave out a small moan and shuddered, his eyes rolling up into his head.