Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) (41 page)

Kidd had looked it up in his dictionary.
Firebrand,
kindler of strife
, was one definition. When you considered her maximum speed and the racks, empty now, which would soon be loaded with mines, it suited her.

He wondered how the other experimental fast minelayer was progressing, and who might be her commanding officer.

Kidd joined him on the bridge, light-footed for so powerful a man.

‘All secure, fore and aft, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘She did well, I thought.’

‘So did you, Number One.’

They were getting there.

Kidd was watching a seaman who was leaning on the guardrails, a foot on the lower one.

‘Got the weight, have you, Brett?’ That was another thing about him; he never had to raise his voice. The offending seaman jumped clear of the rails to stand almost at attention.

Foley turned away. He was learning their names too, but more slowly. And as was normal, the ones he met and worked with more closely had become not merely faces, but individuals.

The Chief, down there now in his engine room, a motor mechanic named Morgan Price, did indeed come from Wales, and his pride and enthusiasm over his four-shaft Bristol motors had not diminished. The signalman now tidying flags in the locker was named Pottinger. A Coastal Forces veteran, he had been blown up twice, and had been one of four survivors when his M.T.B. had gone down. When Bass had asked him about it, the signalman had replied drily, ‘It was getting too
damn dangerous, ’Swain. That’s why I volunteered for this little lot. Minelaying is a bit cushier, I reckon!’

Foley had heard them laughing about it.

He thought of Falmouth again, the day he had left Kidd in charge for an hour while he had gone with Margot to the station.

It had come upon them so suddenly. Like the excitement and disbelief of being together, always brief, never more than a few hours when they could talk and touch, sometimes afraid to think of, or believe in, the future.

He saw a leading seaman up forward by the newly hoisted Jack and recalled his name. Irvine, Tom Irvine. They had served together in those early days. The rookie sailor and the newly minted subbie.

At the station she had leaned out of the carriage window, their faces only inches apart: so many things to say, but never the right words when you most needed them. Around them there were others, in the same moments of parting. But they were quite alone.

‘When you’re settled, Chris, let me know. If need be I’ll apply for a transfer to be near you. If it’s possible.’

They had held hands, oblivious to the stares and the knowing grins, then somewhere a whistle had shrilled and doors had started to slam; a few latecomers had burst through the ticket barrier. She had a seat by the window, and her case was on the rack. In it was the black nightie one of her friends had loaned her. It had been hanging on a chair in the cottage bedroom. It had remained there.

Another whistle, and with a jerk the train had started
to move. Hands, then fingertips, and then just her face and arm at the window before the train had gained speed out of the station.

He still had her cap. She had asked him to keep it.

Kidd was saying, ‘I’ve a list of jobs I’d like to discuss, sir. I get the feeling we’re being rushed, so it’s really a question of priorities.’

The good first lieutenant, Foley thought. Probably just what he needed.

Someone said, ‘Messenger’s comin’ aboard, sir!’

He felt his muscles tighten. He should have anticipated it. But so soon?

A seaman, smartly dressed and in white belt and gaiters, marched across the deck from the newly rigged brow, his boots clumping noisily.

Leading Seaman Pottinger said harshly, ‘Look where you’re going in them big daisy-roots, mate – that’s fresh planking you’re stamping on!’

Foley glanced over towards his old command.

It was only another memory.

The lieutenant-commander looked up from his desk, and fixed the sub-lieutenant with a penetrating stare.

‘Lincoln, isn’t it? We’ve not met before, but you’ve been away on leave, right?’

Lincoln thought it sounded like an accusation. ‘Some of us were overdue for it, sir.’

He had heard about Masters’ temporary replacement as soon as he had returned to duty: Lieutenant-Commander Mark Crozier, another regular, straight from H.M.S.
Vernon
like Masters, but there was no
other similarity. So he would keep calm, not let it get to him.

‘Don’t I know it.’ He turned over some papers. ‘Sorry I’ve got to lumber you with this one.’ He looked up again. Pale eyes, very steady, very cold. ‘Southampton, or just this side of it. A beast reported last night, but our team from Portsmouth was diverted. So there’s no time to hang about. I’ll check on the state of things in the meantime.’ He pushed the familiar package across the desk with his other hand, the one Lincoln had heard about. Somewhere along the way Crozier had suffered an injury, a faulty detonator, somebody had said. He had lost most of his left hand and wore a glove to conceal its mechanical replacement. At any other time he would have been beached, and as a regular officer he would always have that at the back of his mind.

Crozier said, ‘Is your rating on top line?’

‘Yes, sir. He’ll be ready.’

Crozier let his gloved hand fall to the desk and thrust it out of sight, as if ashamed of the metallic thud.

‘I’ve seen his record, used to work with Clive Sewell. Knew
him
pretty well. Sorry he bought it. Surprised, too, that his rating volunteered to remain in the render-mines-safe section.’

‘You did, sir.’ He knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say.

Crozier said coldly, ‘That is not what I meant. You get to rely on someone too much and you become vulnerable.’ His eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Or careless?’

The telephone rang and Lincoln tried to compose
himself. Why did he always rise to it? Take it as something personal?

Crozier was saying, ‘Can’t help that,
I’ve
got work to do, unlike some apparently. Tell my driver to do it. Are you deaf, man?’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Fast as you can.’ He slammed the phone down. ‘The car will be ready in ten minutes. You can use my driver – we’ve wasted enough time as it is.’

Through the window Lincoln saw Downie sitting on a bench, turning his cap slowly in his hands. In his working rig, the worn satchel by his feet, still managing to look fresh and alert.

Lincoln tried not to go over it all again. It had started at the pub, his father’s local. Another of those boisterous, insincere parties where everyone had drunk too much. Downie must have seen it coming; he had wanted to stay away, and had offered to repair something in the kitchen. But Lincoln had insisted. Now it was too late.

He had heard one of his father’s friends having a go at Downie.
Nice-looking lad like you, and no girlfriend to play around with? But then I suppose in the navy you make your own amusement, eh?

Lincoln could hear the laughter now, see Downie’s eyes watching him. He should have known, taken more care. Because of his anger, or the constant need to prove something. Like a voice repeating.
He should have known.

It had been the last night of his leave. And there had been an air raid. Sirens, gunfire, ambulances clanging through the street.

Exactly like the nightmare. The shouting, the bared teeth. His father leaning over the bed, his voice like a scream. Too much to drink . . . they had both fallen asleep in the same bed.

He had seen his father’s fury and sweating outrage turn to shock, then fear when he had seized him and slammed his body against the bedroom wall. Even that seemed like part of the nightmare. Hitting him again and again, while Downie tried to pull him off.

I would have killed him otherwise.

They had travelled down to Dorset in the same train, but in separate carriages. That was yesterday.

The whole street must have known about it. Even his mother had been screaming at him, shielding her battered and bleeding husband, the man who had always treated her like a servant, and sometimes worse.

They had spoken only once. Downie had said, ‘Sorry about what happened. It was because of me.’

Lincoln had gripped his arm, angry, confused, determined. ‘Still want to keep us together?’

Downie had nodded. Nothing else.

Crozier said, ‘Still here, then?’

Lincoln left the office, closing the door as loudly as he dared.

It might all come out anyway. His father would say nothing; he put his own hopes and ambition before everything else. But somebody would. He saw Downie get to his feet and jam on his cap.

They regarded each other, officer and assistant. Part of the team.

‘Southampton. All set?’

Downie nodded slowly. ‘It’s good to be back,’ he glanced round, ‘sir.’

Lincoln heard a car start up and saw the gates being opened.

Good to be back.
When they might both be dead before another day had passed. He had proved nothing. He had solved nothing. But he was ready, perhaps for the first time in his twenty-one years.

Leading Wren Margot Lovatt got out of the car and opened the boot. She was about to take Lincoln’s untidy bag when Downie shook his head and stowed it with his own.

She saw him smile, and felt the warmth of recognition, the memory of David Masters leading this youth from the field, the air still thick with smoke and the stench of blazing fuel. A burned-out plane and its dead crew, and the lieutenant who had held the George Cross. Downie’s officer. His friend.

In her two and a half years in the W.R.N.S. she had seen and learned a lot. A far cry from her quiet upbringing in Petersfield. The doctor’s daughter . . .

Perhaps women were quicker to recognize such things.

She leaned over to fasten the boot and felt the pendant move against her skin. Always a reminder, as if she needed one.

She looked at the typed destination, about fifty miles away. It should be quiet enough, through part of the New Forest. Like peacetime, if you could forget the checkpoints and the barrage balloons.

She said, ‘We should be there about lunchtime, sir. I know the road pretty well.’

Lincoln climbed into the back of the car. Downie, after a slight hesitation, got in beside her.

The gates slid past and they were out on the road.

She thought of that one visit to
Firebrand
. Chris had told her, ‘You’re a part of this. She’s not a rival.’

She remembered her father’s voice on the telephone when she had called to tell him she and Chris were getting engaged, whatever that meant in wartime, and that she wanted to bring him home, whenever that was possible. Her father had surprised her, more than she would have believed.

‘By all means. I was telling your mother the other day. It’s time we cleaned out Graham’s old room. I’ll get onto Lucy right away. Mister Warren is a good hand at decorating.’

He had been genuinely pleased, happier than she could remember. Maybe they had finally accepted what was past.

She and Chris were in love. It seemed to shine far brighter than the uncertainties. And . . . she confronted it . . . the danger.

She had told her closest friend some of it. ‘You see, Toni, I’ve never done it before.’

Toni had regarded her fondly, but with a certain amusement. ‘Twenty-one
and
a virgin? That really is something to brag about!’

She wondered if he had put Toni’s drawing somewhere safe from prying eyes. He would keep it with her cap, he had told her.

After that first time, when he had gone back to
Firebrand
to prepare for the takeover, she had lain alone in the bed and touched herself, where he had touched her, and remembered every precious sensation.

She was afraid, and she thought he was, too, although he was careful to hide it from her.

He was used to danger; he needed to be. They must hang onto every second together.

She saw the young officer’s eyes in the driving mirror and thought of Masters, the bond which had formed between them when everything had been against it.

Masters was away somewhere, and the two-and-a-half ringer, Crozier, had taken his place. Not for long, she hoped. Unforthcoming and impatient. She wondered what he had been like before.

Downie was watching her gloved hands on the wheel. He had not learned to drive, although his father had owned a little van for the business. If there had been more time . . . He turned as they passed two large dogs jumping and snapping at a stick held by a grinning farm labourer. Now they were going to another job, and he wondered how Lincoln was taking it. If anything came out about the trouble . . . He frowned.
When
it came out, what would happen?
To me. To Mike?

He saw the girl’s shoe press the brake pedal; it was probably the same hill where she had pranged the other car. She was very pretty. Her boyfriend was the lieutenant, now promoted, he had heard, who had been in command of the motor launch when they had found the dead airman; she had been there, waiting, when they had got back. And after Clive had been killed she
had stroked his face, stopped him from breaking down completely.

Maybe he should request a transfer, before anything worse happened. Back to general service, or to another branch entirely.

He lowered his left arm and squeezed it between his seat and the door. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, the car bonnet swaying from side to side between the ragged hedges and past the occasional cottage. Then he felt his hand gripped tightly, only for a few seconds. But it was enough.

If there was any future, it was already decided.

Captain James Wykes took off his cap and shook it over the stove, the droplets of rain hissing back at him.

‘It’s all moving a little too quickly for my liking.’ He watched Masters unfasten his waterproof tunic and stretch the muscles of his back. ‘How did it go today?’

Masters recalled the moment when the perspex dome had been fastened down by the selected artificers who had followed his every move and request. It did not take long to get the feel of the midget submarine. Everything within reach, like a toy. A deadly toy.