‘Bob’s gone,’ the Pole said. ‘I think military police got him last night. Got a whole bunch of the English boys. Rounded them up and sent them on their way, like sheep.’
‘But you got away?’
‘English MPs aren’t interested in me,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’m not sheep.’
27
The Fireman’s Arms was in prime position, at the bottom of the high street, next to the station. It had changed hands since I’d last visited. The new landlord had spruced things up, to the extent that putting a few pots of geraniums on the window sills could be considered spruced up. A blackboard by the front door promised sandwiches. Another innovation.
I had to push my way through a crowd of soldiers outside, and when I made it inside, I was surprised at how busy it was. I’d been expecting the usual quiet evening – working men quietly drinking away their lives – but the place was full, and there was an electric energy in the air. A fug of smoke hung down from the yellow ceiling, and men were shoulder to shoulder, drinking and talking. Most were soldiers who looked like they’d slipped away from the trains shuttling men from the coast to barracks inland.
For every soldier, there was a girl. I recognised a few faces. Others looked like they’d arrived from out of town for professional purposes – their dresses more revealing, their make-up more expertly applied.
Watching over all of this, two military police officers stood at the bar, their red berets folded and stowed under their shoulder lapels, a warning to everyone. They had a practised nonchalance that I knew, from experience, could switch to action in a second. I’d had my fair share of brushes with MPs, and had learnt to give them a wide berth when I’d beenin uniform. Now, though, I was invisible to them. Another old man in for a few beers after his day on the farm.
I pushed my way through the crowd. A commotion in a group of gunners rippled out and one of them staggered into me, spilling his beer. I put my hand on his back, keeping him away from me, and at the same time another man bumped into me from behind.
‘Steady on!’ he said. I turned, ready to apologise.
‘Hello!’ the man said. We recognised each other at the same time. He was the artist I’d seen that morning, near the Leckies’ house.
‘They didn’t catch you,’ he said, with a smirk.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, leaning in to hear him over the noise of the crowd.
‘I watched you,’ he said, ‘doing a recce.’
‘Just out for a walk,’ I said.
‘That’s all right,’ he said, and he winked at me. ‘Our little secret.’ It was unsettling. His wink was intimate, like we were old friends, in on a private joke. Before I could come back with a retort he slapped me on the shoulder and left. I watched him push his way through the crowd, on his way to the gents.
I made it to the bar and ordered a pint of best, still thinking about the artist.
‘Kate Davidson’s lads been in tonight?’ I asked.
The barman shook his head. It could have meant no, or it could have meant he wasn’t going to tell me.
‘Someone was in here last night talking about people needing to be killed,’ I said. ‘Hear anything like that?’
‘Look around,’ the barman said. ‘Take your pick.’
The Polish soldier joined me at the bar.
‘You heard the latest rumour?’ he asked. ‘Local priest caught with wireless set in his belfry.’
‘That one’s been going around since last year,’ I said. ‘Your source is out of date.’
I bought the Polish soldier a drink, keeping an eye out for the Davidson boys.
‘You hear any more German voices out in the fields?’
I asked.
‘It’s the fence,’ he said. When I looked surprised, he smiled, pleased with himself.
‘I figured it out,’ he continued. ‘Last night. I heard the voice, hid in a bush, but got fed up hiding, so went looking for a German to kill. It’s your fence.’
I nodded.
