The town's last house was ahead on the left. It would only be a few minutes' walk past that. He wondered how he looked. He should have cleaned himself up a bit in the bathroom at the train station. At the last house, a pair of feet were sticking out onto the pathway. He got closer and saw that it was the man who had paced so fast up rue des Vignes, resting now on the step. He was wearing an old jacket and a felt cap. Daniel walked past him and along the road. Its surface here was crumbling and soon there was just gravel on the roadside. There was hardly anything in his backpack but it began to feel heavy. He was sweating under its straps. He looked down again into the valley and squinted. He heard the kick of a stone and behind him another man was walking on the road a fair way back. He guessed that Ania's place was not alone out there ahead, or might it be some kind of hotel? Surely it could not be far now.
The man who had been resting on the step was up again. Over his shoulder Daniel glimpsed the two men walking in columnâwalking not, as he was, on the roadside, but on the road itself, almost at its centre. Another stone went pebbling across the road. The men were a good distance back, but travelling faster than he was. It felt as if he should step a little quicker. It must have been nearing midday. The sky was a bright, almost primitive blue.
He came to a long stretch of road, fields on either side. There was a corner up ahead, and he thought that the house would be beyond that.
When he looked back again the two men had changed places. The one in the jacket with the hat was now walking more quickly, was about halfway to him.
Daniel kept walking. There were few clouds. The man in the jacket was almost level with him, walking on the other side of the road. Half a minute later Daniel was overtaken. He glanced over and the man was looking at his own feet. When he got twenty or so yards in front, he slowed to Daniel's pace, which was essentially when Daniel knew it.
He looked and the man behind had advanced. Beyond him, at the edge of visible distance, was a third figure on the road, closing the gap. Not strictly a C-man, but near enough.
He decided that he would not stop walking.
He wondered whether he was getting any closer to Ania, whether she had sent the message or was it all them, that which lay ahead.
His knees felt heavier, harder to move. He sucked his breath in to get the air he needed.
He could hear the men getting closer. He decided that he would not look again, that he would keep his eyes on the valley and straight ahead. It really was a beautiful place.
Soon, all four of them were walking together. The road stretched long in front and they didn't seem to be getting much closer to the corner. The slight breeze that had been blowing had now stopped. Things were suddenly rather quiet, except for the sound of their feet. He didn't wonder yet about what was going to happen. He concentrated on this, what he could see: the fence lines, the belting green fields.
He'd tried to do the right things, hadn't he?
The car appeared at the top of the road. A grey sedan. It came on fast, ripping towards them, its engine humming and stones being thrashed under its wheels, and Daniel felt like saying, âListen, you don't need to bother with that.' He hoped that the men walking would realise this, but, with the car coming, the two behind grabbed his arms suddenly and he felt sharp pain. He was shoved. He stumbled.
They didn't tell him what to do. Didn't say anything. He wanted to stay upright and this provoked a hellish twist, his elbow almost out of its socket. He lost balance. The road came up to meet his temple. There was the shock of it and then the splitting pain. From the men came no instruction or sound. There was a knee in his back. He couldn't shout. There was the iron taste of blood. He moved his tongue and felt sour pain as if it had been opened by a blade.
His impulse was to move. He took a watery breath as though he was drowning. He wanted to tell them it wasn't necessary. He wanted them to stop so that he could explain.
He was being lifted. The way they'd played thisâhe felt vacant, almost missing. The car was before him with a lurch. He was being pushed into its back seat.
The engine revved. He saw blunt walls and fortresses, midnight flights and frost. They were trying to make him sit upright, shunting him hard across. He could have done it himself but his hands had been tied. He tried to say this but he wasn't able to speak. He wanted to explain that he'd cooperate, seek salvation. He was nobody but he wanted to say that there was really no need for cruelty if they were going to do this.
F
irstly, my thanks go to Annette Barlow, Catherine Milne and everyone at Allen & Unwin. For helping me to see a much better book, I am especially grateful to Ali Lavau.
For careful editing and insight, thanks to Kylie Mason and also Clara Finlay. Any remaining errors are my own.
For her advice and dedication, thanks to my agent Clare Forster.
For residency in Hackett's best artists' studio, I am indebted to Annie Trevillian.
For every kind of help and support, thanks to Margaret and Roger Croome.
Lastly, to Molly Peterson, thanks for your infinite belief, love and encouragementâwithout you this would not have been possible.