He burst into the trees, switched left, dodging trunks and bushes… a crashing behind as they followed – then his foot caught a root and he toppled through the air and sleighed into a clump of bushes …
He wriggled around and lay still, winded … pushing his white hands under the dead leaves, he lowered his face into them …
They were running straight at him, they
must
have seen him, then they were running past –
“Old it …”
They stopped, the speaker just beside him … he could see his boots six inches in front of his eyes, knew he should shut them but he couldn’t …
“Where is ‘e?”
“Shaddup an’ listen …”
Complete silence save the breath whistling in their throats …
“’E’s ‘ere somewhere …” The speaker shifted and his heel came on the tips of Fraser’s fingers … “Kel, gedover by the wall … Zit, over ‘ere …”
They moved away. Kel found a stick and prodded at the base of the wall. They tried staying still again, but got bored. One of them lit a fag and a few minutes later, they started back over the playing field to the path.
He crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the copse and watched them against the light of the hospital. They got back to where they’d left his jacket, went through the pockets and then made a big deal of tearing it into as many pieces as they could. Then they wandered off.
Just
the
flower
of
English
youth
having
a
few
laughs
, he thought.
No
point
in
going
to
the
police
. He limped back to the flat to get cleaned up.
The old man arrived the following week. He was called Harold Carter and he had advanced bowel cancer with secondaries, some of them in the brain, which were making him vomit on top of the pain.
“How are you feeling, Mr Carter?” Philip asked him.
“Not too special, truth be told, Doc.” His speech was slurred but Fraser could tell he was a Londoner.
“We’re going to treat you with dexamethazone,” Philip told him after he’d examined him, “You should start feeling better by tomorrow. After that, we’ll think about radiotherapy.”
“Thanks, Doc.” He swallowed and lay back. He was a small man anyway, less than five and a half feet, but was made smaller by his disease. His face was wizened, like a monkey’s, his hair brittle white, his eyes dulled.
In the corridor, Edwina said, “Can he stand another round of radiotherapy, Philip?”
“I’m not sure. As you know, he’s specifically requested it - let’s see how he is when his symptoms are under control.”
“He actually wants more radiotherapy?” Fraser asked.
“He thinks it might give him an extra few weeks,” Edwina told him, “Which, of course, it might.”
“Is it worth it?”
She shrugged. “He seems to think so.”
The next day, Harold Carter asked to see Fraser. He was looking a little better and Fraser told him so.
“I feel a bit better, thanks – “ he swallowed – “ ‘Cept my mouth’s so dry I can hardly talk.”
“Haven’t you got a glandosalve dispenser?” He looked on the bedside cabinet. “Yeah, here it is … “
Glandosalve was an artificial saliva spray. Although expensive, it was used freely at Wansborough because the drugs they used there tended to cause a dry mouth. Fraser showed him how to use it.
“That’s better,” Carter said, moving his tongue around his mouth. He looked shrewdly at Fraser. “Your name’s Callan, isn’t it?”
“That’s what it says here.” Fraser indicated his badge.
“From Glasgow?”
“Aye, can’t you tell?”
“I knew a bloke in the war called Callan. Jamie Callan.”
Fraser smiled. “My grandfather was called Jamie. Callan’s a common name, though. So’s Jamie.”
“Yeah, it was probably two other blokes.” He yawned. “I think I’d like to rest now, if you don’t mind.”
Fraser wondered briefly whether Carter could have known his grandfather, why he’d shut off so abruptly – then he was called to see another patient and forgot about it.
But that evening, over his pint, he found himself thinking about Jamie, the grandfather he’d never met; whose death, he was sure, had ramifications in his own life.
Fraser’s father, John, had been a restless man, never able to hold a job for long and had eventually become an alcoholic. Fraser couldn’t remember much about him, since he’d died when he was ten, but one thing he did remember was what he’d said at Grannie’s one afternoon. Fraser was eight at the time and had asked who the man in the photo on Grannie’s sideboard was.
“That’s your Grandad, laddie. He was a hero. He flew in bombers in the war and got a medal for saving a man’s life.”
“Can I see it?”
Grannie had taken a row of medals out of a drawer and Dad had shown him.
“Can I have them one day?”
Dad laughed. “They ought to go to Rob, since he’s older than you.”
“What happened to Grandad?”
“He was killed in 1944. Shot down.” John’s eyes had slid away. “When I was the same age as you …”
Which probably answered for a great deal, Fraser thought now. In the end, none of the brothers had got any of the medals because John sold them a couple of years later when Grannie died. He’d died himself shortly afterwards, run over by a bus while he was drunk.
*
“Got a few minutes, doc?” said Harold Carter the next day.
He was looking better, Fraser thought, there was even a little colour in his face against the crisp white sheets. For several seconds, he didn’t say anything, then, abruptly, he looked up - his eyes were a washed-out brown, but fever bright.
“The Jamie Callan I knew came from Rutherglen in Glasgow, he had a wife called Jeanie and was shot down over Germany in 1944. That’s your grandfather, isn’t it?”
“It could be,” Fraser said slowly.
“It is. I’ve been thinking about it since yesterday and it all fits.” He paused. “Not only that, but you look like him and sound like him.”
Fraser sat down in the chair by the bed. “It’s a hell of a coincidence,” he said, trying to take it in. Then: “Did you know him well?”
“Put it this way – he saved my life.”
A machine bleeped and a phone rang somewhere. Fraser said at last, “I knew that he saved someone’s life, Mr Carter. He got a medal for it.”
“Well, it was me he saved an’ he deserved it. We were in bombers, he was the dorsal gunner, I was the tail gunner.”
“Lancasters?”
“Halifaxes. Not so well known, but I preferred ‘em.”
He looked at Fraser long and hard, weighing things up in his mind, then he said, “I don’t believe in coincidence, so I’m going to do something I should’ve done years ago and tell you exactly what happened to him.” Another pause while he took a breath, then:
“We were coming back from Germany and got hit by flak. The skipper thought he could get us home, but he was wrong and we came down in the North Sea. The plane sank, but everyone got in the dinghy, everyone except me, that is. I’d been knocked out and was still in the tail. Jamie came back for me, even though the plane was sinking.”
He chuckled.
“They thought we were drowned, ‘cos the plane had gone down, but then Jamie suddenly popped up in the water with me. We were picked up next day.” He sighed reflectively. “Christ, it was cold! They gave us a week off, generous bastards, then it was back into another Halifax and back off to Germany …”
*
They’d dropped their bombs, turned and were headed for home. Harold worked the hydraulic levers in the rear turret, searching the sky for nightfighters – then the whole plane shuddered as though hit by a pneumatic drill…
There
was
a
scream
of
agony
in
his
earphones
,
then
nothing
.
He
flipped
the
switch
on
the
mouthpiece
–
“
Skipper
,
you
OK
?”
No
answer
.
“
Jamie
?”
Nothing
,
except
the
note
of
the
four
engines
rising
as
the
plane
slid
into
a
dive
…
He
could
guess
what
had
happened
–
a
night
fighter
,
probably
a
JU
88
,
had
come
up
underneath
them
and
raked
the
bomber
along
its
length
with
explosive
shells
–
its
length
except
the
tail
,
that
is
…
He
banged
the
release
button
at
his
belly
and
stumbled
through
the
hatch
into
the
plane
.
Nothing
was
recognisable
;
the
shells
had
reduced
the
inside
of
the
bomber
to
a
smoking
refuse
tip
. “
Jamie
!
Jamie
!”
He
struggled
along
the
walkway
and
looked
up
into
the
dorsal
turret
-
Jamie’s
hand
hung
motionless
,
blood
running
down
it
and
splashing
into
his
eyes
.
He
started
climbing
the
ladder
but
a
rung
gave
way
and
he
fell
back
to
the
floor
.
The
angle
of
the
plane
steepened
and
the
engines
began
to
howl
.
He
got
to
his
feet
and
was
about
to
try
again
when
a
ball
of
flame
whooshed
at
him
,
burning
his
eyebrows
and
hair
-
without
thinking
,
he
turned
and
ran
…
His
parachute
lay
just
outside
the
turret
hatch
…
he
reached
it
and
in
slow
motion
,
threaded
his
arms
through
the
harness
,
pulled
the
belt
up
between
his
legs
and
snapped
the
tongue
into
place
–
another
fireball
licked
at
him
,
then
another
–
the
plane
was
at
forty
degrees
now
,
engines
screaming
their
guts
out
…
He
turned
,
tried
to
pull
himself
through
the
hatch
but
the
chute
caught
the
top
and
he
was
stuck
…
Breathe
out
,
he
told
himself
,
get
lower
,
pull
,
pull
…
and
he
squeezed
himself
through
.
He
sat
,
flicked
the
hydraulic
lever
and
incredibly
,
the
turret
turned
…
and
turned
–
then
a
freezing
gale
tore
at
him
and
he
somersaulted
into
space
…