Benedikt moved cautiously. There was a silenced Heckler and Koch pistol in the road, lying beside the Metro’s toy-like nearside wheel. Then he saw Kelly.
“He is dead?” More foreign words.
“I dunno. An‘ I don’t much care, neither.” Blackie’s voice was matter-of-fact.
Benedikt looked at him.
“Down by the stream, we were.” Blackie drew breath. “An‘ the message come—to stop ’un. An‘ Old Cecil drove the tractor, an’ I sets on the back. We got ‘ere just before ’im.”
There were sounds in the distance.
“‘E says to Old Cecil ’Open up the road‘ … An’, for an answer, Old Cecil just gets off the tractor.” Another breath, almost a sigh. “An‘ ’e says again, ‘Open up the road’. An‘ Old Cecil says ’No‘. An’ then there’s this … like a
thump
, as I was a-comin‘ round the side.” He looked straight at Benedikt. ’“E didn’t give ‘im no chance. An’ I didn’t give him none, neither.”
Benedikt went to where the shot-gun blast had blown Kelly, on the opposite verge. Blackie must have been very quick to have got that shot in like that, against an expert; and, more than that, because with killing it needed will as well as reflexes. But the old soldier’s training must have reinforced the poacher’s instinct in that instant, so Kelly had been unlucky at the last when he was almost clear.
He knelt down beside the man. The blast had taken him midway, and not spread much, but there was a lot of blood. The unmarked face was grey-white, and old. He thought…
old men shouldn ‘t die like this
—
And then the eyes opened suddenly, and the chest moved, blowing a bubble of blood.
“Captain.” Kelly looked up at him, expressionless as Blackie. “Ahh …”
With a wound like that … it was hard to tell if there was nothing to lose—or anything to gain?
Nothing to gain of value now
, he estimated coldly. Only curiosity was left now.
He bent a little closer. “Why did you kill them?”
Kelly gazed at him. “Told you. Personal matter.”
That wouldn’t do. “No …
Alloysius
.”
Just as suddenly as they had opened, the eyes were no longer without expression. “Ahh … You knew?” Now they were sharing curiosity. “How long?” Almost a frown now.
Truth? “Minutes.” Truth. “The long gun—the 17-pounder … The Old General wasn’t there, he was away sick at the time. So you lied. But you had no reason to lie … Or you weren’t there yourself, either … And that made me think of other things …” Yet—what other things? wondered Benedikt. Because it still didn’t add up.
“Ahh …” The frown was smoothed away. “True story, though—Michael’s story … Had to be Michael, for you … little mistake—big mistake. Clever—too clever.” Almost imperceptible nod. “Michael always said …
Jerries
clever.” Against the odds the voice was stronger. “Forgot that.”
And, even more strangely, the voice was no longer Irish, but had no country. “It was Michael who was killed?”
Another tiny movement of the head. “Bad luck. Both going … running … Spotted one of
them
—can always tell …
bastards …
Michael had talked of going to the Squire—safe with him … I went instead.”
And that was where it didn’t make sense. “And he accepted you? As Michael?”
“Michael?” Aloysius Kelly closed his eyes, and for a moment Benedikt thought he had lost him. “Ahh … I
was
Michael—Michael Kelly … 834 Gunner Kelly,
sir!”
Another frothy bubble expanded, bigger than the rest. “Best troop in the battery, best battery in the regiment, best regiment in the brigade, best brigade in the division, best fucking division in the whole fucking army! 834 Gunner Kelly,
Sir!
”
He still couldn’t believe it. “The Old General accepted you as Michael?”
The eyes opened. “What?”
“He-accepted-you-as-Michael?”
“Accept me? The Squire? Never!” There was blood at the corner of Kelly’s mouth. “Told you true … told
him
true … not all of it, of course—couldn’t do that… But told him I was done with it—their lies, my lies—over and done with for ever, and no going back in this world … Told him a lie—told him Michael had gone back to Ireland, where he’d be safe—not him they were after, only me—couldn’t tell him about Michael … Asked him if I could lay up for a few days, till I got my breath back.”
More blood now. What had the newspapers said about Michael Kelly’s death? An accidental explosion of petrol in a garage? And nothing about a victim, of course … all hushed up…
“He was a man, he was—the Squire. ‘If Gunner Kelly’s safe in Ireland,’ he said, ‘then you be Gunner Kelly safe in England—how about that, then?’ ” Impossibly, Aloysius Kelly was moving one hand, as though to touch Benedikt. “How about that, then—834 Gunner Kelly—the Squire and Gunner Kelly—the bastards’ll not forget them so quickly, not now—”
Then the blood came with a great rush, choking him.
How we put all that together is according to taste, I suppose, Jack!
So far as Captain Benedikt Schneider is concerned, the fact that he knew every detail of the Old General’s military career only demonstrates once again how thoroughly the BND does its homework—thanks, presumably, to the Wiesbaden computer. But even so, his catching the one mistake Kelly made—that 17-pounder lie which the real Gunner Kelly wouldn’t have told—marks him as someone special: young Schneider has that rare gift which is better than a good memory, the wild faculty of plucking truth from untruth.
For his part, he maintains that the lie sparked all his subconscious suspicions into consciousness. I had fed him my doubts about Aloysius Kelly’s supposed death (though perhaps he already knew that); and all along he’d picked up contradictory vibrations from ‘Gunner Kelly’. The man was a cunning hunter, like Esau in the Bible, but that could have been the old soldier’s skills surfacing. Yet he was also a smooth man, like Joseph in the Bible—sometimes falsely wearing Esau’s hairy skin, but also Joseph’s coat-of-many-colours.
Of course, I’d picked up Kelly vibes too. But I was blinded by the Old General’s acceptance of him as ‘Gunner Kelly’: my experience of pure Christ-like goodness, which gives sanctuary to sinners without listening to the Devil’s Advocate, is sadly defective, I fear … Besides which I was too busy looking for danger from outside the Chase—perhaps that’s how that original Fighting Man came unstuck.
Excuses, excuses! Maybe if I’d known the Old General’s military history I would have sussed out the real Kelly from the false one—and maybe if Schneider hadn’t been his father’s son, come fresh from the tank museum, he wouldn’t have done. But the fact is that I didn’t and he did.
When it comes to Aloysius Kelly and his motivation, there is a difference of opinion between Schneider and myself. Of course, I watched the man over several days, but Schneider saw him die.
My somewhat unromantic Anglo-Saxon view, anyway, is that ihe leopard does not change his spots—that however much Kelly may have admired the Old General he always intended to survive. So his vengeance was intended to leave us believing that he was indeed Gunner Kelly, while the blood-bath in Duntisbury Chase—the elimination of an entire hit-squad—was intended to dampen the KGB’s ardour for continued pursuit (plus, of course, the scandal of such a massacre on our territory). I believe he had another bolt-hole set up.
While he thinks differently, Schneider does agree that by the end Aloysius was running very scared—he had been using Becky Maxwell-Smith and her people in the Chase to give him early warning; because he never underrated the KGB, even though he was obviously pretty sure he could get them where he wanted, when he wanted (with a pretended IRA call? They wanted him dead too). Anyway, my arrival was bad enough, but Schneider’s positively stampeded him: it was that evening or never, he must have reckoned.
It’s on the ‘why’ that we diverge. For Schneider is romantically obsessed with the sanctity of the Old General, which he thinks somehow transmuted ex-Comrade Kelly into ex-Gunner Kelly, like base metal into gold—or even made a single man out of them, with the ex-comrade’s brains and the ex-gunner’s loyalty: a sort of super Irishman, but without the luck of the Irish.
Maybe we’re both right—and it was Comrade Aloysius who shot Old Cecil like a dog, and died for it; but it was Gunner Kelly who left that letter on the mantelpiece of the Lodge, claiming his ancient right of vengeance and exculpating the Chase from blame. You pays your money, and you takes your choice, Jack.
As for me—the same applies. Captain Schneider is a loyal ally, and as blameless as your Jane. But Old Cecil’s blood is on my hands and I’ve lost you whatever was in Kelly’s head, so my resignation is attached. Use that or give me Cheltenham and I’ll win for you there, I promise. Losing is not to my taste.
Yours,
David
The End