Killing Ground (40 page)

She shivered as a vixen gave her shrill bark amongst the undergrowth, and pulled the shawl closer over her shoulders.

Then, trying to keep her mind clear, she thought of what had happened to her. Jamie had always been eager, even violent, needing to conquer rather than seduce her. She thought suddenly of her dead friend Jane, who had said more than once that the climax was the true delight of making love. The complete giving of one to the other. No wonder Daddy had thought of her as flighty.

Celia had never experienced it. Not even tonight when he had held her and touched her, and then entered her. David had been gentle and caring, as she had known he would be, but there had been some pain, and she had clenched her fists over his shoulders so that he should not know, or blame himself. It had been such a long while since …

She touched her breasts through her nightdress, as he had done, her thighs and the smooth skin where she had sensed him preparing her for that dreamed-of and feared moment when she would feel him come into her. He had fallen asleep almost immediately, and for hours she had held him, soothing his nightmares, praying that he would have no regrets when he remembered.

She found she was still shivering, and yet her limbs felt no
chill. It was like hearing a voice, feeling hands gripping her arms.

She walked to the table and groped in the shadows for the brandy she had left untouched.

Like the time in the restaurant when she had secretly wished that the old waiter
had
offered the room; that they had taken it no matter what people had thought, or if her parents had got to know about it.

The brandy was like fire on her tongue. She tossed the shawl aside and the invisible hands propelled her forward again.

The room was full of moonlight, and on the opposite side of the bed she saw herself reflected in the old-fashioned wardrobe's mirror where their discarded uniforms hung together like interlopers.

She heard him stir, his breathing quicken, but she kept her eyes on her reflection as with slow deliberation she pulled up her nightdress, over her head, before throwing it towards a chair.

In the cold light her naked body, her fine uplifted breasts seemed to shine like sculptured marble. She said, “You're my man, David.” She knelt on the heavy feather-bedded mattress and took his hand in hers. “And I will be yours for as long as you want.” His face was in shadow but she could sense his desire for her as she pulled his hand to where he had touched her, roused her, entered her. Then she had been passive and frightened. Now she knew her passion for him had over-ridden everything.

They lay in each other's arms, her leg thrown across his body, prolonging it with their caresses and kisses. Quite suddenly she exclaimed, “Take me, David. All you know, all you've wanted to do …” The rest was lost as he turned her carefully on to her back.

Outside, the vixen's cry went unheard.

A million miles away from that isolated cottage, Lieutenant Lionel Bizley pushed past two naval ratings and closed the telephone booth behind him.

Gladiator
was getting underway in less than an hour, and if the formidable Captain (D) discovered what he was doing things
would get nasty. But there had been talk of leave, two weeks at least, after this next operation, whatever it was. He had to let Sarah Milvain know about it. With luck he might be able to stay at their Mayfair house, provided her mother, who sounded a bit of a battleaxe, would allow it.

A house in Mayfair. In Bizley's suburban mind it was something between high society and Hollywood.

He had already revamped his own background, to make it suitable for Sarah's parents, especially the general if he happened to be there. He would describe his father as being in banking, maybe in the City. People were always impressed by finance. It was a joke when you thought about it. The dingy little high street bank in Horsham, where his father had been for most of his life. And his mother, who was undoubtedly proud of her son's becoming “a real officer,” as she had put it, more so since his DSC—she would be amazed when he told them where he had been and stayed, and about the girl he had met.

Through the glass he saw
Gladiator
's chief quartermaster walking slowly back towards Gladstone Dock, an empty mail sack over one arm. It gave Bizley a sense of nervous urgency and he cursed impatiently as the telephone rattled and clicked in his grasp. “Come on,
damn you!”

Then he heard her voice. It was a relief to find it was not her mother, with so little time left to talk.

“It's me! Lionel!” He glanced at the queue outside the booth. “Don't say anything, Sarah, we might get cut off.”

She sounded faraway, surprised. “I hoped you would call.”

Bizley studied himself in the little mirror below the printed notice which said
WHAT TO DO IN AN AIR RAID.
Some wag had scrawled,
Try not to shit yourself!

“Fact is, I may get some leave shortly. I was wondering …” She must have moved away to close a door somewhere. He flushed at the thought of their privacy.

“Sorry, Lionel, I'm back.” She cleared her throat. “Leave, you say? That will be nice for you.”

It was not quite what he had expected.
Nice.
How his mother would have described it.

“Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

She said, “I was listening for Mother. She's a bit upset.”

“I'm sorry. Give her my love. Tell her I'm still in one piece. I'm
longing
to meet her.”

“There was a man here to see her.” His lie seemed to have gone unnoticed.

“Man? What man?”

Somebody unseen rapped on the glass with some pennies but Bizley glared out, shaking his head.

He repeated the question and she replied, “She won't say, but he was an official of some kind. I let him in. He was from the Admiralty. Mother got very upset. He apparently asked her a lot of questions about Greg—his death, things like that.” There was a sob in her voice. “Why can't they leave things alone? He even mentioned poor Andy.”

Somewhere an air raid warning wailed dismally. It was strange to think it was all that way away, in London.

Bizley stared at the mirror at his own eyes, which were suddenly wide with shocked disbelief.

“Maybe he was just doing it for the records, you know.” But his mind seemed to scream at him.
They suspect something!
All this time, and somebody was probing what had happened.

He said, “I'll ring again. Must go. Take care …”

“But it
is
all right, isn't it, Lionel? They're not keeping something secret from us—
you
would know, surely?” She was still speaking when he carefully replaced the telephone and pushed out into the shadows.

There was nothing to worry about. They had quite rightly accepted his report. And the two other survivors would know better than to interfere.

By the time he reached
Gladiator
's brow he was sweating badly, as if he had been running all the way.

The duty quartermaster and gangway sentry were lounging
by the lobby desk, and Bizley shouted,
“Stand up!
Smarten yourselves, or I'll have you in front of the first lieutenant!” But even that gave him no satisfaction.

The quartermaster adjusted his cap and muttered, “I'd been 'opin' he might drop dead, Bill.”

The sentry grinned. “Probably caught the boat up. I'm real sorry for the prostitute!” They both laughed.

In his small cabin Bizley knelt down and took a bottle of vodka from his locker. He had been given it on the North Russian run. He disliked it, but had been told it did not lie on your breath. He tossed some water out of his tooth-glass and poured until it was half-f.

It seemed to work.

Don't be such a bloody fool. Nobody knows.
He touched the blue and white ribbon on his jacket and took another swallow.
Just keep your nerve.

Over the tannoy the voice called, “Special sea dutymen to your stations! All the port watch! First part forrard, second part aft, stand by for leaving harbour!”

Bizley stood up. That was more like it. Routine and duty. He would show them all!

David Howard lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. There was a smell of woodsmoke, mingled with another, of bacon. He had slept well, a night devoid of pressure and guilt, and he had awakened with her in his arms, wrapped around each other, and at peace. They made love with fierceness and sometimes in slow harmony, neither willing to think of the hours or the days. There was just four more left.

The door opened and she stood there looking at him. She was wearing his pyjama jacket and nothing more, not even slippers while she had been preparing breakfast, or perhaps it was lunch.

“We'll have another lovely walk today.” She moved to the bed and watched him with a tenderness she had never known. “But first we eat. It's egg day today, a ration not to be missed!”

He rolled over and held her, then slipped his hand beneath the pyjama jacket and stroked her buttocks. “You are quite shameless.” He pulled her down on to the bed. “And I love you.”

She watched his eyes as he unbuttoned the jacket and touched her, his hand moving as if independent of its owner to explore and arouse her again. He had confided a lot about his war, and the more he had talked while they had sat by the fire each evening after their walks, their simple adventures, the calmer he had become. She had tried not to think of their eventual parting. In a matter of weeks it would be Christmas; the Atlantic at its worst.
This
would have to last.

She said, “If you keep touching me there I shall forget about the eggs!”

He had not even blurted out his doubts again. The way he had blamed himself for not understanding what the midshipman might do, how he should perhaps have reacted differently to his friend Marrack's ordeal. Once in the night he had sat up staring at her, but she had known he was asleep. “He just sat there waiting to die, and it was all because of me!” In the morning he had not remembered it, nor had he mentioned it since.

She felt his fingers move down across her stomach and gave up the battle. Afterwards they lay together and watched the cold sunlight lance across the room.

She said, “I can still feel you, David. So deep. So much love.”

He raised himself on one elbow. “We don't talk about it, Celia, but it's still there.” He touched her hair, and saw her watching him. “I'd like to know—do you think you might change your mind?”

She stared at him, her eyes very green in the smoky sunshine. “About us?”

He held her hand tightly in his. “Would you marry me?”

“Hold me.” She buried her face on his shoulder. “Is it wrong to want someone so much? To put
us
first, instead of the bloody war?”

He stroked her bare back. He had never heard her swear
before. “That's settled then.”

They both stiffened as the telephone shattered the peace and the stillness like an alarm bell.

She walked naked to the table and lifted the telephone to her ear, watching his face the whole time.

She said, “I thought you might. Yes, I'll tell him. Bless you.”

She replaced the receiver and picked up the pyjama jacket.

“Who was that?” Just for an instant he had felt the same old dread.

“It was Mummy.” She regarded him gravely. “We always tell each other where we are. You never know, these days.”

“You
told
her?” He reached out as she brushed against the bed. “About us?”

She smiled down at him. “I think she's always known.” She stepped back out of reach. “Eggs first.” She wiped her eyes with the pyjama sleeve. “No walk today. Let's keep this world to ourselves.”

D
ESPITE
the powerful fans at either end of the huge U-Boat pens, the damp air was acrid with diesel as one of a pair of boats made ready to depart stern-first.

On the bridge of his own boat Kleiber watched with professional interest as more smoke puffed over the pier-like jetty which separated them, and forced several of the line-handling party into a fit of coughing. He knew the other boat's commanding officer, and they had been together for most of the war. It went no further than that. Korvettenkapitän Otto Schneider was the propaganda department's dream; either that, or he had some very good friends there. His rugged grin had appeared many times on newsreels and in the daily press. Usually seen with someone senior and important, either from the naval staff or a well known party member. His conning-tower was covered with the record of his kills and the boat's insignia, a grinning shark in a horned helmet.

In Kleiber's view he was a boaster, a man who would snap at the most insignificant targets merely to add to his score. There was envy of course; Kleiber could accept that too. Schneider had bagged some important targets as well as the little fish, and was probably the most decorated U-Boat captain who was still alive.

Before leaving this French base today, for instance, he had been bragging about a British corvette named
Tacitus
which he had put down some time ago; of how he had cruised around and waited for a second kill, the destroyer which had been despatched to search for her. He had known of Kleiber's interest in the British destroyer
Gladiator;
nearly all the veterans here did. Schneider had banged him on the back, laughing, as he had described the change of luck, when survivors on the stopped and torpedoed corvette had sent out a warning in time for the
destroyer to start her attack. So the
Tacitus
had been sunk, and Kleiber could see the fresh little painting below all the rest to mark her destruction.

Schneider was waving to him now, as his submarine began to move slowly astern towards the harbour. Kleiber tossed a curt salute. Schneider was, after all, his superior.