Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

‘Well, I’m very sorry. Very, very sorry. No excuses. Can you ever forgive me?’

‘Can I forgive you?’

‘Yes. I love you. You know I love you very much. I didn’t want to hurt you,’ and he stepped forward to touch her.

‘No, Douglas,’ she said firmly and held up a hand. ‘No, don’t. I can’t forgive you.’

He took half a step back again and looked away, as if uncertain what he should say next. Did he really think ‘sorry’ would be enough? Did he think it would be that easy? And she could feel the anger she had been so determined to control rising inside her.

‘It was unforgivable and I can’t explain it,’ he said. ‘At least I can’t explain it better than you when you called it a dangerous obsession.’

He was gazing across the patchwork of stubble and recently turned fields that dipped gently westwards away from them. The sky was heavy with blue-grey cloud too thick for any sort of sunset.

‘I can’t understand when we both work for the Division why…’

‘Aah,’ Mary grabbed her hair with both hands and pulled at it in exasperation. ‘You don’t understand, do you? It’s you. It’s not the Navy, it’s not me. It’s you.’ And she swung away from him in exasperation. ‘What have you become?’

‘It’s over now. Believe me,’ he was almost pleading with her. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this but I was trying to do my duty, trying to make some sort of amends. You know that.’

‘It’s not about me. Yes, it was disloyal and unnecessary but I half expected you to let the cat out of the bag. It’s what you put that poor man through when he trusted you. Helmut Lange almost died. I don’t think you’d have cared if he had.’

And now she had said it the anger began to ebb and there was just the deep heart-breaking sadness of it all. And she knew she would have to be careful or she would cry and she did not want that to happen.

‘I didn’t want to hurt him but it was the only way I could think of to trap Mohr.’ He was looking at her now and his voice was hard and defensive as if surer of his ground. ‘The Director wanted me to do all I could to break Mohr. The national interest — it will save lives. You know what was at stake.’

‘It was in your interests and you’ve admitted as much.’

‘They were one and the same.’

‘Lange was your friend, you promised to protect him.’

‘He was never a friend but of course I’m sorry I had to drag him into it. Look, is this getting us anywhere? I’m sorry I messed things up for you, really I am.’

He didn’t sound that sorry now. He sounded irritated and she wondered if he was thinking, Why is this woman so unreasonable?

‘You can dress it up as your duty and in the national interest if you like but I don’t think I can love someone who is so ruthless with his friends, someone who lies and will betray anyone.’

‘You lied to Winn.’

‘Yes, for you, God forgive me,’ she said bitterly.

‘We’re fighting a war.’

‘But what’s the point of winning it if we don’t have something better to fight for? You behaved like a Nazi.’

He flinched and looked away. And she was pleased because now she wanted to hurt him. ‘You’ve been trying to prove something too. What? Your loyalty?’

‘That’s rubbish. I don’t have to do that. Lives will be saved. You know that.’

‘It’s all about you.’

He stepped forward to look at her intently and she was struck as always by the light blue of his eyes.

‘Gosh, how you love the moral high ground,’ he said sharply. ‘It must be very lonely up there.’

That was cruel. She knew she was close to tears and that he knew it too. And it was too much. The frustration and the resentment and the anger burst from her. She slapped him. She slapped him hard on the cheek. It happened so quickly that for a moment she was not quite sure she had done it. But he had flinched and was reaching up to touch his cheek with his fingertips. And it looked hot and very red and her hand felt hot. His blue eyes were moist with tears. She wanted to reach out and stroke his cheek but she turned away instead, her hands at her mouth. For a few seconds, he stood there, his breath shaking, then she heard him push through the branches into the wood. She listened to him stumbling awkwardly on until she could hear him no more and she knew she was alone. A thin mist was rising from the land and, in the dying light, the hedges and trees and the sharp little stubble stalks at her feet were shapes in an almost colourless landscape. It was closing in on her, changing by the minute, by the second, into a cold and unfamiliar place. And it was so desperately sad. She brushed a tear from her cheek, and another, and another, and then she stopped trying. And she leant forward with her head bent and her hands on her knees for support and she sobbed, sobbed so hard her body began to shake uncontrollably and it was impossible to breathe.

How long did she cry for? It was dark when she stopped and she could barely see her hand in front of her face. She was tired and cold and empty. She did not want to go back to the house but knew she would have to or her father would come looking for her. The short walk through the wood was difficult and slow in the dark and she scratched her face and then her hand on a thick bramble. Through the walled garden and into the stables where she slipped out of her boots and into a pair of old shoes. Cook had gone home and the kitchen was empty, the pans and supper dishes washed and tidied away. There would be something for Mary in the range. She did not feel hungry. She wanted to slip quietly upstairs to bed but she knew she would have to speak to someone first. Her father was standing in the large stone-flagged entrance hall with a copy of The Times .

‘Are you all right? You’ve been crying,’ and he folded his newspaper and took half a step towards her as if to put a protective arm around her shoulders.

‘No, honestly, I’m fine. Tired, that’s all. I’m going to have a bath.’

‘Not yet you’re not,’ he said with a dry smile. ‘You’ve got to deal with him first,’ and he waved the paper in the general direction of the door. ‘I’ve had the devil’s own job restraining your brother. Your man’s sitting in his car.’

How foolish of her to have missed the Humber. It was still parked in front of the stable block. She could see Lindsay behind the wheel and the pinprick of light from his cigarette. She was sorry she had slapped him and she would say so but nothing more. Short, businesslike, no mention of Lange or the Division. A brief goodbye. She turned the handle of the passenger door and slipped on to the red leather seat.

‘I’m very sorry I struck you. It was unforgivable,’ she said quickly.

There was his small, slightly supercilious smile, the one she had marked at their first meeting and so often since.

‘So many things seem to be unforgivable. Actually I deserved it. You can do it again if you like,’ and he turned his head to offer the other cheek.

And she could not help but smile: ‘Please. Christ-like isn’t you at all.’

‘No?’

He looked exhausted and the car’s ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts.

‘Here,’ and she leant across to brush a little mud from his jacket. ‘I thought you’d gone.’

‘I can’t go.’

They sat there in silence for a moment. He was trying to catch her eye but she looked away.

‘Do you want me to go?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here,’ and he picked a sheet of blue writing paper from the dash-board and offered it to her. It was a handwritten note in German from Helmut Lange. Just four short lines.

‘Read it to me,’ and she handed it back to him.

‘It says: “ Dear Lieutenant. The doctors say I am well enough to be transferred to a camp in Scotland. Will you visit me… ”’