James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

He rose with her. “Will you be alright?”

She patted him back down. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Bliss was on the verge of seeking her out when she returned, dry-eyed, though her face was flushed.

“I didn’t come back to England after the war,” she explained. I couldn’t face my mother and her snotty friends. ‘And what did you do in the war, little Ophelia?’ they would have asked, their little pinkies poking the air as they sipped Earl Grey and pretended to be posh. What would I have said? You nearly choked to death when I told you — imagine what they would have said, ‘Oh how dreadful,’ she put on a plummy accent, ‘How could you, Ophelia?’ Then they would have asked for another cucumber sandwich.”

Bliss found himself laughing — nervous relief, he assumed. Relieved she’d got over the worst — that she was able to make light of it, however dreadful it had been. But the worst was to come.

“It’s not funny. You were shocked because you assumed I’d been a nurse. It’s so stereotypical — men maim and women mend. But that wasn’t me. That wasn’t cheeky-faced Ophelia Lovelace from Westchester Church of England School, and Mrs. Fanshawe’s ballet class for the daughter’s of gentle folk. This was Daphne Lovelace — murderer. I killed people, Dave — hundreds of people. I picked up the dead baby, wrapped it in the shawl, put it back in the basket, then went into that town and found a whole garrison of Germans frantically packing to withdraw. And I got on my little radio and told them to bomb the fuck out of the place — don’t screw up your nose like that, I was saying fuck before you were born — I wanted shells raining down on the Germans, pulping them into the ground, pulverising the life out of them. I wanted to kill every last one of them. And do you know — it felt good. It felt so good after what they did to my baby. It felt so good I didn’t care anymore. If my radio hadn’t worked, I would have stood in the middle of the town waving my knickers at the bombers, screaming, ‘Down here — the fucking Krauts are down here — bomb the bastards to pieces.’”

“Is everything alright, Sir?” interrupted the waiter noticing they weren’t eating.

Bliss testily shooed him away. “Fine, fine.”

Daphne sat, eyes glazed into the distance, flicking back and forth as if she were watching the battle going on behind them. As if every flash and blast were being replayed in her brain. “And the bombs came,” she carried on, with powerful emotion. “The shells came, and I was in the middle of it. It was like God had turned the volume up to 11. The noise was so loud I could see it — each new bomb or shell sending shockwaves of sound smashing into the columns of smoke, tearing them apart. Everything was shaking — buildings; trees; the ground. One earthquake after another and I was right in the middle of it. I was the bull’s-eye and I didn’t care.”

Her eyes drifted to a close as the battle raged in her mind, then they popped open as if she had remembered something really important. “It was in colour — that was the strangest thing really. Not black and white like the documentaries and movies. More colour than I’d ever seen. Not ordinary colours — colours so vivid I wanted to shout, ‘Cor look at that!’ Brilliant white and yellow flashes that hurt my eyes, glowing reds and oranges like mini sunsets, spring-green fields and freshly leafed trees. And the sky — the clearest, brightest, warmest blue. It was as if God didn’t know there was a war going on. I remember thinking, over and over, why doesn’t God stop this — he doesn’t care, he couldn’t even make the day miserable. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been drizzly and cold. Nobody wants to die on a lovely summer’s day. I was so mad with God for doing that I never really made it up with him. I suppose I shall find out soon enough whether or not he ever forgave me.”

“Forgave you for killing Germans?” he asked, unsure.

“Do you think they wanted to die, Dave? Do you think they couldn’t see the sky or hear the birds?”

“Your dinner’s getting cold,” he said, not having an answer and they ate in reflective silence for a while.

“Have you ever been back?” he asked when the air had settled.

“I go back occasionally,” she answered, concealing, by the languidness of her words, the hundreds of hours she had spent pacing the quaint cobblestone streets, interrogating startled strangers, desperately scouring every face for the young woman. Wanting to say, “I’m sorry about your baby.” Needing to say, “I’m sorry about your baby.” More than fifty years — still trying to make sense and move on, still trying to pull part of herself away. Like a harassed mother dragging a screaming kid from a toy shop window, knowing the moment she lets go he’ll race back.

“What about parachuting? Did you ever do it again?” he asked as the platters were taken away.

“I was going to once, just for fun, to celebrate my fiftieth …” she paused in thought. “Or was it sixtieth? Anyway, when I went to the place they made such a fuss — training course; medical examination; static lines; instructors and such. I couldn’t be bothered with all that nonsense and I said, ‘Look here, young lady. I was jumping out of planes while your dad was still in short pants.’ It didn’t make any difference. They wouldn’t let me — not without all the rigmarole.”

Daphne ordered the Black Forest Gateau for dessert — “There’s irony for you — now I’m eating their cakes.”

“The same for me,” said Bliss, too pre-occupied to make his own choice, and they sat in tense silence as the pressure built in his mind. There was more to be said, he knew it — Daphne sensed it. But it was his turn, not hers. Tell her about Mandy Richards, tell her about the baby.

“I killed a baby once,” he announced inside his mind, but the words wouldn’t come out. “I was hoping to get away from it eventually.”

What is this? he asked himself. A competition? My ghosts are more frightful than yours. Would it make her feel better? Would it make me feel better?

What would she say? One look at her sorry face gave him the answer: You’ll never escape completely.

A wooden cuckoo popped out of a clock and jump started the time.

“So, I suppose you’re gearing up for the auction tomorrow,” he said, enthusiastically digging into his gateau.

The driver of the blue Volvo shrank quickly out of sight as Bliss drove past on his way up the quiet street to deliver Daphne home.

“I can manage,” Daphne said, as he started to get out to escort her to the door. Ignoring her, he opened the gate and accompanied her up the front path, waited while she flicked on the light and turned the key, then brushed her cheek with a chaste kiss.

“Ooh, Chief Inspector,” she giggled.

“Thank you, Daphne,” he said with a depth of meaning way beyond her comprehension. Thank you for your courage, your sacrifice, your modesty. Thank you for making me realise the insignificance of my fears.

“No … Thank you , Chief Inspector,” she replied, letting herself in. “And I hope I didn’t spoil your evening,”

“I learnt a great deal,” he said, heading back to the car and driving off without noticing the Volvo — too many other considerations occupying his mind, too many plans to make, too many demons to slay.

He had intended returning to the Mitre and set off in that direction, but fate snatched the wheel out of his hands and spun him around in a U-turn, leaving the driver of the following Volvo no choice but to dive for cover up a side street. By the time he re-emerged, Bliss had gone — speeding recklessly down dark narrow lanes, inspiration weighing his foot on the accelerator, feeling that, if he drove fast enough, he might somehow break through the time barrier and go back eighteen years. But if he could go back to the bank and fall dead in place of Mandy — would he?