Hammond Innes: Air Bridge

I couldn’t stand it any more. The feeling of impotence was getting on my nerves. In a sudden mood of anger I got up and beat on the panels of the door.

Footsteps approached, a heavy, solid tread, boots ringing metallic on concrete. Then a voice asked, ‘Are you awake?’

‘Of course I’m awake,’ I replied angrily. ‘Do you mind opening the door?’

There was a moment’s pause and then the voice said, ‘That depends. I’m a bit cautious after last night. You damn nearly throttled me.’

I didn’t say anything and a moment later the key turned in the lock and he opened the door. It was the same man all right — short and broad and very solid. He had thick dark hair slightly grizzled at the temples and a wide jaw that seemed to compress his lips into a thin, determined line. He was dressed in oil-stiff overalls and the silk scarf round his neck didn’t entirely hide the livid marks left by my fingers.

‘I’m sorry — about last night,’ I murmured.

He didn’t come in, but stood there in the gap of the doorway, his legs slightly straddled, staring at me. He had hard, slate-grey eyes. ‘Forget it.’ His voice was more friendly than his eyes. ‘Have you had a look at yourself in the mirror? Afraid I made a bit of a mess of your jaw.’

There was an awkward silence. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to ask when the police would arrive. ‘I’d like to get cleaned up,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Down the passage.’ He stood aside to let me pass. But though he didn’t seem angry, I noticed he took good care to keep well out of my reach.

Outside I found myself in a brick passageway filled with sunlight. An open doorway showed the woods crowding right up to the side of the building and through the lacework of the trees I caught a glimpse of the flat, bare expanse of the airfield. It all looked very quiet and peaceful. Through that door lay freedom and as though he read my thoughts, he said, ‘I shouldn’t try wandering about outside, Eraser. The police are searching this area.’

‘The police?’ I swung round, staring at him, trying to understand the sense behind his words.

‘They’ve found the car. You’d crashed it about halfway down Baydon Hill.’ He glanced up at my forehead. ‘I did the best I could with the cut. You’ve probably scarred yourself for life, but I don’t think any dirt has got into it.’

I didn’t understand his attitude. ‘When are the police coining for me?’ I asked.

‘We’ll discuss that later,’ he said. ‘Better get cleaned up first. The lavatory is at the end there.’

Feeling dull and rather dazed I went on down the passage. I could hear him following behind me. Then his footsteps stopped. ‘I’ve left my shaving kit out for you. If there’s anything you want, shout.’ And then he added, ‘I’m just knocking up some breakfast. How many eggs would you like — two?’

‘If you can spare them,’ I mumbled. I was too astonished at the calmness of his attitude to say anything else.

‘Oh, I’m all right for eggs. A girl brings them from the farm each day with the milk.’ A door opened on the sound of sizzling fat and then closed. I turned to find myself alone in the passage. Freedom beckoned through the sunlit doorway at the end. But it was hopeless. He wouldn’t have left me alone like that if he hadn’t known it was hopeless. I turned quickly and padded down the corridor in my stockinged feet.

The lavatory was small with an open window looking out on to a tangle of briar. It was a reminder of service quarters with its cracked basin, broken utility seat and initials and other pencil scratchings still visible on the crumbling plaster. A shaving kit had been left out for me and a towel. Hung on a nail on the window frame was a cracked mirror. I stared at myself in the pock-marked surface. I wasn’t a particularly pleasant sight. Apart from the black stubble that I’d met every day for at least fifteen years, the side of my jaw was puffed and swollen, producing a queer variation of colour from red to dark purple and culminating in an ugly split of dried blood. My eyes were sunk back in dark sockets of exhaustion, the whites bloodshot and wild-looking, and to cap it all was a broad strip of adhesive tape running right across the right side of my forehead.

‘You bloody fool,’ I said aloud. It was like talking to a stranger, except that the lips of the face in the glass moved in echo of my words. I almost laughed at the thought that I’d wanted to try and escape into the outside world looking like that.

I looked better after I’d shaved — but not much better. I’d had to leave the stubble round the swollen side of my jaw and it gave me a queer, lop-sided appearance. The cold water had freshened me up a bit, but the dark shadows round my eyes remained and there was still the adhesive tape across my forehead.

‘Breakfast’s ready.’

I turned to find him standing in the doorway. He nodded for me to go ahead and at the same time stepped slightly back. ‘You’re taking no chances,’ I said. The bitterness in my voice was for myself, not for him.

‘Last door on the right,’ he said as though I hadn’t spoken.

Inside was a trestle table, the sort we’d had in forward bases. Two plates heaped with bacon and eggs and fried bread steamed slowly and there was a pot of tea. ‘By the way, my name’s Saeton. Bill Saeton.’

‘I gather — you know my name.’ My voice trembled slightly. He was standing just inside the door, solid and immovable like a rock, his eyes fixed on my face. The personality of the man seemed to grow in silence, dominating me and filling the room.

‘Yes, I think I know all about you,’ he said slowly. ‘Sit down.’

His voice was remote, impersonal. I didn’t want to sit down. I wanted my shoes and my wallet. I wanted to get out of there. But I sat down all the same. There was something compelling about the way he stood there, staring at me. ‘Can I have my wallet, please?’

‘Later,’ was all he said. He sat down opposite me, his back to the window, and poured the tea. I drank thirstily and then lit a cigarette.

‘I thought you said you could manage two eggs.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ I answered, drawing the smoke deep down into my lungs. It soothed me, easing the tension of my nerves. ‘When are they coming for me?’ I asked. I had control of my voice now.

He frowned. ‘Who?’ he asked, his mouth crammed full.

‘The police,’ I said impatiently. ‘You’ve phoned them, haven’t you?’

‘Not yet.’ He pointed his fork at my plate. ‘For God’s sake relax and get some breakfast inside you.’

I stared at him. ‘You mean they don’t know I’m here?’ I didn’t believe him. Nobody would calmly sit down to eat his breakfast with a man who’d tried to throttle him the night before unless he knew the authorities were on their way. Then I remembered the car and the way he’d advised me not to wander about outside. ‘The police were here about half an hour ago, weren’t they?’ I asked him.

For an answer he reached over to a side table and tossed me the morning paper. I glanced down at it. The story was there in bold headlines that ran half-across the front page: PALESTINE FLIGHT FOILED — Police Prevent Another Plane Leaving Country Illegally — Mystery of ‘Mr Callahan’. It was all there in the opening paragraph of leaded type — the whole wretched story.

I pushed the paper away and said, ‘Why didn’t you hand me over?’ I spoke without looking up. I had a peculiar sense of being trapped.

‘We’ll talk about that later,’ he said again.

He spoke as though he were talking to a child and suddenly anger came to bolster my courage. What was he doing living alone up here on this deserted aerodrome tinkering about with a Tudor in the dead of night? Why hadn’t he rung the police? He was playing some sort of cat-and-mouse game with me and I wanted to get it over. If it had to come, let it come now, right away. ‘I want you to call the police,’ I said.