Tim Binding - Island Madness

He eased the radio out of its hiding place, careful not to disturb the soot, and hurried into the kitchen. Underneath Jimbo’s basket, beneath the flagstone, was a hollow he had dug a month after the Occupation. It was where he kept Dad’s pistol, a relic of the old war. The Alsatian looked up and licked his hand.

“Good boy,” he told him. “Stay there.”

He dragged the basket across the floor and lifted up the stone. The gun lay at the bottom, wrapped in an oilcloth. Taking it out he lowered the radio face down, replacing the weapon carefully in amongst the precious valves at the back. Once the flagstone was back in position he pulled the dog’s basket back in place. Jimbo, hoping this was part of some new game, began to thump his tail in anticipation. Ned patted his head.

“Later, boy. Later.”

He turned on the tap and ran the cold water across his face and hands. The banging was continuous now and the front room seemed to shake with every blow. Drying his hands on the back of his trousers he ran across and opened the door. Light shone in his face. The night air stung his skin.

“Yes,” he said, “who is it? What do you want?”

“Inspector Luscombe?”

“Yes?”

“You are to come with us. Major Lentsch requests.”

Lentsch requests. Well, that was a new one. Squinting in the light he looked at the bearer of this unwanted invitation. He recognized him, Helmut Wedel, Lentsch’s adjutant.

“Wedel, is that you?” The man nodded. “What’s happened?”

“Major Lentsch requests,” he repeated. He motioned to the car. “Please?”

Ned pointed to his bare feet and held up three fingers. Wedel nodded and walked back up the path to the waiting car. Ned ran back upstairs. His mother was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, shivering. Behind her, Ned could see the double bed and the grease spot on the wall where Dad used to lean his head for his last smoke of the day. A mark on the wall, a plot of land out at the back, and six chickens. Not much after thirty years.

“I thought I told you to get back into bed,” he said.

“What do they want?” she demanded. “It’s not yet six thirty.”

“I don’t know. It’s nothing you’ve done.” He put his hands on her shoulders. She was cold and bony and afraid. He remembered how she used to be, warm and soft and content. “I’ll be back for breakfast, you’ll see.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Now get on with you. The radio’s under the floor. Just in case.”

She nodded.

Outside Helmut stood by the car smoking a cigarette. As Ned walked up, not knowing quite what was expected of him, Helmut moved to the back door, wiping the handle with his sleeve. He opened the door, inviting Ned in.

“Nice auto,” Helmut observed.

It was a nice auto. It had been Bernie’s pride and joy, his Wolseley, there for weddings, funerals and other days of hire, but he had lost it to them almost immediately, a month after their arrival. It had had three ‘owners’ up to now, Knackfuss, Kratzen and now Lentsch. Ned climbed in and looked around. They were taking good care of it. He must tell Bernie. Most cars were marked by now, dents and crumpled bumpers, or some other indication of the Occupation. It was all very well for them to insist they changed the habits of a lifetime but once on the road, cycling down the narrow lanes, it was all too easy to revert to the old ways. The proper ways. The trouble was you’d round a corner and find yourself on course for a collision with a senior member of the Wehrmacht and a hefty fine from the magistrate the following morning.

“So what’s all the fuss?” Ned said. “My mother thought you were Russians.”

Helmut laughed.

“For sure. We knock on your door politely and request to steal your food,” he joked, failing to see the piquancy of his remark, adding, equally incongruously, “We are having bad business with the Russians.”

Not according to Lord Haw-Haw you’re not, Ned thought. “You are?” he asked innocently.

“ Ja . Two nights they broke into the Villa. Bread, sugar, and a pie from apples. For the Major’s tea.”

Ned bit his lip. “Terrible.”

Helmut nodded. “We sleep now with our rations in our room. Cakes, butter, sausage—all next to the hairbrush.” He fumbled in his pocket. “A smoke, Herr Luscombe?” he offered, handing back a battered packet. Ned accepted it gratefully. He had exchanged his last coupon for a second-hand bicycle tyre.

“Thanks.” He made to pass the packet back. Helmut waved it away with an expansive gesture.

“Finish them. I am on leave next week. Amsterdam.”

Ned slipped the cigarettes in his jacket pocket. “Nice. I’ll come with you if you like.”

Helmut laughed. “For sure. But first you have to have the right uniform. A British policeman—no good.”

“I haven’t got a uniform. I’m plain-clothes, remember.”

“ Ja , I know. A policeman without a uniform.” He shook his head, as if he found the combination an impossible one to comprehend.

“Where are we going?” Ned asked.

Helmut shrugged his shoulders and then deciding to take matters in his own hands said, “Torteval. Gull Bay. The Dortmann Battery.”

“Gull Bay?”

The coast around Torteval was a restricted area and had been since ‘41—a rabbit warren of naval gun emplacements, bunkers and anti-aircraft guns.

Helmut nodded.

Ten minutes later the car bumped up the red packed-earth drive. Light was creeping over the sea, grey and cold. On the cliff's edge stood the old red stone fort, now burdened with barnacles of roughly edged concrete. Soon the whole area would be a blaze of colour from the flowering gorse and the heather, but now there was just the wind tugging at the stunted winter growth. Wedel turned the car quickly, spinning the rear wheels on the dirt. Dortmann Battery. Lentsch stood by the sunken entrance, set deep into the rock, the cold wind tugging at his greatcoat. Beside him stood the officer who had lectured him earlier that morning, Captain Zepernick. Ned ducked into the stern breeze and hurried over.

“Major,” he shouted. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Lentsch didn’t seem to want to answer him. Captain Zepernick made to continue but Lentsch held up his hand, clearing his throat to prepare both himself and Ned for what he had to say.

“I have some news for you, Inspector.”

“Yes?”

“It is not good news. Not good at all.” He looked up, biting back the words. “It’s Isobel, Inspector.” He gestured inside. “She is dead. In there. They have killed Isobel.”

As Ned waited for Lentsch to continue, it seemed to him that the island had been waiting for a moment like this, when the two tides of Guernsey’s life would meet in an inevitable rip tide. He felt an anger rising within him, wondering what particular complicity had brought these two men together, whether it was one or both of them who might be responsible. Isobel dead! He could not quite envisage that, Isobel and death, although, until the coming of the letter, he had not considered Isobel as ‘alive’ for some time. She had passed beyond his world, lain with another species, mutated into an unwelcome and possibly lethal hybrid of war. The letter had made her human again, one of them. The Germans were not human. The foreigns were not human. Knowing this helped them survive.

“Isobel?” he said. “Dead? But how?”

Lentsch hesitated, then spoke.

“She was found early this morning.” He nodded. “Inside there.”

“Here? I don’t understand. This is out of bounds.”

The Captain looked embarrassed. “Each bunker has a shaft, for emergencies,” he explained. “She was found, lying at the bottom of such a thing.”