David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

‘Was he married?’

‘He didn’t say.’ Paul looked down at the shrouded body. ‘He was a decent little fellow, really. There must be someone. Can’t something be done? After all, he was killed because of me.’

Valentine shook his head. ‘There’s no room for sentiment in this game, old man. Casualties of war and all that. You’ve been in the trenches.’ He looked at Paul, sighed and relented. ‘Still, we’ll keep his papers. Go through his things before the balloon goes up. I’ll send anything relevant on to C. He can get on to Pinker’s employer and give them some sort of story for the benefit of the chap’s people if he’s got any.’

Paul began unwrapping the body again then went through his trousers.

‘And you’d better put some clothes on yourself,’ Valentine added. ‘I’ll take another look up top.’

Paul put the contents of Pinker’s pockets on the bunk. He still found it all a bit heartless despite what Valentine had said. Pinker hadn’t been at war. He’d been looking forward to the peace and getting the chance to sell his boots. He straightened the man’s clothes and, as an afterthought, jammed his trilby on his head, wondering what anyone would make of him it he were ever washed up.

Valentine slipped back into the cabin.

‘All clear. Let’s get him up.’

They heaved Pinker to his feet and took an arm each around their necks.

‘If we see anyone he’ll look as if he’s drunk,’ Valentine said.

‘It’s a dry ship.’

‘Seasick then.’

Heaving the dead weight to the door, Paul thought he looked exactly what he was, dead, particularly with the blood staining his waistcoat.

‘What’ll Cumming tell his people?’ Paul persisted.

‘C,’ Valentine said, ‘it’s C !’

‘Sorry, I forgot.’

They manoeuvred Pinker down the passage and to the foot of the companionway.

‘I’m sure they’d appreciate your consideration if they knew,’ Valentine said keeping his voice low but heavy with sarcasm. ‘We’ll tell them he died of a heart attack and is buried in Copenhagen, how’s that?’

‘Yes,’ Paul said, ‘but—’ then thought better of it.

The companionway was steep and narrow and although the sea had moderated the steamer was still pitching, making it difficult to take the steps without a free hand for the handrail. Valentine had to climb backwards, holding Pinker beneath the shoulders while Paul took his feet. Now there was no question but that he looked dead.

Bent double, Valentine lost his footing as the boat gave an unexpected lurch and he toppled forward, over Pinker’s body and falling on top of Paul, knocking the three of them to the ground.

Paul gasped, winded as Valentine’s elbow dug into his chest.

‘Quiet!’ Valentine hissed, picking himself up. ‘Here, turn him round. Let me get his feet.’

They upended Pinker and Valentine began climbing the companionway again, more or less upright with Pinker’s feet high above the head. Paul couldn’t help thinking that he’d seen bodies strung on the wire in no man’s land with more dignity than poor Pinker had at that moment. He found it difficult to keep a grip on the dead man’s shoulders, finding the lower he bent to keep his arms around him, the closer his face was pressed against Pinker’s. The smell of stale vomit around the man’s mouth was beginning to turn Paul’s stomach. Halfway up the companionway he had to let go. His chest heaved and he began to wretch. Valentine, unprepared for the halt kept pulling, and Pinker’s head bumped sickeningly against the steps.

‘What’s the matter?’ he whispered.

‘Not feeling too good,’ Paul said.

Valentine sighed. ‘Wait here. Don’t let him slip.’ He took the last few steps up to the deck and disappeared.

Paul waited, wondering how his pit prop story would stand up if he were found in a situation like this.

‘All clear,’ Valentine whispered, coming back. ‘Let’s get him out.’

They manhandled the body to the top of the companionway and through the door onto the deck. Paul could see the first faint light of dawn streaking the sky to for’ard. A murky half-light had crept over the grey, chopping swell.

‘Come on, quickly,’ Valentine said.

They pulled Pinker towards the starboard rail. His trilby fell off and rolled along the deck. The bridge was for’ard, out of sight. Paul glanced towards the stern. The deck was empty. They heaved Pinker to the rail and hung him on it, doubled over like a sandbag.

‘All right, said Valentine, ‘together…’

The took a leg each and lifted Pinker over the side. His body turned as it fell and the last Paul saw of the boot salesman was a disconcertingly reproving expression on his face as he hit the water. The splash he made was loud enough to be heard over the ship’s engine and Valentine grabbed Paul’s arm, pulling him back towards the companionway door. He nudged Paul down the stairs and along the corridor. Back in the cabin he dropped into the chair again and took out his cigarettes. Paul perched on the edge of the bunk Pinker had been murdered in, leaning over the tangle of bloody sheets on the floor. He took the cigarette Valentine offered.

‘I suggest you lie low until this evening. Our killer will be getting pretty edgy by then if neither you nor Pinker turns up.’

‘Won’t he come back to check?’

‘Keep the door locked. I’ll let you know when it’s me. In the meantime I’ll see how the rest of them react to your non-appearance. They’ll give themselves away, don’t worry.’

Valentine finished his cigarette and dropped his butt in the basin to join the first.

‘We’ll have to get rid of these sheets,’ Paul said.

Valentine bundled them up.

‘Leave them to me.’ He opened the door and looked out. ‘I’ll be back later.’

Paul locked the door behind him and looked around the cabin. Pinker hadn’t been on board more than a few hours yet had managed to leave his belongings all over the place. There was a writing case on the table, his bag, a small stack of books, a little box camera, a muffler against the night air…

He picked up the book Pinker had been reading — a novel by H.G.Wells — read a few lines and put it aside for later. At least it would pass the time. He looked through Pinker’s bag, yawning. It was gone four and light was showing at the porthole. He’d have plenty of time later to go through Pinker’s belongings; what he wanted to do now was sleep. He climbed back into the top bunk and switched out the light. He closed his eyes, thinking of Pinker and of how the man would now never get to Schleswig-Holstein. Unless the tides and the currents conspired to wash him up there.

What, he wondered as he dozed off, would the retreating Germans do for boots now?

He was standing by a window in the manor house on their estate in the south. It was a big house, nestled in a wooded glade, wheat fields beyond and the dusty road along which the peasants would come trudging, scythes and sickles over their shoulders, singing as they walked. Outside on the veranda, Sofya Ivanovna, pretty in her yellow dress with her long hair gathered in ringlets, was giving a tea party for her dolls… But someone kept knocking at the door and no servant came to answer it. Then, he realised vaguely, it was Valentine tapping again, and that he’d fallen asleep and he was now going to get up once more, open the door then discover Pinker dead, and that the whole nightmare was going to repeat itself, on and on…

‘Can I do the cabin now, sir?’

Paul sat up abruptly. The cabin steward had unlocked the door and was standing inside with a fresh jug of water, a mop and a bucket.

‘Shut the door!’