Alan Judd - A Breed of Heroes

Charles came closer, having stood back while all this had happened. ‘I know that man.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘He’s a journalist called Beazely.’

‘Is he, by God? So he is. Seen him before. He looks drunk, poor chap. Blood on his head too. Shows you can’t be too careful.’ Beazely started to struggle and shout. They got him to his feet and propped him up against the side of the lorry. The blood came from a small cut on his forehead. ‘DTs,’ said Anthony. ‘Seen it before with other chaps. Never with a civvy though. First time with a civvy, would you believe. I say, I’ve got a very wet arse. Hope I haven’t disgraced myself, have I?’

‘You sat in a puddle.’

‘Did I? When?’

‘Just now. That one there.’

‘You might have said something, old boy. Little laissez-faire, if you don’t mind my saying so. Not very helpful.’

Beazely clung to them both, apparently trying to say something. He kept repeating one word. ‘Sounds like arses,’ said Anthony. ‘Perhaps he’s got a wet one too. Ask him.’

‘I think it’s glasses. He’s probably lost them.’ They searched in the cab and found Beazely’s spectacles on the floor, with one lens broken. Putting them on had the effect of making him slightly less drunk and, if not coherent, at least again capable of a sort of speech. ‘Told him, told him,’ he was saying. ‘Told him couldn’t drive lorry. Couldn’t stop it. Lucky house in the way. Otherwise gone on.’

‘Told who what?’ asked Charles. ‘What did he want you to do?’

‘Move the stuff. Take it away. All the boxes. Your mate Chatsworth. Said you said I was to help him and Van Horne. Too pissed anyway. Can’t drive lorries. Then this stone hit me. Everything went black. Story here somewhere. Someone else’ll have to. Charlie write it. Tell me in the morning.’

Charles had no wish for Beazely to go on in this vein. Fortunately, they were stopped by one of the soldiers who had had the initiative to look in the back of the lorry. ‘It’s stacked with weapons in there,’ he said. ‘Crates and crates of ’em.’

In the back there were some twenty to thirty crates. One had been prised open and showed four Armalites, black and deadly-looking. Anthony turned to Beazely. ‘These all yours, old fellow?’

Beazely shook his head. ‘Chatsworth.’

Anthony turned to Charles. ‘Isn’t there a chap in the regiment —?’

‘Yes, Anthony, it’s the same one.’

‘Thought there was. Where is he now, I wonder?’

Beazely half raised his hand in the direction of the monastery. ‘There somewhere. Running. Last saw him.’

With some effort they got Beazely back into the cab and left one of the soldiers to guard the lorry while the other ran back to the Factory to get reinforcements from the standby platoon. Charles had an idea that the standby platoon for the night was Chatsworth’s. It took them some time to convince Beazely that he was safe to remain where he was and by the time they set off into the monastery it was clear that events had had a sobering effect upon Anthony. He adjusted his beret as best as he could and left Beazely clutching Moira Conn’s bag. ‘Delicate situation,’ he said to Charles. ‘Best just you and me.’

The monastery itself was a high and imposing building, visible in the wet darkness only as a more solid block of dark. Between it and its surrounding wall was a gravel drive, a car park, grass and flower beds. Monks were rarely seen anyway, and on this night there was not even a light in the building. They were inside the gates and making for the main entrance when Charles saw a figure dart in front of a parked car ahead of them. He pulled Anthony’s sleeve and whispered, ‘There’s someone hiding over there.’

‘What’s that, old boy?’ Anthony had not lowered his voice. Charles whispered again and Anthony became suitably conspiratorial. ‘One of them, d’you think? Looking for his guns? Better not draw our own on sacred soil, not without provocation. Looks bad afterwards. Anyway, one always feels a bit awkward about this sort of thing, don’t you think? I mean guns and all that. End up feeling like some dreadful gangster. Let’s try and flush him out.’

They did not have to go far because the figure came running towards them, making for the gate. ‘Don’t challenge,’ whispered Anthony. ‘Grab him first and introduce ourselves afterwards.’ A few seconds later Anthony flung himself upon the advancing figure with surprising zest, tackling high. Charles, recalling what he’d always understood to be good rugby practice, tackled low. There was a short, confused struggle. The man was on his back but still fighting. There was a lot of grunting from someone. Charles held both the man’s feet to his chest but one got free and caught him painfully in the mouth. He grabbed the flailing boot again and held on as tightly as he could. The other was quite inert. After a while he became aware of Anthony’s voice saying, ‘Let go, Thoroughgood, damn you! Let go!’

Charles let go of Anthony’s boot, which was the one that had done the kicking, and found to his relief that the other belonged to the prisoner, who had given up the struggle. Then he noticed that it, too, was an Army boot and that it, too, had above it a pair of Army trousers. Then he recognised Van Horne. They all three got up and dusted themselves down in an embarrassed silence. ‘Thought you were one of them,’ said Anthony after a while.

‘Thought you were one of the monks, sir,’ said Van Horne. He was trembling and looked very pale. He seemed entirely bereft of his normal composure.

‘What are you doing here?’ said Charles. He was aware of sounding annoyed, and was not at all displeased by that. His lip hurt and there was a taste of blood in his mouth.

Van Horne swallowed. ‘Helping Lieutenant Chatsworth, sir. Under orders, sir. He found a tunnel leading from one of our tunnels into the monastery and he found arms in the monastery which he said he knew were there all along but he didn’t know how to get them. I helped him get them out by bringing them up through the monastery. We were then to bring them back here and say we found them in some tunnel. I was under orders, sir: he told me, I couldn’t do anything else.’

‘What were you doing when we caught you?’ asked Charles.

‘I was getting out of it, sir. I was escaping. I was on my way back to tell you. We loaded the arms into the four-tonner but Beazely panicked or something and didn’t wait for us and drove off and crashed it and all the monks swarmed out.’

Van Horne was so uncharacteristically abject that Charles felt embarrassed for him. ‘Where’s Chatsworth now?’ he asked, more gently.

‘Captured by monks, sir.’ There was a silence. ‘I got away but they got him.’

Charles looked from Van Horne to Anthony, and back to Van Horne, but neither seemed about to laugh.

‘That’s a pretty poor show,’ said Anthony.

‘I was under orders, sir. I had to do what he told me.’

‘Not you. Mr Chatsworth. Does the regiment no good at all, this sort of thing. Monks. Can’t recall a precedent.’ It was clear that Anthony was deeply moved. He picked up his beret and shook it. ‘Well, we’d better see what we can do about rescuing him, hadn’t we? Go back to the Factory, Van Horne, and cope with any press interest. Just say that there’s a military operation under way and you can’t comment until it’s over. Charles, come with me. It helps to have two when negotiating.’ This was the new, decisive and sober Anthony. Charles followed him, dabbing at his lip with his handkerchief.

If the monks were surprised at seeing two grubby officers with over-size berets, one with a bloody mouth, they did not show it. They were politely uncommunicative and kept the visitors waiting in the hall until the arrival of Father O’Rourke, who was in charge. Father O’Rourke was a wizened, wise-looking little man with bright blue eyes that were never still. The CO had met and clashed with him, and had told him openly that he did not trust him. He now gave the impression of one who, following the capture of Chatsworth, could be surprised by nothing but whose capacity for indignation and outrage was undiminished. He said calmly that he was very angry at the military invasion of his monastery and that he was sure that the consequences of the action would be serious and widespread.