When the Sky Fell Apart (14 page)

When Carter whispered as much to Edith, she said, ‘I can't pretend I'm disappointed. It would have been a madness.'

News had always travelled fast in Jersey. Everything was everybody's business. But that was often the case on small islands and in village communities—it had been the same in Barford, too.

Under occupation, gossip seeped from mouth to ear just as quickly, if not more so, the air thick with secrets and lies: the German forces, it seemed, knew as much as the locals. Possibly because the soldiers were everywhere. Nearly twelve thousand of them. Smoking on corners, marching down the streets. Sunbathing on the beaches, for goodness sake—even in the thin sunlight of December.

But gossip, Carter supposed, was an inevitable disease that spread with war: local informants, hungry mouths spilling with information and gaping for the extra food it brought them. Sad to think that members of his own staff at the hospital were in cahoots with the invading forces for a few extra grams of butter. He tried not to examine the faces of the nurses and the junior doctors, tried not to wonder who might have turned traitor. He tried not to wonder what the whispers were.

He didn't have to wait long to find out the latter, at least.

Two weeks before Christmas, Carter was hauled from the hospital to
die Sitzung:
a meeting with the Commandant. With a seeping feeling of dread, he tried to protest, but Hans Haas tapped his gun and snapped,
‘Jetzt!'

There was only one reason the Commandant would demand a meeting so urgently: somehow he'd discovered Carter's plans to escape.

Everyone stared and whispered as they marched through town. The rumours would have reached even the wilds of St Ouen by nightfall: farmers and fishermen alike cackling that the
foreign
doctor had been arrested and dragged in front of the Commandant.

Carter hadn't seen the Commandant since their last meeting when he had refused to evacuate Hacquoil. Carter had since kept his head down at the hospital, hoping the Commandant wouldn't suddenly change his mind and decide to deport him after all, simply for being English. But as he was poked and prodded and very nearly dragged across St Helier, Carter desperately hoped that this
was
the reason the Commandant wanted to see him. The alternative was too horrific to contemplate.

The room was darkened by heavy red curtains. The small circles of light produced by a few candles simply served to make it seem hotter, and smaller. There was a fug of expensive cigars and a sour slice of strong whisky, and something else, which reminded him of medical school—those times when animal carcasses had been given to them in dissection classes. A foetid muddle of rot and formaldehyde.

The office had been hastily refurbished and contained a number of comfortable leather chairs, as well as a dark mahogany desk. These had not been present at Carter's last visit, though quite how such items had been obtained in an occupied war zone was an enigma.

The desk was almost bare, save for an ashtray, a pen and a piece of paper, all lined up next to each other. The only other objects were three photographs: a formal portrait of a thinner, younger version of the Commandant, standing behind a dark-haired woman who sat with one child on her knee and another at her feet. They all stared out from the picture with a look of complete solemnity.

The other two were informal photographs, obviously captured by an amateur during some sort of family excursion: one showed the same young, thin Commandant throwing a baby high into the air—both man and baby had mouths stretched wide with joy. The other photograph was of the Commandant again, a little fatter, a little older, with a little less hair. But still smiling, embracing a young girl, while pretending to pull a chocolate from her ear. He gazed straight at the camera, in clear anticipation of his daughter's excitement.

The man in front of Carter didn't bear much likeness to that photograph. His thin lips were stretched into a wide smile. The resemblance to a toad was made more poignant by his slightly glazed stare (he had clearly indulged in no small amount of whisky, despite the hour) and by the bulk he had added to his already corpulent frame.

It was an impressive feat for the Commandant to have gained weight when food shortages squeezed the stomachs of the islanders and occupying forces alike. Carter's own clothes hung loosely upon him, and he had been obliged to make extra holes in his belt on at least three occasions.

In contrast to his grim glare at their last meeting, the Commandant smiled even more widely when he saw Carter.

‘Aha, Doctor! Yes, he is here. Bring drink! And cigars, we must have cigars. And whisky, yes?'

His wide-lipped grin was unnerving. The warm, moist hand that Carter was obliged to shake, and such jovial familiarity, made his guts twist.

‘I—no. No, thank you. I would rather not.'

The Commandant's smile didn't waver. ‘But you
will
, Doctor. Cigar, whisky! Yes! You
must
.'

He stared until Carter held up both hands in defeat and sat down. The hospitality was, without doubt, a ruse, but it seemed he had no choice but to play along.

An attendant scurried over with a generous measure of whisky and a cigar. Carter sniffed: finest Cuban.

The Commandant sat back and sighed.

‘Ah, Doctor, how pleasant to have you here again. You are very welcome.'

Carter's mouth was bone-dry as he waited for the accusation of treachery. The verdict of deportation. He took a sip of the whisky. Dark and peaty: a real Scottish single malt.

‘My troops are enjoying their stay on your beautiful island.'

Carter thought of the luminous eyes he used to see in the undergrowth when he was a child. Foxes, perhaps, or, more likely, rabbits. But as a boy he had imagined wolves. Hot-breathed, red-eyed, carnivore incarnate.

‘Many of them believe they are on a long holiday,' the Commandant continued. ‘The weather has been very good, even in winter. The people have made only small troubles.'

Another gulp of whisky so he could not give his initial response to this: one of these ‘small troubles' had been the drawing of ‘V' for ‘Victory' signs around the island. For this offence, the Germans had imprisoned three boys who they believed to be responsible. Carter had been granted the unhappy task of treating the boys when they were released after nearly a week in the prison (and only then because the Bailiff, Coutanche, had begged for some leniency to be shown). They were sleep-deprived, covered in bruises, half starved and dehydrated.

Carter made no effort to conceal his contempt. ‘They were not small troubles for those involved.'

‘Ha! He speaks his thoughts. I like this in a man. But not too much. No.'

The German put down his cigar and steepled his fingers together, resting his chin on them. He had short, blunt fingers, with clubbing at the ends—a feature commonly associated with hereditary heart conditions. Carter also noted the telltale diagonal creases on both earlobes, a sure sign of cardiovascular disease.

That oily smile again. ‘I believe I can trust you, Doctor.'

Creeping finger of sweat down his spine.
Of course
. He had discovered the plan to evacuate Clement. God only knew how he had found out. Edith? Surely she wouldn't have breathed a word. Perhaps the fisherman? Too many of the islanders were loose-tongued for the sake of an extra loaf of bread.

‘Yes,' the Commandant said, ‘you are honest and a good man, I think.'

He licked his lips—his tongue was quite pink. He gave a sudden bark of laughter.

‘Doctor, you are a brilliant medical man or a brilliant liar. Which is it, I wonder?'

Carter's heart was hammering, his blood jolting as if waiting for the axe to fall. To hear the words:
treachery, insurrection, deportation.

‘Forgive me. I'm not sure I understand.'

The Commandant's voice was affable, his fat face hideously jovial.

‘You say there is a man in your hospital. A man with burns. Very serious hurt, this man. He will not live, you say. He must be evacuated.'

Any moment. Any moment now, he would come to it: the planned escape. Carter smoked and tried not to cradle his soft underbelly. He counted the tugs and pushes of air in and out of his lungs.

The Commandant's voice was suddenly harsh. ‘I find today that this man, this hurt man who will die—he survives, yes? He is eating. He is walking, yes? This is so?'

Carter said slowly, carefully, ‘It is.'

‘So, I ask again, are you a great doctor or a great liar?'

Carter forced himself not to blink, to meet those pale eyes, not daring to hope for a reprieve. It must be some sort of devilish plan, some way to entrap him. He pressed down his fear and matched the Commandant's sharp tone with his own.

‘Neither. And it seems to be somewhat obtuse to assume that those are the only two alternatives.'

He laughed. ‘He insults me! Brave, yes?
Mit große Hoden.
Ah, Doctor, you are the amusing man, I think. But jokes, they must stop now. This is no time for be shy. You save the man's life—this is a great achievement, no? But, if he was not dying, well…' The smile vanished.

The mention of that word,
dying.
Perhaps it was a veiled threat?

Carter's mind whirred: what could he say when the plan was mentioned? That he knew nothing of it? That the Commandant was mistaken, must have been misinformed?

For the moment, he settled on the truth and was able to meet the German's eyes quite boldly.

‘As I told you before, Commandant, the man's life was indeed in danger. Such was my conviction of the seriousness of his condition that I was prepared to let him travel, despite his weakness, because I believed he would have a far greater chance of recovery on the mainland. If he stayed here, I was perfectly convinced that he would continue to deteriorate and he would die.'

‘But he has not leave. And he has not die…' The Commandant spread his hands, smiling, as if this was all an entertaining puzzle.

Careful
. When the Commandant mentioned the plan to escape, should Carter keep his face impassive? Perhaps he should seem shocked or affronted? His blood thudded in his skull as he tried to decide on the facial expression that would appear most innocent.

Carter swallowed another gulp of whisky, focused on the burn of it and made himself continue to stare directly at those cold eyes. They were bloodshot and heavily lidded, but still sharp. A feral sort of intelligence lurked behind them.

‘I take none of the credit, I am afraid, Commandant. If he had continued in my care alone, the man would certainly have died. However, after our…discussion, I enlisted the help of a local woman, renowned for her knowledge of herbs and natural remedies as cures for all varieties of illness. Clement has been under her care since that time and has made his remarkable recovery entirely because of her knowledge and wisdom.'

The Commandant sipped his drink and smoked. Silence scuttled into the room and squatted between them. Carter hoped that in mentioning Edith he had not incriminated her in any way, or confirmed her involvement in the plan to escape.

Eventually, the Commandant leant forward again and whispered, ‘I have a gift. A sense—instinct. We say
telepathisch
. I know when a man lies.'

‘Oh, yes?'

‘And you, Doctor.
You
lie. I can
smell
it on you, this lie.'

‘I assure you I am not—'

‘
Do not deny it!
' The Commandant slapped his hand on the arm of the chair. ‘I tell you, you
lie!
This is so! I say so!'

A vein on his temple pulsed. His already florid face turned puce.

Perhaps I will be lucky and be imprisoned. Most likely, I will simply disappear.

The hospital staff would notice, of course, but none would be foolhardy enough to challenge the German authorities, and he had no family in Jersey to question his vanishing. Father would be informed of his suspected death, he supposed, once the war had ended, and he would mourn, in his own way. Even as he saw his son's death as a neat solution to a humiliating problem.

But Will… Carter's heart clenched at the thought of him.

He could remember the first time he'd kissed him, every nerve burning, waiting for the inevitable recoil, rejection, revulsion.

But Will had embraced him, smiling. Sharp taste of tobacco and a stubbled urgency, kisses hard and hectic.

Carter's memories of that first night were of Will's mouth on his, hot and slick. The hard smoothness of the skin at the base of his spine. The wonderful, fumbling awkwardness of it all.

Will's arms wrapped around him had felt like touching the earth. Like coming home.

The Commandant interrupted his reverie. His voice was quiet—almost a whisper.

‘Herbs and plants? How do you call it?
Natural remedy
? You think me a fool, Doctor. No man can be near die and then make whole with a leaf.'

He laughed again. There was no trace of his previous rage.

‘And so, Doctor, I find you are a genius in medicine. But also
genügsam
, I think you say modest, no? Herbs? Plants? I am not fool. You should know this. This woman, she helped you, I know this. But she did not cure this man.
You
cured him, Doctor.'

‘I did not, I assure you. She—'

His protests were waved away with his cigar smoke.

‘No!
Enough!
Silence!' The Commandant's tone hardened. ‘You lied to me. He was not dying. No need for evacuated. These are truth, these things. You see, I always find everything. You cannot hide from me.' He beamed, smugly.

Then he gestured at the empty glasses on the desk and bawled a harsh command; a serving man scurried from the shadows and poured both of them another generous measure, before disappearing again.

Carter allowed himself a moment to slump, to breathe, to thank whatever gods may be for the Commandant's apparent ignorance of the plan, to beg them for some further miraculous reprieve. And, in his relief, he lost focus on the man's words, thick-accented as they were, wasps throbbing from his mouth, so much so that suddenly he found himself nodding as the Commandant said, ‘You are a great doctor. I must have a doctor. I will have you.'