When the Sky Fell Apart (28 page)

He clasped her hand. Cold, she was always cold. He kissed each of her fingertips.

‘I love you.'

He pulled her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her mouth. He put his lips to her bony chest and kissed every thud of her heart. He closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of her: cut grass and, on her breath, the sweet-sour rot of sickness.

Before Maurice knew it, an hour or more had passed. There was still no bang at the door, but he wasn't going to risk going out. His stomach griped again. A few bits of carrot and potato wouldn't keep him going for long. He tried not to worry about dinner.

Marthe's head lolled on to her chest; she snored softly. Maurice pulled the blanket up to her chin and kissed her cheek.

He couldn't let them have her. He wondered, as he went back to the door, if he would have enough time to slit his own throat after he'd done it.

Perhaps he fell asleep because suddenly it was dark and there was a pounding at the door that set his heart hotly hammering. He couldn't find his knife in the darkness. He scrabbled around for it on the floor. The banging continued, growing louder, and Marthe woke and cried out.

Maurice found the knife when the blade stuck right into his finger. Lancing arrow of pain through his whole hand. He held it close to his face. A bad cut—a flap of skin hanging off.

He yelled, which set off Marthe's howling. He could feel the tendons tight in his neck, the blood banging in his skull.

Maurice shouted, ‘Come on then! Come and take me! I'm ready for you!' And he kissed Marthe on the mouth again and again until she stopped crying. ‘I'm so sorry, my love.' His voice shook. ‘I'm
so
sorry.'

He pressed the knife against her throat. He could feel the hot blood throbbing under her thin skin.

‘You'll have to break the door down! I'm not letting you in!'

He gave Marthe one last kiss.

Then a voice came from behind the door. ‘What on
earth
are you up to, Maurice? Let me in, quickly! Before a patrol guts me like a fish.'

Edith!

He dropped the knife and opened the door.

Edith bustled in and elbowed him out the way. ‘What are you playing at, sitting in the dark?'

‘Nothing, I—' He went into the kitchen and took a deep breath. He wound a towel around his finger and squeezed until he was certain it had stopped bleeding.

When he moved the blackout blind aside, he gazed out of the window. The blackout made shapes sharper. The dark darker. The stars brighter, harder.

Even if the bastard Bosche have taken everything else, they've given me the stars.

Edith swept into the kitchen and tutted. ‘Look, no water on to boil.
Honestly
, you men. And will you look at that finger—blood all over the place.'

He snatched his hand away.

‘Hold still! You're lucky you didn't cut the tip straight off. What happened?'

‘Peeling potatoes. Knife slipped.'

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, yes?'

‘That's right.'

Edith narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, at least let me bandage it for you, and salt it. You don't want an infection.'

‘I need to see Marthe.'

‘I laid her on the sofa. She's fast asleep.'

Maurice sat and listened. Slow and regular, her breaths. Yet another sleep when she would lose a little bit of herself, wake up a little less his. But she was alive…

Edith nodded. ‘Now let's have a look at this hand.'

‘Thank you.'

She talked while she worked. ‘She was in a bit of a state—Marthe, I mean. Trembling like a leaf. I had to give her a dose of valerian.'

He frowned. ‘Yes. Your knocking startled her.'

‘I see. My knocking was it?'

He looked away.

She patted his hand. ‘There. All done. Don't be fiddling with it now. And keep it dry.'

‘Expect me to go fishing with one hand in the air, do you?'

‘How you catch fish is your business, Maurice, not mine.' She sat next to him. ‘Now, will you tell me what on earth is the matter? Where have you been all day? I started to wonder if you'd hightailed it across the Channel.'

Her tone was teasing and Maurice could see her smiling from the corner of his eye, but he scowled.

‘I—I needed to stay inside today. I had a bad feeling about things. A dread. But it's nothing you need to worry yourself over.'

‘Well, I'm glad we've had that chat then. Everything is as clear as mud.'

‘I'm sorry.' He clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘It's simply—and I don't want you saying that I'm fussing over nothing but…it's that soldier. I
know
he's going to send a patrol for me. Perhaps for Marthe, too.'

He explained about the potatoes in the shed, how the soldier had set them as a trap and then gone to tell, Maurice was sure of it.

‘So we need to move them.'

Edith cocked her head to one side, considering. ‘He's always seemed quite decent to me. For a German.'

‘Trust your life on that, would you? Marthe's life on a German who
seems
decent?'

‘No, you're right, absolutely right. What's to be done, then?'

‘I'll wrap them in another sack and bury them in the manure pile on Vibert's field tonight. No one will go digging for them there and the Germans can't hurt us for stealing potatoes if they can't find them.'

Maurice buried them that night and then sneaked back whenever he could to grab a bagful for their supper. They ate boiled potatoes or potato bread almost every day, until just the smell of cooking potatoes turned their stomachs.

Perhaps the potatoes didn't agree with her, or maybe it was all the moving about, but at the start of May, Marthe suddenly went downhill.

Maurice didn't like to think that the seeds of it were sown on that day when they had sat indoors, waiting for that patrol. That moment with his knife against her throat… But whatever the cause, Marthe was jumpy again and spent all of her time twitching, while her groaning was higher pitched, sometimes rising to the shrieks of a flayed animal. Even Maurice couldn't block it out.

But it was the nightmares that really distressed her. They distressed the whole house. She woke up screaming and crying—clawing at her face till the blood ran. Maurice put thick woollen socks over her hands, clipped her nails as short as he could. But it didn't make a difference—every morning she had new scratches everywhere.

She wouldn't eat a bite that wasn't forced into her mouth. The skin under her eyes was the transparent blue of waterlogged petals. Her shoulderblades stood out from her back like budding wings.

And scabs everywhere from the scratches. They tried their best to keep them clean, but somehow Marthe managed to keep taking the tops from them. In less time than it took to fill a pan of water, she could open up every scab on her face.

Some started oozing yellow. It was bound to happen, even with Edith layering on poultices and creams. They washed the wounds often. Edith prepared countless ointments to rub on to them, but it made not a bit of difference. The pus seeped, and Marthe whimpered.

Then came the night she slept right through. Didn't make a sound. Bliss.

In the morning, she was like an angel lying next to him. Maurice rolled over and kissed her. Her skin was boiling to the touch. The sheets were soaked through with sweat.

He shook her shoulder. She didn't stir. He patted her cheek. He bellowed,
Marthe! Marthe! Marthe!

Nothing.

Those scratches on her face and neck were now deep yellow. And little red lines crept out from the cuts and crawled over the rest of her skin, like a map.

The poison was in her blood. Maurice knew it, even without calling for Edith.

He ran to soak some towels with cold water from the rain bucket outside. He and Edith stripped Marthe and laid the towels on her skin. She stirred a little and groaned and her muscles started juddering. But her forehead grew hot again, as soon as they took the towels off. She didn't wake.

So he lifted her into the bath chair that Edith had somehow found to replace the old wheelbarrow, and he ran down the garden. Marthe's body bounced; her head slumped on to her chest. She looked like one of the stuffed Guy Fawkes dolls that Maurice used to throw on to the bonfire as a boy. Spittle trickled out of her mouth and pooled on her chest.

Maurice ran faster. Then he came to the steep granite steps at the end of the garden. It was the quickest way to Dr Carter's house. He tried going forwards first, but Marthe sprawled and nearly fell. He tried to lift the chair, but it was too heavy.

Maurice would have to lift her out and carry her.

All of a sudden, the chair righted itself and it was lighter in his arms. He looked up. It was that soldier. That
bloody
German soldier had his good hand supporting Marthe's head.

Maurice felt that familiar, sickening rush of fear.
He's here to take her away.

He put his hand to the knife in his pocket. But the soldier had a gun in his belt and Marthe needed Maurice alive.

Voice shaking, he said, ‘She is ill. I'm taking her to the doctor.'

‘Yes, doctor. Quick, now!' He half lifted her. ‘Where must we go?'

‘Don't hurt her! Please, put her down. Just leave her, will you? Please, I can manage.'

He shook his head and smiled again, ‘
Nein, nein.
We carry together.'

He inclined his head towards Maurice and mimed carrying her between them. Maurice wanted to scream, but he rushed to support Marthe's head before it lolled.

The soldier flashed him that smile again.

‘
Gut, gut!
,' he said.
‘
We help together.'

‘This way,' Maurice snapped. ‘Hurry.'

He didn't look at the soldier, but he could hear the man breathing hard as they ran, carrying Marthe between them. He wondered what they'd say if they saw a patrol coming. But they didn't see anyone.

AFTER Soulette's death, the island's hostility towards Carter had festered. Apart from the odd emergency, house calls became a thing of the past. One youth in St Helier actually
spat
at his shoes as he passed.

They were his newest shoes: finest Italian leather in a chestnut tan. Painfully aware of the Jèrriais population in their thin-soled, cracked shoes and wooden clogs, Carter had tried to refuse them, despite the brutal winter and the wet spring.

The Commandant had simply smiled. ‘My men must be smart, Doctor. Soldiers will not wear broken shoes. We build a better world, yes?'

Carter took care to wear the shoes only while inside the government buildings and changed into his old shoes to walk home. One day, however, when he went to undertake his routine morning examination, he found his old shoes positioned on his chair, the Commandant waiting for Carter's response.

He forced Carter to throw the old shoes into the fire and laughed as the leather began to blacken and curl.

‘You must do as I tell you, Doctor,' he said, flashing his yellow teeth. ‘I do not wish to look for a different doctor. And you are too thin for the work camps. You would not last long, I think. Or perhaps your friends will go with you? The old woman. She will be the camp witch. They will make her a bonfire, yes?'

He still made threats in this way. Closure of the hospital. Deportation of Carter himself or some other islander—Edith and Clement Hacquoil were always mentioned, followed by, ‘Ha!
Sie haben Angst! Das ist gut!
'

When he wasn't at Royal Square, Carter spent long hours staring at the beige walls of his little sitting room, with no company but his thoughts and the mirror.

He was so lonely.
What is Will doing right now?
he'd often wonder.
Does he think of me?
His longing was like a clenched fist in his chest.

At first, he had written to Will: stilted letters crammed with the daily banalities of island life. Will's replies were effusive and unguarded:
I miss you, Tim. I think of you so often and I wonder if you will ever return to me.

Carter flinched at the thought of someone intercepting those letters and kept his answering correspondence briskly matter-of-fact, even as he was aware that his coldness might cause Will pain.

But better, perhaps, for Will to move on, to find happiness with another, than to wait for the delivery on a promise that Carter could not make.

By the time the Germans arrived, the two men had not written in months. Carter sent Will one final note, quickly scribbled, sealed and posted before he could think better of it:
Please stay safe.
He signed it,
Ductus Arteriosis
, partly for anonymity and partly as a glimmer of the vow that he wanted so desperately to pledge.

During those lonely months, Carter read a great deal, finding comfort and not a little despair in Dante's ‘Inferno'. He had read the work before, and the words had no shape or substance, but now they were branded in his mind as absolute truths: