The Sons of Adam. Harry Bingham

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       19

      At two in the morning, a motorcycle roared up outside a pleasant residential street in Arras. Late in October, the gardens were nothing more than a collection of black and dripping twigs, bounded on the street side by iron railings. Out in the street, a silvery motor-car stood in quiet splendour.

      Tom stopped the motorbike, slammed the garden gate open, and struck the lion’s head knocker on the front door with three or four crashing blows. A few seconds passed without response, and Tom struck again, smashing the stillness of the night.

       ‘C’est qui, ça? Mon Dieu, je viens, je viens.’

      From outside, Tom could hear the heavy door being unlocked, and as soon as the last lock was turned, he thrust the door open and entered. He strode past the housekeeper – sleepy, outraged, in dressing gown and curling papers – and stormed upstairs. He didn’t know which room he was looking for and flung open doors and slammed them shut again, until he came to the front room of the first floor. There was Guy, in pyjamas and his uniform tunic, standing at his dressing table, checking his revolver. As the door crashed against the wall, Guy turned with his hand just inches from his gun.

      ‘Stay right there,’ cried Guy. ‘Don’t advance another step.’ His hand was on the gun now, altering its position on the dressing table so he could snatch it up easily.

      ‘Leave the gun alone, you fool,’ said Tom.

      ‘Why have you come here? Who gave you permission to leave your post?’ Guy was backing away from Tom, towards his bedside, where a candle flickered smokily.

      ‘It was your idea to separate me from Alan, wasn’t it? You can’t bloody leave things alone, can you?’

      ‘It wasn’t my idea to slaughter the 21st and 24th. The poor bastards need officers. The idea at HQ is that we should give them chaps with a decent fighting record. Chaps like you.’

      ‘Alan’s every bit as good as me and you know it. Better. He looks after his men better than I do. He’ll keep his head better if it comes to an offensive. I personally don’t give a damn which division I serve in. I don’t care which pointless battle I’m sent to die in. But I will not be separated from Alan. Will not. Not by anyone and least of all by you.’

      Guy had grown calmer now that his fear of an outright assault had passed. Something like his customary smirking crept back into his manner.

      ‘It wasn’t me that made the decision, was it? And though we need to bring in new officers, we don’t want to unsettle existing battalions, let alone take two officers from a single company. So it’s you or Alan, but not both. And that isn’t my decision, it’s Haig’s. You can go and argue it out with him, if you want. He’s just four streets away.’ He gave Tom the address.

      Tom ignored the sneer. He paced around the room, which was of a pleasant size and pleasantly furnished – a far cry from the squalor of a front-line dugout. Tom fingered the silver-backed hairbrushes, which lay next to the revolver on the dressing table.

      ‘Alan thinks you don’t really hate me,’ he murmured. ‘He thinks it’s just an act you put on. But I know you better than that, Cousin Guy, and it’s because I know you that you hate me.’ Tom’s fingers had wandered from the hairbrushes to the gun. His thumb flicked the safety catch off, on, off, on, off, on.

      ‘Leave that,’ said Guy unsteadily.

      ‘I know who you are, Cousin Guy,’ said Tom again. He lifted the revolver, took the safety catch off and cocked it. He pointed it СКАЧАТЬ