Bomber. Len Deighton

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       Chapter One

      It was a bomber’s sky: dry air, wind enough to clear the smoke, cloud broken enough to recognize a few stars. The bedroom was so dark that it took Ruth Lambert a moment or so to see her husband standing at the window. ‘Are you all right, Sam?’

      ‘Praying to Mother Moon.’

      She laughed sleepily. ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘Do you think I don’t need all the witchcraft I can get?’

      ‘Oh, Sam. How can you say that when you …’ She stopped.

      He supplied the words: ‘Have come back safe from forty-five raids?’

      She nodded. He was right. She’d been afraid to say it because she did believe in witchcraft or something very like it. In an isolated house in the small hours of morning with the wind chasing the clouds across the bright moon it was difficult not to fall prey to primitive fears.

      She switched on the bedside light and he shielded his eyes with his hand. Sam Lambert was a tall man of twenty-six. The necessity of wearing his tight-collared uniform had resulted in his suntan ending in a sharp line around his neck. His muscular body was pale by comparison. He ran his fingers across his untidy black hair and scratched the corner of his nose where a small scar disappeared into the wrinkles of his smile. Ruth liked him to smile but lately he seldom did.

      He buttoned the yellow silk pyjamas that had cost Ruth a small fortune in Bond Street. She’d given them to him on the first night of their honeymoon; three months ago, he’d smiled then. This was the first time he’d worn them.

      As the only married couple among Cohen’s guests, Ruth and Sam Lambert had been given the King Charles bedroom with tapestry and panelling so magnificent that Sam found himself speaking in whispers. ‘What a boring weekend for you, darling: bombs, bombing, and bombers.’

      ‘I like to listen. I’m in the RAF too, remember. Anyway we had to come. He’s one of your crew, sort of family.’

      ‘Yes, you’ve got half a dozen brand-new relatives.’

      ‘I like your crew.’ She said it tentatively, for just a few trips ago her husband had flown back with his navigator dead. They had never mentioned his name since. ‘Has the rain stopped?’ she asked.

      Lambert nodded. Somewhere overhead an aeroplane crawled across the cloud trying to glimpse the ground through a gap. On a cross-country exercise, thought Lambert, they’d probably predicted a little light cirrus. It was their favourite prediction.

      Ruth said, ‘Cohen is the one that was sick the first time?’

      ‘Not really sick, he was …’ He waved his hand.

      ‘I didn’t mean sick,’ said Ruth. ‘Shall I leave the light on?’

      ‘I’m coming back to bed. What time is it?’

      ‘No,’ said Ruth. ‘Only if you want to. Five-thirty, Monday morning.’

      ‘Next weekend we’ll go up to London and see Gone with the Wind or something.’

      ‘Promise?’

      ‘Promise. The thunderstorm has passed right over. It will be good flying weather tomorrow.’ Ruth shivered.

      ‘I had a letter from my dad,’ he said.

      ‘I recognized the writing.’

      ‘Can I spare another five pounds.’

      ‘He’ll drink it.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘But you’ll send it?’

      ‘I can’t just abandon the poor old bugger.’

      There were cows too, standing very still, asleep standing up, he supposed, he knew nothing about the country. He’d hardly ever seen it until he started flying seven years ago. There was so much open country. Acres and acres young Cohen’s family had here, and a trout stream, and this old house like something from a ghost story with its creaking stairs, cold bedrooms and ancient door latches that never closed properly. He reached out and ran his fingers across the tapestry; they’d never allow you to do that in the V and A Museum.

      Some of the windowpanes were discoloured and bubbly and the trees seen through them were crippled and grotesque. At night the countryside was strange and monochromatic like an old photograph. To the east, over the sea beyond Holland and Germany, the sky was lightening enough to silhouette the trees and skyline. Eight-tenths cloud, just an edge of moonlight on a rim of cumulus. You could sail a whole damned Group in over that lot, and from the ground it would be impossible to catch a glimpse of them. He turned away from the window. On the other hand they’d have you on their bloody radar.

      He walked across the cold stone floor and looked down at his wife in the massive bed. Her black hair made marble of the white pillow and with her eyes tightly closed she was like some fairy princess waiting to be awoken with a magic kiss. He pulled the curtains of the ancient four-poster bed aside and it creaked as he eased his body down between the sheets. She made a sleepy mumbling sound and pulled his chilly body close.

      ‘He was just tense,’ said Lambert. ‘Cohen’s a bloody nice kid, a wizard damned navigator too.’

      ‘I love you,’ Ruth mumbled.

      ‘Everyone gets tense,’ explained Lambert.

      His wife pulled the pillow under his head and moved to give him more room. His eyes were closed but she knew he was not sleepy. Many times at night they’d been awake together like this.

      When they married in March it had rained when they arrived at the church, but as they came on to the steps the sun came out. She’d СКАЧАТЬ