Faith. Len Deighton

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СКАЧАТЬ why so many women had fallen under his spell. And yet his diatribe brought a growing realization of how much I had changed since that fateful night I left Germany for California. I had never cracked, the way the doctor there had warned me I might, but the enforced tedium of my days there on the far side of the Western world – and the pitiless repetitions of my debriefings – had deadened my mind and slowed my reactions, as I’d seen happen so often to those who survived psychoanalysis. Worse, I was taking life day by day … taking things as they came. I’d always despised people who took things as they came.

      Frank Harrington had recognized the change in me of course. I could see it in his eyes as soon as we exchanged hellos. The shift I’d seen in Frank’s attitude to me during the uncomfortable interview I’d just had in Berlin had its roots in some new and inadequate something that Frank detected in me.

      And Wim’s domestic predicaments were not without an echo in my own consciousness: ‘You live in London but you’re heading south?’ he’d remarked, using that animal instinct which informs such street-wise semi-literates.

      Perhaps the look on my face revealed something of the confusion in my mind.

      ‘Running from one wife to another?’ he said. ‘Or running away from them both, like I am?’

      I responded with a soft derisive laugh, but in a way he was right. Perhaps I was going on this excursion to Zurich in order to get vital information from Werner. Perhaps I was going there in order to put off that terrible time when I would be in London and forced to start sorting out my personal affairs. What did I have left of my relationships with two women I loved – with Fiona, my wife, and with Gloria who had patiently pieced together a new life for me when I was at my lowest? And what of my relationships with my two children, who were doubtless as confused as any of us?

      ‘Be a real man,’ urged Wim, flexing his arm in a lewd signal of machismo. ‘The man makes the decisions; women wait for him to make up his mind. That’s what nature intended. It’s the way life is.’ He offered me a swig from a bottle of Old Jenever that he had tucked into a toolbox behind his head. I declined and he smiled and put the gin away. ‘Drinking and driving don’t mix,’ he said, with that smug air of accomplishment with which we all use cliches in a foreign tongue.

      It was beginning to rain. Big droplets hit the glass and then moved sluggishly downwards, flattened by the air flow into wavy patterns. He switched on the massive wipers, which slid across the windscreen with a thirsty slurp and a contented whine from the motor. The weather had changed. It was no longer good weather for driving, for hitchhiking or for anything else.

      The heating was switched fully on in the cab of the transporter. I became drowsy and, eyes closed, I found it difficult to respond to Wim’s commentary and his occasional questions. Perhaps he was also succumbing to the warmth, for when I asked him what time he thought we’d cross the Swiss frontier he said: ‘Go back to sleep, it’s a long way yet.’ He changed to a lower gear for the long incline ahead. ‘At the next chance I shall pull over and check the load. I think I hear a rattle. Sometimes the car doors come open. It will take me only a minute or two.’

      He slowed as he spotted a likely place and pulled the transporter into one of the wide spaces provided for emergency stops on the Autobahn. He switched off the engine. It was dark, the rain beat upon the road and ran in torrents from the tall fir trees, beating noisily on the roof of the cab like impatient fingers. ‘Stay in the dry,’ he said, and tugged his arms into a short plastic coat with a hood. He opened the door and climbed down, cursing all the while. I saw the flashlight beam and heard him making a circuit of the long vehicle, checking that his six brand-new Saabs were well secured. Eventually he climbed back into the driver’s cab, waved the flashlight and switched it off and gave a sigh of content.

      I felt a draught of cold air and flicks of water as he took off his coat. Eyes half-closed, I was slumped in the corner with my head resting against the seat back as Wim leaned across me as if to check that my door was safely locked. It was the tension and sudden movement of his arm that caused me to move my head. I rolled aside and the blow that should have knocked me unconscious only tore my ear lobe off. The heavy metal flashlight he wielded spent most of its force against the upholstered head-rest, landing with a loud thump.

      ‘You bastard!’ shouted Wim, whose rage I had long since figured could be directed against anyone who stood between him and his immediate wishes. I lashed out to defend myself as he came at me again. He was right-handed, and from his position in the driving seat, on the left side of the cab, this proved a disadvantage. I brought my right fist round and hit him as hard as I could. Then hit him again. But in the confined space movement was difficult. The first punch hit only his shoulder and the other did little beyond grazing my knuckles on his earring. We were both aiming wildly as we thrashed around in the confines of the cabin, punching, pushing and grappling like wrestlers. Twice I tried to pin his arms, but he was strong and I could hold him for no more than a moment before he wrenched himself free. He butted at me but I was ready for that, and brought my fist up and gave him a jab full in the face which made him snort and shake his head.

      As he rolled back from the punch I saw his bloodied face and eyes shiny and demented. He swung round at me, this time bringing the flashlight right across his body from his left shoulder and delivering a blow that landed. It made my head sing and paralysed me with shock. I heard a distant scream of pain without at first realizing that it came from me. Anger took over. I struck out at his silly face. My fist connected but he was a tough street kid and had reached that stage of fighting madness where such blows meant nothing to him. Wim had done all this before; that was obvious by his confident persistence.

      I reached out to grab his throat. ‘English bastard!’ he said, and managed to get a grip on my jacket, holding the bunched fabric tight, so that he could give me a good decisive blow with the flashlight. Made of heavy metal it was a vicious weapon, but within the confines of the cab, and impeded by the big steering wheel, he couldn’t bring his arm back far enough to put lethal force into it. I deflected a second blow with my upraised arm and chopped at his throat with the edge of my hand. But already he had turned his head far enough for the neck muscle to shield the windpipe. For a moment we both paused, overcome by our exertions. He was breathing heavily and noisily, and there was a pattern of blood on his temple and more running from his nose. His mouth was half-open and a line of frothy spittle had formed on his lips. What wouldn’t I have given for the 9mm Makarov pistol that I had dumped into an East German ditch only twenty-four hours previously.

      The first extravagant exchange of blows was over and I had survived. He was cautious now, and determined to make no more errors of judgement. He used the flashlight as a prod, lunging to jab at my face. Twice I deflected it, and as I dodged around I looked for something to use as a weapon but there was nothing in sight. As he came at me the third time I struck at the flashlight with anger and reckless disregard, and hit it hard enough to knock it from his hand. It clattered to the floor and rolled under my seat, where neither of us could get to it without becoming totally vulnerable. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of a hand and gave me a fleeting grin.

      I slid my back away from him to get into the corner, where I curled up into a ball. My posture – knees drawn up to my chin and arms crossed on my chest – told Wim that I’d given up hope and resistance. Perhaps that’s what had happened with his other victims – they’d simply cowered away, pleading for mercy – but Wim wasn’t the sort who dealt in mercy. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ he shouted at me, and despite the anger that was boiling up inside me, it was easy to imagine the way that kind of threat had effectively removed all resistance from some wretched girl or skinny kid who were no doubt the sort of victims he looked for.

      He came at me with his hands extended and fingers splayed. He intended to strangle me. There was no big spilling of blood with a strangulation. And if the body was disposed into the scrub and ferns at such a lonely section of road, who would ever guess where the victim СКАЧАТЬ