near the front. Somewhere a widow can light her candle and be left in peace.”
Out of the darkness, muffled footsteps crossed the street and came in
their direction. In another place, at another time, Christopher might
have taken alarm. But it was Sunday and this was
England. Long months of inactivity had lulled his instinct for , danger. The darkness thickened round him, like something solid moving against his flesh.
“How can I be of help, Father? You’ll want a
donation, of course.
I’ll be glad to contribute.”
“Indeed. I’ll be grateful for anything you’re willing to give. But
I wondered if I could ask more of you. You’re a military man yourself.
I’ve heard .. .” he hesitated ‘.. . that you were decorated.”
They were nearing the end of Hencotes. A single light struggled against the dark, laying a yellow film across the firmly packed snow. Christopher stared ahead into the darkness. Who had told the priest?
Not William, he was sure of that. His secret was safe with the boy.
Perhaps Harriet.. .
“Yes,” he said. His breath mingled with that of the priest, white and listless in the clear air, like milk moving in water.
“I’d like to set up a fund,” Father Middleton continued.
“You’re the man at Carfax now, ever since Major Ridley died. There’s your sister, of course. But I’d like a man, a soldier, to head the appeal.”
“I was never a soldier.”
“No. But highly decorated. For valour. I ask no questions. You have military rank.”
“Father, I’m not sure .. .”
The footsteps were upon them now. Two men emerged from the shadows, their faces pallid in the thin light. They were dressed in heavy coats and wore shallow fur hats pulled down well on their heads. The first man had a narrow, sour face and eyes that looked as though he had not slept for nights. His companion was heavier and coarser-featured, with dark stubble on his chin.
, What happened next took only a few seconds, but it was to ; remain etched on Christopher’s memory for the rest of his life. The I thin man nodded at his companion. Both men began to run at once. There was no time to skip or dodge. Christopher felt himself bowled over, then the thin man was on top of him, pressing him into the snow, crushing his chest, making it impossible for him to breathe.
There was a stifled cry. Twisting his head, Christopher saw the heavy
man grab William from behind and begin to pull him, struggling, across the snow. The boy kicked out, trying to escape, but the man was too powerful for him.
Christopher pressed up, freeing his right arm in an attempt to grab for his assailant’s throat and dislodge him. But the man twisted away from him, thrust a hand into the wide pocket of his coat, and brought out a large pistol. Christopher froze as the man raised it and held it against his head.
“I am ordered not to harm you,” the thin man said. His voice was soft, the accent foreign yet hard to place.
“But I do not always obey orders, and I have killed a great many men in my time. I intend to leave here without interference. Do you understand? So please lie still and let us do what we have come here to do. The boy will not be harmed: I promise you.”
William cried out, still struggling with his captor.
“Father! Help me! Help me!”
The thin man cocked the pistol and held it very hard against Christopher’s temple. Beneath him, he felt the snow cold and precise against him, and a stone that stabbed mercilessly into the small of his back.
He had forgotten Father Middleton. The priest, stunned by the suddenness and violence of the attack, had remained standing in the middle of the road, a single arm raised, whether to ward off further attack or to bless his attackers it was not clear. But at the boy’s cry, like a sleeper awakened, he stirred and began to stumble through the dragging snow.
Encumbered by the struggling child, the heavy man was finding it hard to make progress. He almost slipped as William twisted in an effort to throw him off balance. One arm was round the boy’s throat, while the other desperately tried to pin William’s flailing arms to his side.
The priest ran up, arms reaching for the boy’s assailant. He cried out inarticulately, the same voice that had spoken Mass only minutes before, troubled now with fear and a grim rage. His finger’s tore at the man’s arm, dragging him from the boy. The two men slipped and slithered on the wet ground, their feet struggling for some sort of purchase. Suddenly, the heavy man lost his balance and fell, pulling the priest with him.
“Run, William!” Father Middleton shouted.
“Run like hell!”
William hesitated, then turned and ran back in the direction of
the town, in search of help. On the ground, the priest rolled in the snow, fumbling for a grip that would allow him to overpower the kidnapper. He was a rugby player, but the man beneath him was stronger than him and was starting to recover from his fall. The priest got his arm across the big man’s windpipe, hoping to crush the air from his lungs, but as he did so the other man succeeded in bringing up his knee hard into his groin.
Father Middleton grunted and bent with pain. The heavy man squirmed, pushing him away from him, wriggling out from beneath his body. But as he started to get to his feet, the priest recovered his breath and lunged at him in a low tackle, bringing him down heavily into a patch of virgin snow.
Suddenly, something glinted in the lamplight. As the priest threw himself across to pin him down again, the man lifted a knife and brought it up in a smooth arc. The knife-blade shimmered in the light, then disappeared as it entered the priest’s chest. Father Middleton’s body jerked backwards, trying to escape the pain of the blade, but the momentum of his leap kept him moving down on to the hilt. He fell on to the man, tearing the knife from his grasp, throwing blood across his face.
“Jesus!” he cried, writhing with pain He reached for the knife handle but his hand had lost all its strength. It slipped on blood and fell against his chest. With his last strength, he traced a clumsy cross over his heart. His hand shook and fell away, his legs jerked, then he became still.
Christopher pressed up against the muzzle of the gun, but a hand pushed hard against his shoulder and forced him down again.
“You bastards!” he shouted.
“You murdering bastards!” But the man with the gun did not relax his grip or move the barrel. A light went on in a window across the street. There was the sound of a sash being raised.
“What’s going on out there?” someone shouted.
“Get the police!” shouted Christopher. But the thin man struck him hard across the cheek and pressed a hand down heavily against his mouth.
He saw the heavy man wipe the blade of his knife on the priest’s cassock and stand up. His face showed no sign of emotion, no hint of regret. He had killed the priest as he might have killed a sheep or a pig, and thought as little of it. Christopher wanted to kill him just as wantonly. At least William had got away. Whatever happened to him now, the boy was safe.
There was a sound of footsteps. Someone was coming up the street.
People had heard their cries: someone was coming to help.
A man stepped out of the shadows, a tall man dressed in a coat and hat like those of the first two men, but of better cut and quality. In front of him, his hands pinned and a cloth tied tightly round his mouth, was William. The man was supporting the boy, forcing him to walk in front of him.
There was a rapid exchange of words in a language Christopher did not recognize. He guessed it might have been Russian, but the men said so little he could not be sure. He opened his mouth to call to William, to reassure the boy somehow that, come what may, someone would track him down and rescue him. But before the words could reach his lips, the thin man raised the gun and struck him across the temple. The world leapt at him then shrank away again as quickly as it had come.
He did not lose consciousness completely. There was a taste of snow in his mouth and he realized he had
