I said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see you later,’ and, ‘I won’t forget.’
What I haven’t forgotten is the smile he gave me as he settled back on his pillow. A nurse in a grubby green apron and tennis shoes ran past us, the length of the ward. She had a bedpan in one hand, and a mess of soiled bandages in the other. One of them unrolled, and trailed behind her like a bridal train. There were five people in the room apart from the Italian patient. Two guys and three girls. They were all drunk. The patient was sitting upright on the bed conducting them in a slurry version of ‘I’m ’enery the Eighth, I Am’. He wasn’t drunk. He was something else. His eyes were bright and fevered. I’ve seen that in pilots who were living off Benzedrine. Blue Bennies. The older of the two doctors was about forty. He grinned at Les, who grinned back and said, ‘Fuck off. Fuck off the lot of you.’
The Doc was a bit of a trier. He tried, ‘This patient has special clearance. You can’t . . .’
Les introduced his Sten with an impressive rattle.
‘An’ now you’ve got special clearance: to effing well clear off. You can leave the room, or end up lying on its floor. Either way is OK with me.’
One of the girls giggled, and the Italian said, ‘It’s OK, Dennis. You can go. They can’t do anything.’ From his speaking voice you could have sworn that he had been to the same school as James. James gave a quick, interested smile.
The older man was Dennis. He swayed when he stood up. His mouth dropped open as if he was about to protest again. James held his finger to his own lips. The gesture said Ssh. He whispered, ‘Better you don’t, old son. Keep a bit of hush; there’s sick people out there.’
They filed out behind each other; weaving slightly. One of the girls was a short redhead. I’m partial to a bit of short redhead when I get the opportunity. This one gave me a cheeky grin as she squeezed past. They all had slightly fixed smiles. Les sat on the end of the Italian job’s bed, and grinned his wolfy grin. He hadn’t uncocked the Sten. The patient moved away from him, until the bedhead stopped him. Les moved closer, and said, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Albert Long.’
‘And I’m Victor Emmanuel the third. Try again.’
‘Alberto Longhi. Why do you need to know?’
‘So we know what to put on your stone . . . if we have a disagreement.’
The Italian looked down at the sheets. He muttered, ‘We will have no disagreement.’
‘I didn’t quite hear that. What did you say again?’
‘We will have no disagreement.’
‘I’m pleased about that,’ Les told him.
All this gave me time to size the Eyetie up. He was tall: as tall as the Major – and slim and muscular. His skin was a nice tanned brown: he must have come from that bit of Italy where a man’s job was lying on the beach with a drink in his hand. You could see that because he wore his gown open to the waist to excite the little girls; he had no chest hair. The stuff on top of his head was too long, too black and too greasy. For my taste, that is, but what do I know? No matter how tall he was, he was still a gutless little prick. My Uncle Ted use to call people like that skinless sausages. I’ve always thought that that captures the idea rather neatly. Les stood up and let the spring down on the Sten.
James sat where Les had been, opened his notebook and uncapped his pen. He asked, ‘Now, where shall we begin?’
I leaned against the door frame. Alberto answered James’s first question by saying, ‘I claim my rights under the Geneva Convention. I do not have to tell you anything: I am a doctor . . .’
Les was looking out of the small room’s small window. He made a restless sound and a restless movement. He said, ‘Listen, Alberto. In England there is a very famous music hall turn. His name is Stanley Holloway.’
‘Maybe I have heard of him.’
‘Do you know what a music hall is?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well. This Mr Holloway has a famous monologue. It is called “Albert and the Lion”.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ You could feel the cockiness growing in the bastard again.
‘Because in the story, lad, the lion eats Albert. I want you to remember that when the Major asks you again. Do you think you can do that?’ Les had delivered all this with his back to us. The Italian shrugged, but he had stopped making eye contact again, so I suppose that it was enough. He told us about the vehicles they were travelling in, which we already knew. He told who they all were, which we didn’t know, and what medicines and equipment they had managed to amass, which turned out to be surprising. We were looking at a small travelling hospital. They had bought a lot of their stuff from black marketeers, of course, and stolen or traded for the rest. He told James that they were heading for Bremen. Then they were going on to Hamburg, and then to Lübeck. Why Lübeck?
‘It is where we will want to work after the war.’
‘The Russians may well be in Lübeck.’
‘Where else would a Communist want to work, except inside a Russian zone?’
‘Fucking anywhere, I should imagine,’ Les told him. He still didn’t turn away from the window. I dropped in my tuppence worth for the first time.
‘The English woman you call Grace Baker.
