The old woman at the counter met my eyes, and then glanced away. Her face was harsh with years of sun and toil, but her eyes were kind.
‘Jesus have mercy on her soul,’ she muttered. ‘Resistance. Foolish enough to get caught. Brave enough not to speak.’
She stared at her hands, before systematically putting my purchases into a wicker basket.
The woman’s shrieks subsided to whimpers, almost drowned out by the cheering soldiers.
‘Why didn’t they just arrest her?’
I was unable to take my eyes from the tableau.
‘And pass on the fun?’
Bitter, angry tears trembled in her eyes. They widened as she realised her mistake: her sympathy for the woman and her cause was too clear, and for all she knew, I was one of them. I wanted to reassure her – wanted to help the woman on the street – but anything I did would jeopardise our escape. And I had no desire to join her in the centre of that circle.
The whimpering ceased. A soldier reached into his tunic and took a long gulp from a silver flask. Passed it to the next man. Their game seemed to be breaking up. One man spat and clapped another on the back before they moved off, falling in behind the grey-haired soldier as they crossed the square, leaving the woman crumpled like a broken doll. Her long dark hair curled protectively around her – shielding her in death as it couldn’t in life.
We had to leave before the grey-haired man saw us. I threw a couple of notes onto the counter, grabbed the basket and scanned the village for Alex’s tall form. He stood nearby, his body stiff and vibrating with anger. Where my instincts directed me to take the distraction as a divine gift and use it to escape, Alex’s directed him to act. I grasped his arm, holding him back.
‘You don’t know who’s watching,’ I hissed, hoping no one would hear the English.
‘They killed her, Nathalie.’ His voice was filled with the horror we both felt.
‘There’s nothing we can do.’
He shook off my grip and straightened his tunic.
‘I didn’t sign up to turn a blind eye to that.’
Held together by horror and determination, he strode to the fallen woman. For a second, I imagined green eyes under that long hair – the friend who had fought beside me.
It was lunacy. I knew this woman wasn’t Dominique. Even if it was, Dom wouldn’t want me to jeopardise myself for her. But I was no more able to stop myself than I was able to stop Alex.
Ignoring the drunk soldiers, he turned the woman over. Her face was beyond bruised – it was broken, her cheekbones shattered, teeth missing. Blood flowed from her nose and a dozen or more cuts. Under the gore, brown eyes stared sightlessly at the sun. Whoever she was, even her mother wouldn’t be able to recognise her. But it wasn’t Dom. Of course she wasn’t; little Dominique would have fought back.
My relief was short-lived.
‘Mirielle,’ Alex murmured, seeing past the disfigurement to identify the pretty girl who’d gone to arrange things with the fisherman. I’d known I’d see her again, but not like this. Had they been watching her? Had they caught her before or after she spoke to the fisherman with the caterpillar eyebrows? The old woman said Mireille hadn’t talked, but how could she know?
‘We need to go, Alex. Now.’
‘No,’ he whispered, throwing off my hand. Then louder: ‘No!’
He pulled his gun from its holster and pointed it at the soldiers, his Viking features twisted in hatred.
‘No, Alex,’ I whispered, horrified. ‘Don’t . . .’
The Luger coughed; a soldier fell. The grey-haired man unholstered his sidearm as the others stared, confused by Alex’s SS uniform. He stood statue-still, squeezing off shot after shot, bullets arcing as the Luger’s knee joint expelled and chambered cartridges. And yet, the enemy advanced.
Until Alex’s gun clicked on an empty chamber and the knee joint stayed up. He stared at it, then at the oncoming horde.
‘Shite,’ he breathed.
‘SHIT!’ I dropped the basket and pulled him away as the Germans returned fire. ‘Dolt!’ I accused. ‘Idiot!’
There was no word strong enough to describe the sheer lunacy of his actions.
‘They kicked her to death, what was I supposed to do?’ he panted, running alongside me. We turned towards the harbour, and I hoped the fisherman was still waiting for us. ‘An’ where the devil was Claude? He was supposed to protect her!’
He pointed at a small white skiff moored at the end of the pier, bobbing on the tide. An old man in a dark cap sat in the waning light, polishing the metal bracings. I yanked my pistol from my bag as we thundered over the planks.
‘Go!’
The old man threw the rag aside and stood, mutely watching. A shot rang out, the bullet almost hitting him. He dropped to a crouch, with his hands locked over his head, and crawled to the ropes mooring the boat.
I hunched forward and leapt across the gap between the pier and the boat, my gun remaining pointed at the fisherman. My left hand hit the deck first, the wood scraping the scabs from my palm and the skin from my knees. My elbow gave way but neither my pistol nor my will wavered.
‘Cast off!’ I ordered, the sound of gunfire and Alex’s footfalls ringing in my ears. ‘Now!’
The old man released the lines as Alex landed on top of me, slamming me into the wood and shielding me from the Germans’ bullets. The skiff bucked once or twice before it turned and caught the tide.
Sea spray kissed my face, and Alex’s body was a comforting weight. My eyes were still trained on the old man. He was short and squat, with a face lined by years in the sea and sun. Armand was right; he sported the longest eyebrows I’d
