‘Through your mouth,’ I whispered.
‘What?’
‘Breathe through your mouth. It’s quieter.’
He nodded, his hand clenching his sidearm. The motorcycle stopped and the driver helped the man in the sidecar out. The latter stretched, and pushed his driving goggles onto his forehead. Hand on the flies of his black uniform, he ambled towards us.
‘SS,’ I mouthed at Sinclair.
The man’s trousers were now undone and he was braced to relieve himself. He was close enough that if he looked to the side, he’d see Sinclair.
The man must have heard something and his head turned towards us. There was no thought, and no other option. My hand tensed, fingers pressed together. Thumb up, palm down in a familiar gesture. In two long strides, I was out of the brush and striking the back of his neck next to his spine.
No one could have been more surprised than me when he crumbled to the ground. The move was well-practised, but had never been used outside the practice grounds. There was no gunfire, but the second man fell, a small blade quivering from his eye.
‘Gunfire echoes. I didna think we’d want to attract attention.’
He was right, and from what I could see, capable of handling himself. Maybe there were worse travelling partners.
He pulled the knife free from the dead man and was about to clean it on the black tunic when I stopped him.
‘He’s about your size, isn’t he?’ I said.
And with a similar fair colouring to Sinclair; an idea began to gel. We made quick work of plundering the bodies and hid them in the woods. They would be found, but hopefully not until we were long gone.
I fiddled with the strap for the goggles, watching Sinclair from under my eyelashes. Dressed as an SS-Untersturmführer, he looked frighteningly authentic. His Webley was out of sight and the German’s Luger was holstered at his side. I swallowed hard, and tamped down the visceral fear that the uniform brought as he straddled the BMW.
‘Most officers are driven.’
‘No’ when they have a girl wi’ them. Stop arguin’ and get in the sidecar.’
I shook my head at this demonstration of male ego, and slipped the goggles over my eyes. Sinclair fired up the engine and revved it a few times.
‘Where to?’
‘They’ll expect us to head to Vouvray or Tours. Maybe north, towards the coast. We’ll go south, I think. At least for now, then we can head west. We’ll need to keep to the small roads.’
‘I don’t know these roads.’
‘South,’ I repeated, pointing. ‘And don’t forget to drive on the right-hand side.’
*
We skirted Vouvray and picked up the road leading south. The first checkpoint was at Montbazon, a simple barrier manned by two soldiers with a third sitting in front of a little hut. I held my breath as we approached. Had my description made it this far? Were alarms raised about the missing SS soldiers and their vehicle? Or the dead Gestapo thugs in Rouen? What if we were stopped and the Scot questioned? He had no French, and probably not a lot of German, if any. If we were caught, we’d both be shot as spies.
The same thoughts must have been running through Sinclair’s mind, but his expression, or what showed beneath his goggles, was stony. Maybe even arrogant. He didn’t stop for the checkpoint, just slowed the bike enough to allow the guards to see the SS flashes at his neck.
His gamble paid off. The two guards snapped to attention and saluted us, the third moving quickly to remove the barrier. I counted to twenty before releasing the air from my lungs. Sinclair glanced over. One corner of his mouth twitched and he winked.
We drove for another hour before stopping in a small village. Sinclair stretched before helping me from the sidecar. He patted down his pockets and thrust a wad of French francs into my hand.
‘Food and beer,’ he directed, before stalking off behind a tree to relieve himself.
For someone who had baled from a plane, cracked his head, held me at gunpoint and killed an SS officer in less than twenty-four hours, the Scot was doing rather well. But there was one other thing to do first, even more important than food. I spat on a handkerchief and cleaned the grime from my face. Applied a coat of lipstick and sauntered through the town until I found several broadsheets nailed on a board in front of the post office, captioned with names, aliases, and alleged crimes. Even with a healthy dose of imagination, none of the likenesses bore any resemblance to me, or anyone I knew. With a forced smile, I walked into the shop, surprised to find it well-provisioned. A young woman, neatly attired, put down her duster.
‘May I help you?’
I hummed a response and wandered through the aisles. Most of the goods were local, which explained a fair amount. A small area stocked beer and wine, in the blue bottles that had become common since the start of the war.
‘It’s a beautiful day for a picnic.’ The woman’s voice, high and strident, jerked me out of my thoughts.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Unfamiliar with the labels, I directed her towards a bottle of red table wine and a locally brewed beer for the Scot.
‘I haven’t seen you here before.’ Her brown eyes narrowed as she studied me.
‘No. Just travelling through.’
The woman’s eyes narrowed again. Her voice was chilly as she quoted me an inflated price for my purchases. I gritted my teeth and handed her a note. Turned away without waiting for my change.
‘Have a good day, madame.’ Her voice dropped when she added, ‘Hope you get bombed, collaborating bitch.’
With one hand on the door frame, I turned and stared at her. Animosity blossomed, palpable between us. It was nothing short of foolish. If I were the collaborator she accused me of being, I could make life difficult for her, and still she showed
