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Part 38

Posted on Sunday, 24 October 2004

April 7th 1942 - Weyford, England

Nothing occurs without motivation.

Ellis MacKenna was no stranger to pain, in his fifty-six years he had shaken hands so frequently with that dark entity that it probably should be classed as a friend. Most pain could be ignored, provided you had sufficient mental force to push past it. This pain was so phenomenally beyond any level Mac had previously encountered that he would not have believed it possible had he not been experiencing it. Where the pain had come from was unknown. Mac didn't know how he'd got into the pain. Yet he was in the pain and for some reason he knew he was there for a reason.

"Daddy!" A thin, whispery cry and it reminded Mac precisely why he had entered that miasmic pool of pain. Behind him lay blackness and nothing, ahead lay an unknown amount of pain.

"Daddy!" Two voices, barely more than a whisper, and yet they punched not only through the pain, they had punched through the nothing and drawn him into the pain.

"Daddy!" Not so much of a whisper now, Mac seized upon the voices and followed them through the pain. His eyes were open, he knew they were open, but there was nothing to see.

"DADDY!" The volume was becoming such that Mac found himself wincing back from the noise. Mac wondered briefly whether the change in volume had merely been an indication of his level of consciousness. For some reason Mac could not explain he continued to pull through the pain even as he flinched away from the screaming.

"DADDY!!!!"

"Tso'kay, M'rine." Mac recognised one of the voices and then found his tongue.

"Daddy." The hysteria was less pronounced, but there was a definite scuffle nearby.

"No!" It was Marmelade's voice and he was sounding very stubborn indeed. "Mama said never touch Daddy if he's down...we might hurt him worse."

"But..."

"No, M'rine."

"One of you ... Marine ... telephone in the kitchen." So few words and yet they drained Mac of every ounce of energy and brought the darkness spiralling up through the pain.

"Not yet, M'rine, he's not finished." There had been another scuffle before Marmalade spoke again. "He hasn't said who to call."

"Dr Jacobs ... tell him ... a bit of a tumble ... that's all." Mac tried to smile as the ceiling overhead came slowly into focus.

"Repeat it to him, M'rine."

"Dr Jacobs, bit of a tumble ... he's to come please?" Marine seemed much more stable and happy, possibly she would simply deliver the message.

"Go." Mac finally recognised the ceiling overhead as the hall ceiling. Marine's footsteps tumbled down a couple of steps and then scuffed against the kitchen floor.

"Daddy." Marmelade's face swam into Mac's field of vision. Marmelade's expression was sober and a nasty bruise was beginning to form on his cheek.

"M'rine hit you?"

"She was scared and I wouldn't let her touch you."

"Thanks...she shouldn't hit...ever."

"Don't mind now, we'll just sit until Dr Jacobs comes. Do you want anything?"

"No." Mac tried to find a reassuring smile, but he had a feeling that it was probably more alarming than reassuring. "Things'll be fine...tell M'rine, things'll be fine." Mac let his eyes close as they so desperately wanted to and felt the darkness take him away from the pain.

"...any time you feel so inclined you are permitted to grace us with your company." It was Dr Jacobs' dry tones which next penetrated into Mac's world of pain and darkness. "I quite comprehend that you might feel markedly disinclined to join us, but it is rather in your best interests if you do."

"Do shut-up." Mac couldn't help but frown, Jacobs was sounding remarkably like that pompous ass who had done something at some point in time. Very pompous he'd been and far too liking of the sound of his own voice.

"Not until you've given me a date."

"It's today ... Seventh of April Nineteen Forty-Two if you're going to be stuffy about the matter. I am not suffering from concussion, I'm fifty-six years old and have been retired for something in the order of six or seven months. I'm married to Hope and have been for 17 years since I married her in 1925. We have two children James and Joscelyn. James is the elder by fifteen minutes and they are now nine years old. Hope is an Engineer involved in the design of aircraft and I breed Alsatians. Habitually name them after the emperors and empresses of Rome...provided my wife doesn't insist on naming rights. Anything else?"

"No." Jacobs seemed not a little amused. "I am now reassured that you are not suffering from concussion ... why not open your eyes?"

"Nothing to see currently."

"How do you know?"

"Because I can feel things, I can hear things and I can speak...I can't see yet though. I have no doubt but my sight will come back within the next few minutes as I continue to surface. It feels like I'm still in the hall."

"A little tumble." Jacobs' voice was disgusted. "If I wasn't so well acquainted with you I would probably have advised you to drive yourself in ... as it was, I do know you and I had the sense to bring the ambulance with me."

"Surprised you haven't bundled me off yet."

"Too little information, Old Boy, had to bring you around so we could have some idea what we're dealing with. No point moving you until we know what injuries we might be facing."

"What does it look like?" Mac finally opened his eyes and blinked a couple of times before deciding he'd just have to tolerate a thick mist for now.

"You may have just crumpled where you are, or you may have pitched down the entire flight of stairs. Either is not good news, but the first is preferable."

"What time is it?"

"Four in the afternoon, Marine called an hour and a half ago."

"Meaning they left school early."

"They got dragged out because your dogs are howling their heads off. How long have you been out for?"

"There you have me ... but I definitely did not make lunch."

"Meaning you've been out for at least four hours, not counting the couple of moments you spent conscious while instructing your children on what to do."

"I know I walked them to school before walking the dogs...but there's nothing beyond nine-thirty and I have no idea why I might be on the stairs. I can tell you that there is a major quantity unlocalised pain and it feels like I've dislocated my right shoulder again."

"I'm assuming you pitched headfirst from the top of the stairs and some how managed to protect your head and neck. It looks like your shoulder is not merely dislocated...looks totally shattered if you want my honest opinion."

"I seem able to wriggle my toes."

"I had noticed a bit of motion which is why I'm presuming you managed to save your head and neck. Now, this is an order, you will return to the conscious world in two hours. For now I'm afraid that I'm giving you a jab so we can get you out of here without raising the dead or losing our lunch."

"I'll do my best to meet the requirements." Mac closed his eyes again and was vaguely aware of the jab which barely beat the darkness which waited for any and every opportunity to swallow him anew.

Mac was aware of nothing distinct, but he had a sinking feeling that he'd recently muffed something up sadly. It was one of those abstract sensations, the source of which are almost impossible to isolate and identify. There was also pain, more of a nagging pain than the pure agony of earlier, but plenty uncomfortable all the same. On considerations Mac was rather thankful for the pain, by all accounts death from severe injury is rarely to never accompanied by pain. In fact, the sources who had supplied Mac's intelligence had indicated that a lack of pain was one of the worst possible symptoms to have.

Mac sought through his memories and frowned slightly for they were remarkably sparse for what he felt was probably an extended period of time. Scent and sensation were penetrating through the pain. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptics, it was almost nauseating in its strength. The bed felt firm under him, though there was still that weird sensation of spiralling and falling. The sheets were rough on his toes and something was bracing him somehow because he could feel it from his head to somewhere in the region of his knees. Hearing picked up quickly as the roaring faded, the muted noises of a hospital and what sounded like a Wimpy with a sick engine.

"That Wimpy has a feedline problem." Mac knew there had to be someone nearby, he was too familiar with the hospital process. It would probably be some untrained bunny of eighteen who was simply there to ensure he kept breathing until he regained consciousness.

"You would wake up thinking of bloody aeroplanes." Hope's voice was laughing as she knelt beside the bed, her face in his range of vision. Hope's face was foggy since Mac was having major focus problems, but the picture was clear enough that Mac could identify the traces of tears on those cheeks.

"I thought you'd been sent to ... to ... Scotland." It rather exhausted Mac to speak, but he needed to understand what had happened.

"That was two days ago and I was only meant to be there for a day. I returned yesterday to find Annette looking after the kids and mistress of what must have been the most tenuous peace in history ... Eoan is in the house and you know how he and Nemo appreciate each other's company."

"Kids alright?"

"They'll have a bit of a warped idea if they continue to believe that you can be hospitalised for an indefinite length of time because of a 'little' tumble."

"Well it was ... all I did was fall down the stairs." Mac tested his bracing and found it depressingly complete, he could move his feet and his face and that was about it. "Do they know what I've done?" Mac was abruptly aware that the main source of pain came from his right arm which was twisted up and away from his line of sight.

"Where am I meant to start?" Hope's look was rather reproving.

"Try the top and work towards my toes."

"Mm." Hope's expression was hardly encouraging. "Right shoulder, basically smashed out of all recognition. You've totally mangled the braxial nerve junction so they're fairly confident that you'll never voluntarily move it again in your life. You've also broken your right arm in about three places. They assume that you landed on the shoulder while using your left hand and arm to protect your head and neck. You've broken your left forearm in three places, also broken most of the bones in your hand and fingers. Ribs, intact on the left side, messed on the right. You've also sprained your right ankle and dislocated your big toe."

"Do I keep the arm?" Mac had taken the discouraging list without even a blink.

"For now, it depends how you heal."

"Remind me to heal well then."

Mac stared at the ceiling overhead with an unmistakably sick feeling in his stomach. He'd fallen asleep almost before he'd finished a less than kind comment, he knew he had and nothing was more sure than that it would get Hope in a real twist. The ceiling was white and totally without feature and the range of Mac's view to the left was to about halfway down a window which had a blind pulled firmly down and no curtains. Mac hated windows with a simple blind and he rolled his eyes around to see whether he could see anything else in the room. Mac saw plenty when his eyes got to the right hand side of his bed.

Hope McKenna had never been beautiful, her face was round and lacking in any real expressiveness. Hope's charm lay in her mind, a part of herself which remained hidden from the world unless she was in the environment of aircraft. Sleeping in hospitals brought out what was worst for it made her pasty and almost pudgy, but never had Mac felt so heart-wrenchingly ill as just at that moment. Something in Hope's face screamed of little Joscelyn and Mac realised that he was going to have to do what he had never even considered doing...and he was quite uncertain whether he could do it or not.

"How long have you been awake for?" Hope had blinked at him rather blearily, before rubbing her eyes and looking at her watch.

"I don't know." Mac considered the matter briefly and realised that his comment was accurate, he had no idea how long he'd been awake for. "Alright?"

"I need to get back to the aerodrome for a bit." Hope pushed to her feet. "Annette took the kids out to Ashie's place so they're with Lucille ... the dogs went as well."

"Do you think I'll ever remember why I fell?"

"Who knows and who cares ... just get better Mac." Hope pushed the hair out of her face and straightened her jumper.

"I fully intend to." Mac gave a faint smile as he watched Hope depart, but the closing of the door was like the clanging gates of doom and a dark and depressed cloud came crashing through his mind. Mac didn't feel sick anymore, he didn't hurt anymore ... he just didn't feel right and he had a nasty feeling that falling down the stairs had been a singularly stupid thing to do.

Mac had been staring at the ceiling for what felt like millennium. Depression was not good, and yet, it was as if the world had suddenly stood on its head for the depression just vanished. Mac would have nodded if he could, a curt little nod which Paige would have recognised.

Paige.

Life was hell, it had been twenty-five years since Alexander Paige had died because of a German bullet. It was a nod Ashie would probably have recognised, for Ashie had seen it once or twice. It was a curt and decided little nod and even in his mind Mac could feel the appropriate muscles flex. Mac had made up his mind. Come hell and high water, come all possible medical entanglements he would be home by Christmas and the kids would be brought back from Cambridgeshire. It was the very least he could do for Hope, they had to be a family for Christmas.

April 13th 1942 - Belfort, France

Innocence is a beautiful flower which dies all too easily.

The train drew to a screeching halt which displaced most of the occupants from their seats onto the floor. It was a wet and miserable day and the train should not have stopped for another fifty miles ... and it certainly should not have stopped so violently. For the type of stop there was no question, someone had yanked the emergency stop cord, and that cord hadn't been touched in the first carriage, which left the guard post of the second carriage ... and that was very bad news.

Hauptmann Stephan Kalt had scrambled awkwardly to his feet just as soon as the train slid to a halt. Between seats and supports he had flung himself out of the back door just in time to see the second guard fire a round into a nearby clump of trees. Without hesitation Kalt threw himself at the guard before he could fire again. Without waiting to see whether the guard was alright Kalt hobbled across to the clump of trees to investigate what was to be found.

"Sir!" It was a frantic yell less than a minute later that woke Kalt to his senses and he turned away from the clump of trees he had been investigating returned to the train. All the men were outside now, and the Lieutenant who took shift when Kalt slept was looking rather sick.

"What?" Kalt came to a halt and frowned around annoyance, his mind still with the crumpled form among the trees. Feldwebel Karl Undin was so completely dead where he lay among the trees that it was rather a question whether he'd ever been alive. The gun had been on automatic fire when other guard had opened fire and the result was much as Kalt had expected when he'd headed out in search of the body.

"He's dead."

"I kno..." Kalt stopped and jerked his attention away from the body he'd left behind. None of the guards could possibly know Undin was dead, which implied that someone else was dead. "Who?"

"Boris." The Lieutenant indicated the guard Kalt had flattened on his way out.

"What?" Kalt looked at the Lieutenant in disbelief and then down at Boris. When Kalt had last seen Boris his head had been rather pear-shaped, it was now almost like a flower. Blood stained the snow under the man who should have been struggling to his feet in an appologetic and groggy manner.

Kalt was aware of an icy fury which swept through him as he stared down at the deceased figure. The icy fury surprised Kalt and left him feeling distinctly weak at the knees after he'd mastered it. Kalt prided himself on being a civilised man, but he had wanted to hurt Boris, to see him squirm, scream and beg for mercy. It was primitive rage at the most fundamental level. Kalt restrained himself, a corpse feels nothing and to give way to a wave of primitive rage would fix nothing. Boris' suicide had created a situation which was best described as one hell of a mess. There was no one left who could answer questions ... and if Boris had been in shape to kill himself he must also have been in shape to have endangered Kalt. To be remembered in future, ensure the idiot is unconscious before turning your back on them.

"Gun must have fired as you hit him." The Lieutenant had never been liked by Kalt, and this ridiculous assumption plummeted him to the very pits of Kalt's estimations. Gun's which went off unintentionally did not put a single bullet through the head of a man...particularly when they had just destroyed another man with automatic fire. Boris had used his service revolver on himself, and that had been holstered when Kalt had hit him.

"Feldwebel Undin is in the trees there ... retrieve him. The rest of you spread out and find the tracks." Kalt totally ignored the Lieutenant and climbed back into the train. The passenger carriage looked as it should and Kalt paid it little mind. The guard compartment showed signs of activity, but nothing abnormal. Kalt finally moved through the grill into the very empty prisoner compartment. Kalt's search was brief and depressing. Nothing. No hints that anything had happened at all, it was as if the prisoners had simply dematerialised and vanished into thin air.

"Sir." It was one of the off-duty guards who appeared and Kalt stared at the man for a long and silent moment before finally responding.

"Something worse?"

"Yes, sir ... there are no tracks but for the guard who died in the trees."

"Send a deployment back down the line to find where the men escaped." Kalt emerged from the prisoner's cage and rejoined the men on the ground. "Lieutenant, you remain with me...unless you want to walk back down the tracks."

"No sir." The Lieutenant returned to the passenger carriage while Kalt arranged a troop of the men under the one man he did trust to return down the length of the track in search of the prints. Kalt then went to speak to the engineer before finally returning to the carriage and the remains of the men. After the icy rage of earlier Kalt found his current numbness almost as nerve-wracking as the men clearly found it. What did they expect, for him to beat them all up?

Kalt stared silently out the window as the train got under way once more. He, Kalt, had been in command of a prisoner transfer which had travelled by an unusual route. It had been a small transfer and few realised how important those prisoners had been. Kalt knew how important those prisoners had been and he had lost all fifteen of them. Kalt was also confident that they would remain lost, the Swiss Border was less than twenty miles away and the mind behind this escape was a mind which was not among the prisoners themselves. The escape would be successful and complete. It was regrettable that the Gestapo had no appreciation for good work. Kalt would probably have admired how beautifully the escape had been executed had it not been his life which would undoubtedly pay for the mess.

Part 39

Posted on Sunday, 31 October 2004

April 15th 1942 - London, England

The catalyst for change often begins as something insignificant.

Annette walked wearily into her flat and sank onto the couch in utter disgust. Eoan settled on the rug with a disgusted huff and Annette would have laughed were she not so out of temper herself. Diemos settled onto Annette's lap with a soft yowl, and for once he curled up without kneading Annette's legs. Annette not only found her job boring, she was beginning to hate it with a passion. The job had been interesting, but politics and an ever-growing pile of restrictions had reduced the job to pure frustration.

"Neddie?" It was Mrs. Gardiner from upstairs who let herself warily in Annette's front door.

"Oh." Annette bit her lip, she was only remembering now that she was meant to dine with the Gardiners. "Sorry, working late."

"So we realised when you didn't come home." Madeleine Gardiner settled on one of the other chairs and pushed a few silver hairs back from her face. "Bad day?"

"I'm going to go insane if things don't improve." Annette pulled on Diemos' remaining ear.

"Have you considered quitting and finding another job?"

"Where?" Annette lifted the problem which had been the major reason for her remaining in the job so long.

"Egypt?" Madeleine's expression was calm and Annette found herself considering the idea quite seriously.

"No reason why I shouldn't." Annette scratched an ear and stared into the space in front of her. "Just a matter of how I intend to travel ... and what I intend to do when I get there."

"There I cannot help you." Madeleine gave a small smile.

"N-no, you probably can't." Annette rubbed her face tiredly and then blinked, for some reason she wanted nothing more than to burst into tears.

"You'll be fine." Madeleine Gardiner rose to her feet with a small nod. "Also, you have some mail."

"Mail?" Annette glanced instinctively towards the mat.

"A bit too large for the mail slot, they brought it upstairs when you didn't answer your doorbell." Madeleine gave a smile. "Come up, we'll give you some food and your mail and a nice evening of conversation about books, travel and music."

"You're..."

"Do not even consider that you might be in the way. I learnt many years ago never to issue private invitations unless I genuinely wanted the person to visit...all too often they had the gall to accept when I only invited them because I felt it would be rude not too. Being officially elderly now I am allowed to indulge in whims ... I invite nobody to anything unless I want them to come." Madeleine gave a smile. "Do come."

"Thank you." Annette hesitated. "Can I have a few minutes?"

"Certainly, make yourself human before you come." Madeleine gave one final nod before she quietly let herself out of the flat. It was a rather cynical smile Annette gave as she reached for her hair-brush, she had a feeling that a month of Sundays wouldn't make her human.

It was twenty minutes later when Annette stood on the mat in front of the Gardiner's door. For all Annette's earlier pessimism she was almost looking forward to the rest of the evening. A bath, a change of clothes and a couple of minutes to forget the day had done much to improve Annette's frame of mind.

"Wonderful!" Madeleine Gardiner had opened the door before Annette could knock and dragged her into the living area of a flat which was only slightly larger than Annette's own. "Perfectly on time."

"Thank you for inviting me." Annette handed across the biscuits and box of tea leaves she had brought with her. Biscuits were difficult as they tended to use so much butter, but Annette was particularly proud of this particular batch so she had brought them.

"Biscuits!" Edward Gardiner had looked up from his seat with blatant interest. "She is permitted to stay."

"Edward." Madeleine had taken the biscuits and tea leaves and vanished into the kitchen, soon to return with a tea tray.

"Sit down Neddie and ignore Edward's bad manners, he's not to walk for his leg is particularly bad."

"My leg is fine ... the doctor is an idiot." Edward accepted a cup of tea and a biscuit. "However, I have an excuse for catching up on my reading if I agree with the ruling."

"Catch up on his reading ... he'll end up reading the encyclopedias." Madeleine wrinkled her nose slightly and Annette gave a laugh herself for Edward Gardiner was known throughout the block of flats as a prolific reader.

The evening had passed pleasantly and Annette was still laughing as she descended the stairs to her own flat. Eoan was yawning with almost every step and Annette was almost willing to decide that the mail could wait until the next morning. Unfortunately Annette knew perfectly well she would not sleep a wink until she had opened the largish parcel which made the bulk of her mail. It was a box wrapped in paper and thoroughly gummed and tied shut. The sender, who didn't give name or address on the box, made it clear that no one was going to gain discreet access. There were about fifteen different signatures on the box but no postage marks, the box had not travelled by the postal system and had never been checked by censors. Annette might have been suspicious about the contents had it not been that the address was written by a very familiar hand.

Annette had settled herself comfortably on her couch and carefully dealt with the two other envelopes before she finally permitted herself to open the box. Jeroen had written his usual line which confirmed that he continued to exist. The other letter was from Annie-Bug who had transferred from scrubbing floors in Wales to working a AA Battery predictor in Liverpool and was finally writing to tell how it had occured. Annie-Bug was having fun even though she was not able to follow Jeroen and Annette couldn't help but feel the edge of her happiness slide slightly. The Harem hadn't met in almost a year, Charlie had been alive at their last meeting ... they were now too scattered for a real meeting. Annie-Bug in Liverpool, Charlie was dead, May was down somewhere in Devon, Sarah was married and somewhere in Scotland, Laura was somewhere in Scotland with FANYs, Thelma was still in London, but working with the Red Cross and utterly swamped with work. Mel and June seemed to have been swallowed alive for nothing had been heard of them in months. It was with a bit of a chill that Annette realised that apart from Bob she didn't have a single friend who wasn't a correspondent. Once she had worried about Annie-Bug because all roads seemed to lead to James Darcy, but the roles seemed to have reversed for Annie-Bug was the one with friends now. Annette pushed the letters aside, hesitated, and then finally tore the first layer of paper from the box. There was a second layer with more signatures and a curt note observing that the parcel was exempt from censorship. The third layer was devoid of signatures, but it had a collection of very formal looking 'top-secret' and 'urgent' stamps and was very thoroughly gummed shut. The box was similarly gummed shut and after several abortive efforts to open the box Annette gave up on simply trying to open the box and headed for the kitchen and a good sized knife. The box contained an envelope, a battered book and another bundle wrapped in paper and thoroughly sealed.

Annette tore the paper off the last bundle and was not surprised to see her bundle of letters fall into her lap, it even included that last, rather incoherent note she had scribbled. What was surprising was the fact that there was a second bundle of letters. Annette pulled one free and blinked in surprise at the neat script which crossed and re-crossed every page. James Darcy had not just returned every letter Annette had written since he had ostensibly died the previous year, James had seemingly returned every single letter she had ever written to him.

Annette picked up the book and frowned at it. The book was familiar, in fact she'd read it at least twice while Jeroen had been convalescing in the Darcy Townhouse. Mike. A fun book, not very serious in nature and loaded to the gills with cricket. The book had seen a lot of life, both before Annette had read it, and since. Annette had previously assumed that the book had been one of Ashie's, but this indicated rather conclusively that it was nothing of the sort.

Annette carefully laid the book next to the bundle of letters and it was with very reluctant fingers that she actually picked up the envelope which accompanied the book and the letters. Exactly why Annette was reluctant to pick up the envelope was impossible to say, but it was a very conscious decision which lead to the act.

Gleetings Button

Annette had had no doubts about who the parcel came from because of the hand which addressed it. If the address had been insufficient the greeting at the beginning of the letter would have settled everything. When it came to writing a letter there was no one quite like James when it came to plastering personality over every letter.

In the attached box you have either found, or will find, your letters and Mike. Mike is there simply because I forgot to return it to the shelf when I left the library and even the Gestapo would be hard-pressed to ignore that sort of evidence. For some reason I doubt that Frenchmen walk around with English publications in their bags. Particularly English publications from the first edition, published some forty years ago and not dimensioned to fit handily in any pocket. There is of course also that slight matter of the book being basically incomprehensible to anyone who is not at least slightly familiar with Cricket. I am unfortunately much too attached to that book to just leave it behind in this shed and hope it finds its way home. Do enjoy it and count it as another assurance that I'm not too easy to dispose of...though I'll remember to notify you next time I'm in England.

Concerning the letters, well it is really quite a simple matter if one considers the matter from a practical view point. Were I a romantic hero, like in the books my mother occasionally read when sick, I would have retained my hold on those letters and re-read them often. I am not a romantic hero (just in case you were uncertain on that point) and as a result I return them all to you since I suspect they would incriminate me beyond all hope if found in my possession. I must confess to having always wondered what the romantic hero did with that big bundle of letters during his not infrequent dunkings? Paper is not precisely impervious to damp and I see no romance attached to lugging a soaked mass of paper pulp around. The only possibility is that either he is dunked in special 'dry' water, or the letters are rendered impervious to all possible assault from nature. I will confess that there is a certain impracticality about both of these options which is why I am not currently experimenting in the validity of my considerations. Much better to return them to the lady for safe-keeping so they can be read after adventuring is finished (all too likely laughed over at the same time). Perhaps I'll write my memoirs instead of sitting at a street cafe and boring people? The collected letters of James Darcy (oh dear, looks like he might have been kite high on morphed on occasion). Maybe not, must retain the pure reputation of the Darcys.

I'm currently sitting in a Nissan Shed next to a length of painted concrete in a swampy field. I was actually reading Mike when I realised I could hardly take it with me, so I finished it and then decided to tidy up all the loose ends. Hence you receive the 'loose' ends. My chair is exceedingly hard and I write while I await my flight. I consider it useful employment of my time to prove one of your letters totally inaccurate, in fact to render it wrong. You said that you would never receive another letter from me. Bad luck, this is a letter from the one and only me. Not only is it a letter from me, it is not a short one for I have just been informed that the mist is currently preventing any chance of take-off. Apparently there is another 'plane in the vicinity and the risk of collision is too great.

Officially I am going to France to find someone we have lost. I am of course not at liberty to divulge the details of this quest to you, but I doubt anyone would complain overly loudly about my admitting that someone had got lost. I am certain that many an Airman is lost and very likely cursing something shocking on that subject. I will confess that this quest is not the reason which I was thinking about the other night. However, I am an upright and well-meaning person, at heart, and as a result I will attend to the Admiralty's loss before I attend to my own business. One feels there must be space for a lengthy speech on the nobility of human nature, but for some reason it eludes me tonight. Perhaps it eludes me because I have my doubts about the validity of the claim of nobility of human nature. I do the unthinkable and commit to this scrap of paper the honest statement that my duty to the Admiralty will take just as long as it takes to find a friend of mine and tell him to find the wayward one. Nothing like using a Nazi to find a Nazi in the Nazi machine...the same goes for a fake Nazi finding a fake Nazi.

I appologise here and now if someone in the Admiralty comes and jumps on you in the future. Why the Admiralty will select you to jump on I cannot say, but I have a distinct premonition that they will target you. The Admiralty are going to be very unimpressed when I am not on my returning flight. I do not understand their inflexibility at all and when it comes to getting people out of France I do not consider myself very important as I can move almost at will. I'm going to send a couple of old friends of mine back on that flight and though some people will be delighted, the Top Brass will be annoyed for once again I will have failed when receiving a direct order. They were very unimpressed the last time I defaulted on their demands (and I don't intend telling them that the failure was involuntary). Hopefully this flouting of the rules will have a happier ending than last time since this time it is voluntary. On the positive side of it all I should be back in England in four months.

Here comes the official request which every letter should contain. Will you please collect ESTELLE from the Admiralty buildings on April 18th? You will recognise her when you see her so I won't write anymore. If she is not there, get hold of Caroline and find out what has happened. I cannot risk the Admiralty attempting to debrief ESTELLE, at best they'll be confused and at worst ... I am not even going to consider the worst, it will be very messy.

It seems that the mist has begun to lift and the aeroplane which was causing concern has departed. This is also known as me bidding you a cheerio since I have been instructed to enter that thing called an aeroplane and not depart it until instructed to descend. Why I'd want to jump early I have no idea, but I will mention that jumping by parachute at night is a rather disorientating activity.

Well, I'm officially off and with a bit of bad luck all the way round I might accidentally come back. I am glad we are friends and I am glad you had the faith and trust in me to let me read those letters. Keep safe and remember that no matter what the world throws at you, you will find a way.

Mackle

Annette dropped the letter onto her lap with a sigh. It was a queer letter, very Mackle, very James and yet ... For some reason Annette wasn't worried. James might live, James might die, it didn't really seem to matter the way it had. At any other time Annette might try to determine what had caused the change, but she was just too tired tonight. There were simply too many mysteries in that letter, too many things which might mean something if she could think of the right thing. There was a queer doodle in the bottom corner and Annette was aware of the vague suspicion that if she were not so tired it would mean something. Then there was ESTELLE, whoever she was other than someone Annette apparently knew already? Annette carefully placed the whole lot back in their box and closed the lid. Tonight she was too tired, she was going to bed.

April 17th 1942 - Strasbourg, France

Strange meetings.

Geraint had been watching in silence for two or three minutes as the woman rhythmically pounded the bread. She had a strong pair of forearms and the most beautiful hands Geraint had seen in his life. The face above was thin and tired, though well-shaped with a firm mouth and well-marked brows. The hair was dark...bluish black when the light caught it and tightly braided against her scalp.

"Estelle?" Geraint finally found his tongue and the word felt odd and awkward, it had been days since he had spoken any word to anyone.

"Down the hall, first door on the left." The woman continued to knead her dough. "Have a bath and change into some clothes." The woman rolled the dough into a skillful ball, placed it on a tray in the window and draped it with a tea cloth.

"Thank you." Geraint edged quickly around the room and moved down the hallways. The first door on the left led into a fresh and simple bathroom. Geraint eyed the huge copper on the fire wistfully and then resolutely pumped cold water into the tub. A quick investigation revealed a oldish suit of clothes in a wall cupboard which would more than replace the tattered rags he currently wore. Geraint hesitated for only a moment longer before abruptly stripping and entering the tub. The water was icy cold and made him itch intolerably. The soap proved even worse as it removed an outer layer of skin along with all the dirt. Geraint scrubbed himself ruthlessly from head to toe, emptied out the water and refilled the tub to repeat the process. Twenty minutes after entering the bathroom Geraint left it in the oldish suit of clothes and feeling the cleanest he'd felt in a large number of months.

"Bread in the bin and don't eat all the honey tonight." Estelle had stripped her apron off as she spoke and vanished into the bathroom herself.

"Mm." Geraint had found the bread, the knife and some honey before settling down at the table and pouring himself some coffee from the pot. It was only after he'd settled himself that Geraint allowed himself to look around the room. Estelle's tone indicated that there was trouble of some sort.

The trouble was not too difficult to find. The man stood steaming gently next to the fire with a large mug in hand. At a guess Geraint would classify him as a coal-heaver or tramp, the man was filthy and if his condition indicated anything it indicated that the filth was of the ingrained variety which only loss of skin could possibly remove.

"Bread?" Geraint shoved the loaf across the table towards the man after slicing himself three thick slices and reaching for the honey.

"Estelle has already fed me." The man spoke softly as he turned around to present his other side to the fire. Steam rose from his clothing in great clouds as he moved and the water continued to drip quickly from his cuffs onto the floor, where it formed a good sized pool.

"Mm." Geraint returned his attention to his food, though his brain was furiously occupied with trying to place the damp stranger. The man might be a genuine tramp, he might also be intelligence from somewhere. "Coffee?"

"No thank you." The man moved his mug in an indicative manner as he responded. There was something in the man's voice, some familiar note which brought Geraint's head up and he frowned at the man while pouring himself a mug of coffee.

"You here for a reason?"

"Just sheltering from the weather." The man's reply drew Geraint's attention to the fact that it was pouring outside. No mild summer sprinkle to be found outside, it was a serious deluge.

"Ah." Geraint applied himself to the bread once more and made a mental note to compliment the woman on her bread, it was some of the best he had tasted.

"You sell farm machinery?" The man indicated Geraint's battered bag which rested next to the door.

"When people wish to buy it ... would be better to sell tanks in this age. Yourself?"

"Professional tramp." There was quiet humour in the response and Geraint studied the man for a thoughtful moment. There was something familiar about the man, that vague, nebulous sensation that they had met. "Estelle leaves tonight ... you also?"

"No, I've only just arrived." Geraint frowned slightly as he considered possible responses. For whatever reason the man was undisturbed about indicating his status as an agent in the know. It was one thing to claim to be an agent, it was quite another whether you trusted someone who claimed to be an agent. "A more foul pack of fibs I've never been sold, they said I'd arrive undetected ... so I've spent the last two weeks playing hide and seek with what has got to be practically every Nazi nitwit in France."

"Only two hundred troops are deployed in the area." The response was mild and accompanied by a faint smile.

"I don't for a moment believe I'm that important." Geraint frowned, that faint smile was familiar.

"A very good idea, they're not after you."

"Who are they after then? They seem a trifle unhappy."

"Who likes a defaulting officer?" The man shrugged slightly and gingerly removed his coat to drape it over a nearby chair. "Some Captain seems to have made a successful runner on them." The man turned to toast his other side again. "Hauptmann Kalt was the officer in charge of a prisoner transfer and he lost the entire group. Originally they thought it to have been an outside job, but they've since decided that someone was bribed since one of the guards apparently told the engineers that Kalt had relieved them while they were at the last station. Kalt firmly denied ever leaving the carriage during the questioning period and half a dozen others back him up by stating he was there the whole time. This caused some fuss and brought the deceased guards and engineer under deep suspicion ... and then Kalt vanished from the hospital where he was being treated for injuries sustained during the questioning period."

"Annoying for them." Geraint finished his meal and washed it down with another mug of the coffee. "Think they'll get him?"

"No." It was Estelle who answered the question as she entered the room and poured herself a mug of coffee. Geraint did a quick double take as he looked between the stranger and Estelle. The stranger was looking amused for himself and there was that indefinable similarity about them which absolutely screamed 'related'.

"At least someone has confidence in the idiot's chances." The man shook his head briefly and twisted slightly to stretch a protesting muscle. "No point you staying up late then...you'll be alone come tomorrow morning."

"Then I might go now." Geraint finished the last of his coffee and smothered a vast yawn. "Got a nasty feeling I know you and I don't want to know you."

"Take one of the rooms upstairs." Estelle had settled herself near the fire and had begun to comb her hair out of its tight braid.

"Sleep well." The man waved vaguely as Geraint left the room.

"I thought you weren't going to talk to him?" Estelle's comment was only just audible and much against his better judgement Geraint paused just outside the door.

"As he observes, we've met. Neddie should prise you out of the Admiralty before they do any more than express exasperation that you're not me."

"What about you?"

"You haven't seen or heard of me. Better I'm thought to be dead and then turn up alive, then thought to be alive and turn up dead."

"What do I tell if they ask?"

"The truth, a contact arranged a meeting and the 'plane arrived instead." There was a long pause. "You'd best get some sleep 'Stele for it's a bit of a hike we'll be going on."

Part 40

Posted on Sunday, 7 November 2004

April 27th 1942 - London, England

There's is one guarantee in this world, life goes on.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" Annette forgot about her cup of tea when she observed the neat brogues and shapely legs incased in stockings poking out from the hall cupboard.

"Certainly." Juliette de Bourgh Darcy came carefully out of the cupboard, checked her hair with one hand and straightened her skirt with the other before turning to Annette. "I was looking for mothballs."

"Mothballs?" Annette stared in complete bewilderment, whatever she had been expecting as an answer this was not it. Juliette de Bourgh Darcy was not a name which she connected even remotely with such homely things. Mothballs did not go with well-polished brogues, tailored tweeds and carefully styled hair.

"Mothballs." Juliette dusted her fingers fastidiously on a small handkerchief.

"You won't find mothballs in that cupboard."

"So I have discovered." Juliette gave a small sniff before eyeing her shining brogues.

"What do you want mothballs for?"

"For..." Juliette abruptly stopped, turned, then walked into her room and closing the door behind herself. It was not precisely uncommon for these bizarre incidents to occur, they occured about twice a week it seemed and they ended every time with Juliette vanishing into her bedroom and closing the door.

"Now what did I come out for?" Annette looked around the living room for a forgetful moment after having frowned at Juliette's closed door. Experience had taught Annette to simply ignore Juliette until she reappeared. "Tea." Annette remembered what she had emerged for and she continued into the kitchen where Diemos was sitting on the kitchen table, suspiciously close to the stand where Bob and Tom were meant to sit.

"Sweetest sister o'mine, where did that prime princess appear from?" Lucille came bouncing into Annette's room with an energy which was simply obscene.

"Prime princess?" Annette had been typing the particularly obscure notes of some equally obscure academic who seemed to think that the micro vibrations in concrete could affect the fatigue life of an aeroplane. The query made no sense at all, least of all when the mind was wrestling with the relevence of cohesive friction of cement.

"Miss Juliette de Bourgh Darcy, who let me in as if I was some dirty, bedraggled and thoroughly moth-eaten mouse."

"You go with the cat." Annette rubbed her head, cleared it and then frowned. "I thought you were in Cambridgeshire?"

"I was, but a total dream of a Squadron-Leader drove me into town since I expressed a yearning to see my sister." Lucille's expression was absolutely angelic, but it turned slightly wicked. "You are such fun to shock, Annie. Permit me to relieve your concerned nerves, my dream of a Squaddie is fifty-odd years of age and is known more commonly as Pyro."

"How are you going to get back?" Annette hesitated. "You really shouldn't be so haphazard."

"I'm not haphazard." Lucille gave a sniff. "I am carefully and conscientiously flighty. So, where did the princess pop up from?"

"Miss Darcy is visiting for the next few days."

"Oh, help!" Lucille sank onto Annette's bed and looked particularly doleful. "That still doesn't say where she came from even though it does let me know that I had probably better find someone else to sponge off."

"Not sleeping in the Town House?" Annette couldn't resist it as she stripped the paper from her typewriter and investigated the carbon within.

"Heaven preserve me and you are the nastiest sister born of man-kind. I come to visit at great personal expense and all you can do is snidely ask why I don't visit the mausoleum...send the princess there."

"Lucille will you please stop calling her the princess?" Annette stood up and filed her papers away.

"Again she does not answer the question asked...or in this case respond to the advice given. Please, Annie, don't send me to the mausoleum I shall die of boredom."

"I could think of worse things." Annette looked up sharply, just in time to see Juliette pull back with a faint smile on her face.

"I will not be so stupid as to ask 'such as' on this occasion." Lucille's expression was wounded and Annette couldn't help but laugh.

"Luce, there is a couch you can use...assuming you're too high and mighty to pinch half my bed now."

"As if I ever pinched your bed."

"You're sitting on it right now and given a good thunderstorm it's sure fire that I have both you and Candy in my bed ... why did you never go to Pat?"

"Annie, she's bones and elbows and bible readings. The last thing anyone wants to hear in a thunderstorm is that the judgement of God is just and righteous and evildoers will be struck down ... particularly since I always was in strife for something." Lucille gave a sniff and then giggled. "But the vicar's toffee was always good and worth any sort of punishment."

"Vicar's toffee?" Annette was vaguely aware that Juliette had come back into view once more as she stood next to the door post.

"Mr. Hartnett always had a big tin of toffee in his study, he used to give it to the girls and boys in the confirmation class when they knew their lessons. Candy and I were rather fond of it and since we couldn't go up for communion we usually took advantage of the chaos to acquire some. Very wicked of us, but we did pray over it and it saved us for punishment for talking after communion."

"You were silent after communion because you were all stuck up with Mr. Hartnett's toffee?"

"Mm-hmm." Lucille gave a grin. "I sent Mr. Hartnett a great tin of it the Christmas after my confirmation. He very kindly thanked me for my thoughtful gift and stated that he considered it just repayment for not having mentioned the depredations over the past fifteen years...very unfair of him since we were eight when we discovered the tin."

"You are out to shock me this evening. Anything other than a sudden yearning to see me bring you to the big smoke?"

"Well there's the slight matter of Paige."

"Paige?" Annette blinked and then nodded. "You said he seemed to be settling in finally."

"Seemed being the operative word." Lucille gave a small shrug. "I thought he was settling, but he wasn't. No can do, Annie, we just can't get through to him and he's been moping since Eoan departed."

"What am I meant to do with a thirteen year-old boy?" Annette lifted her eyebrows.

"I don't think that's the question that needs asking." Lucille hesitated her eyes shooting towards the door, but there was definitely no one even near it now. "Annie, you've said it yourself, he's an intelligent kid who could do anything or be anything. I don't want us to lose him Annie, but he's going to run away if we don't do something. Please, take him in, give him a job...Peter James is currently living at the Mausoleum with nothing to do. Send the boy to the mausoleum while you work, pick him up on your way home and let him feel he has a choice about his life. He knows he can come back to Cambridgeshire, but for some reason he seems to think that he wants to live with you ... and when you go to Africa he'll be worth his weight in gold."

"When?" Annette frowned at Lucille rather darkly. "I have a job in London."

"Annie, if that job hasn't had you spitting nails you've clearly lost your brain. You were happy in Africa...though why anyone would enjoy dragging idiots around lumps of old dirt is quite beyond me. You're wasted in your current job because you're much better operating in an unpredictable arena."

"That sounds almost insulting."

"Well it's not." Lucille's shoulders abruptly slumped. "You're like Nelli in that regard, you can manage people and arrange their movements and somehow it works to the advantage of all. I've seen her doing it and somehow she can persuade people to do things they never would do if it hadn't been Nelli who asked. Anyone can do the desk work of pushing paper A into box B for the attention of C as soon as he has finished his midday tea. Well, anybody apart from me. It's not anyone who can get the ambassador from Cairo to Baghdad in time for an important meeting when there is no known line of commercial travel and it's general knowledge that there are bandits at every corner."

"Luce, I can't do that either."

"Stop being pedantic." Lucille frowned. "You're interrupting my peroration on the subject of your manifest perfections and I will not stand for it. Now sister, wake up, use your brain and instead of doing what everyone else is doing, how about you go and do what only you can do in your own unique way."

"Why chase me off to Africa?" Annette was curious, this was a side of Lucille she had not seen before and it was a decidedly interesting side. It explained what had been for years a mystery, why Candy was quite content leaving everything up to Lucille.

"I'm not chasing you off to Africa ... in fact I'd do almost anything to keep you right here in London...better yet I'd drag you out to Cambridgeshire and bury you in the mud. However, it's not like that and I can't do it. You're starting to look like a horse, one of those long-faced and dismal ones who you want to reassure and give a sound hug to. I like you and as far as sisters go you make a pretty decent hash at it ... but you're not happy and for some reason you seem hell bent on making yourself downright miserable."

"Luce..." Annette stopped and took a careful breath. "I can't just go to Africa, and I certainly can't if I have Paige with me. I need a job."

"They're fight a war out there Annie, there's a job if you want it even if it's just sweeping the crossings or washing the General's car. With Paige you'll never starve since they'll pay the earth for a quick boy who has half a brain. As a messenger boy Paige has no equal." Lucille paused. "Besides which give any old idiot half a sniff at what you can do when given your head and you'll have to fight them off like gulls when you're at the beach."

"I..." Annette stopped and stared at her shoes. There was a long silence before Lucille started to speak again and she quite abruptly hoped that the princess in the other room had had the decency to depart the flat.

"Dunno what shot your confidence Annie. Perhaps it's the months you've spent in this job, perhaps it's the war...perhaps it's even that Ashie snuffed it. I was wondering about it the other day and Brian pointed out what I'd never thought of before, and that was that Ashie gave you your first 'real' job such as our parents recognise it. Officially I still only know that job as a paper-pushing perch in the Ministry of Agriculture, but you hear things when you live as a Darcy familiar and I've heard enough to know that your job was something far and beyond what it appeared to be. They searched the armed forces, they searched the civilians and they were finding no one who met the specifics until old Charlie suggested they look at you. Get Caroline to arrange a reference for you and just do whatever you want to do. War is hell, but that doesn't mean you can't have fun."

"Maybe...maybe you're right." Annette grimaced and continued to stare at the carpet.

"Maybe rubbish." Lucille abruptly leapt to her feet and dug into Annette's wardrobe. "If it's just me persuading you, then forget it." Lucille looked back around the wardrobe. "If you go, go for your own reasons...I won't have you being mad at me just because you took my advice and were disappointed when it didn't match up with your fond imaginings." Lucille vanished back into the wardrobe and threw a couple of dresses out a moment later. "What taste...what indescribably bad taste you have!" Lucille deserted the wardrobe for the tallboy and Annette couldn't stop her eyebrows rising as Lucille dug into the draws and started throwing the contents onto the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"The only thing I know how to do to give you my two pen'orth of belief that you don't need to moulder away in that boring and irritating backwater...by the way have you sworn at your boss yet?"

"Luce!"

"I would have." Lucille deposited an armload of jumpers on the floor. "Ugh! I can't do anything about them I'm afraid."

"I don't want you to do anything about them."

"Rubbish, they make you look like a hag." Lucille emptied the last draw and stirred the pile on the floor with a dubious foot. "I would have sworn at him by now, it's not right that he propose so often...particularly when you've refused."

"What are you doing with my clothes?" Annette ignored Lucille's remark.

"I'm looking to see whether I can save any of them." Lucille stirred again before abruptly fishing a pair of trousers and a pair of shoes from the mess. "Keep these safe."

"Why?" Annette placed the shoes on her bedside table and carefully folded the trousers before placing them next to her pillow.

"Because I don't want to pick them up again." Lucille pulled some underclothes and a pair of socks from the pile. "Put these with them."

"Again, why?" Annette accepted a shirt she had forgotten she owned.

"You'll find out all in my own sweet time." Lucille stirred the pile again before pouncing with a crow of delight on an emerald green jumper. "Go have a shower while I iron these." Lucille pounced on the pile of neat clothing and chased Annette into the bathroom. "A real shower sister mine, I want you scrubbed from head to toe ... and that includes every hair follicle and all the things we don't talk about." Lucille waited until the bathroom door closed before she went in search of the ironing board and iron.

"Do you always talk like that?" The princess was sitting in the kitchen with a mug of water.

"Like what?" Lucille eyed the iron skeptically before she plugged it into the wall.

"Like your older sister is an obstreperous and slightly idiotic child."

"Only when she behaves like one." Lucille eyed the woman thoughtfully before spreading the trousers out and inspecting them closely. "I assume you're a Darcy...you've got Annie-Bug's nose."

"Only her nose?" The response was dry and Lucille grinned.

"A truth she speaks, she has more than just Annie-Bug's nose but I was trying to be polite. Never let it be spoken that I didn't at least attempt to be nice to my own sister's guests in her house."

"You seemed intent on disposing of me earlier."

"Makes me sound quite murderous." Lucille started ironing the trousers with a little more vigour than precision, but the result was good. "However no, such comments as I make to my sister in the privacy of her room should never be taken seriously ... particularly since even she knows better than to act upon them."

"Very, very curious." There was a pause. "I'm not altogether certain, since I've been lead to believe there are almost as many Fouchiard's as there used to be Bennets, but I assume you are Brian's wife?"

"I am Lucille O'Niell." Lucille applied herself to the shirt. "You, I have no hesitation in naming as Juliette de Bourgh Darcy, elder of the de Bourgh Darcy twins and almost as mysterious as the mysterious Mr. James MacKenna Darcy. Are you interested in coming tonight?"

"Coming where?" Juliette had a decidedly suspicious look in her eye.

"There you are going to simply have to trust me." Lucille gave a smile. "But you won't be stranded with two undignified Fouchiards ... there'll also be an undignified O'Niell and a couple of other friends of Annie's."

"Who's the second Fouchiard?" Juliette's expression narrowed even further.

"Well there might actually be three ... and you know one of them, but they are all harmless."

"I'm going to regret this." Juliette wrinkled her nose up slightly and then sighed. "What's the dress?"

"Same as what I have for Annie, simple." Lucille switched the iron off and flicked some lint off the trousers.

"I don't own trousers."

"Anneliese left some clothes in her tallboy I expect and I'll be very surprised if they don't fit the bill." Lucille abruptly turned the iron back on. "I need to iron my own things."

"Thank you." Juliette had reached the doorway before she turned back and then she was gone.

"Mm." Lucille chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment before ironing a handkerchief which she had missed. It was going to be a significant gamble, but Lucille couldn't help the feeling that the gamble would pay off.

"You WHAT?" It was a shriek, undignified and piercing and Lucille simply shrugged.

"I told you, I invited Juliette."

"She's a total kil-joy, Luce!" Annie-Bug was sitting on the edge of her bed and looking thoroughly doleful.

"You leave the princess up to me." Lucille wrinkled her nose as she inspected the shirt she had pulled from Annie-Bug's bag. "That is not how you should pack anything."

"I was in a hurry." Annie-Bug snatched the shirt away from Lucille.

"That is no excuse." Lucille took the shirt back. "Stop being to'ly 'noxious as Ken puts it and chat nicely while I iron things for you."

"I can't believe you invited Juliette. You're not one of these eternal optimists who believes in the good in everyone are you?"

"Not at all." Lucille was pulling more clothes from Annie-Bug's bag and her expression was pained. "I am simply curious about Juliette de Bourgh Darcy. I have heard many exceedingly conflicting reports regarding that young lady and I wish to find out for myself what she's like."

"She's a snob." Annie-Bug had dropped onto the bed and picked up a discarded shirt.

"She's a snob in her home environment...I heard a comment which makes me curious about what she's like when she's totally removed from her home environment." Lucille tested the iron. "Besides which, anyone who looks at me as if I'm a bedraggled and moth-eaten mouse deserves to be fed scrambled eggs on toast at the Ace of Spades."

"Why should she be anything else?"

"I've heard said that her manners are divine. If her manners are good she should be good company tonight."

"Mm." Annie-Bug was not convinced in the slightest, but she accepted her shirt and began to change. "Do tell me why you've gone to all this trouble of rounding up the Harem?"

"Annie was sounding blue and depressed...besides which a little bird whispered in my ear that she was rope ripe and ready to murder if she wasn't distracted. Hence the distraction."

"Yes, but you've been all over the country and pulled I do not know how many favours all for the sake of one night in London. You are not that close to your sister."

"I never said I was close to Annie...I'm just not going to let her murder her boss just because he will propose every other day and call it maidenly discretion when she tells him no." Lucille finished ironing the trousers with a satisfied crash. "Personally, I would call him a ____, but that's me."

"That is you." Annie-Bug finished changing and bent to tie her laces. "Are you aware that I've only ever heard that word uttered by the gun crews...and then only because some hopeless officer decided they needed to shoot vertically upwards."

"What's wrong with that." Lucille was brushing her hair vigorously.

"What happens when you throw a ball directly up?"

"I'm not a cricketer."

"Here, chuck this straight up." Annie-Bug chucked her ivory backed and silver inlaid comb across to Lucille.

"Nice comb." Lucille studied the comb intently, her fingers investigating the engravings on it.

"Luce."

"Sorry." Lucille made to throw, then paused and stared at Annie-Bug. "This is going to hit me on its way back down."

"The problem the gunnery boys had when ordered to fire straight up...I don't think the gun can shoot at that angle anyway, but that was beside the point."

"Mm." Lucille resumed her study of the comb. "Where's this from?"

"Haven't the faintest idea." Annie-Bug held out an imperative hand for her comb. "We can't be late if you've invited Juliette."

"Then we shall be late." Lucille finished brushing her hair, but didn't begin putting it up.

"Are you trying to drive Juliette insane?"

"No." Lucille gave a smile. "I'm just curious how good her manners are since she was so abominably rude when she let me in this afternoon."

"Did you think my cousin James was interested in Annette?"

"Define interested." Lucille was poking through the available hair fastenings.

"Well ... interested." Annie-Bug shook her head slightly in frustration.

"Ah." Lucille fished a bejewelled clip from the pile of odds and ends. "He certainly liked and admired Annie." Lucille hesitated before frowning at Annie-Bug. "Why? Did James stomp on you for meddling in his affairs?"

"Yes." Annie-Bug pulled a rather glum expression. "Called me a whole bunch of names before saying I should have known better than to meddle in such matters."

"You're a woman, should be taken for granted that you will meddle."

"Juliette would never meddle."

"Juliette isn't that sort of woman." Lucille paused with her eyes on the clip in her hand. "Neither is Annie for that matter ... not that it makes them any better, just different."

"You don't call her Button."

"Would you call Juliette Boots?"

"Why would I call her Boots?"

"Why call Annie, Button?" Lucille shifted her shoulders and glanced at the clock. "Annie's my older sister and she disapproves of me, rather."

"Why did you choose Boots for Juliette?"

"Dunno." Lucille gave another shrug, but her smile was just sufficient to make Annie-Bug narrow her eyes and Annette would undoubtedly have groaned if she had seen it.

"Do you think James was interested?" Annie-Bug returned to the previous subject after a longish moment of silence.

"I think he would have been had he let himself." Lucille chose her words very carefully indeed. "The same applies to Annette. There would have been that sort of interest had they permitted it, but they didn't." Lucille paused. "I can guess why Annette refrained ... but I didn't think James that stuffy."

"Obviously has his own reasons." Annie-Bug discarded the matter as she fished some earrings from her box.

"Just why is that such a blanket statement." Lucille began tucking her hair up. "For James to have his own reasons kills all possible interest in a subject and is the ultimate answer to any query."

"Well, he does have his own reasons and on the rare occasions that he elects to share them you usually wish he'd refrained." Annie-Bug paused briefly. "Basically the less that is known about the activities of Mr. James Darcy the better ... he's very skilled at misinformation."

"Meaning even when he does share with you he's probably lying ... thank you very much and if you don't finish putting up your hair we'll be even later than I intended to be."

"Oops." Annie-Bug whirled to look in the mirror and flinched at the sight of half her hair still hanging around her shoulders.

"Anneliese is always late." Juliette spoke calmly and very effectively prevented Annette from looking towards the door again. "Even when Anneliese is ready in advance of the time she still manages to be late."

"Very damping." Annette flicked the edge of the table and looked idly around the room. The Ace of Spades was a mixture of open dining and private booths. Lucille's selected table was sufficiently close to the corner to be essentially private, but still in the public area so they could see.

"For something to be damping demands the application of a fluid medium."

"No, really?" It was obnoxious sarcasm and it was half in alarm that Annette glanced towards Juliette a couple of seconds later.

"Truly." Juliette's expression was perfectly composed, but there was a gleam in her eye. "do you think your sister is irate with me?"

"Why?" Annette decided that it behoove her to tread warily.

"Because it occurs to me that she is in the process of playing a trick on me and I'm considering causing it to backfire."

"Ah." Annette considered the tablecloth. "No, she is not irate for she knows too well what her appearance is and what it is suitable for. In all probability she merely considers you a snob."

"You seem to share her freedom of speech."

"Mm, that was rather rude of me." Annette sipped on her drink. "She has undoubtedly heard of your reputed good manners and is curious as to the veracity of the report. What better way to test them with out genuinely causing offence."

"If I was a snob I would be thoroughly offended." Juliette glanced idly around the room. "However, who can be a snob when their sister is Anneliese."

"She could be a trial for a snob in training."

"She is a trial for anybody." Juliette spoke rather curtly and then rubbed her eyes. "Now I have to appologise for being rude. I happen to like things neat and orderly ... Anneliese is chaos personified."

"Two sides of the same coin, on one side a King and on the other..."

"Most likely a quotation in Latin. Which is Bug? The Latin or the King?"

"Mm." Annette studied the room for a brief moment. "I think Annie-Bug is the King, for in a quotation there may be found many meanings while a King is merely a person."

"Curiously enough that is the way we are always divided, but the reasoning is usually different."

"Usually?" Annette pounced on the irregularity.

"If you can't name them in two guesses I will be thoroughly amazed." Juliette responded dryly.

"Ah." Annette gave a slow and comprehending nod. "What's the usual reasoning?"

"A King cares for others while a quotation cares for none."

"Profound...yet inaccurate."

"Inaccurate?"

"A quotation does not exist unless used by people. Non-sentient object...and here come Annie-Bug and Lucille so we will terminate this debate into semantics until later."

"Very wise." Juliette lifted a finger and the waiter materialised even before Lucille and Annie-Bug had arrived. "Eggs for four, toast for eight, one lemonade and one ginger beer."

"Very good madam." The waiter withdrew and Juliette smiled welcomingly as Anneliese and Lucille settled into the spare seats.

"We'll order for the others as they arrive." Juliette easily squelched the beginnings of Lucille's protest and Annette could only give a helpless shrug of bewilderment when she caught her little sister's accusing glance.

"And that is why I have no intention of marrying into the gentry." Annette dropped onto the couch in an inelegant posture and yawned widely.

"You were intending to?" Lucille looked up curiously from where she was struggling with her shoe.

"As much as any little girl dreams of becoming the future Queen of England." Annette turned her attention to her own shoes. "Not my cup of tea at all."

"What in particular is not your cup of tea?"

"That curiously trick of taking command of the table and the entire establishment and causing them to bend almost double in their efforts to carry out my desires."

"Is that a trick?" Lucille looked curiously across at Annette.

"Oh, definitely." Annette gave a slow smile. "Just like their ability to cross a room unimpeded without apparently exchanging a word with anyone. Juliette caught you out there little sister and I think you'll have your work cut out for you unless you change your tactics."

"Take it for granted that the tactics have changed." Lucille gave a yawn of her own. "It was rather fun though. Do you think Nelli knows the trick?"

"Probably, though there's a fair chance that she doesn't consciously know how it works."

"Do you think Juliette knows?"

"Oh, undoubtedly." Annette blinked thoughtfully. "Until I mentioned you were incoming she was no different from me or anyone else in the room. Perhaps we were a trifle easier on the eye then some of them and certainly a little out of the way sitting at that table by ourselves. Nothing special though. Then I mentioned your arrival and it was like a light or spark. One moment nothing and then magic, there was nothing that would not be done for her ... she could probably have ordered caviar and champagne and no one would have turned an eye."

"Mm." Lucille looked singularly unpersuaded. "Annie-Bug got stomped on by Jim."

"I'm not overly surprised to hear it." Annette looked up from her shoe. "Bug's not too upset is she?"

"I don't think anything disturbs her at all except the worry that you may have been hurt by her actions."

"Well, if it comes up again you can tell her with my blessing that we only ever were friends and I knew that ... though I did occasionally wonder if he even was a friend."

"You like him?"

"I'd probably have had a shot at marrying him except for the fact that he's a Darcy and far too wrapped up in his world to remember there's a world beyond it."

"Wrapped up in his world?" Lucille dropped her shoe in astonishment. "He knows everything."

"He knows everything because his life depends on it." Annette gave a grin. "I lay you any odds you like that come the end of the war Mr. James Darcy will withdraw to a nice little country cottage, live off his disability pension from the Navy and read almost as many books as Mr. Gardiner upstairs."

"Definitely wouldn't do for you as a husband." Lucille tilted her head thoughtfully. "You like him?"

"He's a good friend, Luce." Annette paused. "Why are you abruptly so confident that he won't do?"

"Because you need disasters to clean up." Lucille opened her eyes very wide indeed. "You need some rather alive so you don't get swallowed alive by books."

"I don't like that look in your eye."

"No." Lucille gave an appologetic grin. "You'd probably like even less the thought in my head so I will keep it to myself."

"Mm." Annette pushed herself off the couch and yawned again. "We waiting for Bug and Boots?"

"No, they'll be talking to all hours about family affairs." Lucille rose to her feet as well. "Can I steal a bit of bed sister mine? That couch looks uncomfortable."

"Whatever." Annette headed for her bedroom, paused at the door and glanced back at Lucille. "I'll return to Cambridgeshire with you."

"Why?" Lucille blinked, her nightgown half out of the bag.

"I'm not leaving Paige to the tender mercies of our rail system even if he can handle them." Annette smothered a massive yawn rather awkwardly. "You'd better practice writing while you're at it because I'm returning to Egypt and at the very least I expect to hear from you once every couple of months."

"Aye, aye, Cap."

"Idiot." Annette slammed the bedroom door behind herself and Lucille headed for the bathroom with a grin.

Part 42

Posted on Sunday, 21 November 2004

June 1942 - London, England

A true friend is one who you can call at two in the morning and know that an ear will listen.

Juliette de Bourgh Darcy had been working hard all morning. The small flat had a neatness it had not known in years and the piled accounts looked like an advertisement for a firm of accountants. Juliette was satisfied though, she liked things to be neat, and even more did she like to be able to do a job well. Juliette did accounts very well indeed, making up in patience what she lacked in professional training.

The accounts belonged to the massed holdings of Rosings, and Juliette invariably curled a disdainful lip when she allowed herself to consider the matter. There were many people who would laugh themselves sick if they knew that the Estate of Rosings was under the financial control of the Darcys. The Darcys held the mortgages on the Rosings Estate to sums vastly outweighing the financial worth of the Estate. Why General Darcy had stepped in to save Lady Catherine from financial ruin and a highly public humiliation had puzzled Juliette over the years. It hadn't been done for power, for neither General Darcy, nor James had done anything except manage the estate and allot to Lady Catherine an annual sum sufficient to live off in the manner she was accustomed to. In fact the only change which had occured because of the change of management was the fact that Lady Catherine ceased all legal action against the Darcys.

For a couple of years life had continued peacefully. It was in some respects regretable that Juliette liked to have everything explained, neatly and precisely placed where it belonged in the workings of the world. There were problems with the Rosings Estate and Juliette had tried very hard to blame the Darcys for it. The same demand for neatness and precision soon forced Juliette to acknowledge that the problem lay not with the Darcys and after a long period of thought she had caught the train to the nearest Darcy who could help. James was eighteen and at Eton, he made no secret of his disapproval of being visited by a fourteen year-old cousin who had proven herself willing to argue with the headmaster to see him. Juliette had laid the situation out clearly and concisely. James had drawn his brows together in a frown before arranging Juliette an escort back to Rosings. The result had been some messy internal politics and a rather curious solution. The solution had seemed curious at the time and over the resulting years experience proved it to be more than simply curious, it had been downright bizarre.

"Hullo!" The yell from the front entrance disturbed Juliette and it was with a dark frown that she went to find out who was there.

"You are meant to be in France." Juliette had blinked and hesitated for a long moment before she finally spoke, and her tone was dampening.

"Possibly, possibly." The man gave a grin. "Do invite me in, Sis."

"I am filled with the earnest desire for the ability to kick you down the stairs." Juliette hesitated, then stepped aside so he could enter and hang his coat on the hook.

"No you aren't." The man's grin widened as he gave Juliette a rough hug. "You'd never kick your brother down the stairs."

"Half-brother, Stan, half-brother." Juliette waved him into the living area and went to attend to the kettle.

"Oh, she is in a charitable mood today." He sank into one of the arm chairs before emitting a deep and contented sigh. "I am actually admitted the ranks of half-brotherhood, and this is a very tolerable chair."

"Don't tell me, tell Annette."

"That the secretary chit who got sold by the ex-boyfriend to the press?"

"You have a vulgar tongue. Tea?"

"Angel, I adore the idea...bread would also be nice."

"Were you tangled up with Rafe at all?" Juliette had begun boiling the kettle before she came back out to speak to Stan.

"Angel, you are far too sharp for your own good." Stan accepted a slice of bread. "I was Rafe and I was never so glad that Jim left it up to me to deal with Franz."

"Speaking of Franz, why aren't you in France?"

"Because things are just a bit hot for people with a mug like mine...the kettle is boiling."

"I had noticed." Juliette pulled the whistling kettle from the heat and poured it into the teapot. "Why are things hot?"

"Tempting to say that steam makes it hot, but the truth really is that it all had to do with a little blonde ... or at least I think that it was a blonde ... certainly little, with the nicest little nose, must confess I didn't loo..." Stan abruptly cancelled his baitings as Juliette moved the teapot in a suggestive movement.

"Why are you not in France?" Juliette had hesitated for a long moment but eventually she simply poured out two mugs of tea from the pot.

"A certain hauptmann lost some prisoners and then vanished ... which you are well aware of. The Nazis want the fool and they can't find him. The fool also happens to have a mug which even the sternest critic would be hard pressed to describe as anything but a great likeness to my own enchanting features. There is also the slight matter of Jim's impersonation of an invisible atom...it seems to be causing concern."

"This captain wouldn't happen to also share a certain similarity with Jim would he?"

"Well...I will confess there are times when we're a little uncertain as to whether he is not the other." Stan scratched his head thoughtfully. "I mean he's rather good at being in two places at once. I could have sworn he was me and drinking coffee in Paris last week, but apparently he was actually in a military hospital the month before and you simply don't recover that..." Stan abruptly closed his mouth and stared at his tea.

"So it was Jim they caught." Juliette spoke after a long moment of silence. "I had wondered but he never said. How badly was he hurt?"

"I believe it was a couple of busted ribs." Stan responded cautiously. "That an something nasty in his blood because of rusty handcuffs of something like that...not precisely certain as I had it from another who told me I looked remarkably fit for a man on the lam. I'm afraid I didn't hang around after that, he had a revolver in his hand and it occured to me that obviously Jim wasn't in their hands...but equally obviously he wasn't going to meet me to hand over the papers he was arranging for me. I then figured I'd be more useful in England so I came back."

"So why come here?"

"Because Chris has given me marching orders and I think you can help me."

"Joy to the world." Juliette sipped her tea and stared blindly at the wall for a minute or two. "Have you heard anything of those rings of his?"

"He's lost them?" Stan jerked upright on his seat.

"Not necessarily, but he didn't have them when I last saw him."

"It would be a bit difficult to explain why Hauptmann Kalt has the Darcy signet hanging around his neck." Stan chewed a speculative thumb. "Chris is right, something odd has happened."

"Must you say that too!" It was pure irritation and Juliette bit her lip as she turned back to the teapot. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap."

"I'd prefer to know who else thinks things are odd."

"Brian, apparently Ashie said something to his about spiderwebs without spiders."

"Sorry?" Stan's jaw had dropped slightly as he stared at Juliette.

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive." Juliette spoke softly. "There is an immense web spun ... yet the deception conceals nothing. There is no spider. Jim has every government involved in this insane war guessing. Everyone assumes that he's up to something ... and yet if one unravels the web of deception there is nothing. It's like the behaviour of a compulsive liar. Even if there is no reason to lie, still the lie. It makes no sense ... unless it isn't meant to make sense."

"James Darcy not making sense? Dear Juliette, that is as likely as you resisting a chance to bait Brian O'Niell."

"What is your job?"

"James ... I have to persuade everyone that James Darcy is in England. If James is believed to be in England, they will not look for him elsewhere."

"Peter's in Africa." Juliette spoke after a long moment of silence. "I'll call Daoud to come back ... you'll need him." Juliette twisted her teacup thoughtfully. "Avoid Mac ... or at least avoid his dogs. Annette is in Africa, which is both good and bad ... but I think I can help you there."

"Juliette, my sweet, you should not mumble these half-completed remarks. Clarify little sister. Clarify."

"You need Daoud, James Darcy always has someone in tow and Morris will not lend himself to a performance like the one you propose. I can call Daoud back to England. Also, if you have Daoud you will have someone who is also very well acquainted with James and who can ensure you support the role. You need to avoid Mac's dogs for the simple reason that they will know you are not James. The dogs betrayed Rafe's impersonation and they will betray you again if you go near them. Avoid the dogs. You need to be very quiet, go into hiding up at Lambton or something. Don't try to persuade people you are James Darcy, try to persuade them you are not James Darcy...people will much sooner believe what you are claiming is untrue than they will believe something you claim to be true. Particularly if it concerns Jim. Annette will be the means of ensuring that it is believed that you really are Jim."

"How can Miss Fouchiard, who is in Africa, persuade people in Europe that I am not who I really am?"

"There you will simply have to trust me." Juliette gave a thin smile.

"You scare me ... but you also happen to be infinitely better at this business than I am." Stan carefully placed his teacup on the table. "I want a straight answer from you, Sis. I know there has been an unexpected spanner by Jim's disappearance ... but does anyone understand what has happened before?"

"Yes." Juliette carefully gathered the tea things together. "Jim understands exactly what he is doing."

"What about you?"

"I do not know and I do not understand." Juliette gazed steadily at Stan. "Sufficient?"

"Quite." There was a long moment and then Stan's mouth abruptly twitched into a grin. "You are a real witch and I have felt nothing but pity for the poor sod who married you."

"Don't waste your concern." Juliette's tone was clipped. "He knew what he was in for and he chose not to depart until after the ceremony."

"You're joking." Stan's brows abruptly drew together. "He was willing?"

"Define willing." Juliette rose to her feet. "Go to Rose Cottage, Aunt Georgiana is there and I've no doubt she'll welcome you warmly since she has a softness for charming men. Daoud will come as soon as can be arranged...and you'll need to get in contact with Sampson Beverage at some point. It will be handy if the newspapers come on side for whispering about your activities...and do keep your behaviour clean or Uncle Darcy with undoubtedly rise from his grave in Canada to strike you down."

"That's sufficient to guarantee I'll be nothing but an absolute saint." Stan grimaced, his memories of the late General were far from fond. "I've no doubt but that Brian would also enjoy laying me out again too."

"I must commend the old owl on his wise actions. You need to be hit at regular intervals...and hit very hard."

"Hardly a Christian thought that."

"Then clearly you should not deal so much with the devil. Go flirt with Lucille O'Niell and then Brian will at least have a very good excuse for hitting you."

"No thanks, he hits far too hard." Stan's grin wilted slightly. "This business is damnable. Damnable, soul-sapping and simply..." Stan gave a small shrug which spoke a volume.

"The war will end, Stan." Juliette spoke softly as she moved towards the window. "Someday this war will end ... then perhaps..." The sentence was unfinished, but for Stan it didn't need finishing, he knew all too well what Juliette hoped for. Theirs was a comradeship built on total improbability. Who would believe that Juliette de Bourgh Darcy would even recognise the bastard son of her own father? At Rosings Stan was not recognised, but away from Rosings he took the position of elder brother, to be abused, teased and confided in as was appropriate to the situation. Irresponsible, lazy and morally slack, Standard Robinson was the last person anybody would even dream of confiding in. Stan might have no morals whatsoever, but like James Darcy when he gave his word nothing could shift him. Stan had an ethical streak which he considered a curse from hell. Stan had promised Juliette confidence many, many years ago and he would admit the matter to nobody, not even himself.

"Very true." Stan moved to the window as well and dropped a heavy arm around Juliette's shoulders. "This war will end."

June 1942 - Burma, South-East Asia

Will nothing annihilate the Burma Corps? - anonymous military type

His name was Rory Halifax. Apart from being a means of addressing people, names had never seemed particularly important. His name was Rory Halifax. To think that so much had rested on his ability to retain that simple bit of information. To think that he'd never realised how important his name was to his identity.

He had no memories of where he was, or how he'd got there. He'd been in the retreat from Burma. Left behind by accident when the squadron had withdrawn, he'd walked some 900 miles to avoid becoming a prisoner of the Japs. There had been two of them, but Pete had blown his own brains out and it had been a pure miracle that he'd then fallen in with the platoon. The platoon had been fun, though he'd spent his time filling in shell holes and digging graves when he hadn't been marching towards Imphal. He had a feeling that they'd reached Imphal on the 10th of May. But time and place meant nothing, they were words which he had no comprehension of. Sometime since the 10th of May and this current, unknown date, he'd arrived at his current residence. The bed was lumpy, it felt like turnips and mangel-wurzels had been used to stuff it. There was a pervading smell of dirt, damp and general humanity. He'd been told it was a hospital, but it smelt like the subway at rush hour.

He was left to his own devices for the most part. Whether this had always been the case was impossible to tell. While he'd been conscious though, he knew that he never saw a nurse above three times a day. His temperature was taken before he was fed. He was alone in a room which had much in common with a horizontal broom closet. It was the isolation which concerned him more than anything else. He knew that the hospitals usually had people packed as tightly as possible into as few rooms as possible. Multiple people to a bed was not altogether uncommon. Yet he was housed in solitary splendour. Small splendour admittedly, but solitary for all that. Rory felt he could be forgiven for wondering if he'd contracted bubonic plague or some similarly enchanting ailment of the flesh.

He had been sick. He'd been very sick. If his mind hadn't automatically informed him of the matter he would undoubtedly have guessed it when he realised that he was so weak as to be physically incapable of looking after himself. How long had he been in this hospital?

"You'll spend ten minutes outside tomorrow unless your temperature rises again." The nurse spoke in a rather flat tone as she stabbed the thermometer into his mouth.

"Oh ah'en oo ee?" To speak around a thermometer is difficult. To speak with clarity and proper diction is impossible. Rory did his best and was relieved to discover the nurse was fluent in thermometer speak.

"You've been sick." The nurse eyed the contents of the thermometer with a chilling eye.

"What with, please?" Rory didn't need to be told he'd been sick, he already knew that.

"You arrived with malaria and double pneumonia. You also had a bad attack of pleurisy. You will not be returning to your unit."

"Oh." Rory settled back, his energy exhausted and his mind rather puzzled. How did anyone catch pneumonia in the tropics? How could anyone catch pneumonia in a place where the diseases of choice were dysentery and malaria? It simply wasn't done. Pneumonia was impossible...but where did that put double pneumonia and that followed by pleurisy? Malign fate clearly had it in for him. Surely, there was no one else in the world who would catch and survive such an improbably collection of ailments at one time.

To be very sick was not something Rory wished on anyone. When very sick, one was not really aware of very much except for the fact of the sickness. The convalescence was quite another thing, and it left far too much time for thinking. Rory had had far too much time to think already, and he had a nasty feeling that there was even more thinking time to come.

Thinking did have its advantages for he had successfully remembered all his historical details. Nastily enough there were certain memories he would have prefered not to remember. There were also certain memories which he had previously thought fine, unfortunately remembering them from a different position they did bring a grimace to his mind. Lila Thompson was a prime identity in that final class, the simple memory of how he had been played would have caused Rory to writhe could he have found the energy to do it. To look back now was not fun for he had been an idiot. An idiot to end all idiots. Triply so since he had prided himself on knowing better than James Darcy ... or at least thinking he knew better than James Darcy. For some reason Rory was unable to attribute vindictiveness to the man, Mr. Darcy had been serious in his warning that Annette would suffer if the interview was published, Rory had scoffed at the time. Rory had salved his conscience previously by feeling certain that Mr. Darcy had forced the media's attention. Mature realisation forced him to admit that he had been stupid not to know that Annette had to suffer, for the press weren't overly interested in Lila, and they couldn't touch Mr. James Darcy. Lila had played him for the fool he'd been.

"You are a very lucky man." The military uniform which appeared in the doorway with these words wore the rank of Captain and was unmistakeably a doctor. There was something about the medical officers which was absolutely unmistakeable, and it wasn't the fact that most of them appeared to have long since forgotten their hundredth birthday.

"Oh?" Rory blinked in vague surprise. "The nurse said I'd had pneumonia and malaria."

"It was double pneumonia, severe malaria and a touch of dysentery." The doctor picked Rory's chart from the end of his bed and studied it thoughtfully. "You then developed pleurisy and were clearly hell-bent on dying."

"What stopped me?"

"There you have us. I'm afraid you were so sick we didn't even try to treat you since it wasn't half obvious that it would be a complete waste of our slender resources. By the time it became clear you weren't going to turn into another corpse for us there was no point using our resources on you because you clearly didn't need them."

"The nurse said I wouldn't rejoin my regiment?"

"Them or the Air Force or any other armed service." The doctor sat on the end of Rory's bed with a relieved sigh. "You are alive, but you've a residual weakness which you are stuck with. It may or may not have also affected your heart ... we think not though."

"You mean that if I don't live quietly I'll probably develop pneumonia again?"

"N-no." The doctor frowned. "You will be more susceptible to things like TB, bronchitis and any other illness of the lungs which you might be exposed to, but you won't necessarily catch pneumonia again just because you get run down."

"Why did I get pneumonia? I thought it restricted to cold climates."

"An error. The more common form usually takes hold because a cold or flu weakens the chest ... but pneumonia itself can attack at any time, assuming the appropriate bugs are around and the immune system is low. You've sustained a concussion, which went untreated. You've walked 900 miles while suffering from malaria and dysentery. Your immune system was very low indeed and you were actually admitted for the malaria."

"Oh." Rory was feeling very tired indeed and he needed to do a bit more thinking. There was, niggling at the back of his mind, a thought or memory which wanted consideration. To lose the memory was tiresome, to recover it was no fun at all and required patience in vast quantities.

Rory had been sent to collect his release papers. He'd been sent to retrieve them an hour ago and the queue didn't look like shortening any time soon. Rory shuffled his feet. Rory counted empty window frames, tent poles, heads. Rory tried to count the hairs on the head of the man ahead of him, but failed miserably at thirty. Rory then bounced up on his toes and had a fleeting glimpse of a ratlike supply officer with projecting teeth and a harried expression. The man was unquestionably run off his feet and fast approaching that condition of exhaustion where even the most diligent efforts yield no results at all.

"Excuse me." Rory had hesitated before speaking, and he'd been as surprised as his neighbours when he'd heard his own voice. Calm, firm, slightly accented, expecting instant obedience and yet friendly enough ... it almost didn't sound like his voice. Rory found his legs taking him quickly to the head of the queue and no one argued or voiced any objection to his action. "Officer."

"In a minute." The little man dithered and dropped everything.

"Officer!" Rory sharpened his tone, mentally wincing as he inspected the supply office. The place was a shambles.

"Sir." The little man ceased attempting to gather his pages and saluted sharply.

"Your second officer, when does your shift end?"

"He's not here, sir." The little man was beginning to look miserable.

"Right." Rory placed a firm hand on the side door and entered the office. "Get some rest in the back room, I'll stand for a couple of hours."

"Thank you, sir." The little man fled, his expression patent relief and his fatigue highlighted by his lack of arguement.

"Now." Rory grabbed a pen, tested it, and then faced the first man in line. "You require?"

"Papers for Thomas."

"Everyone here for papers form a line to the right of the hatch." Rory watched as some twenty soldiers stepped to the right hand side of the hatch. "Names?" Rory moved to the mail boxes and prayed there was sufficient order to make this quick.

"Private Thomas." The first voice spoke again.

"A, G or N?"

"Andrew Thomas."

"Magic." Rory flipped the papers onto the counter and pushed over the signing pad. "Next?"

"Sergeant Cuthbertson, Charles."

"Lucky boy with lots of papers." Rory double checked the sheathe and then slid them over. Sign away boyo and who's next?" The people for papers were soon dealt with and Rory pocketed his own while he worked. Then came the trickier jobs, chasing up after supplies ... many of which were not even in India, let alone heading towards Imphal.

Rory was trying to track down a request from the General Staff when he became aware of a queer hush which descended on the queue. Rory considered his options while his hands continued to sort pages, his options weren't many and he decided to find the request before he turned back to the line. Clearly someone had arrived and it was probably someone he didn't want to know about.

"Lieutenant Halifax." It was a calm voice which spoke after a long moment.

"If you'll excuse me for one moment while I find this request." Rory seized the remaining pile of request forms and begin filing them quickly while his eyes sought the words he wanted to see. "Ah-hah!" Rory laid the forms aside carefully and filed the rest of the forms as quickly as his fingers could fly. The last request form was filed carefully and Rory picked up the General Staff request and turned back to the counter, now he was ready to face the nurse whom he knew to be standing there.

In the four hours Rory had been behind the counter of the Supply Office he had wrought a considerable change. Piles of paper still loaded every available surface and there was certainly no order in the incomplete forms. However, Rory felt confident that he had found and filed all of the completed request forms. Rory had also been through the boxes where mail and papers were stored, verifying that the right names were in the right boxes. These were the critical areas and though the office was a mess, it was no longer chaotic. The office would remain a mess until someone ruthless came through and threw out every piece of paper not directly applicable to the supply of the army.

"Lieutenant Halifax, you were meant to return to the Hospital six hours ago." It was the Head Nurse and her expression was grim, to put things mildly.

"Yes, it would be about that." Rory glanced at the clock rather thoughtfully. Today had been altogether too bizarre and he didn't understand himself at all, it was as if something, or someone had stepped down between him and the world. He should never have entered this office. He should never have sent the officer on duty off to rest. He shouldn't have stayed away from the hospital this long. Most of all he shouldn't have been feeling so undisturbed and uninterested in the fact that he had done all these things he shouldn't have done. "The Office shuts in twenty minutes, I'll return to the hospital then." Rory moved to help the next person in line and hoped that the shock his mind felt did not show on his face.

Twenty-five minutes later Rory re-entered his little room and sank down on his bed. His head was buzzing, his arms and legs felt rather numb, and every now and then his stomach roiled and twisted. The last twenty-minutes had been a major challenge. He'd felt fine until after the nurse had departed and then it was as if he'd been deserted. Something had brought him to this counter, but that something had then stepped back and he was left with nothing but the nauseating consciousness that he was only two weeks in the conscious world and not strong enough for what he was doing.

"Nurse says you've been rebellious." It was the Doctor's voice which dragged Rory out of the pit of illness and weakness.

"R-rebellious?" Rory rolled onto his back and considered the matter. "A-Annie ... Annie would be...able to argue that, but I can .. merely say ... I was not ... rebellious. The man at the desk was ... in worse shape ... then me."

"You were not always a private in the army, then?"

"That you know ... perfectly well." Rory glanced at the Doctor briefly. "The Nurse called me ... Lieutenant Halifax."

"Hoping to get into the Supply Department here?"

"I'm actually ... expecting a rocket from ... upstairs because of ... officious behaviour." Rory wasn't certain how much longer he could hold onto the non-existant contents of his stomach.

"Y-es, well that has been intercepted I'm afraid." The Doctor rubbed his chin and gave what might have been a grin. "You wanting work?"

"I will be needing it."

"Sit tight then and be a good boy." The Doctor moved back to the door. "Try not to enrage the nurses and you might find yourself with a job in a week or three. If Head Nurse speaks truth you can't be too bad in the Supply Department."

"Arranging for Supply...can be very interesting...except when it gets...bogged." Rory clamped his mouth shut after the last word as his stomach heaved violently.

"You need to rest." The doctor straightened up. "Lie flat, stare at the ceiling and consciously make yourself relax and rest. I won't waste medication on idiots who can't follow simple instructions."

"Yes, sir." It had to be exhaustion which caused him not to mind being called an idiot. Rory dragged his boots onto the bed so he could pull them off. To reach down to his laces was simply impossible. The boots fell with a satisfying clunk and Rory lay back with a deep sigh of thankfulness. He was still exhausted, his head still buzzed, his arms and legs still felt strange, and his stomach still roiled and twisted, but he definitely felt considerably better by simply reaching the horizontal position. To think he might have work within a week was the most beneficial medicine Rory had ever found in his life. The simple thought that he was definitely going to leave this bed and re-enter the world as a functional human being.

Continued In Next Section