SEVENTY-THREE
Watson couldn’t tell how many guns were firing. Twelve? Twenty? A hundred? The detonations rolled into each other, creating a single unrelenting roar, like a giant traction engine running rough. Behind him, the clouds’ bellies spat and sparkled from muzzle flashes, above him shells whistled, hummed and screamed. Ahead there was the steely-blue flash of high explosive, the jaundiced glare of lyddite or the invisible ‘woolly bears’ of shrapnel bursts.
The noise invaded his brain and rattled around it, scouring every corner. It became the sole inhabitant of the cranium, like a giant, booming cuckoo taking over the nest. Nothing else could live in there. It blanked out any rational thoughts, froze the limbs, made you want to find a hole, curl up and lie in it. But Watson didn’t have that option. He pressed on.
Holmes would have been proud of him, he thought. A few yards from the sap, he located the fresh squiggles in the mud of four bodies crawling forward. Sometimes they had been on their stomachs; at other places they had raised onto all fours and, later, he found one place where they had sprinted at a crouch.
Despite the trampled and sodden soil, it wasn’t too difficult to follow the route the quartet had taken, especially as his eyes adjusted. The disturbed earth here was a palimpsest waiting to be read: he had to ignore all but the topmost writings.
Within a few minutes, Watson came to the first shell hole, but there were no signs of occupation by any of the men that he could discern. The boot, knee, elbow and hand marks all skirted it. The rancid smell that stung his nostrils was enough to make him sympathetic to their decision to move along.
From there, he was punished for his smugness by losing the traces. While the noise continued to build – was it two hundred guns now? – and batter his senses, he grew increasingly desperate, aware that he could get himself seriously disoriented and lost. The tarry blackness was almost total and he could feel his sense of direction deserting him. He took several steps, then retraced them, before setting off again. Don’t just blunder about, he told himself. He could easily find himself snagged on the wire. Next stop, a muddy grave or a POW camp. More likely the former.
Watson crouched down into the mud, hoping for some sign to help him regain his bearings.
It wasn’t until he saw the ivory white of a dead man’s hand in the pale glow of the newly emerged moon that he realized he had picked up the trail again. Aware that the pitiless light made him vulnerable, he slithered down the wall of the crater, his feet dipping into the icy pool that filled the bottom. The high, officer’s boots saved him from a bad case of wet socks, but his toes chilled in an instant.
Watson examined the body as best he could under the circumstances, easing the makeshift gag down. The expression of terror, the hideous grin, that was there, but in the bleached moonlight he couldn’t tell if the man had the equally distinctive blue tinge. Cause of death, a bullet through the skull. Plus there was a nasty penetrating thigh wound that appeared to have pierced the femoral artery. This man was dead three times over.
A heavy shell growled over and fell close by, showering him with earth. They were pulverizing the wire and the trenches on the far side. Was there a big push coming? Or was this a bluff? Certainly there had been no evidence of preparations for going ‘over the bags’ that he had seen. Major Tyler had been far too relaxed; Lieutenant Fairley, too. By all accounts you could cut the atmosphere with a blunt bayonet on the eve of an attack. It was possible Churchill had had his wish and there was an assault coming, but in a sector where the British hadn’t signalled their intentions to the Germans.
But any move would come at first light. There were hours to go before that. Smoke from the explosions was beginning to haze the moon, and the light level was fading once more. He could smell the acrid mix of ammonia, picric acid and volatile toluene leaching over from the enemy lines. Some gunners had switched to air burst shells, and stabs of red, white and green burned his retinae as they detonated.
There was a thump nearby, heavy enough to register through his body. A dud, burying itself into the soil. Watson tried to keep his composure, not to let the screaming in his head overwhelm him. Men suffered under this for days, weeks on end.
And it sends them mad, he thought.
If he could just lie down and put his fingers in his ears till it was over. Then he could continue. But part of him knew that if he did bury himself close to the dead man, he would never get up again.
Watson holstered his gun, pushed himself into a crouch and cleared the edge of the depression, running fast. A star shell had gone up, some miles distant, it was true, but its capricious, incandescent beauty was throwing incidental light in his direction. He had a shadow now, not a good companion. Then it was gone and darkness wrapped him again. There were flashes on his eyes. He shouldn’t have looked at the star burst. Get lower, he instructed himself. Give me another shell hole. I’ll stay there. I’m too old for—
His feet were taken from under him and Watson sprawled forward. As he hit the ground he felt the rib go properly, even imagined he heard a crack. A lance of hot pain flared along his side. He let out an oath, but had enough sense to stay still while he took stock.
Had he been hit? No, the pain came after he fell. What had he fallen over? He inched his head around, trying to make sense of the dark shapes behind him. Again, pale skin betrayed what he was looking at.
Another body had tripped him, this one looking up to the heavens, gaping as if he had two mouths. De Griffon had killed two of the men. There must be another out there. Was he too late? Think, man, think, what would you do if you wanted to kill your comrades?
The first dead man had the alkaloid contortion about the face. This one, as far as he could tell, had not. Had he poisoned some before coming out here? It was probable the toxin took some time to begin its insidious work. Of course, he might have offered them a tot before they came out here. And this one? Perhaps some were immune; perhaps he was teetotal. Oh, for God’s sake, switch off that infernal—
The guns fell silent. His ears buzzed in the aftermath, the sudden silence seemingly as loud as the howitzers and cannons.
Then, above the hum emanating from his distressed eardrums, came another sound. A voice, carried like the smoke on the breeze, so soft he had to strain to catch the words.
‘. . . your father was one of them. The seven hooded . . . And so, you see, I am come back to exact revenge for little Anne Truelove. I am Johnny . . . called . . . dropwort. And oleander. Almost there now . . . smile. The sardonic smile . . . the old in Sardinia.’
Even in snatches, he could hear the deep, corrosive malice in the words. By peering in the blackness, aided by a splinter of moonlight, he could just about make out the speaker. An inky shape, darker than his surroundings, as if no light could leave his body. He was hunched against what appeared to be a fallen tree and, sitting up against the trunk, his last victim, the speech he was making suggesting the poor lad was already poisoned. The sardonic smile, the last spasm of death, would be on its way. He couldn’t be saved out here, no matter what.
Watson reached for his holster and almost cried out. The rib was on fire. It felt as if it had been coated in phosphorus and ignited. He squeezed his eyes shut and let them fill with tears. His breathing was alarmingly shallow now. He was panting like a dog. Any attempt to fill his lungs caused a stabbing through his chest and into his heart. He tried again for the holster, managing to get his finger on the pistol. It was bitterly cold, but sweat was prickling on his forehead.
It took an age, but eventually he had the gun. Safety off. When he looked up, the dark shape of de Griffon had begun to move. The other man slumped, dead. You bastard, de Griffon, he thought. Could he raise the gun? A grunt escaped from him and he saw de Griffon freeze, momentarily, and drop to the ground. It had been louder than he thought.
Should he call out? Tell de Griffon to surrender? That the game was up? No, that would be madness. A child could overpower Watson now. No, it was to be a silent execution. But firing the shot would also give him away. Any sniper out there might home in on him. But it had to be done. Fire the shot and sprint for the cover of the log.
Sprint? Who did he think he was fooling?
The murderer was passing within a few yards of him now, the man’s attention solely focused on getting back to the Allied lines. Watson pulled back the slide to chamber a round. The snick sounded like a thunderclap.
The figure froze. It turned towards him, like a hunting dog sniffing the air for an elusive scent.
The pistol was heavy in Watson’s hand, the aim none too steady. The pain had dried his throat. Squeeze. The man has killed seven times. No, eight. Myles, remember Myles. Watson had to be judge and jury.
You aren’t a judge. Or a jury.
He was right. Watson couldn’t fire. Not without a warning. Nor would his hand stay still. The jigging fore sight traced the fleeing silhouette, until the night swallowed it. Watson slumped back, allowing himself another groan. A pulse of guilt and shame passed through him. He lacked the moral fibre for such an act.
The murderer had him now and he moved towards him. Watson thrust the gun forward.
‘Fire that and we are both dead,’ hissed de Griffon.
‘You are coming back with me.’
De Griffon moved in. He could hear the pain in Watson’s ragged breathing. He was a spent force. ‘You aren’t going anywhere, old man.’
He moved like a snake, twisting the pistol from Watson’s grip, dropping the magazine. He flung the clip far away. There was a distant plop of water. Watson imagined hidden eyes swivelling towards the sound. De Griffon placed the now useless Colt on the ground at his feet.
‘Why?’ Watson asked. ‘Why the murders?’
De Griffon shook his head. He had no intention of giving Watson chapter and verse. He was done with that. And why should he give anything to this boorish doctor? The one who had made such a fuss about Shipobottom, who had forced him into that painful charade of fitting at the farm and drained him of blood, who meant the final act of his drama had to be rushed. No, he owed him nothing. Except perhaps a swifter end than the others. De Griffon dropped almost on top of Watson, close enough for the doctor to see the wild gleam in his eyes. ‘You’ll die out here never knowing.’
He was fumbling for his knife when they heard the crack of a rifle, and the captain’s head whipped around. There was no whistle or sigh of the bullet, but neither man could be certain they – or their voices – weren’t the target. De Griffon spun, crouched once more and took off, zigzagging back towards the lines.
As soon as de Griffon had taken the first few steps, Watson reached and picked up the Colt. The effort set off a screaming in his head and one of the ribs popped.
But he had the gun and it wasn’t entirely useless: there was still one in the spout. You had to eject the cartridge to unload it properly. One round was enough for what he wanted. He could just make out the beast-like shape, darting this way and that. He could drop de Griffon now. Shoot him in the back. He closed his eyes for a second, as if considering it. When he opened them again, the blackness had swallowed the murderer once more.
Don’t fret. You were never a cold-blooded killer, Watson. But there is another option.
What’s that, Holmes? he asked, knowing he was losing his grip on reality. Had the rib penetrated a lung? Was he bleeding to death? His body was oscillating between hot and cold with worrying rapidity as the earth drained his body heat. He shivered. This was no place for an old man. Or any living thing. What are you saying?
Let the gods of war decide. You’ll be giving him more of a chance than he gave any of his victims.
The gods of war? What on earth do you mean? he asked.
No answer came, but the chattering of his teeth.
As he lay there, feeling delirium cloud his reason, Watson ran the phrase over and over in his mind. Gods of war. Ridiculous. Or was it? Perhaps he did appreciate what his spectral friend was suggesting. He was just shying away from it.
He unbuttoned his tunic, but as he did so he moved position and felt the ground shift beneath him in an undulating wave. He kicked backwards but he only sank deeper into the malevolent mud. As it sucked at his back he remembered Great Grimpen Mire. A flash of panic ripped through him, that the earth might swallow him, envelop him in its grasp until it filled his nose and mouth with semolina-like sludge. He would be just another corpse swallowed by this death strip. Food for rats and carrion. He began to thrash, the viscous soil around him making a horrible slurping noise, as if the poisoned ground was greedy for another body.
Now he had to try hard not to cry out as he felt the needle-sharp cold seep through his clothing. One leg had disappeared into the earth altogether, the boot filling with a runny mix of mud and icy water. Watson now knew he was lying on a place where a spring or a stream came to the surface, further liquefying the already fluid mud. He could pull the limb free, but knew he must lose boot and sock. The rest of him was being squeezed, as if by a watery vice, pressing against those damaged ribs. No man’s land was determined to keep him, to never let him go. He stopped struggling, knowing it was only hastening his eventual immersion.
He put a fist into his mouth and yelled into it. This wasn’t how he envisaged going. He was here to help the dying, not to join them.
His spine felt it first. Something unyielding, solid. Beneath the freezing slime there was . . . what? An erratic boulder, deposited by a glacier millions of years ago? A body, perhaps? A horse or a man? A lost howitzer or humble tractor? Or simple bedrock? He had no way of knowing for sure what it was now firmly beneath his buttocks, but he gave thanks as it slowed his progress, anchoring him, so that he was only half buried.
He moved his arms and his free leg. Yes, his progress towards the bowels of this Flanders field had been arrested.
So braced, Watson used his teeth to take the glove off his left hand, folded the leather in his mouth and clamped down with all his might. He bit harder and harder, until the ache in the jaw almost matched that of his ribs. He felt a tooth give.
With his right arm, he finished unbuttoning the tunic and reached in for the Very flare pistol, the one that had caused further damage to his ribcage when he had stumbled and fallen. The glove masked his grunts of pain as he extracted it. Gently does it, he admonished himself. Conserve your energy for this one last task.
With studied concentration on the required muscles, Watson raised the pistol to the sky. His side was on fire and tears squeezed from his eyes unbidden. He closed them and pulled the trigger, releasing the charge. The recoil jerked him against his subterranean anchorage, but whatever it was held fast. He dropped the pistol and opened his eyes. He watched the trail of fire streak away from him, arcing towards the friendly lines, then hesitate and begin to fall, where it blossomed into a bright red sphere.
Mars, he thought to himself. God of War.
Beneath the hellish fire, picked out for a few moments, was the scuttling shape of de Griffon, who looked up at the glow in horror. Like a judgement from above, it had sought and found the guilty man.
From over to his left, some many yards distant, Watson heard the crack of not one but two rifles. De Griffon stood upright, as if he was ready to run forward, but as the flare fizzled, the desperate sprint became a stumble. As the exhausted red ball fell to earth and died in the mud of no man’s land, so did Johnny Truelove.