A Line to Kill

I’m afraid I missed George Elkin and the occupation of Alderney. I should have gone to his talk, but I’d managed to sleep for two hours and I spent the rest of the afternoon catching up with my emails, texts, Twitter feed and WhatsApps – my tenuous links with the outside world. The welcome drinks began at half past six and that was when I came down. I asked for Hawthorne at reception but he hadn’t got back from his walk.

The sun was dipping down towards the horizon as I left the hotel and in the evening light the island seemed to have retreated even further into the past. Two rows of terraced houses painted the colours of Neapolitan ice cream mirrored each other across a narrow street joined by a line of bunting that zigzagged from one side to the other. The road didn’t seem to go anywhere. In the distance, a hillside rose steeply, blocking anything that might tell me which century I was actually in. There was nobody around. The shops had already shut and I couldn’t help wondering what everyone actually did with themselves in the evenings in such a small place. I suppose a literary festival was a welcome diversion.

I didn’t have far to go. The Divers Inn was right next to the hotel, actually part of the same building. There was a brand-new Mercedes coupé parked outside, pristine white, with the registration CLM 16. It looked a little incongruous, sitting on its own, with seagulls wheeling overhead. It was as though it had been driven into the wrong advertisement.

The Divers Inn was a traditional bar with wooden tables and a dartboard, bells and bottles, and arched ceilings lined with ships’ badges. A Victorian diving suit, complete with helmet and faceplate, sat propped up in a corner. There were drinks laid out on the bar – red and white wine, orange juice and water – as well as a few plates of snacks. About thirty people had gathered inside but the space was small enough to make them feel like a crowd.

I immediately saw Marc Bellamy and his assistant, Kathryn, standing next to each other. He was nibbling a cocktail sausage. She had a stick of celery. They were avoiding each other’s eye and although several hours had passed since their argument, some of its rancour had followed them here. Anne Cleary, the children’s author, was talking to the festival organiser, Judith Matheson, and another man standing at her side. He had the look of an academic, bald and bearded with fanatical eyes, wearing a jacket with patches on the elbows. Colin Matheson? Somehow, I couldn’t imagine them together as a pair. I looked for Maïssa Lamar, but she wasn’t in the room and nor was there any sign of the man in the black leather jacket whom I’d seen at the airport. I hadn’t yet told Hawthorne about that. I was sure he would only make fun of me.

In fact, Hawthorne had seen me come in and made his way over to me.

‘Where have you been?’ I asked him.

‘Out and about.’ His eyes were innocent. Nothing else was. ‘What about you?’

‘Working.’

‘You work too much. You should have come out and had some fun.’

He was saying that now. Earlier he had been less keen on my joining him. Even so, I was glad to have caught up with him. Like it or not, we were a double act – at least while we were on the island – and without him I felt very alone. We went over to Anne Cleary and Judith Matheson, who introduced me to the other man. ‘This is George Elkin,’ she said, adding, ‘I was sorry not to see you at his talk. It was a brilliant start to the festival.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘We had to work …’

I had included Hawthorne in my excuse and I thought he’d be grateful but he looked at me in surprise. ‘No. I was there, Tony. I found it very interesting.’ He turned to Elkin. ‘You mentioned that your grandfather was in the Sylt concentration camp.’

‘Yes.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘He was one of the very few Channel Islanders who refused to leave in 1940, although my grandmother did make it to England. It was only when she arrived that she discovered she was pregnant.’ It was a story he had told many times and there was little emotion in his voice. ‘My grandfather was considered a troublemaker and was sent to Sylt. We don’t know when he died.’

‘Was Sylt a labour camp or a concentration camp?’ Anne asked. ‘I can never remember the difference.’

‘It was run by the SS. It followed a policy of Vernichtung durch Arbeit, which means “extermination through work”. There was almost no chance of survival.’

‘So it was a concentration camp.’

Elkin frowned. ‘You could say that the entire island was a concentration camp. More than forty thousand people died. They’re buried all over Alderney, but mainly in the area of Longis Common.’

It was a cheerful conversation for a literary drinks party and I was searching for a way out of it when there was a bray of laughter and a voice called out: ‘My God! I don’t believe it! It’s Tea Leaf!’

We all looked round.