Vengeance 10

Memling had to think before he realised there were none. In the entire city of London, he doubted if he knew anyone well enough to impose even for a single night. His few friends or acquaintances had all lived in the same road, and all had died in the bombing raid or been resettled elsewhere. His stomach lurched at the memory of the raid, and he struggled to get hold of himself. The girl was watching, her look of concern suggesting she suspected what was passing through his mind.

Memling shook his head, ‘I’m afraid not.’ He tried to smile, ‘It’s been too long since I’ve spent any time in London… Look here, that’s no problem really. If you can arrange the proper papers for me, there’s an officers’ club in Curzon Street. I can wait there until midnight. I can also get a bath …’

‘You will do no such thing. Those places are terrible and overcrowded. Here.’ She took a key from her purse and pressed it into his hand. ‘You can use my flat. There should be plenty of hot water, although you’ll have to buy a razor. I shall have to work late this evening anyway and probably won’t be home until nearly eight. You get some sleep, and I’ll cook you a hot meal when I come in. And it’s only a short walk to the BOQ in Cleveland Street.’

Memling started to protest but the girl would have none of it. She forced the key into his pocket, wrote out directions for the underground, and gave him his new orders, ration book, and enough money to replace his battledress with civilian clothing.

‘Now go along with you. I have a great deal of work to finish.’ She picked up her notepad and went into Englesby’s office, shutting off his protests. He took the key from his pocket, looked at it a moment, then, conscious of his utter weariness, did as he was told.

* * *

Memling was still asleep when Janet unlocked the door and entered the flat. She struggled out of her wet coat and for a moment remained in the narrow entry, too tired to go further. In a strange way, she found herself conscious of Memling’s presence and realised that she could not have explained to anyone else why she had offered him the use of a bedroom — could not even have explained it to herself. It was more than the fact that he was clearly on the verge of exhaustion. London was full of exhausted soldiers. Now that she thought about it, Janet expected it had something to do with their first meeting and Memling’s reaction to Englesby’s fumbled attempt to tell him of his wife’s death. She tried to recall the young, frightened boy who had come to Northumberland Avenue more than a year before and to compare him with the quiet, tense, and competent man now sleeping in the other room. And she thought of her own husband, how two years in the desert had hardened him, changed him irrevocably from the boy she had once known — before he was killed.

Memling had left tea things set out for her, and she smiled at this bit of thoughtfulness as she heated water and took a plate of cold meat from the refrigerator, the last of her week’s ration. She saw a shopping bag full of food and realised that he must have stopped on his way to the flat and used his coupons to buy it. She cleaned up the kitchen quickly, then went through the hall to the bedroom. He had picked her room by the luck of the draw, and she stood just inside the door, the dim hall light spilling over his covered form. He lay sprawled on his back, one arm thrown across his forehead, the other tucked beneath his head; he slept soundly. He did not move when she opened the cupboard door for her night things. For a moment she hesitated, biting her lip, not quite understanding what was happening to her, then went out, closing the door behind her. Janet went back into the kitchen, poured her tea, and picked at the cold tasteless meat until she found herself nodding off. She got up slowly then, recalling her promise to fix him a hot meal. Obviously he needed sleep more at this point.

Janet undressed slowly in the bathroom, shivering in the cold air and grimacing at the way her skin tightened into goose bumps and her nipples grew erect. The last thing she was capable of this night was sex. And she blushed furiously at the thought. Quickly she slipped the woollen nightgown over her head and went through to the empty bedroom. In spite of her exhaustion, sleep did not come quickly. When she did begin finally to drift off, Janet knew why she had offered Memling the room. She needed to feel the presence of a man nearby.

* * *

Twelve hours’ sleep had done much to restore him, Memling thought as he peered into the mirror and scraped away six days of stubble. The blackish pouches beneath his eyes were still there, however, and unaccountably, there was a great deal of grey in his hair. Or was that just the electric light? he wondered, twisting his head to see better.