The Blasphemer: A Novel by Nigel Farndale

Author:Nigel Farndale [Farndale, Nigel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Historical
ISBN: 9780307717054
Google: OiFSG38DXOEC
Amazon: B003F3PLBM
Publisher: Crown
Published: 2010-08-16T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Northern France. First Monday of September, 1918

MARCHING SOON COMES BACK TO ANDREW, AS IF HIS UNIFORM HAS a memory of its own. He tries not to look left and right as they cross the cobblestones in the market square, but he can sense curtains lifting. His escort leads up to the town hall, which has, on three parallel flagpoles, a Union flag and a Stars and Stripes flying alongside the Tricolour. The British 4th Division and American 33rd have recently requisitioned the building as their temporary joint headquarters. As Andrew is led up its steps and through its corridors he can see it is a place of fevered administrative activity, piles of papers, phones ringing, maps being pored over by suntanned men in broad-brimmed cavalry hats. They’re planning a final attack, Andrew thinks. They always bring out the firing squad before an attack. He continues through to a courtyard at the back leading on to a walled garden that he inspects for bullet holes. He cannot see any. What he can see, at the end of the garden, is a wooden hut freshly painted green. Andrew recognizes it as the potting shed that had once belonged to the baker. The Scottish APM opens the door, which is a little loose on its hinges, and stands to one side as Andrew walks in. The door closes behind him with a creak. A bolt is slipped.

‘Guard!’ Andrew calls out.

The bolt sounds again. The door opens.

‘How did you know where I was?’

The APM reaches into his pocket, removes an opened envelope and hands it to the prisoner. It is addressed to Private A. Kennedy, 11/Shropshire Fusiliers, BEF, c/o Madame Camier, 11 Rue des Chardonnerets, Nieppe, France. He studies the words, intrigued by them. It is the first letter he has had in more than a year.

‘The postman wasnae sure what to do with it so delivered it to Divisional HQ.’

Andrew looks inside the envelope and finds his paybook, a copy of his birth certificate and a receipt for twopence. ‘Can I keep these?’ he asks.

The guard shakes his head and gestures for the letter to be handed back. The bolt clatters again.

It is dark inside and, as his eyes adjust, Andrew sees there is nowhere to sit. The hut is empty apart from a broken chicken coop and some garden pots. He turns one of these over and sits on its base. It is now he notices the smell. The hut has clearly been used as a latrine, not an official one though, as there is neither a bucket nor a hole. Ten minutes later he hears footsteps approaching. The guard shouts ‘Attention!’ and the door opens. An officer looks in. He is holding a hurricane lamp in a hairy-backed hand. Andrew recognizes him as the major he had seen in the café four months earlier – the scar below his jawline is unmistakable. The three braid bands on his cuffs confirm his rank. He stares at Andrew but says nothing. He then turns and leaves the prisoner blinking in the gloom and listening to the boot steps receding.

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