61

The farmyard was dark. No moon. No stars. I pulled the kitchen door closed behind me, fastening the latch as quietly as I could.

The siren was louder outside, carrying across the fields from its position on top of the telephone exchange.

I’d left the family undefended. If Victor got his own way, I’d be dead in minutes and they’d be vulnerable. The odds of that outcome, though, were one in a million. Me against a drunk man with a broken arm.

I crossed the yard, almost completely dark, and took up a position with my back to the barn, where I could watch the house and the main approaches. If he came from the road, he’d come into the yard from my left. If he came across the fields, he’d come into the other end of the yard, to my right. He’d have his eyes on the house, and I’d be behind him.

Pom pom pom pom, the gun firing again. I heard the tell-tale distant rumble of a bomber, not yet visible on the horizon, where the South Downs stood guard.

I slapped my cheek. It felt like a bee sting. A long splinter, jagged wood protruding an inch from my face. The crack of the rifle shot caught up with the bullet, and I dropped to the ground. He’d missed, but only barely.

I rolled to my left, movement essential now he’d had a chance to calibrate. The second shot thumped the oak door where I’d been only a second before.

Fast fire, calm, professional. Someone who’d been trained with the rifle. Someone whose pulse wasn’t raised by the prospect of another killing.

I’d miscalculated. Victor had come to finish things. But he hadn’t come alone.

Pom pom pom pom. The Bofors gun again. The women getting faster at their routine. Aim, fire, reload.

A metallic crack from the concrete – another near miss. If I didn’t move, I was a second or two away from the end of my life. I’ve seen men freeze. Pretend it wasn’t happening. But not me. Something I’ve learnt about myself. The greater the threat, the greater the pressure, the calmer I get.

The next shot was even closer. I rolled to the protection of the water trough, in the middle of the yard. As I rolled, I saw Victor, standing by the front gate, watching his hired hand do the job he’d paid him to do.

If I was going down, I’d take Victor with me. I pulled myself to my feet and ran towards him, towards the front gate. I was in the open, a clear black shape against the yard and the road. The air beside me fizzed as a bullet whipped past. Close. Victor ducked and yelled. His hired man was now shooting towards him.

I could hear the bomber now, quite clearly, this side of the Downs, heading north. Towards my farm.

A crash of old milk pails told me the shooter was on the move, trying to get a diagonal so he could shoot at me without taking out his paymaster.

Victor pulled out a revolver. I was still ten yards from him, running. Every step closer to him I was a bigger target. He held out the gun, hand shaking, cocked the hammer. A -sequence he’d seen in the flicks. Gunfight at the O.K. Corral and all the rest. If he did it fast enough, and held his aim, I was a dead man.

I lunged at him, towards the gun. I swiped the gun from his hand and it clattered away on the concrete, his arm bending outwards, the break giving way entirely. He screamed in pain and rage and swung at me with his left hand, knife blade flashing in the dim light.

I darted back. He came at me, and I moved back further, my foot tripping on something. I went down, and he took his chance, dropping onto me and raising the knife to plunge into my heart.

Heavy boots, running fast, echoed across the yard, closing the distance to me.

It was Milosz. He had a weapon in his hand. A wood axe from my log pile.

Behind him, filling the sky, the bomber cleared the trees at the far end of Dadswell’s Flat.

Milosz swung the axe. It took Victor in the chest with a wet crunch, and he went down, falling to my side.

The bomber roared overhead, on the same path as before. South to north, heading for the Forest.

A bullet cracked past us. Now the paymaster was down, there was nothing to stop the sniper from firing. But he was shooting too far left. The next shot was closer, hitting the gatepost, a yard from my left.

We were exposed, with a skilled sniper zeroed in on our position. A matter of seconds. I nodded my thanks. Milosz had saved my life. Now we’d die together.

The next shot rang out. A different sound, familiar on the farm. A shotgun. Followed by another blast. The second barrel.

Then it was quiet, the roar of the bomber subsiding, the air-raid siren winding down.

I walked to the middle of the yard, where I had the best view of the northern sky. Just in time to see a parachute drop from the plane.

‘You brought help,’ I said, nodding towards the source of the gunfire.

‘No,’ Milosz said. ‘Just me.’

*

I found the sniper on the ground by the milking shed. He was dead. A shotgun blast to the side, and one to the head, point-blank range, just to be sure.

Elizabeth was in the kitchen, the shotgun back in its place. She had her back to me, but I could see she was shaking.

‘Well done,’ I said. She stood in the doorway. A girl who’d had her childhood stolen from her.

I knew I should go to her, but I didn’t know how. Margaret would have comforted her, but Margaret was with Vaughn.

She hurried upstairs.

*

Milosz stood by Victor’s body, smoking a cigarette.

‘We can bury him in the woods,’ I said.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Look after the girl. Besides, better you don’t know where, in case anyone ever asks.’

‘What if they ask you?’

‘I’m not here,’ he said. ‘I’m not even in this country.’

Victor moaned. The wood axe protruded from his chest. It swayed as he shifted on the ground. I knelt by him, in a lake of blood and dust.

‘Why the Leckies?’ I asked.

‘Paid,’ he said.

‘You paid?’

He shook his head.

‘Vaughn Matheson. Paid.’