Page 63 of Resistance
Claude. ‘Yes, I’ve been ordered to Paris, they need my help. Word has it that our allies are ready to strike. I can help co-ordinate things from there.’
Polo could see the traitor stuffing things into a rucksack, his face turned away from Vincent.
‘Yes, it’s probably best that you run, especially now Estelle and her group have been taken… in case the trail leads here. That’d be a coincidence, wouldn’t it?’
Claude’s head snapped around. ‘Meaning?’
Vincent shrugged and continued to smoke his cigarette. Claude prevailed.
‘How do you know they have been taken, are you sure?’
‘Yes, very. Estelle passed on the documents that were stolen from the Gestapo before she was taken. They show troop movements and storage depots in the north, the Boche must be really pissed. She’s being questioned along with the others, that’s all I know, oh, apart from that we are all compromised. The chain is broken, and our cell could be the next target, so we have to disband. I have already given the order. All I have to do now is deliver the documents to England and deal with the person who informed on us.’
Polo took a step further inside the barn, and stealthily edged inch by inch towards a sodden pile of hay and tucked himself behind, well out of sight. From his vantage point only feet away Polo could see both men clearly and when Claude lit a cigarette, bringing the match close to his face, the golden flame illuminated his pockmarked skin.
Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he sounded composed yet impatient. ‘I can take the documents to Paris. Did you bring them? As for the traitor, whenever you find them give them a bullet from me.’
‘Oh, I will.’ Vincent looked angry and took a drag of his own cigarette as he watched Claude pace.
Polo knew that expression and it made him nervous. It also seemed to make Claude shout.
‘I asked you a question, did you bring them?’
Vincent merely stared and folded his arms. It reminded Polo of when one of his cousins were being awkward. Dumb insolence was the expression her maman often used.
Finally, he spoke and when the words came out, Vincent was the one asking questions. ‘And what if I did? Do you think I would be stupid enough to hand them over to you?’
Claude did not respond at first, apart from the smirk which Polo spotted just before he turned his back on Vincent.
In his dreams, the scream was always silent, the moment when Polo saw Claude slide his hand inside his jacket, when he knew the traitor was reaching for a gun, drawing it faster than Vincent who realised his mistake too late.
Perhaps Polo hadn’t screamed at all, it was merely his brain crying out against the horror his eyes were about to see. Claude spun around, his elbow resting on his hip, a gun pointed at Vincent who had only managed to get a hand to the one tucked inside the back of his trousers.
Time froze. So did Polo and Vincent, but Claude’s mouth moved, twisting into a grin, then two shots, bang, bang. The noise cut through the air and sliced Polo’s eardrums, his heart felt like it stopped twice with each blast while his eyes stared in horror as Vincent staggered backwards and slumped to the floor, motionless. His gun lay useless at the end of an outstretched arm. Claude stared at Vincent’s body for a moment and then turned to the haystack and collected his bag, placing his gun inside his jacket, not even looking back at the bleeding body as he headed towards the barn door.
Polo was numb with fear, his eyes fixated on Vincent who he willed to be alive so when there was a slight movement, Polo’s heart danced with joy. The lift of a shoulder, a twitch of a finger and a hand that scratched in the dirt for his gun, and then a bullet speeding through the air followed by another which pinged off the Solex mudguard. Polo’s head whipped in the other direction and saw that Claude had been hit, he was grasping the back of his leg, staggering the final step to the bike. Polo sucked in air. What would Claude do, would he go back and finish Vincent off or would he flee? When Polo dragged his eyes back to where Vincent lay he found his answer, there was no point, it was over.
37
Goodbye, Vincent
Renazé, 2005
Dottie gasped. Double tap, it was the method all SOE agents were taught to kill. Point and aim, shoot from the hip, two shots to be sure. Nausea swirled inside her stomach, rising slowly upwards causing Dottie to pinch the bridge of her nose and breathe deeply. To distract her brain from the images in her mind, she focused on Polo, or more precisely, the little seven-year-old boy who had just seen his hero shot dead, executed by a traitor.
‘My dear Polo, you must have been so scared, you poor thing.’ Dottie held his hand tightly.
‘Yes, Yvette, I was. And I am ashamed to say I didn’t use my knife. I was frozen to the spot and hid in the hay, watching as Claude limped to the motorbike, blood pouring from his leg. I didn’t think he would be able to ride it because he howled in pain as he kicked the stand and started the engine, but he did and then sped away. I listened until the sound faded then broke cover and ran to Vincent.’
Dottie wanted to interrupt, to stop Polo from describing a scene she’d imagined for so long, knowing his words would make them real. Then she noticed that rather than being distressed by his memories, Polo looked eager and determined. His back was straight, and he leant forward, anger in his eyes, jaw set firm and she knew he had more to say. He’d waited over sixty years to tell his tale so gathering her courage, she squeezed his hand and took a deep breath.
‘Go on, Polo.’
‘When I reached Vincent, I knelt by his side and called his name, I was crying and shouting. I pushed his chest to try to wake him. There was blood all over the floor, spilling from underneath him and I cried and cried, saying his name over and over. Then his eyes opened.’
On hearing this Dottie’s heart skipped a beat, it was ridiculous but that simple notion of Vincent being alive filled her heart with joy, even though she knew that it would soon be shattered again, all hope lost.
‘He smiled when he saw me, for a second, and it made me so happy and I thought he would be okay. Then he tried to speak so I leant close and turned my head to listen.’
