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Art by James Cawthorn.<\/em><\/p>\n We know that Hitler placed a lot of faith in clairvoyants and astrologers, and this helped him lose the war. But what if there had been just one person with a genuine psi-talent. Could history have turned out like this…?<\/em><\/p>\n ONE<\/strong><\/p>\n 1954 WAS NOT a year of progress. A week before Christmas I walked into the bar of the Merrie Englande in Leicester Square, my guitar in its case, my hat in my hand. Two constables were sitting on wooden stools at the counter. Their helmets turned together as I walked in. The place was badly lit by candles, hiding the rundown look but not the run-down smell of home-brew and damp rot.<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019s he?\u201d said one of the PCs as I moved past.<\/p>\n \u201cI work here,\u201d I said. Tired old dialogue for tired old people.<\/p>\n He grunted and sipped his drink. I didn\u2019t look at the barman: I didn\u2019t look at the cops. I just went into the room behind the bar and took off my coat. I went to the wash-basin, turned the taps. Nothing happened. I got my guitar out of its case, tested it, tuned it and went back into the bar with it.<\/p>\n \u201cWater\u2019s off again,\u201d said Jon, the barman. He was a flimsy whisp in black with a thin white face. \u201cNothing\u2019s working today…\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, we\u2019ve still got an efficient police force,\u201d I said. The cops turned to look at me again. I didn\u2019t care. I felt I could afford a little relaxation. One of them chewed the strap of his helmet and frowned. The other smiled.<\/p>\n \u201cYou work here do you, sir? How much does the boss pay you?\u201d He continued to smile, speaking softly and politely. I sneered.<\/p>\n \u201cHim?\u201d I pointed with my thumb up to where the boss lived.\u201d He wouldn\u2019t, even if it was legal.\u201d Then I began to worry. I\u2019m like that\u2014moody. \u201cWhat are you doing here, anyway, officer?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaking enquiries, sir,\u201d said the frowning one.<\/p>\n \u201cAbout a customer,\u201d said Jon. He leant back against an empty shelf, his arms folded.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s right,\u201d said the smiling one.<\/p>\n \u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n The cops\u2019 eyes shifted.<\/p>\n \u201cFrenchy,\u201d said Jon.<\/p>\n \u201cSo Frenchy\u2019s in trouble. It couldn\u2019t be something she\u2019s done. Someone she knows?\u201d<\/p>\n The cops turned back to the bar. The frowning one said:\u201dTwo more. Does he know her?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAs much as I do,\u201d said Jon, pouring out the potheen. The white, cloudy stuff filled the tumblers to the brim. Jon must be worried to pour such heavy ones for nothing.<\/p>\n I got up on to the platform where I sang, flicking the mike which I knew would be dead as it had been since the middle of the war. I leaned my guitar against the dryest part of the wall and struck a match. I lit the two candles in their wall-holders. They didn\u2019t exactly fill the corner with a blaze of light, they smoked and guttered and stank and cast shadows. I wondered briefly who had supplied the fat. They weren\u2019t much good as heating either. It was almost as cold inside as out. I dusted off my stool and sat down, picked up my guitar and struck a few chords. I hardly realised I was playing Frenchy’s Blues<\/em>. It was one of those corny numbers that come easy to the fingers without you having to think about them.<\/p>\n Frenchy wasn\u2019t French, she was a kraut and who liked krauts? I liked Frenchy, along with all the customers who came to hear her sing to my accompaniment. Frenchy didn\u2019t work at the Merrie Englande, she just enjoyed singing. She didn\u2019t keep boyfriends long or often, she preferred to sing, she said. Frenchy\u2019s singing was like what she\u2019d give to a boyfriend, but this way she gave it to everyone. I didn\u2019t know why she was called Frenchy. Probably her full name was Franziska.<\/p>\n Frenchy’s Blues<\/em> only appealed to the least sensitive members of our cordial clientele. I didn\u2019t care for it. I\u2019d tried to do something good for her, but as with most things I tried to do well, it hadn\u2019t come off. I changed the tune. I was used to changing my tune. I played Summertime<\/em> and then I played Stormy Weather<\/em>.<\/p>\n The cops sipped their drinks and waited. Jon leant against the shelves, his narrow, black-clad body almost invisible in the shadow, only his thin face showing. We didn\u2019t look at one another. We were both scared\u2014not only for Frenchy, but for ourselves. The cops had a habit of subpoenoeing witnesses and forgetting to release them after the trial\u2014particularly if they were healthy men who weren\u2019t already working in industry or the police force. Though I didn\u2019t have to fear this possibility as much as most, I was still worried.<\/p>\n During the evening I heard the dull sound of far-away bomb explosions, the drone of planes. That would be the English Luftwaffe doing exercises over the still-inhabited suburbs.<\/p>\n Customers came and most of them went after a drink and a squint at the constables.<\/p>\n Normally Frenchy came in between eight and nine, when she came. She didn\u2019t come. As we closed up around midnight, the cops got off their stools. One unbuttoned his tunic pocket and took out a notebook and pencil. He wrote on the pad, tore off the sheet and left it on the bar.<\/p>\n \u201cIf she turns up, get in touch,\u201d he said. \u201cMerry Christmas, sir,\u201d he nodded to me. They left.<\/p>\n I looked at the piece of paper. It was cheap, blotting paper stuff and one corner was already soaking up spilled potheen. In large capitals, the PC had printed: \u201cContact Det. Insp. Braun, N. Scot. Yd, Ph. WHI 1212, Ext. 615.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBraun?\u201d I smiled and looked up at Jon. \u201cBrown?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s in a name?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cAt least it\u2019s CID. What do you think it\u2019s about, Jon?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou never can tell these days,\u201d said Jon. \u201cGoodnight, Lowry.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNight.\u201d I went into the room behind the bar, packed my guitar and put on my coat. Jon came in to get his street clothes.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do they want her for?\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s not political stuff, anyway. The Special Branch isn\u2019t interested, it seems. What\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho knows?\u201d said Jon brusquely. \u201cGoodnight.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNight,\u201d I said. I buttoned up my coat, pulled my gloves on and picked up the guitar case. I didn\u2019t wait for Jon since he evidently wasn\u2019t seeking the company and comfort of an old pal. The cops seemed to have worried him. I wondered what he was organising on the side. I decided to be less matey in future. For some time my motto had been simple\u2014keep your nose clean.<\/p>\n I left the bar and entered the darkness of the square. It was empty. The iron railings and trees had gone during the war. Even the public lavatories were officially closed, though sometimes people slept in them. The tall buildings were stark against the night sky. I turned to my right and walked towards Piccadilly Circus, past the sagging hoardings that had been erected around bomb craters, treading on loose paving stones that rocked beneath my feet. Piccadilly Circus was as bare and empty as anywhere else. The steps were still in the centre, but the statue of Eros wasn\u2019t there any more. Eros had flown from London towards the end of the war. I wish I’d had the same sense.<\/p>\n I crossed the circus and walked down Piccadilly itself, the wasteland of St. James\u2019s Park on one side, the tall buildings, or hoardings where they had been, on the other. I walked in the middle of the road, as was the custom. The occasional car was less of a risk than the frequent cosh-merchant. My hotel was in Piccadilly, just before you got to Park Lane.<\/p>\n I heard a helicopter fly over as I reached the building and unlocked the door. I closed the door behind me, standing in a wide, cold foyer unlighted and silent. Outside the sound of the helicopter died and was replaced by the roar of about a dozen motor-bikes heading in the general direction of Buckingham Palace where Field Marshal Wilmot had his court. Wilmot wasn\u2019t the most popular man in Britain, but his efficiency was much admired in certain quarters. I crossed the foyer to the broad staircase. It was marble, but uncarpeted. The bannister rocked beneath my hand as I climbed the stairs.<\/p>\n A man passed me on my way up. He was an old man. He wore a red dressing gown and carried a chamber pot as far away from him as his shaking hand could stand.<\/p>\n \u201cGood morning, Mr. Pevensey,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cGood morning, Mr. Lowry,\u201d he replied, embarrassed. He coughed, started to speak, coughed again. As I began on the third flight, I heard him wheeze something about the water being off again. The water was off most of the time. It was only news when it came on. The gas came on three times a day for half-an-hour a day\u2014if you were lucky. The electricity was supposed to run all day if people used the suggested ration, but nobody did, so power failures were frequent.<\/p>\n I had an oil stove, but no oil. Oil was expensive and could be got only on the black market. Using the black market meant risking being shot, so I did without oil. I had a place I used as a kitchen, too. There was a bathroom along the corridor. One of the rooms I used had a balcony overlooking the street with a nice view of the weed-tangled park. I didn\u2019t pay rent for these rooms. My brother paid it under the impression that I had no money. Vagrancy was a serious crime, though prevalent, and my brother didn\u2019t want me to be arrested because it caused him trouble to get me out of jail or one of the transit camps in Hyde Park.<\/p>\n I unlocked my door, tried the light switch, got no joy. I struck a match and lit four candles stuck in a candelabra on the heavy mantelpiece. I glanced in the mirror and didn\u2019t like the dull-eyed face I saw there. I was reckless. My next candle allowance was a month off but I\u2019d always liked living dangerously. In a small way.<\/p>\n I put on my tattered tweed overcoat, Burberry\u2019s 1938, lay down on the dirty bed and put my hands behind my head. I brooded. I wasn\u2019t tired, but I didn\u2019t feel very well. How could I, on my rations?<\/p>\n I went back to thinking about Frenchy\u2019s trouble. It was better than thinking about trouble in general. She must be involved in something, although she never looked as if she had the energy to take off her slouch hat, let alone get mixed up in anything illegal. Still, since the krauts had taken over in 1946 it wasn\u2019t hard to do something illegal. As we used to say, if it wasn\u2019t forbidden, it was compulsory. Even strays and vagabonds like me were straying under license\u2014in my case procured by brother Gottfried, n\u00e9 Godfrey, now Deputy Minister of Public Security. How he\u2019d made it baffled me, with our background, because obviously the first people the krauts had cleared out when they came to liberate us was the revolutionary element. And in England, of course, that wasn\u2019t the tattered, hungry mob rising in fury after centuries of oppression. It was the well-heeled, well-meaning law-civil-service-church-and-medicine brigade who came out of their warm houses to stir it all up.<\/p>\n Anyway, thinking about Godfrey always made my flesh creep, so I pulled my mind back to Frenchy. She was a tall, skinny rake of a girl, a worn out, battered old twenty in a dirty white mac and a shapeless pull-down hat with the smell of a Cagney gangster film about it. I never noticed what was under the mac\u2014she never took it off. Once or twice she\u2019d gone mad and undone it. I had the impression that underneath she was wearing a dirty black mac. No stockings, muddy legs, shoes worn down to stubs, not exactly Ginger Rogers on the town with Fred Astaire. Still, the customers liked her singing, particularly her deadpan rendering of Deutschland Uber Alles<\/em>, slow, husky and meaningful, with her white face staring out over the people at the bar. A kraut by nationality, but not by nature, that was Frenchy.<\/p>\n I yawned. Not much to do but go to sleep and try for that erotic dream where I was sinking my fork into a plate of steak and kidney pudding. Or perhaps, if I couldn\u2019t get to sleep, I’d try a nice stroll round the crater where St. Pauls had been\u2014my favourite way of turning my usual depression into a really fruity attack of melancholia.<\/p>\n Then there was a knock.<\/p>\n I went rigid.<\/p>\n Late night callers were usually cops. In a flash I saw my face with blood streaming from the mouth and a lot of black bruises. Then the knock came again. I relaxed. Cops never knocked twice\u2014just a formal rap and then in and all over you.<\/p>\n The door opened and Frenchy stepped in. She closed the door behind her.<\/p>\n I was off the bed in a hurry.<\/p>\n I shook my head. \u201cSorry, Frenchy. It\u2019s no go.\u201d<\/p>\n She didn\u2019t move. She stared at me out of her dark blue eyes. The shadows underneath looked as though someone had put inky thumbs under them.<\/p>\n \u201cLook, French,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019ve told you there\u2019s nothing doing.\u201d She ought to have gone before. It was the code. If someone wanted by the cops asked for help you had the right to tell them to go. No one thought any the worse of you. If you were a breadwinner it was expected.<\/p>\n She went on standing there. I took her by the shoulders, about faced her, wrenched the door open with one hand and ran her out on to the landing.<\/p>\n She turned to look at me. \u201cI only came to borrow a fag,\u201d she said sadly, like a kid wrongfully accused of drawing on the wallpaper.<\/p>\n The code said I had to warn her, so I shoved her back into my room again.<\/p>\n She sat on my rumpled bed in the guttering candlelight with her beautiful, mud-streaked legs dangling over the side. I passed her a cigarette and lit it.<\/p>\n \u201cThere were two cops in the Merrie asking about you,\u201d I said. \u201cCID!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh,\u201d she said blankly. \u201cI wonder why? I haven’t done anything.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPassing on coupons, trying to buy things with money, leaving London without a pass\u2014\u201d I suggested. Oh, how I wanted to get her off the premises.<\/p>\n \u201cNo. I haven\u2019t done anything. Anyhow, they must know I’ve got a full passport.\u201d<\/p>\n I gaped at her. I knew she was a kraut\u2014but why should she have a full passport? Owning one of those was like being invisible\u2014people ignored what you did. You could take what you wanted from who you wanted. You could, if you felt like it, turn a dying old lady out of a hospital wagon so you could have a joy-ride, pinch food\u2014anything. A sensible man who saw a full passport holder coming towards him turned round and ran like hell in the other direction. He could shoot you and never be called to account. But how Frenchy had come by one beat me.<\/p>\n \u201dYou\u2019re not in the government,\u201d I said. \u201cHow is it you\u2019ve got an FP?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy father\u2019s Willi Steiner.\u201d<\/p>\n I looked at her horrible hat, her draggled blonde hair, her filthy mac and scuffed shoes. My mouth tightened.<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t say?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy father\u2019s the Mayor of Berlin,\u201d she said flatly. \u201cThere are eight of us and mother\u2019s dead so no one cares much. But of course we\u2019ve all got full passports.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, what the hell are you shambling around starving in London for?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n Suspicious, I said: \u201cLet\u2019s have a look at it, then.\u201d<\/p>\n She opened her raincoat and reached down into whatever it was she had on underneath. She produced the passport. I knew what they looked like because brother Godfrey was a proud owner. They were unforgable. Frenchy had one.<\/p>\n I sat down on the floor, feeling expansive. If Frenchy had an FP I was safer than I\u2019d ever been. An FP reflected its warm light over everybody near it. I reached under the mattress and pulled out a packet of Woodies. There were two left.<\/p>\n French grinned, accepting the fag. \u201cI ought to flash it about more often.\u201d<\/p>\n We smoked gratefully. The allowance was ten a month. As stated, the penalty for buying on the black market, presuming you could get hold of some money, was shooting. For the seller it was something worse. No one knew what, but they hung the bodies up from time to time and you got some idea of the end result.<\/p>\n \u201cAbout this police business,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t mind if I kip here tonight,\u201d she said. \u201cI’m beat.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t mind,\u201d I said. \u201cWant to hop in now? We can talk in bed.\u201d<\/p>\n She took off the mac, kicked away her shoes and hopped in.<\/p>\n I took off my trousers, shoes and socks, pulled down my sweater and blew out the candles. I got into bed. There was nothing more to it than that. Those days you either did or you didn\u2019t. Most didn\u2019t. What with the long hours, short rations and general struggle to keep half clean and slightly below par, few people had the will for sex. Also sex meant kids and the kids mostly died, so that took all the joy out of it. Also I\u2019ve got the impression us English don\u2019t breed in captivity. The Welsh and Irish did, but then they\u2019ve been doing it for hundreds of years. The Highlanders didn\u2019t produce either. Increasing the population was something people like Godfrey worried about in the odd moments when they weren\u2019t eliminating it, but a declining birthrate is something you can\u2019t legislate about. What with the slave labour in the factories, cops round every corner, the jolly lads of the British Wehrmacht in every street, and being paid out in food and clothing coupons so you wouldn\u2019t do anything rash with the cash, like buying a razor blade and cutting your throat, you couldn\u2019t blame people for losing interest in propagating themselves. There\u2019d been a resistance movement up until three or four years before, but they\u2019d made a mistake and taken to the classic methods\u2014blowing up bridges, the few operating railway lines and what factories had started up. It wasn\u2019t only the reprisals\u2014on the current scale it was 20 men for every German killed, or 10 schoolkids or 5 women\u2014but when people found out they were blowing up boot factories and stopping food trains a loyal population, as the krauts put it, stamped out the anti-social Judaeo-Bolshevik element in their midst.<\/p>\n The birthrate might have gone up if they\u2019d raised the rations after that, but that might cause a population explosion in more ways than one.<\/p>\n Anyhow, it was warmer in there with Frenchy beside me.<\/p>\n \u201cWould you mind,\u201d I said, \u201cremoving your hat?\u201d<\/p>\n I couldn\u2019t see her, but I could tell she was smiling. She reached up and pulled the old hat off and threw it on the floor.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat about these cops, then?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cOh\u2014I really don\u2019t know. Honestly, I haven\u2019t done anything. I don\u2019t even know anybody who\u2019s doing anything.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCould they be after your full passport?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. They never withdraw them. If they did the passports wouldn\u2019t mean anything. People wouldn\u2019t know if they were deferring to a man with a withdrawn passport. If you do something like spying for Russia, they just eliminate you<\/em>. That gets rid of your FP automatically.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe that\u2019s why they\u2019re after you…?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. They don\u2019t involve the police. It\u2019s just a quick bullet.\u201d<\/p>\n I couldn\u2019t help feeling awed that Frenchy, who\u2019d shared my last crusts, knew all this about the inner workings of the regime. I checked the thought instantly. Once you started being interested in them, or hating them or being emotionally involved with them in any way at all\u2014they\u2019d got you. It was something I\u2019d sworn never to forget\u2014only indifference was safe, indifference was the only weapon which kept you free, for what your freedom was worth. They say you get hardened to anything. Well, I’d had nearly ten years of it\u2014disgusting, obscene cruelty carried out by stupid men who, from top to bottom, thought they were masters of the Earth\u2014and I wasn\u2019t hardened. That was why I cultivated indifference. And the Leader\u2014Our Feuhrer\u2014was no mad genius either. Mad and stupid. That was even worse. I couldn\u2019t understand, then, how he\u2019d managed to do what he\u2019d done. Not then.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know what it can be,\u201d Frenchy was saying, \u201cbut I’ll know tomorrow when I wake up.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201dWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m like that,\u201d she said roughly.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you?\u201d I was interested. \u2018\u201cLike\u2014what?\u201d<\/p>\n She buried her face in my shoulder. \u201cDon\u2019t talk about it, Lowry,\u201d she said, coming as near to an appeal as a hard case like Frenchy could.<\/p>\n \u201cOK,\u201d I said. You soon learnt to steer away from the wrong topic. The way things, and people, were then.<\/p>\n So we went to sleep. When I woke, Frenchy was lying awake, staring up at the ceiling with a blank expression on her face. I wouldn\u2019t have cared if she\u2019d turned into a marmalade cat overnight. I felt hot and itchy after listening to her moans and mutters all night and I could feel a migraine coming on.<\/p>\n The moment I\u2019d acknowledged the idea of a migraine, my gorge rose, I got up and stumbled along the peeling passageway. Once inside the lavatory I knew I shouldn\u2019t have gone there. I was going to vomit in the bowl. The water was off. It was too late. I vomited, vomited and vomited. At least this one time the water came on at the right moment and the lavatory flushed.<\/p>\n I dragged myself back. I couldn\u2019t see and the pain was terrible.<\/p>\n \u201cCome back to bed,\u201d Frenchy said.<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t,\u201d I said. I couldn\u2019t do anything.<\/p>\n \u201cCome on.\u201d<\/p>\n I sat on the edge of the bed and lowered myself down. Go away, Frenchy, I said to myself, go away.<\/p>\n But her hands were on that spot, just above my left temple where the pain came from. She crooned and rubbed and to the sound of her crooning I fell asleep.<\/p>\n I woke about a quarter of an hour later and the pain had gone. Frenchy, mac, hat and shoes on, was sitting in my old arm chair, with the begrimed upholstery and shedding springs.<\/p>\n \u201cThanks, Frenchy,\u201d I mumbled. \u201cYou\u2019re a healer.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d she said discouragingly.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you often?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot now,\u201d she said. \u201cI used to. I just thought I\u2019d like to help.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, thanks,\u201d I said. \u201cStick around.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, I\u2019m off now.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOK. See you tonight, perhaps.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. I\u2019m getting out of London. Coming with me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhere. What for?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. I know the cops want me but I don\u2019t know why. I just know if I keep away from them for a month or two they won\u2019t want me any more.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat the bloody hell are you talking about?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI said I\u2019d know what it was about when I awoke. Well, I don’t\u2014not really. But I do know the cops want me to do something, or tell them something. And I know there\u2019s more to it than just the police. And I know that if I disappear for some time I won\u2019t be useful any more. So I\u2019m going on the run.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI suppose you’ll be all right with your FP. No problem. But why don\u2019t you co-operate.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t want to,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy run? With your FP they can\u2019t touch you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey can. I\u2019m sure they can.\u201d<\/p>\n I gave her a long look. I\u2019d always known Frenchy was odd, by the old standards. But as things were now it was saner to be odd. Still, all this cryptic hide-and-seek, all this prescient stuff, made me wonder.<\/p>\n She stared back. \u201cI\u2019m not cracked. I know what I”m doing. I\u2019ve got to keep away from the cops for a month or two because I don\u2019t want to co-operate. Then it will be OK.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo you mean you’ll be OK?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t know. Either that or it’ll be too late to do what they want. Are you coming?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI might as well,\u201d I said. When it came down to it, what had I got to lose? And Frenchy had an FP. We’d be millionaires. Or would we?<\/p>\n \u201cHow many FPs in Britain?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cAbout two hundred.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou can\u2019t use it then. If you go on the run using an FB you\u2019d\u2014we\u2019d never go unnoticed, We’ll stick out like a searchlight on a moor. And no one will cover for us. Why should they help an FP holder with the cops after her?\u201d<\/p>\n Frenchy frowned. \u201cI\u2019d better stock up here then. Then we can leave London and throw them off the scent.\u201d<\/p>\n I nodded and got up and into the rest of my gear. \u201cI’ll nip out and spend a few clothing coupons on decent clothes for you. You won\u2019t be so memorable then. They’ll just think you\u2019re some high-up civil servant. Then I’ll tell you who to go to. The cops will check with the dodgy suppliers last. They won\u2019t expect FP holders to use Sid\u2019s Foodmart when they could go to Fortnums. Then I’ll give you a list of what to get.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThanks, boss,\u201d she said. \u201cSo I was born yesterday.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIf I\u2019m coming with you I don\u2019t want any slip-ups. If we\u2019re caught you\u2019ll risk an unpleasant little telling-off. And I’ll be in a camp before you can say Abie Goldberg.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d she said bewilderedly. \u201cI don\u2019t think so.\u201d<\/p>\n I groaned. \u201cFrenchy, love. I don\u2019t know whether you\u2019re cracked, or Cassandra\u2019s second cousin. But if you can\u2019t be specific, let\u2019s play it sensible. OK?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMm,\u201d she said.\u201d<\/p>\n I hurried off to spend my clothing coupons at Arthur\u2019s.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n TWO<\/strong><\/p>\n IT WAS A soft day, drizzling a bit. I walked through the park. It was like a wood, now. The grass was deep and growing across the paths. Bushes and saplings had sprung up. Someone had built a small compound out of barbed wire on the grass just below the Atheneum. A couple of grubby white goats grazed inside. They must belong to the cops. With rations at two loaves a week people would eat them raw if they could get at them. Look what had happened to the vicar of All Saints, Margaret Street. He shouldn\u2019t have been so High Church\u2014all that talk about the body and blood of Christ had set the congregation thinking along unorthodox lines.<\/p>\n I walked on in the drizzle. No one around. Nice fresh day. Nice to get out of London.<\/p>\n \u201cAny food coupons?\u201d said a voice in my ear.<\/p>\n I turned sharply. It was a young woman, so thin her shoulder blades and cheek bones seemed pointed. In her arms was a small baby. Its face was blue. Its violet-shadowed eyes were closed. It was dressed in a tattered blue jumper.<\/p>\n I shrugged. \u201cSorry, love. I\u2019ve got a shilling\u2014any use?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey’d asked me where I\u2019d got it from. What\u2019s the good?\u201d she whispered, never taking her eyes off the child\u2019s face.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat’s wrong with the kid?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019ve cut off the dried milk. Unless you can feed them yourself they starve\u2014I\u2019m hungry.\u201d<\/p>\n I took out my diary. \u201cHere\u2019s the address of a woman called Jessie Wright. Her baby\u2019s just died of diptheria. She may take the kid on for you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDiptheria?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cLook, love, your kid\u2019s half-dead anyway. It\u2019s worth trying.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThanks,\u201d she said. Tears started to run down her face. She took the piece of paper and walked off.<\/p>\n \u201cHey ho,\u201d said I, walking on.<\/p>\n I crossed the Mall and got the usual suspicious stares from the mixed assortment of soldiery that half-filled it. The uniforms were all the same. You couldn\u2019t tell the noble Tommy from the fiendish Hun. I looked to my right and saw Buckingham Palace. From the mast flew a huge flag, a Union Jack with a bloody great swastika superimposed on it. I\u2019d never got rid of my loathing for that symbol, conceived as part of their perverted, crazy mysticism. Field Marshal Wilmot had been an officer in the Brigade of St. George\u2014British fascists who had fought with Hitler almost from the start. A shrewd character that Wilmot. He had a little moustache that was identical with the Leader\u2019s\u2014but as he was prematurely bald, hadn\u2019t been able to cultivate the lock of hair to go with it. He was fat and bloated with drink and probably drugs. He depended entirely on the Leader. If he hadn\u2019t been there it might have been a different story.<\/p>\n I walked down Buckingham Gate and turned right into Victoria Street. The Army and Navy Stores had become exactly what it said\u2014only the military elite could shop there.<\/p>\n Arthur was in business in the former foreign exchange kiosk at Victoria Station. I bunged over the coupons. Sunlight streamed through the shattered canopy of the station. There had been some street fighting around here but it hadn\u2019t lasted long.<\/p>\n \u201cI want a lady\u2019s coat, hat and shoes. Are these enough?\u201d<\/p>\n Arthur was small and shrewd. He only had one arm. He put the coupons under his scanner. \u201cThey\u2019re not fakes.\u201d I said impatiently. \u201cAre they enough?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJust about, mate\u2014as it\u2019s you,\u201d he said. He was a thin-faced cockney from the City. His kind had survived plagues, sweatshops and the depression. He\u2019d survive this, too. I happened to know he\u2019d been one of Mosely\u2019s fascists before the War\u2014in fact he\u2019d kicked a thin-skulled Jew in the head in Dalston in 1938, thus saving him from the gas chambers in 1948. Funny how things work out.<\/p>\n But somehow since the virile lads of the Wehrmacht had marched in he seemed to have cooled off the old blood brotherhood of the Aryans, so I never held it against him. Anyway, being about five foot two and weaselly with it, he was no snip for the selective breeding camps.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat size d\u2019you want?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, God. I don\u2019t know.\u2019<\/p>\n \u201cThe lady should have come herself.\u201d He looked suspicious.<\/p>\n \u201cCoppers tore her clothes off,\u201d I said. That satisfied him. A cop passed across the station at a distance. Arthur\u2019s eyes flicked, then came back to me.<\/p>\n \u201cFunny the way they left them in their helmets and so on,\u201d he said. \u201cSeems wrong, dunnit?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey wanted you to think they were the same blokes who used to tell you the time and find old Rover for you when he got lost.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAren\u2019t they?\u201d Arthur said sardonically. \u201cYou should have lived round where I lived mate. Still, this won\u2019t buy baby a new pair of boots. What\u2019s the lady look like?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAbout five nine or ten. Big feet.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCoo\u2014no wonder the coppers fancied her,\u201d he jeered jealously. \u201cYou must feel all warm and safe with her. Thin or fat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCome off it Arthur. Who\u2019s fat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGirls who know cops.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis one didn\u2019t until last night.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNothing dodgy is it?\u201d His eyes started looking suspicious again.<\/p>\n Trading licenses were hard to come by these days. I thought of telling him about Frenchy\u2019s full passport, but dismissed the idea. It would sound like a fantastic, dirty great lie.<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s OK. She just wants some clothes that\u2019s all.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIf she got her clothes torn off why don\u2019t she want a dress? That\u2019s more important to a lady than a hat\u2014a lady what is a lady that is.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGive me the coupons, Arthur.\u201d I stretched out my hand.\u201dYou\u2019re not the only clothes trader around. I came here to buy some gear, not tell you my love life.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOK, Lowry. One coat, one hat, one pair of shoes, size 7\u2014and God help you if her feet\u2019s size 5.\u201d Arthur produced the things with a wonderful turn of speed. \u201cAnd that’ll be a quid on top.\u201d<\/p>\n I\u2019d expected this. I handed him the pound. As I put the goods in a paper bag I said \u201cI took the number of that quid, mate. If the cops call on me about this deal I\u2019ll be able to tell them you\u2019re taking cash off the customers. They may not nick you, of course\u2014but they may soak you hard.\u201d<\/p>\n He called me a bastard and added some more specific details, then said\u201dNo hard feelings, Lowry. But I thought all along this was a dodgy deal.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou mind your business, chum, I’ll mind mine,\u201d I said. \u201cSo long.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo long,\u201d he said. I headed back towards the park.<\/p>\n Frenchy was asleep when I got back. She looked fragile, practically TB. I woke her up and handed her the gear. She put it on.<\/p>\n \u201cFrenchy, love,\u201d I said sadly. \u201cI\u2019ve got to break it to you\u2014you must have a wash. And comb your hair. And haven\u2019t you got a lipstick?\u201d<\/p>\n She sulked but I fetched some water. By some accident Pevensey had missed what was left in the taps. She washed, combed her hair with my comb and we made up her lips with a Swan Vesta.<\/p>\n I stood back. Black coat, a bit short with a fur collar, white beret and black high heeled shoes.<\/p>\n \u201cHonestly, French, you look like Marlene Dietrich,\u201d I said partly to give her the morale to carry off the FP-ing, partly because it was almost true. It was a pity she looked so undernourished, but perhaps they\u2019d think it was natural.<\/p>\n \u201cGet yourself some make-up while you\u2019re at it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHere,\u201d she said in alarm, \u201cI don\u2019t know what to do.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou mean you’ve never used that passport,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t if you were me,\u201d she replied. For her that was obviously the question you never asked, like\u201dwhere were you in ’45\u201d or\u201dwhat happened to cousin Fred.\u201d Her face was dark.<\/p>\n I passed it off. \u201cYou\u2019re cracked. Never mind. Just march into the place. Look confident. Tell them what you want. They’ll cotton on immediately. You probably won\u2019t even need to show it to them. Scoop the stuff up and go. Don\u2019t forget they\u2019re scared of you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOK.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHere\u2019s the list of what we want and where to get it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d she glanced over the list. \u201cBrandy, eh?\u201d<\/p>\n I grinned. \u2018\u2018Christmas, after all. You never drink, though.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. It does something bad to me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUh huh. Use a slight German accent. That’ll convince them.\u201d<\/p>\n She left and I went and lay down. I felt tired after all that.<\/p>\n And, lo, another knock at my door. Thinking it was Pevensey wanting me to get him some more quack medicine, I shouted \u201ccome in.\u201d<\/p>\n *<\/p>\n He stood in the doorway, a vision of loveliness in his black striped coat and pinstriped trousers. He glanced round fastidiously at my cracked lino, peeling wallpaper, the net curtain that was hanging down on one side of the small greasy window. Well, he had a right. He paid the rent, after all.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t get up. \u201cHullo, mein Gottfried,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cHullo, old man.\u201d He came in. Sat down on my armchair like a man performing an emergency appendectomy with a rusty razor blade. He lit a Sobranie.<\/p>\n As an afterthought he flung the packet to me. I took one, lit it and shoved the packet under the mattress.<\/p>\n \u201cI thought I\u2019d look in,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cHow sweet of you. It must be two years now. Still, Christmas is the time for the family, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, quite… How are you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRubbing along, thanks, Godfrey. And you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot too bad.\u201d<\/p>\n The scene galled me. When we were young, before the war, we had been friends. Even if we hadn\u2019t been, brothers were still brothers. It wasn\u2019t that I minded hating my brother, that\u2019s common enough. It was that I didn\u2019t hate him the way brothers hate. I hated him coldly and sickly.<\/p>\n At that moment I would have liked to fall on him and throttle him, but only in the cold, satisfied way you rake down a flypaper studded with flies.<\/p>\n Besides I still couldn\u2019t see why he had come.<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019s the\u2014playing?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cNot bad, you know. I\u2019m at the Merrie Englande these days.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo I heard.\u201d<\/p>\n Hullo, I thought, I see glimmers of light. He saw I saw them\u2014he was, after all, my brother.<\/p>\n \u201cI wondered if you\u2019d like some lunch,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n Normally I would have refused, but I knew he might stay and catch Frenchy coming back. So I pretended to hesitate. \u201cAll right, I\u2019m hungry enough for anything.\u201d<\/p>\n We went down the cracked steps and walked up Park Lane. The drizzle had stopped and a cold sun had come out and made the street look even more depressing. Boarded up hotels, looted shops, cracked facades, grass growing in the broken streets, bent lamp standards, the park itself a tangled forest of weeds. It was sordid.<\/p>\n \u201cThinking of cleaning up, ever, Godfrey?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cNot my department,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201dSomeone ought to.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo man-power, You see,\u201d he said. I bet, I thought. Naturally they left it. One look was enough to break anyone\u2019s morale. If you were wondering how defeated and broken you were and looked at Park Lane, or Piccadilly, or Trafalgar Square, you\u2019d soon know\u2014completely.<\/p>\n Godfrey took me to a sandwich and soup place on the corner. A glance and the man behind the counter knew him for an FP holder. So the food wasn\u2019t bad, although Godfrey picked at it like a man used to something better.<\/p>\n Conversation stopped. The customers bent their shoulders over their plates of sandwiches and munched stolidly. Godfrey didn\u2019t seem to notice. He probably never had noticed. I had to face facts\u2014although a member of my own family, Godfrey had always been a kraut psychologically. Always neat, always methodical, jumping his hurdles\u2014exams, tests and assignments at work\u2014like a trained horse. It wasn\u2019t that he didn\u2019t care about other people\u2014I can\u2019t say I did\u2014he just never knew there was anything to care about.<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019s the department?\u201d I asked, beginning the ridiculous question and answer game again\u2014as if either of us worried about anything to do with the other.<\/p>\n \u201dGoing well.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd Andrea?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s well.\u201d<\/p>\n She ought to be, I thought. Fat cow. She\u2019d married Godfrey for his steady civil service job and made a far better bargain that she\u2019d thought.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat about you\u2014are you thinking of getting married?\u201d<\/p>\n I stared at him. Who married these days unless they had a steady job at one of the factories or on road transport, or, of course, in the police?<\/p>\n \u201cNot exactly. Haven\u2019t really got the means to keep my bride in the accustomed manner.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh,\u201d said Godfrey. Watch it, I thought. I knew that expression. \u201cOh, they said Sebastian\u2019d been riding Celeste\u2019s bike, mother.\u201d \u201cOh, father, I thought you’d given Seb permission<\/em> to go out climbing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI mentioned it because they told me you were engaged to a singer at the Merrie Englande.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho are they?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, my private secretary, as a matter of fact. He\u2019s a customer.\u201d<\/p>\n Yeah, I thought, like a rag and bone man\u2019s a customer at the Ritz. He\u2019d heard it from some spy.<\/p>\n \u201cWell,\u201d I said. \u201cI can\u2019t think how he managed to get that idea. I\u2019m not sure there’s a regular singer at the Merrie…\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis girl was supposed to be like you\u2014a sort of casual entertainer. A German girl I think he said.\u201d<\/p>\n Too specific, chum. That line might just work with a stranger\u2014not with your little brother.<\/p>\n \u201cI think I’ve met her. In fact I\u2019ve played for her once or twice. I don\u2019t know much about her, though. I\u2019m certainly not engaged to her.\u201d<\/p>\n Godfrey bit into a sandwich. I\u2019d closed that line of enquiry. He was wondering how to open another.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s a relief. She sounds a tramp.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe want to repatriate her\u2014know where she is?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy should I?\u201d I said. \u201cApart from that, why should I help you? If she doesn\u2019t want to be repatriated, that\u2019s her business.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBe realistic, Sebby\u2014anyway, she does want to be, or she would do, if she knew. Her aunt\u2019s died and left her a lot of money. The other side has asked us to let her know so she can go home and sort out her affairs.\u201d<\/p>\n I went on drinking soup, but I wondered. Perhaps the story was true. Still, I didn\u2019t need to put Godfrey on to her\u2014I could tell her myself.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, I\u2019ll tell her if I see her. I doubt if I shall. I should leave a message at the Merrie.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n He looked up broodingly, staring round in that blank way people have when they\u2019re bored with their eating companion.<\/p>\n I followed his gaze. My eyes lit on Frenchy. Loaded with parcels, she was buying food and having a flask filled with coffee at the counter. I went rigid. Frenchy had gained confidence\u2014she was buying like an FP holder. And anyone with that amount of stuff on them attracted attention anyway. She was attracting it all right. Godfrey was the only man in the room who wasn\u2019t looking at her and pretending not to. He was just looking at her. I couldn\u2019t decide if he was watching her like a cat or just watching.<\/p>\n \u201cHeard about Freddy Gore,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d said Godfrey, not taking his eyes off her.<\/p>\n \u201cHe committed suicide,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cWell I\u2019m damned,\u201d said Godfrey, looking at me greedily. \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt was his wife. He came home one afternoon. I spoke on hastily. Frenchy was still buying. Half the customers were still pointedly ignoring her\u2014apart from anything else she looked quite good in her new gear. She picked up her stuff and left without showing her FP to the man behind the counter. She left without Godfrey noticing. I brought my tale of lust, adultery, rape and murder in the Gore family to a speedy close. A horrible thought had struck me. Godfrey was a high up. He knew about Frenchy and he knew I knew her. There were a lot of cops on the job and he might have fixed it so that some were watching my house. Somehow I had to shift him and catch Frenchy before she got back.<\/p>\n \u201cShocking story,\u201d said Godfrey. looking at his watch. \u201cI must be getting back. Like a lift?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot going in that direction,\u201d I said. \u201cThanks all the same.\u201d<\/p>\n So he flagged down a passing car and told the sulky driver to take him to Buckingham Palace\u2014the krauts had restored it at huge expense for the Ministry of Security as well as our paternal governor.<\/p>\n I walked slowly down the road, turned off and ran like hell. I caught Frenchy, all burdened with parcels, just in time.<\/p>\n \u201cBetter not go back,\u201d I gasped. \u201cThey may be watching the hotel.\u201d<\/p>\n There was a car standing outside a house just down the street. I ran her up to it and tugged at the door. It wasn\u2019t locked. I shoved her paper bags, flask and all, in and got in the driving seat.<\/p>\n A stocky man ran out of the house. He had a revolver in his hand. I started up. Frenchy had the passport out. I grabbed it and waved it at the man with the gun.<\/p>\n \u201cFull passport!\u201d I yelled.<\/p>\n He stood staring at the back of the car. He didn\u2019t even dare snarl.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat makes you think they\u2019re watching the hotel?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n I told her about Godfrey.<\/p>\n She frowned. \u201cI must be right about having to run.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAre you sure it isn\u2019t this legacy they say you’ve inherited?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI’ve only got one aunt and she\u2019s broke. Besides, why should your brother get involved in such a silly little business?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause your father\u2019s so important. Or perhaps Papa just wants you home and made up the aunt business to cover up the fact that you\u2019re his no-good daughter who\u2019s dragging about occupied territory, dragging the family name in the mud behind her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCould be. It\u2019s not though. I\u2019m still not sure\u2014you’ll have to believe me. In the past I’ve been\u2014well\u2014important. It\u2019s to do with that, I know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat sort of important?\u201d<\/p>\n She began to cry, great, racking sobs which bent her double.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t ask me\u2014oh, don\u2019t ask me.\u201d<\/p>\n I got hard-hearted. \u201cCome on, Frenchy. Why should I break the law for you?\u201d \u201cNuts. You can remember if you want to.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t. I don\u2019t want to.\u201d<\/p>\n I passed her my handkerchief silently. How important could she have been\u2014at 20 years old? She must have been at school until a couple of years ago.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere did you go to school?\u201d I asked, more to pass the time than anything.<\/p>\n \u201cI was at the Berlin Gymnasium for Girls. When I was 13, I\u2014they took me away.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201dThen the tears stopped and when I glanced at her, she had fainted. I pushed her back so that she was sitting comfortably, and drove on.<\/p>\n As dark came we reached Histon, just outside Cambridge, and spent the night in the car, parked beside a hedge, inside a field.<\/p>\n When I woke next morning, there was a rifle barrel in my ear.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n THREE<\/strong><\/p>\n \u201cOh, GAWD,\u201d I said. \u201cWhat\u2019s this?\u201d<\/p>\n A hand opened the car door and dragged me out. I lay on the ground with the barrel pointing at my belly. Above the barrel was a red face topped by a trilby hat. It wasn\u2019t a copper anyway.<\/p>\n I glanced sideways at the car. Inside, Frenchy was sitting up. Outside another man pointed a rifle at her temple, through the open window.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat’s all this about?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019re you?\u201d the man said.<\/p>\n \u201cSebastian Lowry and Frenchy Steiner.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat’re you here for?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJust riding.\u201d<\/p>\n The gun barrel dropped. The man was looking at his friend.<\/p>\n Then I saw\u2014Frenchy had her passport out.<\/p>\n He touched his hat and retreated quickly, mumbling apologies. So I got back in the car and we snuggled up and back to sleep.<\/p>\n When we woke up, we had coffee from the flask, and a sandwich. Then we walked round the field. One or two birds cheeped from the bare hedges and our feet sank into ploughed furrows. It was silent and lonely. We walked round and round, breathing deeply.<\/p>\n We sat down and looked out over the big, flat field, sharing a bar of chocolate.<\/p>\n Frenchy smiled at me\u2014a real smile, not her usual what-the-hell grin. I smiled back. We sat on. No noise, no people, no grimy, cracked buildings, no cops. A pale sun was high in the sky. The birds cheeped. I took Frenchy\u2019s hand. It felt strange, to be holding someone\u2019s hand again. It was warm and dry. Her fingers gripped mine. I stared at the pale, pointed profile beside me, and the long, messy blonde hair. Then I looked at the field again. We started a second bar of chocolate. Frenchy yawned. The silence went on and on. And on and on.<\/p>\n I was staring numbly across the acres of brown earth when Frenchy\u2019s hand clenched painfully on mine.<\/p>\n Slowly, from behind every bush, like the characters in some monstrous, silent film, the cops were rising. On all sides, over the bare bushes, came a pair of blue shoulders, topped by a helmet. They rose slowly until they were standing. Then they moved silently forward. They tightened in.<\/p>\n Frenchy and I rose. The circle closed. To keep in the centre we had to move over to the road. Slowly they drove us out of the field, past our car, through the gate and on to the road. No one spoke. All we heard was the sound of their boots on the earth. Their faces were rigid, like cops faces always are.<\/p>\n Coming through the gate, we saw the reception committee. Three of them. My friend Inspector Braun, all knife-edged creases and polished buttons, and brother Godfrey. And then a short fat man I didn\u2019t know. He was wearing a well-cut suit and power, as they say, was written all over him, from his small, neatly shod feet, to his balding head.<\/p>\n Frenchy stepped up to the group. \u201cHullo, father,\u201d she said in German.<\/p>\n \u201cHullo, Franziska. We\u2019ve found you at last, I see.\u201d<\/p>\n Godfrey smirked. Extra rations for good old Gottfried tomorrow. Maybe the Iron Cross.<\/p>\n So I thought I\u2019d embarrass him. \u201cHi, Godfrey, old man.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMorning, Sebastian.\u201d How he wished I wasn\u2019t shaking his hand. \u201cWe\u2019re parked up the road. Come on.\u201d<\/p>\n So we walked up the road to the shiny blue car that would take us back to God knew where\u2014or what.<\/p>\n How silently they must have moved. What bloody fools we\u2019d been not to get away after those two farmers had copped us. Godfrey and friends had probably had bulletins out for us all morning.<\/p>\n I sat at the back, between Godfrey and the Inspector. Frenchy was in front with her father and the driver.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s nice to know officialdom has its more human side,\u201d I remarked. \u201cTo think that deputy security minister, a CID Inspector and 50 coppers should all come out on a cold winter\u2019s morning to see a young girl gets the legacy that\u2019s rightfully hers.\u201d<\/p>\n Godfrey said nothing. He merely looked important. From the way Braun didn\u2019t grip my arm and the driver didn\u2019t keep glancing over his shoulder to see who I was coshing, I got the impression this wasn’t a hanging charge. There was a sort of alligator grin in the air\u2014cops taking home a naughty under-age couple who had run off to get married\u2014not that cops did that kind of little social service job these days, but, wistfully, they kept trying to make you think so.<\/p>\n But what was the set-up? In front Frenchy had given up talking to her father\u2014he cut every remark off at source. Why? No family rows in public? Frenchy, what I could see of her, looked like a girl on a cart bound for the scaffold. Her father looked like a man determined to knock some sense into his daughter\u2019s flighty head as soon as he got her home. Godfrey merely looked pontifical. Braun looked official.<\/p>\n Frenchy tried again. \u201cFather. I can\u2019t<\/em> go\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBe quiet!\u201d said her father. Godfrey was listening hard. Suddenly I got the picture. Godfrey and Braun didn’t know what it was all about.<\/em> And Frenchy\u2019s father didn\u2019t want them to.<\/p>\n It must be really something, then, I thought.<\/p>\n There was silence all the way back to London. What about me? I thought. I\u2019m just not in this at all. But I bet it\u2019s me who takes the rap. The car stopped in Trafalgar Square. Frenchy and her father got out. He hurried her up the steps of the Goering Hotel. Her eyes were burning like coals.<\/p>\n Then Godfrey and Braun pulled me out. \u201cYou’ll be in a suite here till we decide what to do with you,\u201d Godfrey said in a low voice. \u201cDon\u2019t worry. I’ll do what I can to help.\u201d<\/p>\n I won\u2019t say tears came to his eyes\u2014I knew just how far he would go to help. I said goodbye to him and Braun led me up the marble steps. The place was crowded with neat soldiery. We were joined by the hotel manager and two coppers. We went up to the top storey and I was shown my suite. Three rooms and a bathroom. Quite a nice little shack, although somewhat Teutonically furnished. It was elegant, but there was the smell of loot about it. You kept wondering which bit of furniture covered the bloodstains where they\u2019d bayonetted the Countess and her kids one morning.<\/p>\n Then the two policemen stationed themselves, one at the door and one inside with me. That wasn\u2019t so pleasant. I wondered when the cop was going to suggest a hand of nap to while away the time before the execution. I looked about appreciatively, sat down on the blue silk sofa and said \u201cWhat now?\u201d<\/p>\n A waiter came in with tea and toast. One cup. I asked the cop if he\u2019d like some. He refused. As I went to pour out my second cup I saw why, because the room began to spin. \u201cThis hotel isn\u2019t what it was,\u201d I muttered and fell down.<\/p>\n *<\/p>\n I woke up next morning in a four-poster. Frenchy, in a red silk nightdress and negligee was bending over me with a cup of coffee. I hauled myself up, noticing my blue silk pyjamas, and took the cup.<\/p>\n She sat down at the Louise XIV table beside the bed. She went on eating rolls and butter. Her hair, obviously washed, cascaded down her back like gold thread.<\/p>\n \u201cVery nice,\u201d I said, handing back my cup for a refill. \u201cIf I didn\u2019t wonder whose Christmas dinner I was being fattened for. Where\u2019s the cop?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI sent him outside.\u201d I began to glance round. The windows were barred.<\/p>\n \u201cYou can\u2019t get out. The place is heavily guarded and the cops will shoot you on sight.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s new?\u201d<\/p>\n She ignored me. \u201cYou\u2019re quite safe as long as you\u2019re with me. I\u2019ve told them I\u2019ve got to have you with me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s nice. How long will you be around?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI thought you\u2019d spot a snag!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLook, Frenchy. I think you\u2019d better tell me what this is about. It\u2019s my carcass after all.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI will,\u201d she said calmly. \u201cPrepare yourself for surprises.\u201d She seemed very matter of fact, but her face had the calm of a woman who\u2019s just had a baby, the pain and shock were over, but she knew this was really only the beginning of the trouble.<\/p>\n \u201cI told you I was at a gymnasium in Berlin until I was 13. Then I began seeing visions. Of course, the tutors didn\u2019t make much of it at first. It\u2019s not too unusual in girls at the beginning of puberty. The trouble was, they weren’t the usual kind of visions. I used to see tables surrounded by German officers. I used to overhear conferences. I saw tanks going into battle, burning cities, concentration camps\u2014things I couldn\u2019t possibly know about. Then, one night, my room-mate heard me talking English in my sleep. I was talking about battle plans, using military terms and English slang I also couldn\u2019t possibly have known. She told the House Leader. The House Leader told my father, who was then only a captain in the S.S. Father was an intelligent man. He took me to Karl Ossietz, one of the Leader\u2019s chief soothsayers. A month later I was installed in a suite at headquarters. I was dressed in a white linen dress, my hair was bound with a gold band. I\u2019d become part of the German myth…<\/p>\n \u201cI was the virgin who prophesied to Atilla, I was thirteen years old and I lived like a ritual captive for four years, Officiating at sacrifices and Teutonic Saturnalia, watching goats have their throats cut with gold knives, seeing torch light on the walls\u2014all that. And I thought it was marvellous, to be helping the cause like that. I went into a kind of mystic dream where I was an Ayran queen helping her nation to victory. And in my midnight conferences with the Leader I prophesied. I told him not to attack Russia\u2014I knew he would be defeated. I told him where to concentrate his forces to use them to their best effect. Oh, and much, much more…<\/p>\n \u201cAlso only I could soothe him when his attacks of mania came on\u2014by putting my hands on him the way I did for you the other day. I\u2019m not a real healer. I can\u2019t cure the body. But I can reach into overtaxed or unstable minds and take away the tightness.<\/p>\n \u201cWhen the war ended, I just left in a daze. They thought they didn\u2019t really need me at that time. There was something in the back of my mind\u2014I don\u2019t know what it was\u2014made me come here, with my passport, my safe conducts, my letters of introduction… When I saw what I had done to you all\u2014what could I do? I tried to kill myself and failed\u2014maybe I wasn\u2019t trying hard enough. Then I tried to live with you, simply because I couldn\u2019t think of anything else to do. A stronger person might have thought of practical ways to help\u2014but I\u2019d spent four years in an atmosphere of blood and hysteria, calling on the psychic part of me and ignoring the rest. I was unfit for life. I just tried to forget everything that had ever happened to me.\u201d<\/p>\n She shrugged. \u201cThat\u2019s it.\u201d<\/p>\n I stared at her, feeling a horrible pity. She knew she had been used to kill millions of people and reduce a dozen nations to slavery. And she had got to live with it.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s it all about now?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cThey need me again. There must be desperate problems to be solved. Or the Leader\u2019s madness is getting worse. Or both. That\u2019s why I felt if I could disappear for a month it would be all right. By that time no one could have cleared up the mess.\u201d She lit a cigarette, passed it to me and lit one for herself.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you going to do?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. If I don\u2019t help they’ll torture me until I do. I\u2019m not strong enough to resist. But I can\u2019t, can\u2019t can’t co-operate any more. If I had the guts I’d kill myself but I haven\u2019t. Anyway, they\u2019ve taken away anything I could use to do it. That\u2019s why all the windows are barred\u2014it\u2019s not to stop you escaping. It\u2019s to stop me from throwing myself out. I don\u2019t suppose you\u2019d kill me quickly, so I wouldn\u2019t know anything about it?\u201d<\/p>\n In a sense the idea was tempting. A chance to get back at the Leader with a vengeance. But I knew I couldn\u2019t kill poor, thin Frenchy.<\/p>\n I told her so. \u201cI\u2019m too kind-hearted,\u201d I said. \u201cIf I killed you, how could I go on hoping you\u2019d have a better life?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI won\u2019t. If I\u2019m needed they\u2019ll cage me again. And this time I\u2019ll have known freedom. I’ll be back in robes, with incense and torchlight and all the time I\u2019ll be able to remember being free\u2014walking in the field at Histon, for example.\u201d I felt very sad. Then I felt even sadder\u2014I was thinking about myself.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat happens next?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cThey’ll fly me to Germany. You\u2019re coming too.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, no.\u201d I said. \u201cNot Germany. I wouldn\u2019t stand a chance.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat chance do you stand here? If I went and you stayed, you\u2019d be shot the moment I left the building. They can\u2019t risk letting you go about with your story.\u201d<\/p>\n Her shoulders were bowed. She looked as if she had no inner resources left. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. It\u2019s my fault. I should have left you alone. If I’d never made you run away with me you’d be safe now.\u201d<\/p>\n That wasn\u2019t how I remembered it exactly, but I\u2019d rather blame her than me for my predicament. I agreed, oh, how I agreed. Still, once a gent, always a gent. \u201cNever mind that. I’ll come and perhaps we can think of something.\u201d I was dubious about that, but by that time I was too far in.<\/p>\n So at eleven that morning we left the hotel for the airport. From Berlin we went by limousine to the Leader\u2019s palace. I\u2019ve never been so afraid in my life. It\u2019s one thing to go in daily danger of being shot, or sent to starve in a camp. It\u2019s another thing to fly straight into the centre of all the trouble. I was so afraid I could hardly speak. Not that anyone wanted to hear from me anyway. I was just a passenger\u2014like a bullock on its way to the abattoir.<\/p>\n During the trip, Frenchy\u2019s father kept up a nervous machine-gun monologue of demands that she would cooperate and promises of a glorious future for her. Frenchy said nothing. She looked drained.<\/p>\n We arrived in the green courtyard of the palace. On the other side of the wall I heard the rush of a water-fall into a pool. The palace was half old German mansion, half modern Teutonic, with vulgar marble statues all over the place\u2014supermen on super-horses. That\u2019s the nearest they\u2019d got to the master-race, so far. A white haired old man led the jackbooted party which met us.<\/p>\n Frenchy smiled when she saw him, a child\u2019s smile.<\/p>\n \u201cKarl,\u201d she said. Even her voice was like the voice of a very young girl. I shuddered. The spell was beginning to operate again\u2014that blank face, the voice of the little school girl. Oh, Frenchy, love, I sighed to myself. Don\u2019t let them do it to you. She was being led along by Karl Ossietz, across the green courtyard.<\/p>\n We made a peculiar gang. In front, Ossietz, tall and thin, with long white hair, and Frenchy, now looking so frail a breeze might blow her away. Behind them a group of begonged generals, all horribly familiar to me from seeing their portraits on pub signs. Just behind them rolled Frenchy\u2019s father, trying to join in. Then me, with two ordinary German cops. I caught myself feeling peeved that if I made a dash for it I\u2019d be shot down by an ordinary cop.<\/p>\n Then Karl turned sharply back, stared at me and said: \u201cWho\u2019s that?\u201d<\/p>\n Her father said: \u201cHe\u2019s an Englishman. She wouldn\u2019t come without him.\u201d<\/p>\n Karl looked furious and terrified. His face began to crumble. \u201cAre you lovers?\u201d he shouted at Frenchy.<\/p>\n \u201cNo, Karl,\u201d\u2019 she whispered. He stared long and deeply into her eyes, then nodded.<\/p>\n \u201cThey must be separated,\u201d he said to Frenchy\u2019s father.<\/p>\n Frenchy said nothing. Suddenly I felt more than concern for her\u2014panic for myself. The only reason I\u2019d come here was because she could protect me. Now she could, but she wasn\u2019t interested any more. So instead of being shot in England, I was going to be shot right outside the Leader\u2019s front door. Still, dead was dead, be it palace or dustbin.<\/p>\n We entered the huge dark hall, full of figures in ancient armours and dark horrible little doors: leading away to who knew where. The mosaic floor almost smelt of blood. My legs practically gave way under me. I saw Frenchy being led up the marble staircase. I felt tears come to my eyes\u2014for her, for me, for both of us.<\/p>\n Then they took me along a corridor and up the back stairs, They shoved me through a door. I stood there for several minutes. Then I looked round. Well, it wasn\u2019t a rat-haunted oubliette, at any rate. In fact it was the double of my suite at the Goering Hotel. Same thick carpets, heavy antique furniture, even\u2014I poked my head round the door\u2014the same four-poster. Obviously they picked up their furniture at all the little chateaux and castles they happened to run across on a Saturday morning march.<\/p>\n In the bedroom, torches burned. I took off my clothes and got into bed. I was asleep.<\/p>\n The first thing I saw as I awoke was that the torches were burning down. Then I saw Frenchy, naked as a peeled wand, pulling back the embroidered covers and coming into bed. Then I felt her warmth beside me.<\/p>\n \u201cDo it for me,\u201d she murmured. \u201cPlease.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTake me,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n \u201cEh?\u201d I was somewhat shocked. People like Frenchy and me had a code. This wasn\u2019t part of it.<\/p>\n \u201cOh please,\u201d she said, pressing her long body against me. \u201cIt\u2019s so important.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh\u2014let\u2019s have a fag,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n She sank back. \u201cHaven\u2019t got any,\u201d came her sulky voice.<\/p>\n I found some in my pocket and we lit up. \u201cMay as well drop the ash on the carpet,\u201d I said. \u201cNot much point in behaving nicely so we’ll be asked again.\u201d I was purposely being irrelevant. Code or no code the situation was beginning to affect me. I tried to concentrate on my imminent death. It had the opposite effect.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t understand, love,\u201d I said, taking her hand.<\/p>\n \u201cI had to crawl over the roof to get here,\u201d she said, rather annoyed.<\/p>\n \u201cIt can\u2019t just be passion,\u201d I suggested politely.<\/p>\n \u201cDidn\u2019t you hear\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy God,\u201d I said. \u201cOssietz. Do you mean that if you’re not a virgin, you can\u2019t prophesy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know\u2014he seems to think so. It\u2019s my only chance. He’ll make me do whatever he wants me to\u2014but if I can\u2019t perform, if it seems the power\u2019s gone\u2014it won\u2019t matter. They may shoot me, but it will be a quick death.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t be so dramatic, love.\u201d I put my cigarette out on the bed head and took her in my arms. \u201cI love you, Frenchy.\u201d I said. And it was quite true. I did.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n FOUR<\/strong><\/p>\n THAT WAS THE best night of my life. Frenchy was sweet, and actually so was I. It was a relief to drop the mask for a few hours. As dawn came through the windows she lay in our tangled bed like a piece of pale wreckage.<\/p>\n She smiled at me and I smiled back. I gave her a kiss. \u201cA man who would do anything for his country,\u201d she grinned.<\/p>\n \u201cHow are you going to get back?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cI thought I’d go back over the roof\u2014but now I\u2019m not sure I’ll ever walk again.\u201d<\/p>\n I said: \u201cHave I hurt you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLike hell. I’ll bluff my way out. The guards will be tired and I doubt if they know anything. Anyway all roads lead to the same destination now.\u201d<\/p>\n I began to cry. That\u2019s the thing about an armadillo\u2014underneath his flesh is more tender than a bear\u2019s. Not that I cared if I cried, or if she cried, or if the whole palace rang with sobs. The torches were guttering out.<\/p>\n She stood naked beside the bed. Then she put on her clothes, said goodbye. I heard her speaking authoritatively outside the door, heels clicking, and then her feet going along the corridor.<\/p>\n I just went on crying. Her meeting with the Leader was in two hours time. If I went on crying for two hours I wouldn’t have to think about it all.<\/p>\n I couldn\u2019t. By the time the guard came in with my breakfast, I was dressed and dry-eyed. He looked through the open door at the bed and gave a wink. He said something in German I couldn’t understand, so I knew the words weren’t in the dictionary. I stared at the bed and my stomach lurched. It seemed a bit rude to feel lust for a woman who was going to die. Still I was going to die, too, so it was probably all right. Perhaps there was a heaven\u2014but I doubted if being in bed with Frenchy was part of it. Perhaps they’d take pity on me and put me in the Moslem Section with Frenchy as my houri. I doubted if there was an imam in the palace though.<\/p>\n Then I realised my condition was getting critical, so I ate my breakfast to bring me to my senses. The four last things, that was what I ought to be thinking about. What were they?<\/p>\n Suddenly I thought of the woman with the baby in the park. If Frenchy couldn\u2019t help the Leader, perhaps he\u2019d go. Perhaps they\u2019d lead a better life.<\/p>\n I paced the floor, wondering what was happening now.<\/p>\n This was what was happening…<\/p>\n *<\/p>\n Frenchy was bathed, dressed in a white linen robe with a red cloak and led down to the great hall.<\/p>\n The Leader was sitting on a dais in a heavy wooden chair. His arms were extended along the arms of the chair, his face held the familiar look of stern command, now a cracking facade covering decay and lunacy.<\/p>\n On his lips were traces of foam. Around him were his advisors, belted and booted, robed and capped or blonde and dressed in sub-valkyrie silk dresses. The court of the mad king\u2014the atmosphere was hung with heavy incomprehensibilities. Led by her father and Karl Ossietz, Frenchy approached the dais.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2014need\u2014you\u2014\u201d the Leader grunted. His court held their places by will power. They were terrified, and with good reason. The hall had seen terrible things in the past year. There were, too, one or two faces blankly waiting for the outcome. As the old pack-leader sickens, the younger wolves start to plan.<\/p>\n \u201cWe \u2014 have \u2014 sought \u2014 you for \u2014 half a year,\u201d the grating, half-human voice went on. \u201cWe need your predictions. We need your\u2014health!<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n His eyes stared into hers. He leapt up with a cry. \u201cHelp! Help! Help!\u201d His voice rang round the hall. More foam appeared at his lips. His face twisted.<\/p>\n \u201cGo forward to the Leader,\u201d Karl Ossietz ordered.<\/p>\n Frenchy stepped forward. The court looked at her, hoping.<\/p>\n \u201cHelp! Help!\u201d the mad, uncontrollable voice went on. He fell back, writhing on his throne.<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t help,\u201d she said in a clear voice.<\/p>\n Karl\u2019s whisper came, smooth and terrifying, in her ear: \u201cGo forward!\u201d<\/p>\n She went forward, compelled by the voice. Then she stopped again.<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t help.\u201d She turned to Ossietz. \u201cCan I, Karl? You can see?\u201d<\/p>\n He stared at her in horror, then at the writhing man, making animal noises on the dais, then back at Frenchy Steiner.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2014you\u2014you have fallen…\u201d he whispered. \u201cNo. No, she cannot help!\u201d he called. \u201cThe girl is no longer a virgin\u2014her power has gone!\u201d<\/p>\n The court looked at the Leader, then at Frenchy.<\/p>\n In a moment, chaos had broken out. Women screamed \u2014there was a rush to the heavy doors. Men\u2019s voices rose, shouted. Then came the crack of the first gun, followed by others. In a moment the hall was milling and ringing with shots, groans and shouts.<\/p>\n On the dais, the Leader lay, twisting and uttering gutteral moans. The pack was at frenzied war. Those who had considered the Leader immortal\u2014and many had \u2014were bewildered, terrified. Those who had planned to succeed him now hardly knew what to do. Several of them shot themselves there and then.<\/p>\n *<\/p>\n I was lying on the bed smoking when Frenchy ran in, slammed and bolted the doors behind the guards and her pursuers. Her hair was dishevelled, she held the scarlet cloak round her. \u201cOut of the window,\u201d she yelled, ripping it off. Underneath, her white dress was in ribbons.<\/p>\n I got up on to the window-sill and helped her after me. I looked down towards the courtyard far below. I clung to the sill.<\/p>\n \u201cGo on!\u201d<\/p>\n I reached out and got a grip on a drainpipe. I began to slide down it, the metal chafing my hands. She followed.<\/p>\n At the bottom, I paused, helped her down the last few feet and pointed at a staff car that was parked near the gates. Guards had left the gates and were probably taking part in the indoor festivities. There was only one there and he hadn\u2019t seen us. He was looking warily out along the road, as if expecting attack.<\/p>\n We skipped over the lawn and got into the car. I Started up.<\/p>\n At the gate, the guard, seeing a general\u2019s insignia on the car, automatically stepped aside. Then he saw us, did a double-take, and it was too late. We roared down that road, away from there.<\/p>\n The road ahead was clear.<\/p>\n *<\/p>\n True to form, Frenchy had found and put on an officer\u2019s white mac from the back seat.<\/p>\n I slowed down. There was no point in doing 80 toward any danger on the road.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd have you lost your power?\u201d I asked her.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t know,\u201d she gave me an irresponsible grin.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat was going on below? It sounded like a battlefield.\u201d<\/p>\n She told me.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Leader\u2019s finished. His successors are fighting among themselves. This is the end of the Thousand Year Reich.\u201d She grinned again. \u201cI did it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, come now,\u201d I protested. \u201cAnyway I think we’ll try to get back to England?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201dWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause if the Empire\u2019s crumbling, England will go first. It\u2019s an island. \u201cThey’ll withdraw the legions to defend the Empire\u2014it\u2019s traditional.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCan we make it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot now. We’ll get out of Germany and then lie low for a few days until the news leaks out in France. Once things start to break down, the organisation will disintegrate and we’ll get help.\u201d<\/p>\n We bowled on merrily, whistling and singing.<\/p>\n THE END First published in <\/em>New Worlds 143, July-August 1964. <\/em>\u00a9 The Estate of Hilary Bailey. Reproduced with permission.<\/em><\/p>\n \u2022 New Worlds stories<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n \u2022 This page is part of the New Worlds Annex<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Art by James Cawthorn. We know that Hitler placed a lot of faith in clairvoyants and astrologers, and this helped him lose the war. But what if there had been just one person with a genuine psi-talent. Could history have turned out like this…? ONE 1954 WAS NOT a year of progress. A week before … Continue reading “The Fall of Frenchy Steiner by Hilary Bailey”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":27359,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-27361","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/Pq7rV-77j","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/27361","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=27361"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/27361\/revisions"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/27359"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=27361"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n\u201dI don\u2019t want to remember\u2014I can\u2019t remember,\u201d she gasped.<\/p>\n
\n<\/strong><\/p>\n
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