The Bat(60)

In the end, all the promenading made them so sweaty they had to have a swim. Towels and bathing costumes were in the rucksacks, so they were forced to swim in their underwear. Kristin had run out of clean knickers and was wearing a pair of Harry’s sturdy pants. They plunged into the Mediterranean, among expensive tangas and bulky jewellery, giggling happily in their white Y-fronts.

Harry remembered lying on the sand afterwards and watching Kristin standing in a loose T-shirt and removing the wet, heavy pants. He enjoyed the sight of her glowing skin with droplets of water glittering in the sun, of the T-shirt riding up to reveal a long, suntanned thigh, of her gently curved hip, of the Frenchmen’s long stares, he liked how she looked at him, catching him in the act, how she smiled and held his eyes as she lingeringly pulled up her jeans, how she put a hand under her T-shirt to raise the zip, but left it there, leaned back and closed her eyes . . . then ran her red tongue provocatively around her lips, teetered and fell, hard, on top of him with a snort of laughter.

Afterwards they ate at an exorbitantly expensive restaurant with a view of the sea, and as the sun set they were sitting entwined on the sand with Kristin shedding a few tears with the beauty of it and they agreed they would book into the Carlton Hotel and sneak off without paying, and perhaps skip the two days they had planned to be in Paris.

That summer was always the first thing he thought about when his mind turned to Kristin. It had been so intense, and afterwards it was easy to say that there had been separation in the air. But Harry couldn’t remember thinking about it at the time.

That autumn Harry did his military service, and before Christmas Kristin had met a musician and gone to London.

Harry, Lebie and Watkins were sitting at a pavement cafe on the corner of Campbell Parade and Lamrock Avenue. The table was in the shade, it was late afternoon, but not so late that their sunglasses looked out of place. Their jackets in the heat were less satisfactory, but the alternative was shirtsleeves and gun holsters. They didn’t say much, they just waited.

In the middle of the promenade, between the beach and Campbell Parade, was St George’s Theatre, a beautiful yellow building where Otto Rechtnagel was soon to perform.

‘Have you used a Browning Hi-Power before?’ Watkins asked.

Harry shook his head. They had shown him how to load and put the safety catch on when he was being equipped at the Firearms Desk, and that was all. It wasn’t a problem; Harry didn’t exactly imagine that Otto would pull out a machine gun and mow them all down.

Lebie checked his watch. ‘Time we got going,’ he said. Sweat was wreathed around his head.

‘OK, final run-through: while everyone’s on the stage and bowing after the finale, Harry and I enter by the side door. I’ve arranged that the caretaker will leave it open. He’s also put up a nameplate on Rechtnagel’s dressing-room door. We stand outside until Rechtnagel comes, and we arrest him there. Smack on the handcuffs, no weapons unless there’s an emergency. Out the back door, where we have a police car waiting for us. Lebie will be in the crowd with a walkie-talkie and will call us when Rechtnagel’s on his way. Also if Rechtnagel should smell a rat and try to make an escape through the crowd to the main entrance. Let’s take up our positions and say a quiet prayer that they have air conditioning.’

The small, intimate auditorium of St George’s Theatre was full and the atmosphere was excited as the curtain rose. In fact, though, the curtain didn’t rise, it fell. The clowns stood looking up at the ceiling where the curtain had come loose, then they discussed the matter gesticulating wildly, running around helter-skelter, pushing the curtain off the stage, tripping over one another and apologising to the audience with doffed caps. All of which was greeted by laughter and good-humoured shouts. In the house there seemed to be quite a number of friends and acquaintances of the performers. The stage was cleared and converted into a scaffold scene, and Otto entered to the accompaniment of a heavy funeral march played on one drum.

Harry saw the guillotine and immediately realised this was a variation of the same number he had seen in the Powerhouse. Obviously the Queen was in for it tonight, for Otto was wearing a red ball gown with an immensely long, white wig and white-powdered face. The executioner also had a new costume: a tight-fitting black outfit with large ears and webbing under his arms, which made him look like a devil.

Or a bat, Harry reflected.

The blade of the guillotine was raised, a marrow was placed beneath and the blade fell. With a thud it hit the block as if the marrow hadn’t been there at all. The executioner triumphantly held the two halves in the air as the audience cheered and whistled. After some heart-rending scenes, during which the Queen wept and begged for mercy and vainly tried to ingratiate herself with the man in black, she was dragged to the guillotine with her legs flailing around under her dress, to the audience’s great delight.