The Trespass(11)

Potzner drew heavily on the Winston. The images were always the same. For years they had replayed in the space created by the constant waiting his job demanded. “No.” He spoke aloud and the sound of his voice alarmed him. “Please leave me alone.” But he knew the scene had to play to its conclusion. He closed his eyes and let it roll. Barnes, next to him, his mouth wide, pointing, encouraging the men to keep pushing on, stepping over the bodies. And then the muffled thump alongside, the surprise to find himself on his back. No pain. A glance to the left and the shock of Barnes’ sightless eyes staring back, a faint smile on his lips. Then hands on his shoulder, gently lifting him, the vibration of the chopper and the sharp sting of a needle in his arm. It could have been yesterday, but it was way back – 9th February, 1969, Chu Pa region; America was out of her depth in the jungles of Vietnam and he was on his way home to Abigail.

They had visited Barnes’ widow as soon as his leg would bear his weight again. He could still remember her pale face, the wringing of her slender hands as they sat in the family room of the Kentucky farmhouse he’d heard so much about. They’d promised to keep in touch, but then life moved on. He sometimes wondered about her, if she’d found someone else to fill the emptiness. He hoped so. Life had to carry on; those who survived owed it to the dead to live for them. That’s what Barnes would have wanted. Handsome, happy-go-lucky Joseph Barnes. His friend. There one moment; gone the next.

Potzner fingered the window button and flicked out his stub. The smoke cleared and he sighed, a deep, soul-weary sigh. Death had always stalked him. It had been his closest companion in ‘nam, and an ever-present buddy since he had joined the company. Thing was, it was part of the job. That was fine. He could accept that. But it had no place coming home with him. It had no right to enter his front door. But, dear God, it had. He could feel its presence, hovering, waiting, biding its time. Abigail knew, of course. The doctor had been direct. They had held hands as the sentence had been pronounced. He was a young guy, the neurologist. Looked a bit like Woody Allen. They had laughed about that afterwards. Laughed. Anyway, Woody had a good manner, was sympathetic, pulled no punches. As a straight talker himself, Potzner appreciated that. Three, perhaps five years, at the most. Abigail’s hand had tightened on his as they left the hospital and walked out into the sunshine. Traffic crawled past; lunchtime shoppers hurried this way and that, glancing anxiously at their watches. How much time before they had to be back at the office? How much time?

From that point onwards, his and Abigail’s time had become dislocated from the rest of the world. The people striding along the sidewalks lived in some parallel universe, where normality smoothed the path ahead. What had they in common? They had sat in silence in the park for a long time, just looking, just being alive. She caught his eye and he remembered thinking, I have never seen her look so beautiful. I will always remember this moment. “I’ll retire early,” he told her. “We’ll travel, be with each other.” She shook her head. “No Jim, you must carry on. You love your job. I want everything to be normal, as it was before today.” She smiled, pressing her finger to his lips to seal the protest. “I need it to be that way.”

That was three years ago, and the clock was ticking. Should he phone her now? He knew she hated the fuss. Most days were all right. But the bad days... days in a darkened room where her helpless body would be fed with chemicals, nourished through sterilized tubing. Such days came twice, perhaps three times a week now. And he yearned for her, yet could not bear to be there to see her suffering. He would be with her now, had not hope arrived six months ago in a form more unexpected than anything he could have imagined.

Potzner caught a slight movement in the window of the house – semi-detached, the Brits called them – and snapped into alert mode. The girl, Sara Benham, drawing the curtain. Looked like the lovers were in for the night. He scanned the sidewalk, their side, then paid special attention to the hedgerow on his left that separated the road from the University grounds. He could just see the grey expanse of water beyond the hedge, the lake that sat between the halls of residence on this, the north side of the campus. He was parked in the driveway of the old gatehouse and had a clear view of the red-bricked houses slightly up the hill on the corner. Dusk was rapidly falling and Potzner’s sense of unease increased with the diminishing light. Surely soon? He knew they wouldn’t wait long after the bungled attempt at the diary. He patted his coat pocket reflexively, drawing comfort from the contours of the snub-nosed Sig Sauer P229. He was sure he’d need it before the night was out, and that it wouldn’t be the last time it would see action on this operation. If he could just wing one of them, just one… then he’d make them talk. Hell, he wouldn’t even need the diary then.