He had played out the scene in his mind so fully that the realization that it was a delusion came as a shock. There would be no last-minute boarding of a ferry about to set sail for Ireland, no sprint up the gangplank, no cry of joyous surprise from Harry.
He checked his watch: it was past eleven. Life on the sea probably began at dawn; this place would be awake in just a few hours. In the meantime, he would get some sleep. No point finding a room. He would bed down here, in the port, so that he would hear the first stirrings of activity in the morning.
In the gloom he saw what looked to be an unloading area, under a wooden roof. He was walking towards it when he saw the briefest glimpse of light, in front of him and at waist level. A reflex, learned not instinctive, told him it was a knife and he looked up to see the hooded, sad eyes of the man holding it. The man said nothing but his eyes angled pointedly towards the satchel over Jamess shoulder, the whites illuminated in the darkness.
In Spain he had been trained to know that if you needed to disable a mans arm, you stepped forward and isolated it from the shoulder. Apply pressure in the armpit and the blade will eventually drop, Jorge had said and, James discovered now, Jorge was right. But it was not the training that told him to twist the mans arm behind his back until he was screaming in pain. Nor was it the training that forced the man to his knees and began to kick him hard in his guts repeatedly, with a final precise blow to the chin, leaving him moaning and writhing on the ground.
As he walked away, James felt his system flood with a mixture of relief, adrenalin and swaggering pride. What do you say about that, eh, men of the Medical Examination Board? Not bad for a D1. Too unfit to fight? If I can do that with my bare hands, imagine what I could do with a gun.
But soon the bounce went out of his step. He had none of the soldiers discipline. He was out of control, in the grip of furies he barely understood. What he had done just now was the behaviour of a brute. He appalled himself.
He had been walking in circles, ending up almost where he had started, close to the harbourmasters office. He would not bother with he thought he barely deserved a shelter. Instead he found a spot between two crates, retrieved a pullover from his bag, put it on and used the satchel as a pillow as he curled into the narrow space. But sleep would not come. He was picturing the man he had beaten so hard, he had left him lying semi-conscious on the ground.
Finally, James dug into his pocket to look again at the postcard. He wanted to think about something else, but also to reassure himself that the card was real, that he had not imagined it, that his wife had been here, in Liverpool, the previous day. The sight of those three words, inked in that curved, gorgeous script of hers amused, amusing, confident, flirtatious, just like her warmed him: I love you. And somehow, in the cold of the night, alone in an empty dockyard, surrounded by the stench of oil, grease and working ships, and lying on hard, rough ground, he fell into deep, exhausted sleep.
Oi. Up. Lets be having you.
He opened his eyes, trying to make sense of the confusion of sudden consciousness.
I said up. Now.
Where am I?
Now.
In a rush of memory, it came back to him: where he was, why he was here and how he needed to behave. He leapt to his feet, the action of a man embarrassed to have been caught asleep, straightened his jacket, swept a long forelock of hair out of his eyes and attempted a charming smile. But the clerk in front of him peaked cap, officious expression and in late middle age was not in a mood to be charmed. Harbourmasters office, now.
James was about to protest but, after a seconds delay, realized there was no need. With luck, he would be taken exactly where he needed to go.
Within a few minutes he was standing before a desk, the walls around him covered in nautical charts, lists and timetables. It reminded him of nothing so much as his multiple childhood appearances in the headmasters study. The clerk at his side was explaining to the bespectacled man in a three-piece suit, whom he took to be the harbourmaster, where this gentleman had been found and asking whether the police should be summoned. James decided it was time to play the class card.
My name is Dr James Zennor of the University of Oxford. You can verify that by contacting the Vice Chancellor, Professor George Stuart Gordon, or the master of my college, Professor Bernard Grey. He hesitated, reluctant to mention his subject: he had learned that the less educated sometimes baulked at the mere mention of psychology, suspecting that only those a bit funny in the head would dabble in such matters. My wife is Florence Walsingham, daughter of Sir George and Lady Walsingham, and I believe she may have set sail from this port in the last day or two. A ferry for Ireland seems most likely. I would like to check the manifests for all the passenger vessels that have left Liverpool in the last two days. He paused. Please.
The harbourmaster produced a pipe and set about the business of stuffing it, tamping it and lighting it happy for the task to take as much time as it needed if not a little longer. He then used the end of the process to gesture the clerk towards the door, leaving him to size up the newcomer on his own.
Finally, he spoke. Zennor, you say. He sucked the pipe, turning the compacted weed bright orange. The sudden smoke, fragrant, wooded and warm, transported James in an instant back to his childhood, to the parlour of that small house in Bournemouth, his father puffing on his pipe as he worked his way through a pile of small, neatly-lined childrens exercise books. That triggered another memory: his fathers face the first time they saw each other after Jamess return from Spain. His expression had been pained, though whether by the anguish of seeing his son so badly wounded or the hurt that James had rejected his parents most sacred creed by fighting at all, James never knew.
Another suck on the pipe. Zennor. The accent was Scottish. Is that foreign?
Cornish, actually.
Not German, then?
No.
Because were on the look-out for enemy aliens, you know. Theres a camp not far from here. Huyton. You sure you didnt escape from there?
Of course Im sure.
Not planning to stow away? Its just I dont really see an Oxford man a professor, if you please kipping like a dosser out here on the docks. Doesnt quite add up.
I didnt say I was a professor. Im Dr James Zennor, in the Department of Experimental Psychology of Oxford University. Damn.
Psychology, you say. Isnt that a bit German?
Look, Im not bloody German. Heres my passport.
Another suck on the pipe, then an adjustment of the spectacles as the harbourmaster turned the pages, studying each one carefully. I see you spent a lot of time in Spain, Dr Zennor.
I fought with the International Brigades. Against the Fascists. I was wounded. James nodded toward his shoulder: Thats the only reason Im not in the army now.
The harbourmaster sat back in his chair and relit his pipe. The passport remained on his desk. What do you know of the Arandora Star, Dr- he looked again at the document before giving an exaggerated pronunciation of the last name, as if determined to make it sound like that of a Viennese shrink, Zennor.
Jamess mind whirred. Arandora Star. Almost certainly a ship. Could that be the ship Florence and Harry were on? Did this man know something? Would it be better for James to appear ignorant or informed? With no better plan, he opted to tell the truth: It sounds like a ship, but Ive never heard of it.
You sure of that, Doctor?
Im sure. Do you have reason to believe my wife and son might be on that ship, Mr-
Its Harbourmaster Hunter and no, I dont. That ship sailed from here just over a week ago. Mostly krauts and wops on board. Internees. You sure you dont know about it?
For heavens sake, Ive told-
Because that ship was hit by a German torpedo and sunk, Dr Zennor. Loss of more than eight hundred lives.
Good God.
Its not been in the papers, not yet anyway. But I should expect word has reached Huyton. The camp, I mean. Relatives and what have you. Therell be a lot of angry people, I expect. Well, I dont need to tell you, youre the psychology expert. His tone was softening, but his eye remained sceptical.
Oh, I see, said James, with a bitter smile. You think the krauts and wops might be planning some kind of revenge. You think Im a saboteur who came here to plant a bomb!
Theres nothing funny about it, Dr Zennor. It does happen, you know. And after Arandora Star, the police have told us to be especially vigilant. And there you are, sleeping rough on the dockside. Now why would a gentleman like you do that? Doesnt make sense. Put yourself in my shoes.
James decided that the man was extending a hand, that he wanted to be persuaded that James posed no threat. Harbourmaster Hunter, I appreciate what this looks like. Downright odd for a man like me to behave this way. I spent all day travelling here from Oxford and I was, frankly, exhausted. I wanted to be first in the queue to-
It wasnt working. He could see that the man remained unmoved.
Forgive an intrusive question, but tell me, Harbourmaster, are you married?
I am.
Would I be right in assuming that, if one day, your wife and child were missing, but your wife sent you a note leading you to I dont know lets say, for the sake of argument, my office in Oxford; would I be right in assuming, in that situation, that you would camp outside my door until you found out where they were?
A long suck on the pipe, then a cloud of smoke bearing the scent of childhood. Then: Yes, you would be right, Dr Zennor. He paused, as if waiting for something more. On an instinct, James reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the postcard and handed it to Hunter.
The harbourmaster examined the picture on the front, then the postmark and finally the message, his eyes closing briefly the modest gesture of a man acknowledging that he has just intruded into the private space of another. He put his pipe in the ashtray, bowl first, letting the ash tumble out, before standing up and announcing, The ships manifests are kept in the log room next door.