Mark Mills - The Information Officer
Sleep was out of the question. All he could manage was a kind of limbo, a restless tug-of-war between exhaustion and wide-eyed wakefulness, a contest punctuated every half hour or so by another cigarette. He thought back to his student days and the cramped ground-floor flat in Waterloo, when anything less than nine hours of full and proper slumber would have had him snoozing happily on his drawing board come three o’clock in the afternoon.
How simple life had been back then. A morning lecture on Piranesi; half a day given over to tweaking a floor plan or an elevation; the Northern Line home from Tottenham Court Road station; three pints and a slice of pie in the King’s Arms on Roupell Street, followed by a short stagger to his front door. What had his concerns been at the time? They must have existed, but he struggled now to recall them. They certainly couldn’t hold a candle to his current predicament, he ruminated wearily.
The news that he had fathered a child—the very fact that he was capable of doing so—had touched him at some deep, primordial level that defied words. It was as if the lens through which he viewed the world had been shattered and then hastily repaired. He could make out the rough shape of things, but it was a fragmented picture, one of refractions and reflections and unexpected associations—an alien landscape where past, present, and future somehow coexisted.
He saw himself screaming at the top of his newborn lungs in the arms of his dying mother, and for the first time he saw the logic of her sacrifice. He watched it playing out before his eyes, with Mitzi standing in for his mother and the ending rewritten. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t write himself into the scene.
He wasn’t wanted at the bedside, where his father had once stood. Mitzi had made her feelings clear on that score, and he couldn’t see her changing her mind. It was easy to resent her, and more than a little unfair. There was no denying the sudden clutch of fear he’d experienced when she had tested him, confident of his reaction, proposing that she seek a divorce from Lionel and marry him. It just didn’t fit with the future he’d envisaged for himself: the architect, the man about town, looking to leave his mark on the world. He couldn’t find a place for the young child and the disgraced ex–navy wife in his dream. And he thought less of himself for it.
He tried to console himself with the alternatives. He would be the mysterious gentleman watching the Colts’ football match against the rival school, stifling his cheers as his son broke free in the dying seconds of the game to score the winning goal. That didn’t work. Lionel barged his way into the fantasy, sidling toward him along the touchline.
“Hello, old boy. What brings you here?”
“Oh, nothing much. That fine figure of a young man you have always assumed to be your son is in fact the product of a brief but passionate affair I conducted with your dear lady wife during our time on Malta.”
“Well, I say. I didn’t see that one coming.”
“Doubtless, dear fellow, but who can blame you? We were very discreet.”
Somehow all the scenarios he came up with collapsed into absurdity, leaving him lost and floundering in a future world of his own creation.
The past and present offered more of a refuge. He found himself drawing a strange kind of strength from the prospect of fatherhood. Just as his own father was the touchstone by which he tested himself, so it now fell to him to set an example, to light the path for the next generation—a mawkish sentiment, he knew, but at least it gave some small degree of comfort.
It had just passed five o’clock when he heard the knock. His first thought was of Mitzi, but she didn’t have a key to the downstairs door. His second thought was of his neighbor, the young sculptor on the floor below, the one who used to teach at the art school on Old Bakery Street and who now made a living running off devotional plaster models of the Virgin (much in demand), the neighbor who was always cadging a scrap of bread or a smear of jam. Then he remembered that the sculptor was long gone, off to stay with relatives near Zejtun, where the bombs didn’t rain down with such deadly persistence.
He dragged on his shorts and shuffled to the front door.
“Who is it?” he called.
“Busuttil.”
The name meant nothing to him until the low grumble of a voice added, “From Lilian.”
He slipped the latch and opened the door. In the darkness it was hard to make out much of Mr. Busuttil other than that he was short, was rounded in the shoulder, and appeared to have something odd on his head.
It was a straw hat, but only just. Stained and crumpled, it looked like it had been pulled from the rubble of a bombed building. This became clear once they were in the kitchen and Max had lit a candle.
Busuttil glanced around the bare room. It was hard to guess his age, hard to say whether the hat concealed a bald pate or a thick head of hair. His face had a lean hangdog look to it, as if someone had let the air out of it. His eyes, in contrast, were bright, alert, and restless.
“She said no phone, so I come instead.”
“You’re a friend of Lilian’s?” Somehow Max couldn’t see it.
“I know the brother of the cousin of her uncle.”
“And you’re a policeman?”
Max had been very clear about that with Lilian: it had to be someone who knew the ropes, someone with authority. The man in front of him didn’t appear to score highly in either department. He could hardly be held to blame for the large carbuncle on his neck, but there was something essentially disheveled about the fellow that didn’t scream “dependable upholder of the law.”
Busuttil pulled back his dusty jacket and flashed the pistol at his waist. “CID. Inspector for five years.”
Max tried to look suitably impressed.
“Do you have tea?”
“It’s the only thing I do have.”
This wasn’t entirely true. He also had a three-penny bar of chocolate he’d been holding back for a special occasion. He wasn’t sure that this qualified but produced it nonetheless. Busuttil eagerly devoured it all before the water had even come to a boil.
Max had his own contacts within the police department, men with whom he communicated every day over casualty figures, and he was beginning to wish he’d taken the risk and gone with one of them. He started to feel more comfortable only when the tea had brewed and they were sitting at the table.
“I see your eyes,” said Busuttil. “I see you are not happy. So before I ask questions, I tell you about Busuttil.” He paused to take a sip of tea. “I was born 1901 in a small house near Siggiewi. My father, he was a farmer of corn. There were also goats, six goats …”
Oh Christ, thought Max, he’s going to tell me their names.
Without warning, Busuttil erupted in laughter, gripping Max’s forearm as he did so. The laughter accounted for the long furrows flanking his mouth.
“Your face!” Busuttil gasped. Once he’d recovered enough to risk another sip of tea, he added, “It is good for my work that people see me like you see me.”
His work, it turned out, was pretty eye-popping stuff. It was hardly surprising that in a garrison of twenty-six thousand British servicemen there were a few bad apples, but Max was taken aback by the true extent of the rot. Busuttil wasn’t talking about men banged up in the guardroom for “conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline”; he was talking about the genuine article: racketeers, extortionists, rapists, and murderers. He claimed to have cracked a ring of NAAFI men responsible for the theft of five hundred cases of whisky from a convoy back in September. He had also arrested a corporal in the West Kents who’d slit the throat of another soldier in a quarrel over a girl. He reeled off a grim catalogue of other crimes perpetrated by British servicemen that he’d investigated, though not always with success.
On the one hand, Max felt ridiculously naïve, a victim of the sort of propaganda he peddled; on the other, he drew comfort from his ignorance. The fact that he hadn’t got wind of such matters suggested that men such as Busuttil were accustomed to bringing a certain discretion to bear on their work. And that’s exactly what Max required of him.
“Is it possible there’s already an investigation under way?”
Busuttil shook his head. “I would know.”
“Unless Defense Security’s handling it.”
“I would know.”
Lilian had briefed Busuttil thoroughly, but he wanted details, specifics, all of which he recorded meticulously in a scuffed notebook.
He was intrigued by the idea that the killings might be the work of an enemy agent, but was more curious about the mechanics of the meeting in the lieutenant governor’s office. He asked for physical descriptions of all the men present.
His most reassuring question, though, related to the torn shoulder tab discovered in Carmela Cassar’s hand. He wanted to know where someone would go for such a thing if he needed a replacement. Max was able to give him the name of the military outfitters in Valetta favored by the submariners, because Lionel was forever moaning about Griscti’s. Unforgivably, Lionel’s second bar had been on order there since the beginning of the year, as if shipping in his medal to the besieged island were more of a priority than fuel, arms, and essential foodstuffs.
Busuttil made it clear to Max that time was against them and that the chances of success were low.
“You should have come to Busuttil before.”
“There are a lot of things I should have done differently,” said Max. “Look, I don’t know if Lilian said, but I can’t pay you.”
A shade of disappointment darkened Busuttil’s solemn countenance. “And you?” he asked. “Are you doing it for money?”
Max wouldn’t hear from him for twenty-four hours, Busuttil explained. Until then, he was to go about his business as normal. He advised against any contact with Lilian but didn’t forbid it.
As he was leaving, he turned at the door. “There is one thing you can do for me. The Spitfires, are they coming soon?”
“The Spitfires?”
“You are the information officer, no?”
“Believe me, that doesn’t count for much.”
Busuttil accepted the brush-off with a gracious nod and made off down the stairwell.
“Two days,” Max found himself calling into the darkness.
“Two days?”
“The ninth. Lots of them. More than sixty.”
“Ohhhhh,” cooed Busuttil from below. “Ohhhh, that is good.”
“We’ll see.”
“No, they will see. In two days they will see.”
There seemed to be a new lightness to the footfalls as they carried on down the stone steps.
Max took Busuttil at his word, throwing himself into his work, losing himself in a fog of intra-departmental meetings. Generally, he regarded these as an almost complete waste of time. The deadwood had long since been cut out of the rotting ship he’d inherited. His staff was faultless to a man (and woman), their proficiency and dedication beyond reproach. They also worked demanding schedules that left little room for lunch, let alone a series of ultimately pointless get-togethers called by their boss. They didn’t need the distraction. He, however, did. Anything to keep his mind off Mitzi and the revelation she’d sprung on him.
Shortly before midday he returned to his office and was surprised to find Freddie seated in an overstuffed chair near the window, nursing a mug of tea.
“Very good,” he said, raising the mug.
“Maria holds the best stuff back for visitors. We don’t get many.”
“I thought it best to tell you face-to-face. Your face, for what it’s worth, has looked better.”
“I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“He’s left-handed.”
It came from nowhere, and Max wasn’t sure if he’d heard right. “He’s what?”
“Left-handed.” Freddie leaned forward in the chair. “I should have realized it before. It occurred to me only when I was in surgery yesterday. The wound in Carmela Cassar’s neck, it was on the right-hand side, her right, which means he used his left hand.”
Max could still picture the long gash, the one inflicted by the bomb splinter that had sliced through her carotid artery. It was an image, he suspected, that would haunt his thoughts for a good long while.
“Unless he was standing behind her.”
“True,” conceded Freddie. “But unlikely.”
Getting to his feet, he took up the ebony letter opener on Max’s desk to demonstrate his point. The carotid artery was set deep in the neck. To penetrate to the required depth demanded considerable thrust, to say nothing of accuracy, neither of which was afforded by taking up a position behind the victim. It was a convincing demonstration, if a little unnerving.
“So, he’s left-handed,” said Max, taking the letter opener back.
“How many left-handers do you know?”
“Not many. We’re a significant minority.”
“Exactly. It narrows the field considerably.”
Max lit a cigarette. “I thought you didn’t want to have anything more to do with this.”
“So did I. It seems I was wrong.”
Freddie moved to the window, peering outside briefly before turning. “I’ve done a lot of thinking since the other day. Maybe it’s the way they treated us, but I don’t care anymore what they do to me. It’ll be their loss if they send me packing.” He hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty clouding his gaze. “Or maybe I’ve just had enough of it all and I’m hoping that’s exactly what they’ll do.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? I’m tired, Max. I’ve been here too long, seen too much—enough for a lifetime. You have no idea how I spend my days.”
“I can imagine.”
“No you can’t. We ran out of morphine yesterday. It was only for a few hours till they sent some over from Saint Patrick’s, but it was long enough. You wouldn’t believe the screaming—like they were being fed thistles.” He paused briefly. “I learned something new, though. The power of the mind. You can inject a man with saline solution, and if you tell him it’s morphine, his body will believe you.”
“Placebo.”
“I’m impressed.”
Max shrugged. “It’s what I do too—tell them it’s all okay and hope they’ll believe me.”
Freddie gave a weak smile. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
Max had seen Freddie low before, but he’d never heard him admit to it. His quiet and uncomplaining resilience had always marked him out from the rest of them. While Ralph kicked against the incompetence of his superiors and Hugh moaned on ceaselessly about the lack of recognition afforded to the artillery, Freddie had always just got on with the grim business of putting people back together.
“Maybe Elliott was right. Maybe I am a moralist at heart.”
Under other circumstances Max would have sought to buoy up his friend, to make him see sense. Selfishly, the prospect of an accomplice prevailed. It was good to have Freddie back on board. He reached for one of the phones on his desk and asked Maria to hold his calls.
