The Road Between Us Read Online Free Page A

later.’
    ‘Tell me now. What grade are you?’
    Niall looks away. ‘I’m the Permanent Undersecretary.’
    Edward tries to sit up. ‘You?’
    ‘For the moment. There’s a general election expected soon and the new lot will probably want their own man in.’
    ‘Sir?’
    Niall studies the floor and nods. ‘But I don’t use it. Tell me about the people who kidnapped you.’
    Something happens to Edward’s eyes, as though a shadow is passing over them. ‘They …’
    ‘Do you remember anything about when you were captured?’
    ‘Everything went black.’
    ‘You were in a convoy. There was an ambush. Your Land Cruiser was hit by an RPG.’
    Edward frowns. ‘Who were they?’
    ‘We figured it would be local opportunists who didn’t know they’d got a high-value target. We had a press blackout and notified the Met’s Hostage and Crisis Negotiation Unit. But nothing. No demands. No video posted on the web. We had no idea where you were.’
    ‘I was underground. In a cave. It was dark.’ Edward grimaces, as if a bubble of pain has entered his blood. ‘Do we have to do this now?’
    ‘No. Whenever you are ready. I understand.’
    ‘Can I see Frejya?’
    ‘You’ve lost a lot of weight.’
    ‘I want to see my wife.’
    ‘I’ve brought a mirror.’
    Niall hands over a mirror, but Edward does not look in it. Instead he places it face down on the bed. His eyes look distant and cloudy again; the eyes of a dead man.
    ‘How old am I?’
    ‘Forty-seven.’
    A beat.
    ‘Forty-seven?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    Another beat.
    ‘I’m forty-seven?’
    ‘Yeah, you’re forty-seven, Northy. Same age as me.’
    ‘How old was I when I was taken?’
    ‘Thirty-six.’
    Niall feels for his friend’s hand. ‘It’s going to take time.’
    ‘Why won’t you talk about Frejya?’
    ‘Northy … There’s no easy way to say this …’
    Fear suddenly registers on Edward’s face. His hands try to cover his ears but the muscles in his arms are too atrophied. He shakes his head. Closes his eyes. Mouths the word ‘no’.
    Niall’s eyes are wet now. He puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. She died.’
    ‘Can I speak to her?’
    ‘Listen to me. You’ve got to listen.’ There is a crack in Niall’s voice now. ‘Frejya is dead.’

IV
    Berlin. Early autumn, 1939
    ANSELM HAS NEVER SEEN THE PEOPLE ’ S COURT BEFORE, BUT HE has heard of it. Everyone in Germany has heard of it. The Volksgerichtshof. A place of fear. A place without memories. Today its nineteenth-century façade is draped with three red, white and black swastika banners. They are thirty feet long and make the building look as if it is bleeding.
    He is brought in via a side entrance off Potsdamer Platz and taken down stone stairs to a holding cell. There is no window. No bed. No chair. Noticing that it smells of urine, Anselm realizes that there is no lavatory either. His belt and shoelaces are taken from him. The policeman from the Ordnungspolizei with kind eyes and a brass gorget around his neck looks him up and down thoughtfully, then takes his tie as well.
    Once the iron door has clanged shut and heavy keys have been turned in the lock, Anselm leans his shoulder against the wall, closes his eyes and tries, for reassurance, to summon Charles’s smiling face. He wonders what has happened to him. Is he in prison, too? When he opens his eyes again he notices some words scratched at eye height. They are messages from the damned.
    ‘My name is Josef Mann. I have a wife and two children in Hamburg. Please let them know where I am.’
    And in another hand: ‘Please God, why?’
    But the one at which he stares the most is the simplest: ‘Help me.’ This one chills Anselm’s blood. Help me . A man can be forgotten in this place, he thinks. Help me . All traces of his life can be erased. Help me . He can be reduced to a single pitiful plea.
    While under Hausarrest in Berlin, Anselm had written to Charles in London. He had also written to his parents