He did not respond, just as he had failed to do in the lorry, but she was making all the running. Her body was warm from the nervous energy, her nipples burning against his own body, her tears turning to sighs of passion.

‘Peter, in this world it may be our last time. Please!’

Something told him that for her it was also the first time. She was so young, scarcely older than some of his pupils. He was confused, uncertain, the self-righteous moralizing of his aunt ringing in his ears, but his indecision was overwhelmed by Sinead’s insistence. In the end he had little real choice but to join in and, if not exactly enjoy it, at least to take comfort in her gratification. She knew what she wanted, instinctively, even if she wasn’t totally clear how she wanted it. The raw energy more than compensated for her youthful ignorance. It wasn’t great sex, but for her it would always be special.

When she had finished she lay back to catch her breath, coming down to earth, her whole body tingling, feeling places within for the first time. She knew it was a moment she would never be able to forget, or to repeat, no matter how many years she might live. Not even with Hencke. It was a long time before either of them spoke.

‘You have someone back home?’ Perhaps it wasn’t the most tactful question but she couldn’t help herself; she didn’t have much experience at this. She had to ask. She felt now she had the right.

‘No. Not any more.’ His words were clipped, without any trace of self-pity, as if all emotion had already been wrung out of him. But in the gaze which held her she could once again see the fire inside, and there was pain.

‘You lost someone, too?’

He didn’t respond, simply nodded.

‘But if they’re gone, why are you so impatient to get back home?’ She made it sound like a rebuke.

‘Wouldn’t you be?’

She propped herself on an elbow. ‘I’m not sure, Peter. Back to Germany? I don’t want to take sides in your war, but over here we don’t hear pleasant things about Germany.’

‘It’s like many places. Some good parts and fine people. Many bad. Like most places. Like Ireland, I suspect.’ He was deflecting her questions, throwing the challenge back at her. ‘Why did they arrest your brother?’

She didn’t reply immediately. ‘They claimed he left a bomb. There was a warning. But a policeman got hurt …’

‘Did he do it?’

‘I …’ She pulled away from him and her face flushed with anger that he should dare raise the question, but his eyes were searching around inside her. He already knew. ‘I … don’t know. In all honesty I truly don’t know.’ There was great misery about her. ‘And I don’t know why, Peter Hencke, but that’s the first time I’ve ever said as much to anybody. Even to myself.’ He had penetrated more than her body, and with the admission, a little bubble of faith which had survived all previous doubts and assaults quietly burst within her.

‘So he might be guilty?’

‘The policeman didn’t die,’ she began in mitigation, but she wasn’t convincing even herself. Her head fell forward to hide her confusion, her long russet curls falling about the pale skin of her breasts. ‘He was crippled. He won’t ever walk again.’

‘He had family? Children?’

She could do no more than nod.

‘And friends, who were so filled with revenge that they shot your father. This is your “family affair”?’

‘I didn’t start our troubles, Peter.’

‘You may not have started it. But who’s going to finish it? That’s always the difficult part.’

Suddenly she resented the assault upon her integrity and ideals, and the way he was ripping her world apart. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that it wasn’t Hitler but Poland which started World War Bloody Two. And that you’re going home to finish it!’

‘I’m sorry, Sinead. I have no right.’ He paused, remembering the widow. ‘We all do things of which we are not proud, which we would change, if we could.’ He reached out to touch her hand, to re-establish contact. She didn’t respond, but neither did she move away. ‘There are some things we would gladly die for, if we could change. Which means that others, too, sometimes must suffer. I know. I have my own “family affairs” to see to.’

‘But why, Peter? You said you had no family left.’

‘I have memories. Sometimes all you have left are memories.’

‘And can you live just for memories?’

She studied him closely, following the profile from his high forehead down his long nose to the scarred lip and sharp, determined chin. He didn’t reply straight away. It seemed a lifetime since anyone had got close enough to ask such questions.

‘I’ve tried. Yet … you spend your life looking back, and the farther you have to look back the more you die each day, little by little. No, I can’t live for memories, no one can. You mustn’t try.’

‘But you are prepared to die for them?’

She waited, but there was no answer. For all their adventure and talk together she still knew little more than his name. He was a man who kept his secrets wrapped tightly around him, a man with fire in his veins and steel in his bones, yet who could still cry over a little girl and her teddy bear.

‘Why are you going back?’

He remained silent, unwilling or unable to say, staring blankly at the ceiling.

‘Peter Hencke, I don’t want you to be the last man to die in this bloody war!’

A wry smile began to play around his lips – or was it the scar? ‘No one wants to be the last man to die. Not in this war, not in any war.’

‘Does … that mean you’ll be coming back?’

He turned to face her until she could see his eyes. He didn’t want any misunderstanding.

‘You mustn’t hope for me to be something I cannot be. No, Sinead, don’t think of it.’ He shook his head. ‘I won’t be coming back.’

SEVEN

‘Not too hot for you, sir?’

The only reply was a grunt.

At least he’s not complaining, not yet, thought the barber. Doesn’t mind me scalding my fingers raw, but let him feel the slightest discomfort from the hot towels and he’d let the entire bloody street know. After which he’d moan about his shave not being close enough. And he never left a tip, not even at Christmas.

‘Did you see they got Hencke at last?’

‘What, you mean that bloody German? Thought they’d picked him up a long time ago.’

It was not an uncommon assumption. With so many stories queuing up to demand space in the news columns as the war drew to its climax, the coverage of Hencke’s escape had rapidly disappeared from the pages. Even today’s report had been restrained, wrapping up what editors decided was an old story.

‘No. They found the blighter in Cricklewood – or what was left of him. Seems he’d been leading the police a right merry chase, then a couple of nights ago he got caught underneath one of their V-2s. Poor sod. Seems unfair somehow.’

With victory within their grasp the British sense of fair play was beginning to flourish once more. And since Hencke had a name he was no longer simply another bloody Kraut but a real character, even an underdog, and the barber held a sporting regard for any underdog, particularly since he had done the decent thing and thrown himself under one of his own rockets.

‘Serves the miserable Hun right,’ the customer barked from underneath the towels. ‘Should have shot him if they’d caught him alive. Probably a damned war criminal anyway; most of them are.’

‘Well, I don’t suppose we shall be able to shoot them all.’

‘Damn it, but I’d like to try,’ the voice came back from within the fog of steam, as the barber tried to remember from behind which desk the customer had fought his war. ‘Particularly this one.’

‘Why him?’

‘Most dangerous type of Hun. Doesn’t know when he’s beaten. Too stupid and arrogant to know when he’s lost the bloody war.’ But it was more than that. It was his example, one lonely man – even a German – running around the country sticking his fingers in the face of Authority, an example which all too many seemed willing to follow. It couldn’t be tolerated. These were difficult and unsettled times, when people needed to be reminded about their proper place and duties. There was more than one way to lose an empire. ‘And be damned careful how you trim the moustache!’