Pantheon. Sam Bourne

stepped back from her, not wanting to look her in the face. She had extended her hand, but he had brushed her away. ‘Don’t touch me,’ he had said, spitting out the words.

      She tried again, her voice gentler. ‘When are you going to understand that you already did your bit? You made your sacrifice, James. And you were one of the first to do it. You took your stand against fascism when everyone else here was fast asleep. You don’t need to do any more.’

      He had looked up at her, his face red with anger. ‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re a woman: no one expects you to fight. But I should be there, killing as many of those bastards as I can. I’m not though, am I?’ She had said nothing, prompting him to repeat his question, this time bellowing it: ‘Am I?’ Once she had sighed and nodded, he went on. ‘This is my frontline – here, this house. And I’ll be damned if anyone will make me retreat from my own bloody home.’

      He stared ahead now, all but forgetting that Rosemary was there, and still talking. He now knew why his wife had left – and, much more important, he had an inkling of where she had gone.

      SEVEN

      James cycled home, the energy coursing through his veins and into his legs. He was full of determination, a plan forming in his mind. Back at the house, he rushed into his study to find his atlas of the British Isles.

      Rosemary had forced him to remember what he had forgotten, that Florence had indeed been in a state of high anxiety about the war and what she felt was its creeping proximity to their own lives. It was natural that Florence would want to get out into the countryside, with her parents’ estate in Norfolk the obvious destination. But she was not there.

      Now that it had proved a dead end, he could see it was always going to be an incomplete explanation. For one thing, it could not account for the mystery of the last two Thursday evenings – the elaborate lengths his wife had taken to deceive him, apparently withholding the truth even from her best friend. No, she must have made an alternative arrangement, joining the rest of the hundreds of thousands of British people who had left their homes in cities for rural safety. It made no sense to him: Oxford was hardly an urban metropolis; a quick cycle ride and you were in the countryside. But Florence, unlike almost every other mother in England, had seen the aftermath of a bombing with her own eyes. He remembered his wife crouching by that little girl in Madrid, still and lifeless. Florence had been so calm; she had not sobbed or become hysterical. But clearly it had left its mark.

      He found the page for Oxfordshire. This was what he would do. He would get on his bicycle and keep going until he had found them, cycling to every village if he had to. Start at Botley, then Wytham, then Wolvercote, Old Marston, Marston – ringing the city in concentric circles until he had covered the whole county. And after that the next county and the next and the next.

      He looked out of the window. The summer light had at last faded. There was no chance of going now, whatever fantasy he had spun as he had raced back here from the river. It would mean cycling in the dark, no lights allowed in the blackout. He was confident he could navigate sufficiently well, even without road signs, but what would he do once he arrived in, say, Botley? He could hardly start walking the country lanes, calling out their names – though he imagined himself now doing exactly that, hearing the echo of it in his head: ‘Florence! Harry!’ He would have to wait till morning.

      He reached for the whisky bottle beside the chair. Despite the spillage caused by Virginia Grey’s arrival, there was still some left. He raised it to his lips and, without opening his eyes, knocked it back.

      As the liquid ran down his throat and he felt the alcohol travel through his veins, he thought of what the insufferable Rosemary had told him. That he had been sleepwalking, shouting in the night, waking Florence and Harry with his screaming. He wanted to deny it, but it sounded true. And the boiling kettle? If he forced himself, he could picture it: Harry on his high-chair, the steam rising inches from his face. How he, in a fit of absent-mindedness, had put the kettle down on the child’s table … But slapping Florence? Hitting his own wife? He had no memory of that whatsoever.

      He saw her as she had been in Madrid, during their first weeks together as husband and wife: her floodlit smile, her body bursting with energy, vitality, sex. And then he imagined her in the Bodleian, her brow furrowed, poring over dry journal articles, detailing the symptoms of a kind of delayed shellshock in veterans of the Great War. Was that what she believed was wrong with him? Was she right?

      He saw again the page as he had read it. Whatever else had gone wrong with him, his memory for printed words had retained its near-photographic ability. He could read the lines as if they were still there, recalling their precise position on the page: acute insomnia, including difficulty both falling and staying asleep; excess anger and temper; poor concentration. Others reported a heightened state of awareness, as if in constant expectation of danger.

      With his mind clarified by the whisky and the serial shocks of this day, he could recognize himself in that list.

      And then he thought of the second book in that pile the old Jewish librarian had handed him: Studies in Pediatric Trauma. That was what she feared most, he could see. She worried that he was passing on some of his own troubles to his son. Symptoms range from selective dumbness, melancholia, extreme shyness, impaired development, bedwetting …

      It was true that Harry had not yet mastered staying dry at night, but James had put that down to his age: he did not know when boys were meant to learn that particular trick. But impaired development? Everyone had always joked that, with his parents’ combined IQ, Harry would be on course for a double first before his tenth birthday. He had started speaking early and could deliver neatly composed, relatively complex sentences. But in recent months he had become shy. Did that amount to selective dumbness? Surely not. Though, try as he might, James could not recall the last time he had heard his son speak at length.

      His headache was returning. He could see the bright lights again, miniature explosions inside his brain. Now he could hear Florence’s voice, pleading with him: ‘James, you’re supposed to be the expert in how the mind works. You’re so clever about “the human brain”. But why can’t you understand yourself?’

      Eyes closed, he attempted to formulate an answer. But the words would not come. Instead, he heard a voice repeating the sentence in the book Florence had been studying. The voice, he realized as it became more distant, belonged to Epstein, the refugee professor. He was lecturing, in that calm, patient German accent, as if he were Sigmund Freud himself: ‘… several of those interviewed displayed an extreme reluctance to speak of their wartime experiences, flinching from even indirect reminders. Perhaps paradoxically, many of these same people complained of unwanted memories of the event, “flashbacks”, as it were. The most common complaint, experienced by some sixty-eight per cent of those surveyed, was of distressing dreams, often violent …’

       It is dusk, not yet six o’clock. A cloudless day has ensured a severe drop in temperature, so that now he longs for his overcoat. Or perhaps that tremble he feels is a last rush of nerves. Or, as he likes to think of it, stage fright.

       He has done a few of these missions and he is becoming rather adroit, if he says so himself. He is quick on his feet, but quick of eye too: if there is something to see, he will see it. That’s what matters most, Jorge is very clear on that. ‘This is not a job you do with your hands or your legs.’ He would point. ‘Your eyes do all the work.’

       It is the starting rung in the intelligence corps of the republican army, that’s how he explains it. James’s job is to be a courier of messages, those too secret, sensitive or elaborate to be trusted to radio signals. The enemy is outside Madrid, but also inside: it is known that there is a ‘fifth column’ of Franco sympathizers lurking in the city. That he is a foreigner has its drawbacks: he is more visible, no matter how hard he attempts to dress, walk, smoke like a Spaniard. On the other hand, he has an excuse if a fascist gang pounce. He will say he is a journalist, writing for … it doesn’t matter who.

       This journey has been more elaborate