Part of him yearned for refuge in the flat in Montague Street, yet, at the same time, he was not all that anxious to go back to the strained atmosphere present since his return. Janet had tried hard to recreate their first days of marriage; that much he recognised. The truth of the matter, if he would only have allowed himself to admit it, was that he was suffering from shock. He had had far more contact with the enemy than most other soldiers and for far longer, and the nature and cruelty of those incidents had all worked on his subconscious, twisting his perceptions and straining his capacity to remain a thinking, rational being. Memling, like other soldiers constantly exposed to killing, was discovering that it had become too easy, that one had to struggle against the temptation to kill for the sake of killing or simply sparing oneself the trouble of dealing with prisoners. The deliberate torture and murder of Francine, coupled with his own execution of the four SD men, had driven him to the verge of nervous exhaustion in the Swedish detention camp. He had not recognised the symptoms for what they were, but had ascribed them to nervousness and apprehension as a result of his narrow escape and the pressure of the information he carried. Once Commander Fleming had told him that the bombing raid had been carried out, a great weight had been lifted from him, and a deep lethargy had set in on his return to London.
Janet was the first to notice. He had slept for twenty-six hours after she had found him in the hall, and when he had awakened late the next night, she had brought him tea and scrambled eggs. Afterwards he had bathed and shaved and, returning to the bedroom, found the window thrown wide and the room filled with the soft summer air. Janet had wanted to recreate the night he had proposed to her, and grinned impishly as he got into bed beside her, only to find himself impotent. The shock to his self-esteem was crippling. Since that night, he had avoided her, finding excuses to be absent or taking refuge in anger to hide his fear. He did not know what to do to break the impasse, short of admitting to her that he was frightened to death, and that he would never do. Not to anyone.
Sandys returned an hour later to find Memling asleep. He woke him reluctantly, and after a quick bite, the three of them sat long in the drawing-room discussing the implications of the German rocket programme and their inability to make the committee realise the great danger it posed to the entire Allied war effort. Both Sandys and the brigadier were pessimistic, and the discussion turned to ways they might circumvent Viscount Cherwell’s influence on the Prime Minister.
‘I don’t understand it.’ Sandys smacked the table in exasperation. ‘He is a brilliant scientist. Brilliant! But for some reason he is totally blind regarding the German rockets. Even after seeing the photographs. It is beyond belief.’
Simon-Benet gave Memling a smile to remind him of their discussion.
It was after midnight when they emerged, and Memling was drained. Sandys and the brigadier stood talking beside the car, and Memling leaned against the railing drawing deep lungsful of cold night air. The wind had stiffened and was now whirling dead leaves across the square. The stuffy library had left him with a raging headache, and in spite of the liberal infusions of whisky and water that Sandys had poured, his throat ached. A chill shook him, and he pushed himself up and took a few steps along the gravelled walk, wishing the two would finish their conversation. He was dead tired and wanted nothing so much as his own bed and sleep.
Sandys said good night to them a few moments later and returned to the building. Simon-Benet motioned Memling into the car and gave the driver the address.
Memling lay back against the upholstery, eyes closed as the brigadier droned on about the impression he had made on Sandys; his head was spinning and he was half-asleep when the car drew up in front of his door. He mumbled a good night to Simon-Benet and shuffled towards the steps. Jan found his key and got the door open with difficulty. The flight of stairs seemed endless, and he could not make his key fit in the door to the flat. Janet heard his fumbling and came to open it. She took one look at his perspiring face and helped him directly to bed, undressing him and then covering him with a quilt. By this time he was shivering and his teeth were chattering. Janet got into bed beside him and took his shivering body in her arms. The room seemed to spin and bob, and for a moment Memling was frightened that he was still aboard the fishing boat caught up in the storm. Then Janet’s face swam into view and he relaxed, knowing everything had come out right.
The next morning Janet phoned the hospital, and Memling was removed from the flat for treatment of exhaustion and incipient pneumonia.
