V2 A Novel of World War II - Robert Harris Page 0,77

They stood on the threshold of the giant nave – pillared, vaulted, hushed, chilly with the smell of incense – a universe unto itself. For a moment even Barbara seemed awed. ‘Well, we won’t find a drink in here,’ she said.

Kay laughed and took a few steps up the aisle towards the altar. Her footsteps echoed on the polished stone floor. Out of habit, she genuflected and made the sign of the cross. She glanced around at the statues of the saints. Now she came to think of it, she vaguely remembered a St Rumbold of Mechelen – an Irishman, supposedly, which must have been why the sisters made such a fuss of him. How odd that she should find him here! Offertory candles flickered beneath an icon on a table close to the door. On impulse she went over and lit one; she might even have got down on her knees and said a prayer if she hadn’t been conscious of Barbara watching her sceptically, her arms folded.

‘You’re praying for him, aren’t you?’

‘No, I am not!’ But she realised to her dismay that she was about to. ‘You’re right. That’s enough piety.’

They stepped back out into the gathering dusk. An old-fashioned lamp had come on, attached to the building on the corner of the alley. And then: an odd thing. As they turned into the narrow passage, they heard the sound of running feet, and a woman darted round the corner clutching a loaf of bread. She ran between them, knocking them out of her way, and as she passed, Kay caught a glimpse of her face, grimacing with terror. A second later came the pounding of more footsteps, and suddenly the alley was a mass of running people – twenty or more, men mostly, with a few women and some children tagging along at the rear. The WAAFs had to press themselves into a doorway to avoid being trampled. The mob disappeared around the bend; as abruptly as it had filled, the passage was empty.

Kay looked at Barbara. ‘What was all that?’

‘God knows. It looked like they were trying to kill her.’

‘Maybe she stole the bread.’

They stared in the direction the crowd had run.

Kay said, ‘Had we better go and see?’

Now it was Barbara’s turn to be uncertain. ‘It’s not really any of our business, is it?’

‘No, but …’ Kay hesitated. ‘We should at least check she’s not being murdered, shouldn’t we?’

‘I suppose.’

They retraced their steps back down the alley, past the cathedral doors, around its massive walls and into an open space, cobbled at the edges, with grass and trees in the middle. Under the trees, a crowd had gathered in a circle. They seemed to be watching something. More people were joining all the time, hurrying from the side streets. Instinct warned Kay to keep back; curiosity propelled her forward. Barbara caught her sleeve – ‘Don’t get involved’ – but they went on together anyway, over the grass, shouldering their way through the wall of turned backs, until they reached the centre of the crowd.

The woman was on her knees. Her coat had been dragged halfway down her back, pinioning her arms. Not that she was offering any resistance. Her hands hung limply by her sides, her eyes were closed, her expression resigned. Behind her, a man was wielding a large pair of scissors, grabbing her hair in handfuls and cutting it off. He worked fast, professionally, roughly, as if he were shearing a sheep. The loaf lay in the mud beside her. Each time he seized her hair, the woman’s head jerked backwards. The crowd was silent.

Kay said loudly, in English, ‘Can we stop this now?’ She felt weirdly detached from it all. Listen to yourself, she thought. You sound like a nanny. She stepped forward with her hand outstretched. ‘Arrêtez!’

For the first time, the crowd began to sound angry.

‘Putain anglais femme!’

‘Occupe-toi de tes oignons!’

One man gripped her arm. Another blocked her path. The half-shorn woman opened her eyes and looked at her, imploring her to go away. Kay thought: she doesn’t want your help; you’re only making it worse. She could hear Barbara shouting her name. Even so, she struggled to get closer, until another hand, much stronger, grabbed her from behind and pulled her roughly backwards. She turned, outraged, and saw that it was Arnaud.

‘They are right,’ he said quietly, ‘It is none of your business.’

She tried to shake him off. He tightened his grip and steered her away. Barbara took her other