Within seconds he had moved towards her. She put her foot on her pedal and tried to cycle away, but his hand came out and took hold of one of her wrists. ‘Get off your bicycle,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘I admire your courage.’ He tightened his grip and spoke slowly. ‘I told you to get off your bicycle.’
Her courage failed now, but she held his gaze and repeated, ‘No.’
‘If you want me to forget I ever saw you in the woods that night, you will get off your bicycle and come with me. If you want me to forget that man of yours has been defying the Führer and lying for you, you will come with me.’
‘What do you mean?’ she said through dry lips. Her voice caught in her throat.
‘Do not play coy,’ he said.
No. He couldn’t possibly mean what she thought he did.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked. But she knew.
‘The Islanders have a word for women like you,’ he said. ‘You are a Jerrybag? No?’
‘No,’ she spat. ‘I am not a Jerrybag.’
‘Come with me,’ he said, pulling her from her bicycle. It clattered to the ground and she hopped awkwardly from it, catching her foot in the frame as his hands went round her waist and he pulled her further away from her means of escape.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded in horror. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
‘Are Nazis better than English men in bed?’ he said. ‘Is that why some of you girls sleep with my fellow soldiers so willingly?’
‘Oh my God,’ she cried and began lashing out. ‘Get off me,’ she cried. ‘Get off me.’
‘Do not struggle,’ he demanded. ‘Or it will take longer.’
‘No,’ she screamed, begging silently for anyone to hear her. ‘No,’ she repeated over and over as he pulled her towards where the cliff jutted up, a large rock pointing skyward, just big enough to hide them. Is that why he had waited? He had known she would come back this way. Is that why he had chosen this exact point? He started to pull at her dress, his hands over her breasts. She felt the rustle of the paper against her skin. Oh God, the news she had written down.
Whatever happened next, she could not let him find it. That would be proof enough to condemn her. She lashed out with even more violent force than before, scratching him, kicking him in the shin. He bent over in pain, loosening his grip enough for her to break free, but he was upon her too quickly, dragging her back. She screamed as he pushed her into the rock, slamming her body against it and in agony she slumped to the ground. He looked down at her, took off his helmet and it was this nod to undressing that forced Persey into action, kicking out at him again, turning over, trying to gain ground as she scrabbled away like a wild animal.
He launched himself onto her, pinning her down and forcing her over onto her back. Persey scrabbled at the rocks, dirt and gravel embedding sharply under her fingernails, grabbing at rocks and anything she could to gain ground, but it was no use. He looked into her eyes with thinly veiled triumph. And with one final, desperate need to stop him, to live, to survive she grabbed a small, stray rock and swung her hand up, smashing it into his skull.
The first blow stunned him. But it was the second time she hit him with the sharpest point of the object that did the most damage, unsettling him from his kneeling position over her. He rolled off her, onto his back, clutching his head. She watched blood trickle down his face and without thinking, rolled towards him as quickly as she could. Fear, anger, hatred gripped her and she knelt over him. His eyes filled with horror as she struck him again, screamingand screaming at him, letting out all the anger she’d been holding, not just against him these past few minutes, but against the Nazis, for what they were forcing upon Islanders, upon Europe. The bloodshed they had caused, the hatred towards the Jews, that innocents such as Lise had been forced into hiding – or worse, scooped up and taken away, that good men like Stefan had been swept up, however unwillingly as part of their cause, that Dido was now falling for a man she couldn’t be with, that Persey and Stefan could never be, not now, not like this. She let all the anger and hatred flow out of her as she slammed the rock into him over and over and over, screaming and screaming, drowning out his shouts that died away with the wind until he lay motionless.
Her breath came thick and fast and she stared at him, waiting for him to move, to justify her hitting him again. She didn’t dare take her eyes off him, didn’t dare close them for a fraction of a second to blink. She waited until the watering pain of keeping her eyes open forced her to, expecting him to take his chance to move the very moment she did. If he moved again, she would hit him. She gripped the rock tighter. But he didn’t stir. She watched him for a minute or two, losing track of time. But the blood was everywhere, over him, over her and her hands, over the ground. As her vision cleared and she saw the scene around them, eventually she knew he wasn’t going to move; his chest no longer rising and falling in time to his breath. He had no breath left to give. He wasn’t going to move ever again.
She got up off her knees and slumped back into a sitting position. Gravel had embedded into her legs, her stockings were ripped and the rock in her hands was so bloody she could barely see what it was she was holding. She sat for far too long, not knowing what she could do. If she went to Doctor Durand’s she would involve him, all of them, in something so horrific. Everyone in that cottage was already in the most precarious position. She stood up, slowly, her legs wobbling and looked down at the dead soldier, his head caved in on one side, blood spattered down hisuniform, his face no longer recognisable due to the volume of blood coating it.
And suddenly she sobbed, great heaving sobs. She had killed a man. She had taken a life. She shook uncontrollably and slumped against the rocks, crying into her bloodstained hands, the rock that had become a weapon scraped her face, but she could not let go.
And then another thought struck her. They would kill her. When the Germans found her and found out what she’d done, they would kill her. And she would deserve it. A life for a life. They would execute her. She closed her eyes, resigning herself to it. Persey stood straighter and looked at the man she had killed. He was dead and soon she would follow him there. In trying to survive, she had just secured her own death.
Slowly she unfurled her fingers from the rock and let it drop to the ground. She picked up her bicycle, wheeled it a few paces before climbing on and looking back one final time.
The dead soldier was behind the rock, his legs sticking out, but she made no move to hide him. It was too late to pretend it had not happened. Solemnly she cycled towards home. She would wipe the blood off herself, write a letter to Dido telling her she was sorry for everything, sorry for the argument so long ago, sorry for not being a better sister, sorry for having killed someone, sorry for leaving her on her own. She would write a letter to Jack asking him to take care of Dido. And then, so no one else on the island could be blamed for the death of this man, she would hand herself in to the Gestapo, knowing that very soon she would be made an example of and would stand in front of a German firing squad.
Chapter 25
2016
Spread over three floors, the Island Archives was housed in the deconsecrated St Barnabas Church in Cornet Street. Thousands of documents, files, books and images tracing Guernsey’s history from the fourteenth century until present day were contained within the space and when Will and Lucy checked with the receptionist what they were able to look at, they were overwhelmed.
‘There’s a lot here,’ Will said, gulping.
