Someone must have come across him. She wasn't worried, because the Doctor was quite capable of looking after himself. Had the Doctor had time to find out what he needed to know, though? There was no way of telling, and she certainly wasn't in any fit state to go down there and help him. She'd done all she could. She flexed her muscles, tried to figure out how badly hurt she was. Nothing broken, but virtually everything cut and bruised. Mud caked her dress, her legs and half her face. She was colder than she had realized, her feet already numb, her legs in the first stages of cramp. She stamped her feet, trying to improve her circulation. Her hands were still shaking. She wasn't badly hurt, but she was far too distinctive. She would be picked up by any German patrol she came across. Even at a brisk pace, it would take her three-quarters of an hour to get back to the boardinghouse, but she really couldn't think of anywhere else to go, and she couldn't wait here. She set off, circling back while also giving the cove and surroundings a wide berth.

Had they invented the helicopter by now? Benny tried to remember as she fled across country. A century from now the jet helicopter would be the princ.i.p.al form of transport, and she had seen for herself that they were certainly around in the 1960s and '70s, but she couldn't remember seeing or hearing any on this visit. The Germans hardly needed them: when the alarm was raised, they would bring in tracker dogs, foot patrols, roadblocks. Guernsey was so small that search parties could be set up in no time at all. Benny decided that, on balance, it might well be better to stick to the roads: there would be no risk of getting lost, and she wouldn't leave a trail of footprints. Thanks to the restrictions imposed by rationing, only the Germans could run motor vehicles now, so if she heard the noise of an engine, it would have to be them. There were plenty of hedges and ditches to hide in. If she was careful, she ought to be able to get back safely. If there were roadblocks, she could dodge round them.

On the way back, Benny didn't encounter any patrols. At first this didn't make her feel any safer, just paranoid that the Germans were saving themselves the effort and that they would be waiting for her at the boardinghouse. Finally, she decided that she ought to consider herself lucky, not worry too much about it. There was no sign of the Doctor anywhere. The Doras' boardinghouse was right in the centre of St Peter Port. Security in the town was a lot tighter than in the country, but it tended to be in fixed positions: guardposts at road junctions, outside the town hall and by the post office.

With no organized resistance, and no real threat of invasion, there wasn't any point wasting resources on stricter security.

She'd had three months of practice at sneaking to and from the Doras', and there were good hiding places lining most of the approaches. She picked her way across the town without much effort, by sticking to the backstreets and alleyways.

Now, Benny stood with her back to the wall, two doors down from Ma Doras' front garden.

It was time to become Celia again. She rummaged through her pocket, quickly finding the holowig filament. She brushed it hurriedly into place. There wasn't any way of seeing herself, so she didn't know whether it was working or not. She a.s.sumed that it was, but waited a moment, for luck, before stepping out. Benny approached the imposing front door of the boardinghouse with mixed feelings. She liked Ma Doras and Anne, but had said her goodbyes. She did not want to go back there, not now. Not back to a life dominated by rationing and randy young troops in the bathroom.

Perhaps the Doctor could take her to Guernsey after the war was over. It would be good to visit Ma and Anne in better times, to see Anne's fiance, and the children she hadn't had yet, to see holiday-makers back in the guest rooms.

Ma Doras opened the door, a cigarette in her mouth.

'What's the matter, Bernice? Where's the Doctor?'

'You had better call me Celia.'

'Celia, you need to get changed.'

Brushing past Ma Doras, Benny pulled herself upstairs, locked herself in the bathroom and peeled off her dress. The mud would wash out. In normal circ.u.mstances, her shoes would have been ruined, but this was wartime, and shoes were in short supply, so they'd be mended. She kicked them off. Then she caught a glance of herself in the mirror, covered in mud and scratches, with stupid 1941 blonde hair a mess, stupid 1941 make-up running down her cheeks, stupid 1941 underwear pushing and squeezing her in awkward places. The reflection didn't look like her at all, it looked like some bimbo on the cover of a lurid true-crime novella. THIS ISSUE: CELIA NOT HER REAL NAME) - HELPLESS.

VICTIM OF n.a.z.i TERROR. She had thought she was going to get away. She really thought that the Doctor would come along and whisk her away from all this oppression. It was never as straightforward as that, was it?

Anne was sitting on the big sofa in the front room, cradling a mug of tea, her head leaning against the antimaca.s.sar. She managed a smile as Benny sat alongside her. Benny had washed and changed, and she was feeling a little better.

'Back so soon?'

'The Doctor and I got split up. It's not exactly the first time. He'll come back and get me when he's finished what he's doing.'

'Were you over at St Jaonnet? That's where our Germans have gone.'

Benny had forgotten about Gerhard. He'd died - no, don't deny it, she'd killed him - less than an hour ago, and already he'd slipped her mind. Perhaps now in Waiblingen, Gerhard's lover or mother or sister was sitting in her front room waiting for news. Did any such woman exist? Bernice had lived with Gerhard for three months, but didn't know anything about him. He must have a family, though. Across the world, women sat alone in houses and factories, anxious for letters, waiting for their men to come home, dreading the thought they might not. Of course, Anne was in the same situation, not knowing where her lover was. Benny couldn't describe how she felt about Anne. Sympathy? Sorrow?

Respect? Such little words. This young woman had drawn on some internal source of strength and carried herself with n.o.bility. Although she would never win a medal, she was at least as heroic as the millions of conscripted men her age.

But Anne's experience was a common one. Like her, most of the women in the world were at home now, desperately hoping that the doorbell wouldn't ring. When the doorbell rang it was someone from the police or the army to give you a telegram. There was no need to read it, someone else on the street had had one the previous week, and their curtains had been drawn ever since. It is with great regret that I have to inform you...

The doorbell rang. Without giving Anne a reply, Benny jumped to her feet, her heart surging with relief.

'I'll go. It'll be the Doctor.'

Benny went to the door and opened it. A German officer stood on the doorstep with Franz. Benny tried not to show her disappointment. It was the younger man who spoke first.

He had been crying.

'Celia, Gerhard is dead. He was killed.' He always spoke in primary-school German, straightforward sentences, not a hint that his was the language of Goethe and Schiller.

'You speak German?' The officer, a Hauptsturmfuhrer she had never seen before, spoke now. He was a slight man in his forties, with greying hair. His chest was lined with various campaign medals that Benny wasn't in the mood to catalogue.

'Yes.'

'Good.' And that was the end of the conversation. The two men came into the house and wiped their feet on the mat. Ma Doras had come into the hall. She regarded the officer warily.

'Is everything all right, Celia?'

'Bad news, Ma. Gerhard was killed.'

There was genuine sorrow in Ma's reaction. 'At the beach?'

'Yes,' Franz and Benny replied together. An awkward pause before Franz continued. 'We are here for his possessions. They will be returned to his family. Would you help us pack them, Celia?'

Benny nodded dumbly and led them upstairs to the first floor. She opened the door to Gerhard and Kurt's bedroom.

The room was small, just a couple of beds, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. The bed had not been made, a fact clearly noted by the German officer. Benny opened up each of the drawers in turn. Gerhard had left nothing remarkable: underwear, a fountain pen and writing paper, a tatty postcard of the Eiffel Tower, an unopened packet of cigarettes, a book of regulations, a magazine featuring photographs of healthy Aryan women in various states of undress. Benny laid each of these out on the bed and the officer meticulously listed them in a notebook.

'Not much, is it?' he commented.

'He was young. Seventeen or eighteen.'

'Sixteen. Seventeen in July. Not much for a life.' He had removed a paper bag from his overcoat pocket and now dropped everything but the magazine and cigarettes into it.

He handed the last two items to Franz and carefully closed up the bag with some sort of official seal.

'Thank you, Miss Doras. Private, I shall be waiting in the car.' He marched from the room.

'Yes, sir.' Franz handed the magazine and cigarettes to Benny. 'Could you take these to my room?'

'Of course. Then I'd better get to work.'

Franz hesitated for a second, then whispered, 'I would not.'

'Why not?'

'Well, you and he were... friendly.' There was no doubt what he meant by the word. At least he had the decency to blush.

'We were not.'

'You went out last night. He told me.'

She fixed him with a stare. 'We went for a walk, nothing more. And I am going to work.'

Chris Cwej was in love.

The radiator was a vast silver slab, the bonnet an equally solid expanse of green-grey. Huge wings arched over the narrow tyres, then stretched back to the very rear of the car.

The car's roof was bulky yet elegantly rounded. The windscreen and other gla.s.s was thick, lined with bra.s.s. The headlamps and other fittings were carefully polished. Chris came from an age when automated factories churned out thousands of functional transport units. Each model was designed according to strict rules, princ.i.p.ally the laws of aerodynamics and the demand for energy efficiency.

Computers made sure that each flitter conformed to the rigorous safety and emissions standards required by law. The car in front of him wouldn't. It was the fossil fuel this car used that contributed to the fog that shrouded London every morning. The tyre treads were worn, the vehicle had no back-up computer. In a crash, all that metal would crumple, all the gla.s.s would shatter. It must weigh several tonnes; most of that huge engine would surely be needed just to move it.

Chris changed his mind: this car would move. This car would be one of the fastest things on the planet at this time. He loved this car.

He looked back at Roz. 'Magnificent, isn't it?'

'Yeah, great. But trust me, it'll never get off the ground.'

Roz didn't share his love of machines, and in the past had proved unwilling to acquire it. Chris turned back to the car, and saw the driver holding the rear door open for him.

'It belongs to a lord of the realm, sir,' the driver said. 'He volunteered it for military service. We were hardly going to turn him down.'

'It's a beautiful vehicle,' Chris breathed. 'Do you think I could sit in the front?' There was a snort of derision from somewhere behind him.

'Yes, sir.' The driver sounded delighted at the admiration his car was receiving, and was closing the rear door as Chris clambered into the driver's seat. The driver looked around helplessly.

George Reed shrugged. 'Let him drive if he wants to, Harry. Just don't let him get lost.'

'No, sir.'

Chris was running his hand over the black leather seats and the walnut trim. 'This is just superb. Hey, Sergeant, how do you start the engine?'

The driver showed him. The engine surged into life.

'And then?'

'Drop the handbrake, put it in gear and push down the pedal, sir.'

'Are you sure you don't want to come for a spin with us, Roz?'

'Chris, there's a war on.' Her tone was sharp, but there was an underlying tenderness there that Chris couldn't fail to spot. She was worried about him.

'Don't worry, Roz, I'll be OK.' He grinned rea.s.suringly.

Then he slammed the driver's door shut, pushed the pedal right down to the floor, and the Bentley roared away. Harry, the driver, was thrown back into his seat, grabbing for his cap. When he had recovered, he grinned at Chris, who grinned back. The car threw itself past St James's Park.

'How long will it take to get to Plymouth?' Chris asked, shouting over the roar of the engine.

'About half as long as it should take!' laughed Harry.

An islander had killed a German officer: there was only one possible course of action. At a quarter-past nine, on the cold morning of 2 March 1941, German troops silently moved into position, blocking off Smith Street in front of the post office.

Islanders were allowed to enter the area, but none were allowed to leave. They had become used to such inconveniences and thought little of it. When the Germans insisted on checking the ident.i.ty papers of everyone present, most people in the crowd concluded that this was simply a routine security matter. Accepting this, the crowd did as they were asked, and stood in line. Then, a senior SS officer, Sturmbannfuhrer Schern, came forward. Reading from a typed sheet of foolscap paper, he informed the crowd that a German officer had been shot and killed in the course of his duties that morning near the airstrip at St Jaonnet. The crowd became noticeably more anxious at this news. A reward was now offered for information leading to the arrest of this traitor traitor: 25,000 Occupation marks. The crowd murmured at this figure. Some had already calculated that this would be enough to buy a car, no, enough to buy a house. The German continued to speak: as a reprisal for this action, firstly, rations were to be cut further. The officer read out the precise details of which foods and materials would be affected. Secondly, half a dozen villagers were to be shot. Six shots were fired. Six islanders were killed instantly. Any future resistance would be met with a similar response. The German troops stood down, and the crowd of islanders quickly dispersed. Boots the Chemist, next to the post office, opened as normal at half-past nine.

The Doctor was looking out from the third-floor window, rage and sorrow surging across his face. Wolff watched him staring down into the square. By now, the bodies would have been cleared away, life would have returned to normal. There was nothing to see but workers scrubbing away the blood.

When this 'Doctor' spoke, his voice was low.

'There was no need. Why?'

Wolff was dismissive, and he replied in German, 'Because I can.' He smiled as he saw the Doctor's reaction.

Outrage, indignation, horror. In many ways the Doctor was extraordinary: he was an exceptionally intelligent man, the bruise around his mouth was already healing, and most remarkable of all he didn't seem remotely worried about his arrest. Yet his reaction to witnessing the ma.s.sacre was tiresome and predictable. The usual, impotent, rage.

Mindless sympathy for the weak, knee-jerk concern for the unimportant. No sense of history.

'Your accomplice killed a German soldier, Herr Doktor.

You crossed the line first.'

'You just don't see it, do you? You killed six innocent people. Men and women who had done nothing.' The Doctor strode towards him, menace in his eyes. Wolff remained where he was. They were alone in the room together. Wolff turned to face him. Even when Wolff was sitting down, the Doctor was barely taller than him.

'They, or people like them, harboured you.'

'I arrived this morning and went straight for the beach.'

'If you did that, then you were acting on information pa.s.sed on by an islander. The sentence stands.' Wolff broke eye contact. The Doctor hovered at his shoulder, unsure how to respond. Before he could continue, Wolff spoke, 'Herr Doktor, I would have shot you on the beach without a second thought, like a stray dog' - he paused as an amusing thought crossed his mind - 'and if I had, then there would have been no need for those people down there to have died.' The Doctor showed no signs that he appreciated the irony, so Wolff continued. 'You know of Oskar Steinmann?'