“Can you do that sort of thing?” she asked him.
“Anybody can be taught to do it. It’s brains that’s important in this game.”
There were three soldiers in khaki battle dress at the bar, an older man who was a sergeant and a couple of privates. Hard young men who kept laughing, heads together, as they looked across at Martineau. When he went to replenish the drinks, one of them deliberately jogged his arm as he turned from the bar, spilling a little scotch.
“You want to be more careful, mate,” the youth told him.
“If you say so.” Martineau smiled cheerfully, and the sergeant put a hand on the youth’s sleeve and muttered something.
When he sat down Sarah said, “Jack Carter tells me you knew Freud.”
“Yes, I last saw him in London in nineteen thirty-nine just before he died.”
“Do you agree with psychoanalysis?”
“Everything coming down to sex? God knows, old Sig-mund had enough problems in that direction himself. He was once doing a lecture tour in the States with Jung and told him one day that he kept dreaming of prostitutes. Jung simply asked him why he didn’t do something about it. Freud was terribly shocked. ‘But I’m a married man,’ he said.”
She laughed helplessly. “That’s marvelous.”
“Talking of great minds, I used to have dealings with Bertrand Russell, who liked the ladies more than somewhat, which he justified by his strongly held personal belief that you couldn’t get to know a woman properly until you’d slept with her.”
“That doesn’t sound very philosophical to me,” she said.
“On the contrary.”
She got up and excused herself. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
As she went out to the cloakroom the three soldiers watched her go, then glanced at Martineau, and there was a burst of laughter. As she returned, the young soldier who had bumped Martineau at the bar grabbed her arm. She struggled to pull away and Martineau was on his feet and pushing through the crowd to her side.
“That’s enough.”
“Who the hell are you, her father?” the boy demanded.
Martineau took him by the wrist, applying leverage in the way the instructor had shown him on the silent killing course at Arisaig in Scotland in the early days. The boy grimaced in pain. The sergeant said, “Leave off. He didn’t mean any harm. Just a bit of fun.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
As he took her back to the table she said, “That was quick.”
“When I feel, I act. I’m a very existentialist person.”
“Existentialist?” She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Oh, a new perspective to things a friend of mine’s come
‘ up with. A French writer called Jean-Paul Sartre. When I was on the run in Paris three years ago I holed up at his apartment for a couple of weeks. He’s involved with the
Resistance.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Oh, lots of things. The bit I like is the suggestion that you should create values for yourself through action and by living each moment to the full.”
“Is that how you’ve got yourself through the last four years?”
“Something like that. Sartre just put it into words for me.” He helped her into her coat. “Let’s go.”
It was dark outside, music and merriment drifting from the direction of the fair, although most of the stands were already closed because of the blackout regulations. They started across the deserted car park to where Martineau had left the car, and there was a sound of running footsteps. He turned as the two young soldiers ran up. The sergeant emerged on the porch at the rear of the pub and stood watching.
“Now then,” the young soldier who’d caused the scene at the bar said. “You and me aren’t finished yet. You need to be taught a lesson.”
“Is that a fact?” Martineau demanded, and as the youth moved in, swinging a punch, he caught the wrist, twisted it up and around, locking the shoulder. The soldier cried out as the muscle tore. The other soldier gave a cry of alarm and recoiled as Martineau dropped his friend on the ground and the sergeant ran forward angrily.