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Yet they were aware, all the time, of the pursuing terror, behind the turn of the road; they were held still in their intentness. Over all of them was a quiet, fixed serenity. McClane's body had lost its eager, bustling energy and was still; his face was grave, preoccupied and still; only Trixie Rankin went rushing, and calling out to her quiet man in a fierce, dominating excitement.
McClane's car stood in front of her, waiting for John. He was up there on the battlefield, with Sutton and McClane. McClane had kept him off it all day; he had come to her when they started and told her not to worry. Conway would be all right. He would see that he didn't get into places where he well, unsuitable places. He would keep him driving.
She had no feeling; she had exhausted all the emotions of her suffering. And her knowledge of his cruelty was absolute. To McClane's assertion of the fact she had no response beyond that toneless acquiescence. "Taking you into that shed " He had roused her. "How on earth did you know that? I've never told a single soul." "It was known in the hospital. One of the carpenters saw the whole thing.
The three were drawn up at the street side, close under the house walls, McClane's first. Then Sutton's, with Gwinnie. Then hers; behind it the short straight road where the firing would come down. John stood in the roadway waiting for the others. He had his hand beside her hand, grasping the arm of the driver's seat. "I wish you could take me with you," she said. "Can't.
On the third floor, at the turn of the corridor, a small vestibule between two glass doors led to a room flooded with a blond light from the south. Beyond the glass doors, their figures softened by the deep, doubled shimmer of the panes, they saw the little man in shabby tweeds, the two women, and the seven other men. This, Madame explained, was Dr. Donald McClane's Field Ambulance Corps.
It was so real to him that, however hardly you judged him, you couldn't think of him as a humbug or a hypocrite.... No. He was not that. He was not that. His mind truly lived in a glorious state for which none of his disgraceful deeds were ever done. It created a sort of innocence for him. They were to go to Berlaere. Trixie Rankin had gone on before them with Gurney, McClane's best chauffeur.
A struggling, dejected smile. "My dear child, I've told you they're not going to send us out first." "I don't know " said Gwinnie. "I do know. We shall be lucky if we get a look in when McClane's cars break down." "That's it. Have you seen their cars? I overhauled them this morning, in the yard. They're nothing but old lorries, converted. And one of 'em's got solid tyres." "Well?"
His car, packed with wounded, stood a little way up the street, headed for Ghent. Sutton's car, with one of McClane's chauffeurs, was in front of it, ready; she could hear the engine purring. Instead of going at once for the stretcher John had followed Sutton into the house opposite, the house with the narrow grey shutters. And he had called to her again across the road to wait for him.
If Billy Sutton distinguished himself that would open McClane's eyes a little wider, too. She wondered why Billy kept on saying that McClane was a great psychologist. If it was true that would be very awful for McClane; he would see everything going on inside people, then, all the things he didn't want to see; he wouldn't miss anything, and he would know all the time what John was like.
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