The descriptions in this chapter are all true and well documented. Most were not as lucky as Randall, if lucky is the right word. Many returning POW's came back changed men. Some were violent, some drank, some closed themselves off from their loved term Post Traumatic Stress did not exist, and most were left to cope alone, in any way they could. Having had all control completely taken away from him, Randall would seek to find control in any way possible. I think he would always have leaned towards OCD but his experiences would polarise the condition, to the extent that he could not function without it.

I must point out that I in no way wish to offend anyone with the contents of these chapters. There is no doubt that the Gestapo were cruel. There were not alone. Cruelty still carries on today, lessons are still to be learned.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

ANGEL AND DEMONS.

Icy chill, wet clothes. Creeping, inexorable, gnawing hunger. An insatiable longing for anything edible, but nothing forthcoming, for days sometimes. Forgetting what food tasted like.
The inevitability of impending death. Welcoming it, wanting it, longing for it, to put an end to this torment.
Hanging. Naked. Wrists, arms and shoulders burning. Doused with freezing water. A crackle, a spark, a burning smell, searing agony. Body twitching and writhing in reflex. Another jolt, a flash, this time through the genitals. Scream. No control, a trickle down the leg.
Head wrenched up, by the hair. A fist. Taste of blood in the mouth, metallic, sour.
Time has no meaning. Days with no beginning and no end. Hope extinguished? Not quite.
Deep, deep down in the most secret recesses, the minutest corner of the mind, where even pain cannot reach...a little girl.
Thrown onto a fetid mattress. Curled in a ball. Knees up, head down.
Touch of a hand...brace for pain...no pain. A caress; warm, gentle. A vision; hazy, indistinct, golden hair, soft voice, soothing, stroking. Overwhelming relief, flooding emotion...sleep, sleep, sleep now, sleep.

Bel woke with a start. The sound of crockery clinking from the kitchen. Randall was moving about the house. Fully dressed and wide awake.

A chill pervaded her room, there was frost on the window pane and a thin watery late Autumn sun shone through the damask curtains.
She joined him, as he was whipping eggs in a bowl with a fork.
He turned to her, his face looked tired, drawn, dark circles under his eyes, barely hidden by his spectacles.
His gaze followed her as she moved closer to him, taking the bowl and fork from his hands, placing them aside, threading her arms under his cardigan, around his waist. Laying her head against his chest. Not speaking.
She felt his arms come around her, he held her, but his body was shaking, she could feel the tremble through his clothes.
"It's alright Randall. Don't say anything. I understand."
"I don't think I can be what you want Bel, I don't think I have the strength, I've struggled so long, I can't do it anymore." His tone was resigned, his teeth chattering, body cold and clammy.
"I want to stay here. Please say you won't send me away?"
"It's not right, Bel, you can't stay here with me, it would ruin your reputation, your career, everything."
She raised her head to look at him.
"No, Randall, no more running, for you or for me. This is where it ends. Right here in this cottage. Whatever happens next, happens. I don't care about anything else."
He pulled her close again, kissing the top of her head.
"I have so many demons." He whispered.
"So we will confront them, once and for all."
"You are an angel, but you don't know what you're up against." He stroked her hair.
"Angels fight demons, I'll help you fight yours. I promise. I have to do this. I love you."
His body still quaking, he brushed her mouth with his lips.
"Then I'll fight with all I have. But I'm weak at the moment, Bel. It's all very raw, very close. I feel I'm on the edge of a great precipice and any moment I could fall."
"All the more reason I'm here then. To catch you." Her fingers touched his cheek and he leaned his face into her touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he let out a deep sigh. He looked so weary. Her heart wept for him.

After breakfast, a long walk along the clifftop, the lighthouse below them. Winston ran alongside. It was bitterly cold. A biting wind from the sea and the promise of snow in the air.
She held his arm tightly in hers, his pace laboured, bowed over slightly as if struggling against a heavy weight. Brow furrowed, deep in thought.
Back in the warmth of his living room. He stoked up a roaring fire. A large stew simmered slowly on the stove.
Bel settled down on the sofa, curled beside him. It seemed his barriers were down, as he welcomed the close contact.
Suddenly he spoke. His voice nothing more than a rasp, uncertain, indistinct.
"I'm ready Bel."
She sat up and took both his hands in hers. She knew.
"If it gets too much, just say, okay?"
He swallowed hard, gripping her fingers tightly.
"I've never told anyone, not even the Doctor, not all of it, I don't think I can ever tell all of it. I thought if I buried it, I could carry on, but it's been so long and it's more of a struggle now than ever."
"You talk...I'm just going to listen. Say whatever you can, and if you want to stop...stop! I'm here."
"I told you I was in Intelligence, during the War. Well, when I fled Paris in 1940, I was recruited into the SOE. The Special Operations Executive. In London. I had months of training, to operate the wireless, explosives, maps, reconnaissance , you name it...then in '42, Operation Prosper was initiated. The following year I parachuted into France, to make my way to Paris, meet my contact and work with the Resistance. Gathering information, hindering the Germans in any way possible, and later, paving the way for a possible invasion. The average lifespan of the agents was a few weeks, Bel, no more. The constant threat of discovery, of betrayal, was always there. But my cover was good and my french excellent, and I survived. The strain was terrific, but you got used to it, and you got on with it."
Randall passed a hand across his face, as the images came back to him. His manner became somehow detached, as though he were speaking of someone else.
"In February of '44 I was betrayed, and one night the Gestapo came for me. I had no warning, no time to escape. I was taken to 84, Avenue Foch, their headquarters. For questioning. I was interrogated."
Bel drew in a sharp breath.
"I was there on the fifth floor for a while, a couple of weeks maybe. Then transferred to Fresnes Prison, on the outskirts of Paris."
Randall began to shiver, violently, sweat beaded his brow and top lip. Tears ran down his face, and yet he wasn't really crying.
"I was in solitary, from March to July, but I had no concept of time really. The passing days melt into one. All you focus on is the dark, the pain, and not giving in, not telling them any information, no matter how hard they try to break you. They can break your body, Bel, but as long as a tiny part of your mind remains..."
"Oh God! Oh God!...Randall, and I called you a coward. What a foolish woman I am. How can you ever forgive me? You are the bravest man I've ever known. What did they do to you?"
"Pretty much standard stuff really," Randall shrugged his shoulders in a matter of fact way, and gave an ironic laugh.
"Starvation, or at least semi-starvation, deprivation of the senses, inflicting as much pain as they think you can handle without killing you. Taking away every modicum of control that you have. Both of body and of mind. Every shred of what makes you human, making you into a sub species, bestial. Complete subjugation. You learn to associate the touch of a human hand with pain, agony. Your sense of self is taken away. Unless you can keep a part of you unsullied, you will cave, break, go insane, or just lose the will to carry on living."
Bel began to cry quietly. Seeing this man, whose stillness and serenity, whose subtlety and gentility she had always admired...this is what he endured, for months untold. This is what he carried with him, every single day. It broke her heart.
"How did you survive?" She wept.
"My hope was Sophia...she was my light, my secret place that they couldn't reach. That I would somehow stay alive, and I would find her. I had endless dreams about her. That was my beacon. Without that I would have died. It gave me the will." He wiped his face with his trembling hand.
"In August when the Germans knew the game was up, they started executing some prisoners, but I was loaded onto a wagon, 127 of us in a cattle truck, big enough for 40. Windows boarded up, no light, no food, no water. Two days the train sat in the blazing sun. Some died then and there. We were bound for Buchenwald, although we didn't know it then. I only found that out later, many more died in that camp, before it was liberated in '45. But some of the prisoners were wearing hobnail boots, and they decided to try kicking the boards out and making a break for it. When the train slowed, they got down between the carriages. Only a few of us made it out. We just made a bid for freedom. They fired on us with a machine gun. We ran...I don't know where the strength came from. But the instinct to live is strong. We were still this side of the French border, just, one of the border guards was a woman, she gave us water, and we were taken in and looked after. We made our way back, towards Paris, by the time we reached the outskirts it had been liberated by the Americans."
"Good God, Randall! "

He turned towards her, face filled with anguish,
"I thought I'd be okay then. I was alive...I was free...against all the odds, I'd made it, but the dreams, Bel, the dreams...they never stop. I hear the screams, I see it all, I feel the pain. I want it to stop. I need it to stop. The doctors gave me pills to help me sleep, they had me on the couch...to talk, therapy, they call it, they taught me to focus on little things, meditate, ease my mind. But it doesn't stop the dreams. The couch I had in my office at The Hour...the idea was, that if I felt the need, I should retreat there, lie down, close my eyes and allow myself to drift, to calm myself, regain my equilibrium. Mostly it worked, or at least helped, but after discovering the news about Sophia, it didn't work any more, I had to leave Bel, I could no longer hold it together.
So I hit upon the idea of coming here...the peace, the solitude, not being stressed by outside influences, I began to improve. I found that I could function again."
"And then I came along..."
"And then you came along, " he squeezed her fingers," I dared to hope, Bel, at first, for a while, I really thought 'I can do this'. I managed whilst I was down here... just, but returning to London, you telling me you thought you loved me, kissing you that night...it overwhelmed me, my own feelings scared me, contact that was supposed to be so pleasurable, became painful. I'm not sure I'm capable of a proper relationship, not the sort of relationship a lovely woman like you should have. I can't do that to you, Bel. You should have a husband, children..."

"And what if I don't want those things? What if what I really want is right here, in front of me?"

"Ah, Bel...you say that now, but in a years time? Two? How would you feel then? You'd feel you wasted the best years of your life on me."

"No, Randall, no time spent with you would be wasted. I will accept whatever you do feel capable of giving. I ask for nothing more."

The disbelief on his face was clear. Did she still want him after all he'd said? Could he actually give in to his feelings and trust her?

The small voice on his shoulder said 'no'. But somehow he was disinclined to listen, this time the voice sounded unsure, this time, he felt he could almost reach out and touch...life, love and everything that went with it. Somehow, a weight had been lifted, someone finally knew his story, apart from himself. He had managed to share it, she knew the truth...and she was still here.