Excerpt from The Welsh Girl by Peter Ho Davies, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

“What — ?” Rotheram began, and stopped, silenced by the sound of his own cry in the still house as much as by Hawkins’s steely jocularity.

Gripping the receiver, Rotheram told him stiffly that he understood, and he did, although dully, as if his head were still ringing from the blow. The CO had been flattering him with this mission, he realized; more than that, it was a consolation prize. The decision had already been made, but not by Rotheram. Hess would be going to the trial, but Rotheram wouldn’t. The closest he’d come to Germany, any time soon, was the image on the screen.

“You will be missed,” Hawkins said. He was the one whispering now. “It’s just that there ’s a sense that Jews ought not to be a big part of the process. To keep everything aboveboard, so to speak. To avoid its looking like revenge. Can’t stick a thumb on the scales of justice and all that. And really, that stunt at Dover.” He laughed ruefully. “That’s what you get for playing silly buggers.”

Rotheram was silent and the CO filled the pause by asking, “By the way, how is Rudi, the old bastard?”

“Probably as sane as you or I,” Rotheram said, and Hawkins laughed again.

“Well, that’s not saying much, dear boy. That’s not saying very much at all.”

Rotheram held the receiver long after it had gone dead, reassured by the weight in his hand, until he heard a floorboard creak overhead, and finally set it gently back in its cradle. He wondered who else might be awake, whom he might have woken. Hess’s room was on the second floor, and suddenly he hoped the Nazi might appear, escaping, any excuse for Rotheram to take him by the throat. On the landing, he peered down the corridor. There was Hess’s guard, the corporal who’d served them Scotch, slumped in his chair, giving off a series of soft, flaring snores. Rotheram only meant to wake him, but as he stood before the guard, it seemed as easy to step over his outstretched legs and lay an ear to the door.

Nothing. Rotheram wondered if he was listening to an empty room, if Hess had already fled (but no, the key was still in the lock) or thrown himself from his window (surely it was barred).

Still nothing, except Rotheram’s own pulse, like a wingbeat in his ears. Perhaps all he ’d heard before was a particularly stentorian snore from the corporal. And yet he couldn’t quite shake the conviction that the room was empty — not as if Hess had left it, precisely, but as if he ’d never been there. Rotheram must have leaned closer, shifted his weight, for the floor beneath him gave a dry groan. He stifled his breath, counted the seconds.

Nothing stirred, and yet the silence seemed subtly altered now, the silence of another listener, as if Hess were behind the door or under the covers or crouched in a corner listening to him, Rotheram, wondering about his intentions.

Rotheram felt his legs start to tremble, as if a chill had risen from the cold floor through his bare feet, and he stepped away. He was halfway to the stairs before he thought to turn back and aim a kick at the sleeping corporal.

Copyright © 2007 by Peter Ho Davies. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.