by Martin Howe
Tony grabbed Basil’s arm and pulled him back towards the door.
“Leave it, he’s not worth it. How’s the leg?”
Basil was uncertain he wanted to act reasonably, but Tony refused to release him.
“Is it true there’s no water?”
Basil stared directly into his face.
“Yes it’s true, no bloody water. I’m going to forget how to piss if this goes on much longer.”
He threw an arm around Tony, simpered, his narrow pinched face contorting, yellowing teeth exposed and said, “I’m glad to see you, it’s good to see a friendly face. When did they nab you?”
Excited, he didn’t wait for an answer.
“They bloody grabbed me in the pub in front of my mates, the bastards. Can you believe that?”
“It was three in the morning …”
“Quiet in there. No talking. Quiet, any more and you’ll be locked in for the day, so shut it.”
The guard appeared at the door, his black uniform immaculately pressed, a wooden baton in his hand.
“There’s no water,” one of the prisoners said sheepishly. The guard laughed, a scar on his left cheek blood red, almost raw.
“The state this place’s in, you’re lucky to have taps. Anyway I wouldn’t worry, you won’t be here long.”
The prisoners looked up expectantly. The guard sneered, revelling in the power he held over them. He called to his colleague.
“What do you think Fred, should we tell the bastards what’s going to happen to ’em?”
Fred was armed not only with a wooden stave, but also with a pistol in a holster. Initially surprised he nodded in agreement, scowling with an obdurate intensity that should have signalled a warning, but the prisoners’ desperate need for information made them gullible, and it was ignored.
“This is not official, of course,” the first guard said conspiratorially, “just something I overheard, passing the Governor’s office.”
He lowered his voice to a whisper and the prisoners drew closer.
“Keep it to yourselves, won’t you?”
They all nodded and stepped nearer.
“Steady on, not too close. Get back.”
Submissively the men retreated, opening the circle, but still leaning anxiously inwards. The only sound, an ominous clunking in the pipes.
“It’s not good news, I’m afraid.”
Pausing, he savoured the shocked, disappointed, expressions of the prisoners.
“Not good news for some of you.”
His outstretched arm swept the room in a large arc, his pointing forefinger briefly admonishing each dismayed face in turn.
“Maybe even all of you in here.”
Tony felt the jolt of anxiety behind his eyes, the prickle of concern, first in the small of his back, then across his shoulder blades.
“What? For pity’s sake, tell us.”
“Well, I shouldn’t be talking to you like this. What do you think Fred? Have I said too much?”
Fred looked thoughtful and then shook his head.
“Go on, they’ll find out soon enough, may as well tell ’em.”
The other guard looked doubtful, then sighed and went on, “Fine, but don’t breath a word,” and he looked at each prisoner, waiting for their nod of assent.
“Good. I mean I’ll deny I ever told you anything and Fred’ll back me up.”
Fred mouthed his agreement as he absentmindedly tapped the wooden stave against his leg.
“I understand that given the seriousness of the charges against you, the authorities …”
“What charges? Nobody’s said anything to us about charges,” blurted out Basil Greatrix, “I mean it’s all very well.”
“Do you want to hear what I’ve got to say? I’m not doing this for my health you know.”
“Yes, shut up Basil. Let’s hear him out,” cut in Ray firmly.
Basil, angry, threw up his hands in resignation.
“Go on, go on, I won’t breathe another word.”
“As I was saying, given the seriousness of the charges and the current state of hostilities with the Germans, the Government is not prepared to look kindly on traitors.”
Basil made to move forward, but was restrained by a prisoner. The guards stiffened.
“Watch it. I’m getting mighty pissed off with you lot. I’m only trying to help.”
“Go on, there will be no more trouble,” stated Tony, “Put us out of our misery.”
“That’s exactly what might happen,” said the guard at the door.
“Bluntly, the powers that be feel a few examples need to be set, discourage the others, know what I mean?”
The prisoners looked at each other, the implications of what was being said, dawning on them. Ray started to shake.
“You mean they’re going to execute …?” his question trailed off as he swallowed hard and turned away. The guard, grim-faced, nodded and pointed vaguely in the direction of the window.
“You remember the high wall in the courtyard you passed on the way in here?”
There was silence. Then Tony quietly said, “It was dark, we couldn’t see a thing and there was the air-raid. It was impossible to make out anything.”
“It’s hidden from the rest of the prison. It’s ideal the governor said.”
The prisoners looked on blankly, breathing heavily, mouths open, their faces ashen-white.
“Firing squads, like in the army?”
Ray slumped onto his knees with a sigh, his shoulders heaving. Tony watched for a moment, his own thoughts incoherent, then crouched down and cradled him in his arms. Basil, staring grimly at the guards, placed a reassuring hand on the back of his neck.
“They can’t do that,” he said, “things haven’t got that bad. You’re fucking lying, just saying it, you bastards.”
“Watch it, Sunny Jim.”
The guard then drew out a whistle and blew it. Tony shut his eyes as the piercing notes reverberated around the room.
“This is a nightmare,” he thought, “I’m going to die for nothing, God help me.”
Fear shorted out linkages in his mind, stripping him of the ability to think, leaving him distraught, clutching pathetically at Ray’s shaking body for support. They could be bluffing but he was uncertain, too frightened to trust to luck.
A door banged shut down below, the hurried clatter of hobnail boots could be heard climbing the stairs, drawing near along the corridor. A voice called out, “What’s up Fred, where’s the trouble?”
Fred nodded malevolently into the room.
“This lot have had some bad news and aren’t too happy about it. Thought we’d need help getting them back into the cells. One of them is a right mean bastard.”
He waved his truncheon at Basil. Three guards burst into the washroom, agitated, aggressive. They were disappointed all was calm. Hesitating for a moment, reassessing, then two of them grabbed Basil and dragged him out into the hallway, his cries of pain dying rapidly away as they hustled him back to his cell.
“Anybody else looking for trouble, because if they are, they’ve found it?”
Nobody moved. Ray sobbed quietly, his tears soaking the leg of Tony’s trousers.
“You get up, you sniveling little sod, on your feet.”
The guard lunged forward and kicked him in the small of his back.
“You’re supposed to be hard men, not girls. Christ, you make me sick. The Governor’s right, why are we wasting time with you lot? There’s a war on and we have to deal with wretches like you, prepared to sell us out. You deserve all you get.”
“Firing squad is what’s coming, I told ’em.”
“Ay, a firing squad that’s what they need,” and the guard sniggered, “A firing squad, that’s a good one.”
He poked the other
guard in the stomach gently with his stave.
“Right you lot, back to your billets. Any trouble and you’ll be mine to deal with.”
In Tony’s cell a battered metal tray lay on the floor – a chipped enamel mug half-full of earth-brown liquid rested beside a hunk of bread it soaking in a pool of slopped tea.
“I’m alright,” Basil called out from the adjoining cell.
The sound of his voice was obliterated by the crashing of solid iron doors and the ratcheting slide of metal bolts. Tony grimaced as he sat down on the floor beside the tray, the sharp darting pain in his back a locus for the tremors racking his aching body. He poked at the bread, which disintegrated, he then picked up the dripping mug and sipped cautiously. The tea was lukewarm and tasted bitter. He was ravenously hungry and gnawed at the soggy crusts, washing them down with the tea. Then he picked up the tray, raised it to his lips and poured the glutinous slurry into his mouth. He retched, his stomach heaving. Tepid liquid ran over his chin, percolating into the stubble and splattering onto his grey prison uniform. He belched and wiped a cupped hand over his face, then licked his palm clean. For a moment he was overtaken by a feeling of peculiar indifference, his hunger quelled, and all his other needs suppressed.
Tony shuffled backwards across the floor and leant against a dry patch of wall stretching out his legs. He dozed. His thoughts were fleeting and ephemeral, apprehended only between blank swirling spans of indeterminate time but their clarity of purpose, when he could be bothered to pay attention, was uplifting in a way that was satisfyingly self-deluding for the false optimist he had become.
“I can do this. I don’t believe those bastards, they’re having us on. Playing with us. I won’t be here long. I don’t believe they’d put us up against a wall and shoot us, no way. I’ve just got to get used to doing nothing. They won’t leave us here to rot, I know it. Emily’ll be trying to sort something out. She’s a fighter, tenacious, she won’t take this lying down.”
Chapter 7
TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN
1st July 1995
Great Uncle Brian looked like a taller, thinner version of his brother, Tony, but only at times. It was disconcerting for David, an expression, a flick of the hand, a distant look in the eyes conjured up his grandfather, then he was gone. David’s memories of the most important influence in his young life were hazy and he found, to his surprise, that with this new connection to the past he was hungry to conjure the man up again, to bring him back from the obscurity he had inevitably sunk into since his death, keen to rekindle that old friendship. It would ultimately prove to be a frustrating and personally damaging re-acquaintance.
The two brothers had not met for nearly thirty years before Tony died and had barely communicated with each other in that time. Only the death of their parents had brought them together, and that only in acrimony. Brian had not come to Tony’s funeral, had not sent any message of condolence, a wreath, or even a card.
“The west coast of Canada put just enough miles between me and my brother to suit me,” was how Brian described their relationship to David, “there was never any time during those years when I felt the need to change that.”
It was Brian’s first visit to England since he had turned his back on the country in the late forties and emigrated to British Colombia in search of a better future. He was now retired, a life running his own janitor’s business had left him lean, tanned and fit, and his wife had been on at him for years to take a vacation in the old country. There was now no reason for him to refuse. David had barely heard of Brian or his family over the years, just passing references to the mundane antics of these exotic-seeming overseas relatives at Christmas, and had been surprised when his mother had called to say he was in the UK and keen to meet him.
“Take him to one of those country pubs near you, dear, he’ll like that. It would help us out. And when are you coming to visit? I see so little of the boys. They’ll be grown up before we know it.”
David put down the phone.
“Oh fuck.”
“David, not in front of the children, please. How many more times?”
“Leave me alone will you. It’s just what I need, some distant relation offloaded on to me. I’ve enough on my plate, what with everything at work.”
“I know, David, but you must watch it, they’ll copy you. Richard has already used the word B.U.G.G…”
“Oh, for God’s sake, is that all you’re worried about?”
“It’s important David, it’s important to me. I really can’t take this negativity all the time.”
“Don’t be so pathetic.”
“Oh, you’re always nasty to me, I can’t bear it. You’re a real swine sometimes.”
Susan threw a tea-cloth violently across the table at David. It swept a half-full mug of coffee on to the floor where it smashed, spreading a dark stain across the red tiles. She glared at her husband, tears welling in her eyes, before dashing out through the back door, slamming it behind her. Richard, who had been playing by himself on the floor let out a scream, hauled himself to his feet, kicked a pile of bricks out of the way and hurried after his mother. Guilt briefly staunched David’s anger – he hated punishing his innocent children – but his fury flared again as his obsession with events unfolding at the office took hold. He resented it but was consumed by it nonetheless. He felt powerless.
Larry Beckinsale’s announcement of his plans for the restructuring of the company had rapidly been followed by a letter to David and his colleagues.
Dear David,
I am writing to confirm to you the outcome of the discussions, which were held today, with Larry Beckinsale concerning the future of your department. It is proposed that with effect from 2 October this year the work of your department will be carried out by the newly created “Global Division”. Therefore, your unit will close on 29 September, as a result of which, a number of jobs would be made redundant. You will know by now that unfortunately your job is likely to be one of these.
The relevant Unions have been notified of the proposals and we shall now begin a process of consultation involving the Unions and, of course, all of the staff of the units may be affected by the changes.
If you have any queries about this proposal please do not hesitate to contact Steve Percival. If you wish to discuss how this proposal would affect you personally, if implemented, you should contact Dick Sanders in Personnel.
Yours faithfully,
Larry Beckinsale.
David had read the letter over and over again, unable to believe it.
“Yours faithfully, Larry. The man can’t even write fucking English.”
To be told that it was all over in this illiterate manner was galling for David, who prided himself on the quality of his work. Here he was for the second time, in his working life, being told he was not wanted. But at least the first time they had not promised so much when he joined. At least the first time his expectations had not been so high. It was always the same, the bastards. Just when you felt you were getting somewhere, making a favourable impression, getting your nose out ahead of the pack, starting to enjoy yourself and what do they do – kick you in the teeth. A bloody great size ten comes and takes out not just your incisors, but the whole fucking set. Leaving you toothless and raw. Warm phlegm and spittle staining your shirt-front pink as you gasp out your gratitude for any little human kindness they may show you. Feel free to use the phones, the printers, the fax, anything that’ll help sell yourself to the next bunch of fuckers. That’s if you’re not too old, too experienced, too expensive. God what a prospect. The swine. It made you so fucking mad, it really did. All this tight-lipped, controlled, acceptance of their fates. It was sickening. How many times had he heard from colleagues, “you don’t want to burn any boats do you”, David could have sworn it was bridges, but fuck it who was he to say, he understood well enough, “you never know when you might want t
o come back or need a reference.” So it went on. God.
The longer David thought about Great Uncle Brian, mulling over who he was, the more the prospect of meeting this unknown relative began to appeal to him. It became something of a balm. Opening up the possibility of revisiting, at least briefly, a happier less complicated time, throwing up the chance of meeting his grandfather one last time, and if not him at least some echo of the man he had admired most in the world. The only human being who had ever really cared for him.
Brian looked the part. A vigorous eighty-year old. Tall, wiry, a full head of greying, black hair and greeny-brown eyes, like his grandfather in so many ways, yet warmer or duller, David couldn’t make up his mind. His memory was far from perfect. The only identical feature, of this he was certain, was their noses. “Roman” was how his grandfather used to describe his, Brian would not have disagreed. He spoke softly in a mid-Atlantic drawl tinged with a faint trace of his Lancastrian roots that on occasions would bring David up with a start. It was, he discovered, comforting to have that link established so emphatically and he was reassured by Uncle Brian’s assumption that all they both really wanted to talk about was their relative.
They chatted about his life in Canada as they strolled along the narrow country lane that wound its way between high fragrant hedgerows towards the “Elephant and Castle.” The pub was located in a small hamlet well away from any main roads, surrounded by woods and fields, where affluent city dwellers stabled their horses and hunted at the weekends. David often parked on a stretch of common land nearby and walked the short, undulating three-quarters of a mile to the pub, breathing deeply and feeling virtuous. Uncle Brian leapt at the chance of some exercise.
“I’ve been cooped up for days, with all our relatives. Don’t get me wrong, but it’s good to get out. I’m very glad you asked me.”
“My pleasure. I’ve had a fair basinful lately at work, it’s good for me to get away too.”
Their stroll was a gentle prelude to the serious discussions both seemed to know would follow. As soon as Brian had sat down with his pint of beer, half drained it, and wiped his mouth, he began.
