As I stared at the ghost of my brother one of the doctors approached me.
‘Mr Hawke isn’t it, Paul’s brother?’
I nodded. ‘How is he…really?’
‘Well, there has been little change in his condition since he was admitted which was fine in the early stages as it allowed the body to stabilise and come out of the shock it’s had from the damage done; but by now with all the drugs we’re pumping into him, we should be seeing some signs of him starting to rally, some improvement in his heart rate. But we’re not.’
‘Is he going to die?’
The doctor turned his weary face to me. He was a man of about forty, but his features were criss-crossed with worry lines and his dry, thinning hair was almost completely grey. I reckoned that looking after the sick ages you.
‘I am asked that question several times a day by concerned relatives,’ he said softly. ‘It’s a hard one. When I was just starting out in medicine it gave me constant dilemmas. Should I ease the pain for the moment by lying or should I just tell the truth. I found that choice difficult. Then one day, I realised that I just had to tell the truth—the truth as I saw it at least. I’m not infallible. I could be wrong. The outcome may not be the same as I predict, but I felt that as a doctor and a trusted professional it was my duty to be honest with people. That’s how I work it these days. So, in reply to you…yes, I think there is a strong possibility that your brother will die, but I can’t be sure. The next twenty-four hours are critical. If he doesn’t show any signs of improving, it will not be long before he regresses, slips away from us. Literally there is nothing more we can do. It’s up to Paul now.’
I nodded, my dry throat denying me speech. I appreciated the doctor’s honesty but that didn’t stop me feeling as though I’d been hit by a London omnibus smack in the ribs.
The doctor gave me a tight smile and left me alone. I pulled a chair up beside the bed. I would have liked to have held Paul’s hand but it was hidden beneath the covers which had been strapped down. I leaned forward, scrutinising that white mask.
There was no sign of movement at all. If it wasn’t for the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the slight whooshing sound emanating from where the tube entered his mouth, I would have thought he was dead already.
‘Come on, Paul,’ I whispered, leaning as close to him as I could. ‘Come on, you bugger. Shake a leg. It’s time you were stirring your stumps now. You’ve had your lie-in. You can’t stay here for ever. For a start, I need you. I’ve always needed you. My big brother. Right from the days of the orphanage. Don’t you remember? ‘Course you do. You were always sticking up for me then, especially against Mrs Groves. Who could forget her? You said she looked like a fat scarecrow in a dress. But she was more frightening. Her and that stick of hers. D’you remember how you sneaked into her room and stole that stick so she couldn’t beat us anymore? You buried it in the rose bushes.’ I laughed. ‘I bet it’s still there. Pity was she soon replaced that stick with a new one, one that had more thrashing power. You said she made it from the stays of her corset. Paul, Paul, do you remember?’
My words floated away but Paul remained still trapped in his own silent prison. And then suddenly there was some eye movement. The lids rippled and for a brief moment, they flickered open, just enough for me to see the blue beneath before they closed again.
I gasped with joy and looked around frantically for the doctor. He was nowhere in sight, but I managed to attract the attention of a nurse and I beckoned her to the bedside.
‘I’ve just been sitting with my brother, talking to him, trying to get through to him and... he opened his eyes. It was only for a second, but he actually opened his eyes.’
‘Of course,’ she said with some sympathy. ‘He will from time to time. It is an automatic reaction. It’s not prompted by any external stimulus, I’m afraid. He’s been doing it on and off since he was brought in.’ She laid a hand on my arm. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I just thought...’ I said, my words trailing off as I gave a dispirited shrug.
I sat for another half an hour or so chatting to Paul, talking about the bad old days we shared together, our common experience of growing up in several orphanages, hoping that some of it was filtering through into his brain, stirring something inside his head, tugging him towards consciousness. It seemed I was wasting my time. There was no visible change in Paul whatsoever.
As I got up to leave, a little spark of anger ignited within me. I leaned over as close as I could to his masklike face.
‘Listen, pal,’ I growled, ‘the next time I come here you’d better be sitting up, stuffing your face with toast and chatting up the nurses—or else. Is that understood, you bastard? Good!’
I hadn’t got more than a hundred yards from the hospital when I was approached by a well-built, red-faced man in a tweed overcoat. He asked if I had a light. I pulled out my lighter and obliged.
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Hawke,’ he said, blowing the smoke away.
‘You know my name?’
‘Certainly. More than that.’ He gave me a knowing look.
‘Who are you?’
‘Just a messenger, no more.’ So saying he slipped a small book into my hand.
‘What’s this?’
‘A good read, I should say. Very instructive.’
With that he moved backwards at quite a pace, quickly losing himself in the crowd. After I had recovered from my surprise he had disappeared completely from view.
I examined the book. It was some dull philosophical tract, but written in ink on the fly leaf was a message: The meeting tonight is at 12 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. Tell no one and come alone.
42
I looked at the address written on the flyleaf of the book that the red-faced stranger had given me again and smiled. At first I found something comical, farcical even, in the method of its delivery. It was like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Very Thirty Nine Steps, very cloak-and-dagger. My second reaction, however, was one of less amusement. How, I wondered, had this ‘messenger’, this minion of the Britannia Club, known where I would be in order for him to pass the book over to me? It wasn’t a coincidence that he saw me in the street. He had known where I was. There was only one answer to the question. I had been followed. I was under surveillance. They were checking me out. What else did they know?
Instinctively I gazed around at the throng of anonymous pedestrians flowing past me. Was one of them watching me, shadowing me? Had anyone slowed down, pretending to tie a shoe-lace or to light a cigarette, or stepped into a doorway, waiting in the shadows for me to make my next move? I could see no one, no one suspicious, but I suppose that’s what you expect to see when you are being tracked by a professional. Suddenly I felt very vulnerable…naked and exposed. I guessed my friend Ralph Chapman/Captain Miles Stanhope had been right: I was a naïve amateur where the Britannia Club was concerned.
With a sense of unease I slipped the book into my inside pocket and carried on walking, feeling now somewhat self-conscious about all my actions.
It was a bright, pleasantly warm day. I slipped off my raincoat and carried it over my shoulder. The brittle spring was shifting towards summer. I glanced at my watch. It was just past noon. I wondered what to do with the rest of my day until the evening. I could go back to the office and wait, see if any rich client turned up offering me £1,000 to find their lost pussy-cat. Even if that were likely, the prospect of sitting in my dusty office all afternoon did not appeal to me, especially on such a lovely day as this. It would be quite nice to have a walk in the sunshine. Who knew for how many days I would be able to do this in the future—especially if hell was ready to freeze over and the Germans did arrive.
I pulled out the book once more and checked the address of this evening’s meeting. It struck me that it would do me no harm to take a gentle stroll to Chelsea and check out the premises. After all, forewarned is forearmed. And so that was what I decided to do.
I made my way along Whit
ehall, down to the river and strolled along the Embankment in the direction of Chelsea. Occasionally I turned my head to look behind to see if I could spot some phantom shadow trailing me, but I saw no one who looked a likely candidate. Perhaps I was overreacting. The passing of the book was just to alert me to the fact that they had their beady eye on me, just in case. That point made, they’d leave me alone for the time being. That’s what I hoped, anyway.
It was pleasant to walk along by the river, the sun glinting on its rippling surface, the trees hurriedly unfurling their leaves in the surprising warmth and the various vessels chugging past as though business was as usual and there was no war to contend with. And if I didn’t raise my eyes high enough to take in the jagged outlines of the bomb damaged warehouses on the far bank, I could almost believe that too.
The comparative quiet of my route and the warmth of the sun on my face helped me relax and for some blessed fleeting moments I forgot the dark and dangerous business in which I was involved. Eventually I reached Chelsea and crossed over the road. This wasn’t an area of town I was particularly familiar with. It was the home of the rich and privileged and as such not really part of my address book. I accosted a passer-by who looked like a native of this very smart jungle and enquired where Cheyne Walk was located. He was a tall, distinguished, elderly chap, dressed in flashy tweeds with a bright shiny monocle screwed into his right eye. He could have passed for Lord Peter Wimsey’s dad. He gave me directions in a perfectly polite manner but I couldn’t help feeling from his expression and tone of voice that he regarded me as some kind of lowly tradesman who had wandered beyond the confines of his designated patch.
Following his instructions, another ten minute walk led me to Cheyne Walk which ran parallel to the river. It was a broad tree-lined street with a series of smart detached stone built houses. The war was merely a dream here. Rather as in Manchester Square, there was a quiet, protected, surreal quality to the place. The Luftwaffe wouldn’t dare drop any bombs here. Even the birds sang softly.
I walked slowly, casually up the street, smoking a cigarette, checking off the numbers. Number 12 was a large, white-stuccoed property, three storeys high with a broad flight of steps leading up to an impressive front door. It was the sort of house one expected a government minister or a rich and discreet film star to own. I wondered who did own it. Probably Sir Howard McLean. As I was pondering this, a large black car purred round the corner and pulled up outside the house. I slipped out of sight behind a large beech tree and watched.
A liveried chauffeur emerged from the car and opened the rear door. Two men in dark suits got out. I hadn’t seen either of them before. They were deep in animated conversation as they mounted the steps. The door of the house opened and Sir Howard appeared in the entrance. He stepped forward to greet the visitors and performed a Nazi salute. The two men responded in the same manner.
A chill ran through me. For such an exchange to take place in broad daylight in London on a fine, sunny afternoon was unreal, unthinkable. I had never seen the Nazi salute except at the cinema in movies or in newsreels, or when some joker was making fun of Hitler, but here it was blatantly performed in all seriousness. Chapman had been right. I had been naïve to think I was just dealing with a nasty group of misguided fanatics.
The three men disappeared inside the house and the door closed behind them. The chauffeur slipped inside the car and drove off.
And so another dilemma was served up hot and steaming on Johnny Hawke’s plate. What was I to do now? Grab a cab and rush round to Scotland Yard and alert the coppers that I’d seen three men doing Adolf Hitler impersonations in a house in Chelsea? If they took me seriously they would probably send a few squad cars round and then what would happen? What evidence would they find? These Britannia Club people were far too clever not to have planned for such a contingency. Eels learned how to be slippery in their presence. These villains would wriggle out of such a situation with ease. However, even if the police were able to nab a few fascist ne’er-do-wells, they still wouldn’t be able to nail the whole organisation.
If I didn’t go to the police what the hell could I do? I felt inside my jacket pocket, my hand curling comfortingly around the hard lines of the gun. Well, I knew the answer to that question but it did not make me feel particularly happy. However, the choice was clear. I had got myself into this mess, and I had to get myself out of it. Anyway I could do more damage inside the vipers’ den than outside. Perhaps I would be able to do something for my country after all.
I made my way back to the Embankment and retraced my steps while the fragile timbers of a plan began to put themselves together in my mind. At Westminster Bridge I stepped into a telephone box and made a call.
43
That evening I dressed myself in my best black double-breasted suit, white cotton shirt and red silk tie, with a flashy hanky peeking out of my top pocket, and I put an extra shine on my shoes. To complete the film-star appearance I doused myself liberally in some cheap cologne. I grinned at my own reflection staring at me from the cracked mirror over the wash-basin in the communal bathroom which I shared with the three other occupants of Priory Court. I may not possess the handsome features and savoir-faire of Cary Grant or Clark Gable, not even of Mickey Mouse, but I reckoned I didn’t look too bad that evening. That was as it should be; after all it was to be a special occasion.
I knew a clear head was essential but so was some Dutch courage and that came in the form of neat whisky. I decided to treat myself to a couple of stiff ones at the Velvet Cage before I finally screwed up my courage to join the Nazi party!
It was a little before seven when I checked my hat and coat in at the Cage and wandered into the bar. It being early, the place was quiet. There were few customers, the musicians hadn’t set up for the night and the thick veil of tobacco smoke which would mask most of the area later that evening was still in its infancy.
I sat at the bar and ordered a double whisky, no ice. The owner, the resistible George Cazmartis, wandered over to me and slapped me on the back.
‘You’re looking pretty smart this evening, Johnny boy. You out with a lady?’
Although I disliked Cazmartis, he always treated me as a bosom buddy. I tolerated this because I liked his club. It was my second home.
‘Who knows? The night is yet young,’ I replied, forcing myself to grin civilly at him.
The barman returned with my drink.
Cazmartis waved his hand in a cutting motion. ‘On the house, Ray,’ he said to the barman, before slapping me once more on the back. ‘Have a good evening.’
I grimaced into my drink. ‘Cheers,’ I replied, taking a swig. It warmed and relaxed me and it also informed me that I should stop at this one. Another double would help me relax too much. I really needed all my wits about me once I got to 12 Cheyne Walk. I reckoned there were a few blue touch-papers going to be lit tonight and I needed to be on my toes. I drank slowly and thought about the evening ahead. I couldn’t know exactly what to expect but I knew a lot would depend on my convincing portrayal of a Jew-hater.
I was just able to hear the first number by Tommy Parker and the boys before my watch told me it was time to go. I hailed a taxi outside the club and was soon on my way through the quiet streets of London to my appointment with the inner circle.
There were several cars parked in the quiet tree-lined avenue when I arrived. I waited for the taxi to depart before I made a move. I breathed in the cool night air, hoping it would calm the little kittens playing energetically in the pit of my stomach. The sky was now a dark, steely blue and the ghost of a full moon was gradually making its presence felt.
Casually I approached the door of number 12. It opened before I could ring the bell and I was admitted by some sort of flunkey, a tall thin man in a dinner suit.
‘Good evening, Mr Hawke,’ he said in a way that suggested that I was a regular visitor.
I nodded.
‘Let me take your hat and coat and then you can go through to t
he drawing-room.’ He indicated two large closed doors at the far end of the hallway.
‘Thanks,’ I said quietly, slipping him my coat and hat. I approached the doors.
‘Don’t bother to knock, Mr Hawke. Just go in. You are expected.’
Why did I find the words ‘you are expected’ so unsettling, I wondered as I opened the door?
From then on the evening took on the dimensions of an oddly remembered dream where all the angles are distorted and the faces are vague or exaggerated and rather frightening. The room was dimly lighted by two standard lamps, while a log fire in the grate sent flickering shadows leaping up to the ceiling. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn across two large windows at the rear which I assumed looked out on a back garden. At the centre was a large round table around which sat a group of shadowy figures who all turned in my direction as I entered. I suddenly felt naked.
One of the figures rose. ‘At last, our new recruit, Mr John Hawke. Welcome,’ he said moving through the shadows towards me. It was Sir Howard McLean. He shook my hand and directed me to take a seat at the table.
‘Let me get you a drink. Whisky is your tipple, I think.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ He probably knew my inside-leg measurement and my collar size as well, I mused.
While Sir Howard busied himself at the drinks trolley, I gazed at the faces around the table. There was Guy Cooper, the two men I had seen entering the house earlier that afternoon and eight other men whom I didn’t recognise but who scrutinised me with unwavering glances as though I were a specimen under a microscope. And there was Lady McLean. I must admit it was a shock to see her in this coven. In my naïvety I had not thought that she would be a member of the controlling force of the Britannia Club—had supposed that she was in fact just a dutiful wife with a misguided sense of loyalty. It seemed that I was wrong. I had been fooled by her surface charm and civilised behaviour.
Comes the Dark Page 19
