Comes the Dark

by David Stuart Davies

  Sir Howard handed me my drink and then resumed his seat. At this point I expected him to take charge of the meeting, but it was Lady McLean who spoke.

  ‘Now we are all here, we can begin. Mr Hawke you join us at a very crucial meeting. As we all know, there can be no doubt that a German victory in this war is guaranteed. One only needs to read the newspapers to learn of Hitler’s successful strategies and victories. Remember how easy it was for him to occupy France. Now it’s our turn. His air force has shattered this city and turned its inhabitants into frightened rabbits. The Germans’ next move will be to cross the Channel. It is imperative that we are prepared for that eventuality. We must be ready to welcome them, to aid them in forging a peace with us. Our Government in their wilful stupidity have ignored the voice of the British fascists to their own disadvantage. Foolishly, they believed that by interning Mosley, Chesterton, Leese, the Duke of Bedford and the others, they could crush our movement. I can tell you, Mr Hawke, they have not crushed our movement, they have set it afire, they have driven it to strive all the harder. It is just that for the time being our actions are covert and secret. But we are stronger and more resolute than ever. And when the Germans arrive our voice will be heard all over this land and our anti-Jewish policies will be implemented.’

  Lady McLean was not really addressing me now, but rather a rally in the Reichstag. Her voice rose with imperious passion and her expression changed. Her eyes flashed coldly with a touch of madness and her features hardened in the dim light. She was no longer the demure, civilised upper-class woman whom one pictured arranging flowers and opening garden fetes. Here was a ferocious zealot with a determined, unnerving fervour and a steely heart. As she paused, all those sitting at the table drummed the top with their fists as a form of applause and approbation of her sentiments. The noise echoed around the room like the rumble of artillery fire.

  With heart-stopping clarity I now realised that this apparently gentle and refined lady was in fact the driving force behind the Britannia Club. She was the leader the government had been after. While appearing to be the subservient partner to Sir Howard she had successfully hoodwinked my friend Chapman and his masters. Only those in the inner council knew of her real strength and power.

  My mind was reeling as I listened to her words and yet I realised I had to respond in kind. I managed to mouth the word ‘Excellent,’ while joining in the table-drumming routine. At length Lady McLean held up her hand to silence us. Then she turned her attention in my direction again.

  ‘First let me introduce you to two of our trusted lieutenants, Robert Mersey and the Honourable Tim DeVere.’ She indicated each of the men in turn with a fluid hand-gesture and we exchanged polite greetings. ‘We also have with us tonight six leaders of regional outposts of the British Union of Fascists, outposts which the authorities in their complacency believe no longer exist. We have Mr Brownlow from Bradford, Mr Carpenter from Birmingham, Mr Godfrey from Exeter, Mr Evans from Swansea, Mr Rayner from Newcastle and Mr Preen from Glasgow.’

  At the mention of their names each of the six men in turn gave a sharp and surly nod in my direction. I reciprocated.

  ‘It is wonderful to meet you, gentlemen’, I enthused. ‘I had no idea that the movement was so strong, so widespread and—’

  ‘So clever.’ Lady McLean finished my sentence for me with a grim smile. ‘Now, I have saved the great treat until last. We are honoured to have with us this evening two officials of the Third Reich who have brought communications directly from Herr Hitler.’

  At the mention of this name the butterflies which had been fluttering nervously within my tummy suddenly began rampaging around in hob-nailed boots.

  The two men I had seen entering the house that afternoon swept the table with their steely grins. ‘I have pleasure in introducing Colonel Hermann Kruger and Lieutenant Friedrich Reinhard, representatives of the Third Reich and emissaries of Herr Hitler himself.’

  It was clear that the other men around the table were as surprised as I was by this announcement. Colonel Kruger rose to his feet and acknowledged us all with a curt bow. Apparently, it was time for his speech.

  ‘Lady McLean, gentlemen, I bring you greetings from the Führer and congratulations for the work you are doing here in your country. It is reassuring to know that while your misguided government still holds the belief that they can win this war against the might and power of the Third Reich, there is a body of men and women in your country who have the foresight and the courage to work for peace. You are well aware that the real bad apple in the barrel of Europe is the Jew. They have tainted our countries for too long. Now is the time for retribution.’

  More table-drumming.

  ‘With the blessing of our Führer we have come to forge links with you in preparation for that day, that day which will arrive quite soon when we shall march into London and assume power.’

  I felt sick to my stomach. Not because of what this Nazi was saying. After all what should I expect of one Hitler’s minions to spout but claptrap about his hatred of the Jews, the power and invincibility of the Fatherland and how they would soon defeat the British forces. It was the bloody nodding donkeys sitting around the table, nodding in acceptance of this nightmare scenario, nodding their freedom and their birth right away that infuriated me. British nodding donkeys not only ready but eager for a German invasion, a German occupation, a German government ruling Britain. I felt like standing up and shouting abuse at the lot of them, telling them that the day would never come when those bastards in grey uniforms would tramp through the streets of London, arms aloft in a Hitler salute. Never. But to do such a thing would be signing my own death-warrant. Here I was in a nest of vipers in a flimsy disguise as a junior viper. One slip of my disguise and I would become a viper entrée. I took a sip of whisky in the hope that it would quell the rising tide of my mixed emotions.

  Colonel Kruger had resumed his seat to more table-drumming and Lady McLean was addressing us once again, or to be more precise she was addressing me.

  ‘There will be time later for a more detailed discussion as how we can co-ordinate our resources for that much anticipated day when the German forces will arrive to relieve us of this blinkered government and expunge the presence of the Jews from our country. However, before that we must initiate you, Mr Hawke, into the inner council.’

  Initiate? I did not like the sound of that word. No one had mentioned anything about an initiation the other evening. Little cold tendrils of fear began sprout. I said nothing but tried to look eager.

  ‘I have already informed our friends here of your quick-thinking and courageous action the other evening and of your fervent desire to help our cause at the highest level…’

  ‘I am anxious to do all I can,’ I said with enthusiasm. A Hollywood contract was waiting; either that or a shallow grave.

  ‘Good man,’ piped up Sir Howard.

  Lady McLean gave a sharp look which silenced him. It was clear who was the captain of this ship.

  ‘However,’ she continued, returning her gaze to me, ‘it is important that we can be sure of your intentions and motives in wanting to join us in the inner council. You must prove yourself to us. This is a privileged role and a key one and we have to protect ourselves from…how should I put this…infiltration from the wrong type. A spy in other words. We have to be very careful. You understand?’

  I certainly did. How could I not? I was a spy.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I am prepared to do all I can for the cause, to prove my dedication.’

  A smile touched her lips. It was brief, it was cold and it never reached her eyes. ‘As they say, actions speak louder than words. Guy, I think you can bring in our special guest now.’

  Without a word Guy Cooper sprang from his seat and left the room. His mistress’s voice had spoken. I could see from the expressions on the faces of the other men, apart from Sir Howard, that they were equally puzzled as to what was happening. The two Germans exchanged questioning glances, but
nothing was said and we waited in silence. A few minutes later Guy returned, dragging another man with him. The stranger shuffled into our presence, his hands bound and his mouth tightly gagged. His face was bruised and there was a livid cut on his forehead.

  I recognised him and I saw from his eyes, wide with shock and horror, that he recognised me also.

  It was Benny.

  Instinctively I half-rose from my chair, but some inner sense of self-preservation prevented me from saying anything.

  ‘Of course you know this man, Mr Hawke.’ Lady McLean’s imperious tones cut through anticipatory silence.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know him,’ I said, my voice querulous as I resumed my seat.

  ‘The owner of the café which you frequent on a regular basis, Benny Slawinski.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Jewish café owner.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lady McLean reached below the table and produced a small dark object which she held up to the light. It was a gun. A Luger pistol fitted with a silencer. She stroked it as one might a favourite pet, then she placed it on the table.

  ‘There will be one less Jew in London tonight. One less obstacle to contend with when we have secured a peace for our fellow Britons. You, Mr Hawke, are going to carry out his execution. You are going to kill him.’ Deftly she slid the gun along the table so that it stopped directly in front of me.

  ‘You are going to prove yourself to us, demonstrate your hatred of the Jews by killing one of their kind. Pick up the gun and shoot the little swine.’

  44

  Nurse Rutherford’s job when she first came on duty was to go round the ward and check on the patients, note the latest emendations to the record charts hanging from the ends of the beds, and ask those patients who were still awake or conscious if they needed anything. Nurse Rutherford liked being on night-duty, there were fewer staff around, especially doctors, and she felt more in charge, more important than in the hustle and bustle of a day-shift. The ward was her domain and unless there was an emergency or an urgent admission she felt in total control. She prayed every night that there would be no air raids with the resultant casualties to disturb the tranquil waters of her night duty.

  Nurse Rutherford did her tour of the patients briskly and efficiently. Only one old chap, a Mr Norris, who had lost an arm and a leg when his house was bombed was awake. He asked for a cup of tea, ‘very strong with two sugars.’ Nurse Rutherford said she would see what she could do. She gave him a sweet smile and stroked the old chap’s forehead. He returned the smile stoically and closed his eyes. Bet he’s in the Land of Nod when I bring him his tea, she mused as she reached the bed of her last patient. She looked down at the pale, immobile face just appearing above the sheets. Poor blighter, he’d been in about three days now and it looked as though there was still no change in his condition. She checked his record sheet. Just as she thought, no change. She reckoned he’d never recover now. He’d been away too long, away down that deep dark tunnel. He’d never scramble back.

  From habit she adjusted the bedclothes and was about to go and get Mr Norris his cup of tea, when suddenly the patient opened his eyes. They didn’t open gradually but snapped open as though he had been shocked out of his slumbers. Nurse Rutherford gave a little start. The patient’s head turned in her direction and his blue eyes focused on her, the pale, thin lips fashioning themselves into a weak smile.

  ‘Hello, I’d love a drink,’ he said clearly. ‘My mouth is awfully dry.’

  45

  Time stood still. Or so it seemed to me. Everything was locked in the moment when I had been presented with the Luger and the challenge to kill Benny. In the dimly lighted room everyone had become frozen shadows, staring at me with the eerie static features of a waxwork tableau, like an exhibit from Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors, only these fellows were alive and dangerous.

  I looked down at the Luger on the table before me, disbelief clouding my thoughts for a moment. I glanced over at Benny, his eyes wide with fear, his body rigid with apprehension. And then I returned my gaze to Lady McLean, whose hard, triumphant features taunted me. She knew that I couldn’t do it. She knew I couldn’t kill Benny. She thought she had trapped me. I was an exhibit for her tame German audience.

  Damn her!

  I couldn’t afford to falter. Not now. Not after I had come so far. I reached for the gun. It was a slow deliberate action. I smiled back at Lady McLean as I took the Luger and held it firmly in my right hand. I wanted to surprise her, confuse her. I succeeded. The broader my smile grew the less confident she seemed. Her brow furrowed with uncertainty. All this time my brain was racing. Was the pistol really loaded, I wondered? If they really didn’t trust me, would they allow me to take possession of a live weapon? It had to be loaded with blanks, surely? Otherwise I could just spray the assembled throng. Shoot at least one of their number. Maybe they just wanted to see if I would fire the thing at Benny. That would be proof enough of my hatred of Jews. But if it was loaded and I pulled the trigger…I could not take such a chance. It was a form of Russian roulette and I wasn’t going to play.

  All these thoughts and actions took but a few seconds in reality, but as I experienced them they seemed be part of a long slow dream.

  Then I broke the spell; I propelled things back into real time. Clumsily I dropped the Luger and it fell to the floor.

  ‘You seem rather nervous, Mr Hawke,’ observed Lady McLean.

  ‘Not nervous, just a little accident-prone,’ I replied, bending down apparently to pick up the weapon. As I did so, I slipped my own revolver out of my pocket instead. There was no doubt about it being loaded. Rising again I took aim at one of the standard lamps and fired. With a pleasing explosion the light went out and the room grew darker.

  One of the Germans swore in his native tongue. The rest of the vipers grew agitated. Chairs were upturned, some of the men, all but silhouettes now, began to make their way to the door, to escape the madman with the gun. Meanwhile I moved swiftly over to Guy Cooper and Benny. Before he knew what was happening I had welted Cooper across the face with the butt of my gun. He gave a cry of pain and fell to the floor.

  A shot rang out and I felt the bullet whiz past. I ducked down, pulling Benny to the floor with me.

  ‘Get him. Get him!’ screamed Lady McLean above the confusion.

  I scrambled out of sight under the table. As I emerged from the other side I fired again, extinguishing the second standard lamp, thus plunging the room into total darkness. Further shots were fired. Flashes of red flame ignited the dark for a split second, revealing a fantastic shadow-play of disorientated figures. It was as though we were playing a surreal game of hide and seek.

  Above the melee someone called out: ‘Get the light-switch.’

  Swiftly I crawled across the carpet towards one of the tall windows at the rear of the room. I was nearly there when someone trod on my arm.

  ‘He’s here,’ the fellow cried. I shot the bastard in the kneecap and the informer toppled on top of me with a guttural scream.

  I hoisted him up and, casting him to one side, continued towards the window. Thankfully the search for the light-switch had not borne fruit yet and the room was still in darkness.

  More random shots were fired as I slipped behind the long curtains. Hurriedly raising the blackout blind, I smashed the glass with the butt of my revolver, making an aperture large enough for me to stick my head out. Then, retrieving the trusty police whistle so kindly loaned to me by my friend Detective Inspector David Llewellyn, I gave three sharp blasts on it, the shrill, urgent sound piercing the silence of the cool, dark night air.

  Suddenly a hand grabbed the back of my collar and dragged me through the curtains into the room again. I stumbled backwards and as I did so someone’s fist connected with my nose, but remarkably I managed to retain my balance.

  ‘Get the lights,’ cried my assailant and, as if by magic, the room was immediately bathed in bright electric illumination. For a moment everyone seeme
d dazed by the sudden change from total darkness to garish brightness and froze in mid-action. Gradually, all eyes turned to focus on me. If looks could kill, I’d have been dead in seconds. I saw that my assailant was none other than Colonel Kruger, doing his bit for the Fatherland. Taking advantage of the lull in activity, I returned the compliment for the Motherland, and smashed him in the face.

  As he fell to the floor with some Germanic oath, there were sounds of a commotion in the hall and more shrill whistles.

  ‘It’s the police!’ I cried. ‘Time to surrender, I’m afraid.’

  Lady McLean, who had been over by the door let out a guttural noise, not so much a deep scream, more of an atavistic roar of anger. She took two steps towards me, raised her pistol and fired. It happened so quickly I hadn’t a chance to duck. I felt a red-hot searing pain as the bullet tore into my flesh. Immediately I felt bilious and was certain I was going to be sick. The bile rose in my throat and then, thankfully, retreated. So shocked was I that I wasn’t even sure where I had been wounded; my whole body seemed ache. Gradually the light began to fade as though someone was inking in my eyeball and then sounds grew fainter. The last thing I remember is my legs melting rapidly and my body rushing to embrace the carpet. I have no memory of hitting the floor.

  46

  I awoke with a start. Some horrible dream, forgotten immediately, had catapulted me into wakefulness. My body seemed to ache all over, but in particular my cheek throbbed and my shoulder felt as though it was on fire. I screwed up my eyes and shook my head, trying to shake my memory into place. It very quickly shifted into position: the house in Chelsea, the Luger, Lady McLean’s challenge, Benny, the darkness, the mayhem, the thump in the face and the shot. Like some nasty newsreel footage, the whole ghastly scene came back to me in vivid Technicolor.