Well, I mused philosophically, I’m not sure what happened after I lost consciousness but it appears that I’m alive.
With some difficulty and a certain amount of pain I pulled myself up into a sitting position. I was in a hospital bed and it was dark. The small ward was only illuminated by the light from the corridor which spilled in through two porthole windows in the doors at the end of the room. It seemed that all my fellow patients were sleeping. There was a chorus of gentle snoring like the hum of bees in a summer meadow.
In the dim light I examined myself. My left arm was in a sling and there were dark splotches which I took to be blood decorating the dressing around my shoulder. That must have been where I had been hit. I gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze and winced. It was tender and painful. Yes, it was where I was hit. I was also aware that I had a dressing across my nose which, as I felt it, seemed have grown to the size and had the texture of a large uncooked sausage. I had Colonel Kruger to thank for that, I supposed.
I tried to get out of bed but in doing so I knocked a metal bowl from the bedside cabinet. It fell to the floor with an echoing clang which resounded through the ward. Remarkably it had no effect on my drugged fellow patients, who snoozed away unaffected by the din, but it did arouse the attention of a nurse, who suddenly appeared through the swing-doors and advanced towards me with unnerving speed, her shoes squeaking wildly on the tiled floor.
‘And what in the name of Saint Patrick do you think you’re doing?’ she said in a fierce whisper.
‘I was trying to get up,’ I replied simply, my voice sounding a long way off.
‘What on earth for? You’ve only been in the bed an hour.’
‘Where am I?’
‘You’re in Charing Cross Hospital. Now get back into that bed immediately.’ She brought her pretty, stern face close mine. ‘Now do as you’re told or you’ll know what’s what.’
I grinned in a rather dopey fashion and suddenly realised that I had been dosed with something, probably some drug to dull the pain and make me sleep. Something that was only just beginning to work.
‘Will I live, Sister?’ I said rather dramatically, flopping back into bed.
‘Of course you will, you silly man. It was nothing but a mere scratch. The doctor had the bullet out of there in quick sticks. You’ll be as good as new in no time.’ She tucked in the sheets, almost strapping me into the bed, but now I didn’t mind. All of a sudden I felt delightfully sleepy. My head seemed lighter and my shoulder didn’t ache quite as much.
‘Thank you, Sister.’
She chuckled. ‘And thank you for the promotion. It’s Nurse Grogan actually.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said inconsequentially and drifted off into a deep and soothing sleep.
*
I was roused gently by voices: a man’s and a woman’s. They were close to me. Some instinct told me they were talking about me. I opened my eyes. Daylight streamed into the ward and standing over my bed was my nocturnal friend Nurse Grogan and Detective-Inspector David Llewellyn. They were both smiling.
‘I suppose the hero is allowed a lie-in today,’ said David.
‘Just this once, eh?’ replied Nurse Grogan. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea, Inspector?’
‘I’d love one. Two sugars please.’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt your little tête-á-tête but I wouldn’t say no to a cuppa myself,’ I croaked from a very dry throat.
‘Say please,’ grinned Nurse Grogan, enjoying this charade.
‘Two sugars…please.’
‘That’s a good boy.’ With another smile thrown in my direction, she departed.
David pulled up a chair and sat down by the bed so that his face was on a level with mine.
‘How are you feeling, boyo?’
‘A bit groggy but rather better than I did last night.’
‘Well, there’s no lasting damage. You’ll be out of here in a few days.’
‘What about last night? Did you get ‘em all?’
David’s face split into a wide grin. ‘We did, along with the two kraut officers. They were a nice surprise bonus. The lot of them are all in the chokey now and that’s where they’ll stay for the duration. We’ve had those regional lads in the interrogation room one by one. Not a backbone between them. They squealed like stuck pigs. We got all the gen we needed about the network of fascists nationwide and we’ve already been in touch with police forces around the country. Within the next few days they’ll be rounding up the rest of the bastards. Lots of arrests will be made, I can tell you. Naturally some will slip through the net but what is important is that we’ve effectively scuppered the organisation. We’ve also got a list of the club’s bully-boys who take pleasure in beating up Jews and setting fire to their property. Just wrong ‘uns mainly, with no particular political leanings. Paid thugs. We’ll have ‘em all.’
‘That’s good,’ I said, thinking of little Barbara Cogan and the burnt-out shell of her house.
‘Mind you, that Lady McLean’s a tough nut. She’s not said a word since we clapped the handcuffs on her.’
‘She’s the Queen Bee,’ I said. ‘I reckon she’s more Nazi than the Nazis.’
When the tea arrived and I’d gulped it down, I recounted in detail the events of the previous evening to David as he made notes, punctuating my narration from time to time with satisfied grunts and the occasional question.
‘You’re a bit of a hero on the quiet, aren’t you?’ he said, when I’d finished. ‘It took real guts to do what you did.’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just wanted to do something for...for the war effort. They won’t let me fight in the army…so…’ I found words of explanation deserting me.
‘I understand,’ said David quietly, looking at me over the rim of his tea cup.
‘Oh, Benny!’ I said suddenly remembering. ‘Is he OK?’
David laughed. ‘Is he OK? You must be joking. He’s fighting fit! He wouldn’t even be checked over by a doctor. He was determined to open up his café this morning as usual. “No bleedin’ fascist is going to stop me running my business. I have my regulars to see to.”’ David gave a terrible impression of Benny.
I grinned, glad that Benny was all right. I felt guilty about him. He’d become part of the ordeal because of me, because of my involvement with the Britannia Club. I just hoped that he didn’t bear a grudge. And then another thought struck me. It was as though my brain was shrugging off the medication and starting to function properly again. ‘Do you know what’s happed to the McLeans’ daughter, Eunice?’
‘Ah, she’s been brought in for questioning. I sent a squad-car around to her flat in Bayswater in the early hours of this morning to scoop her up.’
‘I don’t think she’s directly involved with activities of the Britannia Club…’
‘Maybe not, but her sympathies lie in that direction. Blood is thicker and all that.’
I felt sorry for the girl. I knew that she was a naïve innocent whose views had been cultivated and tainted by her monstrous parents. Of course, I couldn’t be sure how much direct involvement she had with the operations of the Britannia Club, but I suspected none at all. In the time I had spent with her I had grown fond of Eunice and though I was not infallible in my judgement of people, I believed that she was essentially a decent person; she just had the misfortune to have Lady McLean for a mother. What, I wondered, would become of her now? My little reverie was interrupted by the reappearance of Nurse Grogan.
‘You have a visitor,’ she said, pushing a wheelchair up to the side of my bed. Its occupant, dressed in pyjamas and dressing-gown grinned at me. The face was still pale and gaunt but the eyes sparkled with life.
‘Hello, Johnny, been in the wars again, I see.’
I gazed at my brother with disbelief and joy and then my vision blurred as my eye moistened with tears.
I had one other visitor later that day. I’d managed to eat some lunch and slept again. I had just roused myself from my slumbers when I s
aw a familiar figure shambling down the ward towards my bed. He was carrying a small packet and a limp bunch of daffodils.
It was Benny.
He plopped the daffs on the bedside cabinet, then leaned over and gave me a kiss on the forehead. ‘You look dreadful,’ he said.
‘Thanks. You’ve come to cheer me up, have you?’
‘To do my bit, yes. How you feeling?’
‘A bit stiff in the shoulder, but I’ll live. But how are you?’
He waved his hand in a dismissive manner. ‘I’m tickety-boo. We Slawinskis are made of sterner stuff. It’ll take more than a few fascist hoodlums to upset me.’
He meant it, too. He appeared totally unscathed by his experiences of the previous night. Even the cut on his forehead appeared to have healed. ‘When they snatched me, bundled me into a car I was a little frightened, I grant you, but when I saw you there I knew I was going to be all right. I knew you wouldn’t shoot me.’
I laughed. ‘You liar. Your eyes were out on stalks when I picked that gun up.’
‘I…I was acting.’
I laughed again. ‘Sure you were.’
Benny’s eye’s twinkled and he nodded, giving me a soft grin.
‘You did well, my boy.’
‘And you did, too.’
‘So how are they feeding you here?’
Not a patch on your food, I can tell you.’
‘I thought so. That’s why I brought you this.’ He handed me a small packet wrapped in greaseproof paper. ‘One of my best salt-beef sandwiches on rye bread with some of that pickle that you like. That’ll help build up your strength.’
‘Thank you, Benny.’
‘S’ nothing. When you get out, come into the café and I’ll cook you one of my special breakfasts…on the house.’
‘Hey now, don’t get too reckless in your old age.’
‘You’re right,’ he grinned. ‘For half-price. How’s that?’
47
I stayed in hospital for a few days, but I was itching to leave. Worn out by my constant nagging they eventually let me go home, rather glad to be rid of me, I suspect. I wasn’t exactly a new man yet but I was making a valiant effort to sprint down that rocky road to full recovery. My shoulder was still stiff and painful and I couldn’t grip things firmly with my left hand but the doctor assured me that it was just matter of time before flexibility returned and I could function normally.
I visited Paul several times in hospital, sitting by his bed, talking, attempting to re-establish the connection that we once had. We had both been at fault in letting our relationship falter and fail. I knew that as orphans we had an innate drive to prove our own independence in the world and that inevitably had led to us drifting apart. As we chatted, gradually the barriers were dismantled and we were once more able to remind ourselves of who we were and what we really meant to each other. Of course, the war and circumstances would eventually part us but this time we resolved to keep in touch, not to sever that invisible bond again.
Paul’s return to health was to be much slower than mine. He had several weeks of hospital food to look forward to before he would be able to leave, and then the army had to decide what to do with him. He was still classed as a deserter after all. However, he’d managed to scotch whatever demons had prompted him to behave as he did. I knew and he knew that he was not a coward. I sensed that he’d emerge from this experience a stronger man. With time and some sympathetic help he would be back with his unit. It was just a matter of time.
I stood on the steps of the hospital, glad to slough off the strange antiseptic miasma that permeated the place. I took a deep breath and inhaled a lungful of good old London air. That was better, if a little dusty. It was a lovely warm June day and I knew I was lucky to be alive but my spirits were low. Despite having put paid to the Britannia Club and their dangerous endeavours, the war was still going badly for us. My efforts hadn’t altered that fact. And while the German threat hovered like a black cloud on the horizon, there was really nothing to feel good about.
I walked back to Hawke Towers in a foot-draggingly dismal mood. The old place looked the same, apart from more dust than usual. The small bottle of milk by the stove had solidified so I made myself a cup of black Camp coffee and then put a record on the gramophone in an attempt to cheer myself up. The music was lively and toe-tapping but it didn’t raise my spirits. I felt empty. After all the drama of the last week, coming back to my silent home gave me an overwhelming sense of anti-climax.
And then the doorbell rang. Ah, a client. Please God let it be a client. Let it be a client with a juicy problem. Something to occupy this weary mind of mine.
It wasn’t a client.
It was Eunice.
She looked terrible. He face was pale and drawn and her eyes were red and puffy from long bouts of crying. She was without make-up and looked like a bedraggled child.
‘Hello, Johnny,’ she said in a monotone. ‘Can I come in?’
I ushered her inside without a word. We went through the office into my little sitting room.
‘Can I get you a drink? A coffee. You’ll have to take it black, I don’t have milk. Or maybe something stronger?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m OK.’
She looked far from OK but I didn’t comment.
‘The police let me go,’ she said in the same dreary voice as though she was addressing the furniture rather than me.
‘I’m glad.’
‘Are you? Why is that, Johnny? Why are you glad?’
‘Because I don’t believe that you’ve done anything wrong.’
‘Done anything wrong. You’ve elevated yourself a bit, haven’t you? From two-bit private detective to moral judge. Johnny Hawke pronounces. Let the girl go, she hasn’t done anything wrong.’
I lit a cigarette and watched her. She was going through some kind of performance, maybe one that she had rehearsed several times while she was in custody. I wasn’t going to interrupt. She needed to get it out of her system.
For the first time she looked me in the eye and I saw something of the old fire, the brittle spark in her glance. ‘Don’t offer a girl a cigarette,’ she said in a mock sulk.
I reached in my pocket for a packet.
‘Don’t bother, I’ll smoke my own,’ she snapped petulantly, opening her handbag and withdrawing a long, sharp knife. The blade glistened in the gloom. ‘Or maybe I’ll use this instead,’ she said, thrusting it towards me. ‘I bought it this morning with the sole purpose of using it on you.’
‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’
‘You have to ask? You traitor. My parents are in gaol because of you.’
‘They are in gaol because they’re traitors, in league with the Nazis, our enemy who are the process of bombing this city to bits. Your parents were ready to sell this country down the river because of their mad beliefs.’
‘They only wanted what was for the best.’
‘And does that include murder and torture? Burning the houses of innocent people because of their race and religion? I’m afraid it’s time to face the facts, Eunice. I don’t believe you knew half of what your parents stood for or did in the name of patriotism. They may not have dirtied their own hands, but they are as steeped in blood as the thugs who carried out their orders.’
With a cry of anguish, she came at me with the knife. I stepped sideways and knocked the weapon from her hands. By the time she reached me all the fire and fury had gone out of her and she fell sobbing in my arms.
‘You bastard,’ she said, burying her head on my chest. My shoulder throbbed with pain but I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore it. I stroked her hair and held her. Neither of us spoke and I waited patiently for the sobbing to subside.
I knew her tears were part of her acceptance—her acceptance that what I had said was the truth. She had tried to channel her hurt and anguish towards me, but when it came to the moment, she couldn’t do it.
Being an orphan who had never known my father or moth
er, I could not imagine what it must feel like to suddenly realise that your parents, the two people who brought you into the world and loved you, were not simply cranky zealots with a mission to purify our country, but were in reality monsters, traitorous monsters, prepared to sanction anything to achieve their inhuman goal. But I knew that I would cry too. Long and hard, I would cry.
Strangely, Eunice was like me now: an orphan—cast adrift on a very turbulent sea.
Eventually the tears stopped but she still clung to me. I held her, kissing her gently on the top of her head, but saying nothing. I just didn’t have the words. After a time, I pushed her from me gently and sat her down on the sofa.
‘Let’s have that drink, now, eh?’
She nodded, dragging a handkerchief from her pocket and mopping her face. I poured us both a generous whisky and sat beside her. She took a gulp and coughed a little.
‘I’m not used to spirits so early in the day,’ she said, inconsequentially.
‘What will you do now?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘I’ve got an old aunt in Scotland. I think I’ll go there. I couldn’t stay in London now. Not now...’ The tears started again but she fought against them. Suddenly, she put her hand on mine. ‘I wasn’t going to hurt you really. I just wanted to lash out. I feel cheated somehow and you were the only one I could get to.’
Despite myself, I grinned. ‘Tell me about it. The story of my life.’
Eunice grinned too. ‘I liked you, Johnny. I liked you a lot.’
‘Past tense?’
‘Well, it wouldn’t work now, would it? Besides I’ve lots of mental sorting out to do and you would only complicate matters.’
I nodded in agreement. Again, the story of my life.
We sat in silence for some time drinking our whiskies, strangely at peace, thinking our own thoughts. At length, she rose and picked up her bag.
‘I think it’s time I went.’
‘Are you sure? You could stay the night…’
‘No. Fresh start. We both need a fresh start.’
Comes the Dark Page 21
