by Beth Byers
She clenched her jaw. His eyes lit with realization and he took her hand in his.
“It’s silly,” she said, trying to swallow her dismay.
“It isn’t silly at all,” he assured her. “Bad memories have a way of making you feel helpless, and those stairs have bad memories for both of us.” He quite carefully avoided mentioning the event with the German last January.
“There is another set of stairs,” she said a little too brightly.
“Then let’s take those.”
“I say,” Brandon called, and Lola lifted the beam to see where he and Willa stood. “It’s getting harder to see where I’m going.”
“He tripped over one of the potted plants,” Willa added.
“No need to tell everyone, dearest,” Brandon said with a sigh.
“We’re taking the stairs by the lift,” Lola told them. “So is the torch.”
Brandon sighed again and returned to them, Willa beside him.
“Aren’t those the staff staircases?” Willa asked.
“Spoken like a true earl’s daughter.”
Willa flushed. “It isn’t that, exactly. They just seem so…closed in.”
Lola studied her friend. “You don’t like closed-in places, do you?”
“Not typically.”
“Don’t worry,” Gordie assured her. “These are meant for guests upstairs to descend in case the lift breaks down or they don’t wish to wait for it. They aren’t so bad.”
Brandon looked through the door Gordie opened. “See, Willa dear, not too bad at all.”
Willa looked unconvinced, but she followed them into the stairwell.
“Only two floors down,” Lola told her.
The sound of their heels echoing in the confined but tall space as they descended. All but Lola’s, who hadn’t put her shoes on again. She felt even more daring with them off, taking the stairwell by torchlight. What was it about the dark that brought out a change in people? Gordie was being overly protective, Brandon was staying close to Willa in both proximity and touch, and Willa was moving like a startled rabbit, a few steps at a time, as Brandon whispered soothingly to her. Was this their true nature? She rather like her daringness. Perhaps she could hold on to it when the lights came back on.
What were the other guests experiencing? Was anyone panicking? Or taking advantage of the situation find their own closeness in proximity and touch.
Another thought came to her. Darkness for a perfect time other, more threatening events to unfold.
“Do you think that man at the Portage Club is handling this well enough?”
“The one sitting alone?” Willa asked. “With the old suit and the whiskey?”
“That’s the one.” He’d seemed out of place, and Lola had wanted to go to him, but Gordie had reminded her that not everyone at the jazz club came looking for conversation.
“Chap might like the dark,” Brandon said with a chuckle. “Seemed the sort better suited to shadowy places.”
“What if he caused the electricals to go out,” Lola said, trying for playfulness despite her misgivings, “and even now he’s robbing the hotel safe.” She sobered. “Seriously, perhaps we should check.”
“What are you thinking, Lola?” Willa asked.
“That a man in an old suit nursing a drink in a posh hotel jazz club has a point to make, and that it might not be a happy one.”
She glanced to Gordie, the torchlight illuminating his profile. His expression was closed.
They stepped into the lobby to find men at the lift door, prying it open.
“If you are looking for the lift, gentlemen,” Lola told them, startling them from their work, “you’ll find it between the first and second floors.”
“Thank goodness,” one of the men said in relief. She recognized the night desk clerk, Jerone, the torchlight shining on his sweating, dark face. “We feared you were trapped inside.”
“Only briefly,” she told him, which drew a look of surprise. “Henry remained behind to watch over the lift. He’s rather blind, though. I don’t suppose someone could run him up a torch?”
“Robert, see to it.”
The man, one of the porters, left.
Lola glanced around her and noted a few lanterns in the lobby with guests gathered nearby.
“It’s probably best that it’s so late,” she observed. “Most likely everyone else is in bed.”
“Or drunk,” Willa said.
“They probably think they’ve drunk themselves blind.” Lola grinned.
“Just like Mummy warned.”
“Speaking of,” Lola said, “is the Portage Club still open?”
“Yes, Miss Rose,” Jerone answered. “One of the porters asked the guests to remain until we could escort them safely out. Mickey has it in hand.”
“Then perhaps we should wait out the darkness there.”
Gordie held out his arm to Lola. “Shall we?”
They returned back to the stairwell, Lola’s torch leading the way.
“It is a splendid idea,” Willa said brightly, back to normal. “Far better than sitting around the lobby.”
“Or hiking eleven floors to the suite,” Brandon added.
“And I’m sure everything is fine, and Mickey will have the gramophone going.”
“It isn’t as if much will have changed at the club,” Lola said, trying to believe it, but she couldn’t shake the foreboding. “It’s always nearly dark.”
When Brandon opened the glass door to the Portage Club, the first thing Lola noticed was the silence. No music, but then the band had left the stage for the night before she and the others had headed for her suite. But no voices either, and that was eerie.
“Do you think everyone was already escorted out?” she asked, her instincts buzzing with apprehension.
“I don’t see how,” Gordie answered. “The staff looked too busy.”
“Who’s there?” The man’s shout was loud, hard, and held a note of fear.
They froze at the door and looked one another.
“Do you think—” Lola began in a hushed voice.
“The man at the bar,” Gordie answered before she finished. He nodded.
“Lola,” Willa admonished quietly, “please stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Foreseeing trouble and then leading us into it.”
“Knew there was something odd about that chap,” Brandon said.
“I know you’re out there!” The man sounded desperate. “Show yourselves!”
“What do we do?” Willa asked.
“I have your comrades prisoner,” the man shouted again.
Lola’s blood went cold. “Comrades?”
Gordie’s expression turned grim. He exchanged looks with Brandon, whose mouth formed a thin line. Realization hit Lola.
“He has shell shock, doesn’t he?”
Gordie nodded. “I think so. The lights going out may have triggered it.”
“But it’s always dark in the club,” Willa said.
Gordie shook his head. “It only seems that way. They keep the overhead lights dim and let the votives on the tables do must of the work.”
“Show yourselves! Or I’ll kill one of the prisoners!”
Lola took a step toward the doorway, but Gordie stopped her. “Let me try.”
She didn’t like it, but Gordie looked determined and he had a little too much experience with former soldiers carrying burdens from the war, so she nodded.
Gordie took off his coat, letting his empty shirt sleeve hang empty. “Keep the torchlight out of the club,” he warned, nodding toward the torch. Lola flicked it off, plunging them into near darkness. He grabbed one of the umbrellas from the stand by the door and put it over his shoulder, holding the end of it like he would the butt of a rifle. He ducked his head briefly inside and then strode in like he had no fear at all.
Concerned, Lola sidled next to the open door and peered around it.
The dim, overhead lighting had gon
e out, but the candles lit the space, so she could make out a huddle of well-heeled patrons by the stage. A man stood to the side so that he could watch both his prisoners and the doorway.
“Is that you, sergeant?” Gordie called.
The man leveled the pistol he held at Gordie. Because of course he had a pistol. Lola withheld a groan. This was dangerous, and it could so easily turn deadly if they weren’t very, very careful.
“Who are you?” the man demanded.
“Lance Corporal Gordan Canfield, 2nd Brigade, King’s Royal Rifle Corps.”
“Sir.” The man straightened and lowered his weapon. “Did they send you as backup?”
“Heard you had some trouble.” Gordie looked at the prisoner. “Did you capture this lot on your own?”
The man nodded. “They killed Fredericks.”
“Damned boche. What’s your name, private?”
“Peter Elliot, sir, 14th Brigade, Manchester.”
“We’re going to need more men,” Gordie said. Lola was shocked at his calm. “Darring! Get over here.”
Brandon jumped. He looked at Lola, confused. She hoped Gordie’s charade would work. She knew his first thought was to get the pistol away from Peter. She nodded to Brandon.
“Now, Darring, or I’ll put you on report. Sorry soldier if I ever saw one,” Gordie added to Peter.
Peter sniffed. It might have been the hint of a chuckle.
Hesitantly, Brandon stepped forward.
“Take an umbrella,” Lola hissed at him.
“What?”
“Umbrella. Rifle.” She nodded towards Gordie.
“Oh, I see.” Brandon swept one out of the stand, put it over his shoulder, and marched in. Willa joined Lola at the door.
“He does cut a figure, doesn’t he?”
Lola smiled despite the desperate situation. “They both do.”
“I’m here,” Brandon said. Gordie shot him a look. “Uh, sir. Reporting as ordered.”
“Guard the prisoners. Wait,” Gordie stepped forward. “I recognize you.” He pointed to one of the huddled guests. “Get on your feet, McGee.”
Lola gasped as Mickey stood. Even in the wan candlelight, she could see he had a black eye.
“Getting in a bust-up again, I see,” Gordie chastised. “Get your weapon and get that lazy Irish arse to work. Can’t stand shirkers,” he said to Peter.
“No, sir.”
“I can tell you’re no shirker.”
“No, sir.” Peter relaxed a little more.
“McGee,” why don’t you use Elliot’s pistol and he can go back to the reserve trench for a rifle.”
Mickey hesitated, then steeled himself and walked forward.
Lola bit her lip. They only needed to get the pistol away from Peter, then talk him down the rest of the way.
She saw the moment Peter stiffened. He moved quickly, leveling the gun with an outstretched arm at Mickey.
“No! I recognize you too. You attacked me. Tried to take my pistol. You’re one of them.”
“Private,” Gordie began, but Peter stepped away from Mickey and shifted his aim to Gordie.
“You know his name. You’re all one of them. Spies. Or traitors. That’s it, you’re traitors.”
Lola was moving before she realized it.
“Wait!”
The pistol swung in her direction. She slid in her stocking feet to a halt and something sharp pierced her heel.
Glass.
One of the bulbs must have blown. The sound would have been enough, plus the sudden darkness, to trigger Peter’s shell shock.
Lola raised her arms up to show she was unarmed, though she still held the torch. She stoically ignored the pain in her heel.
“Peter,” she said in the same soothing tone she’d use to calm a spooked horse. “The war is over. You survived.”
Peter’s head shook back and forth. “No, it will never end. Never.”
“It’s over,” she repeated. “You survived. You made it back. The Germans lost.”
Peter looked around him, the pistol’s aim unwavering. Complete silence enveloped them, as though everyone in the club was holding their breath.
“Let me help you,” she said, stretching one hand toward him and taking a step forward, heedless of the sharp glass trying to slice her foot.
Peter was still shaking his head.
Lola’s other hand tightened on the torch. Slowly, she switched it on, the light exposing the club’s ceiling and the popped bulbs. Several of them.
“See, Peter. Bulbs. The lights blew. That was the sound.”
Peter’s head stopped shaking. He dared to glance upwards.
She lowered her arm to aim the beam of light on the huddled prisoners.
“Look at them, Peter. Men and women. Look at their coats and dresses. Their beads and feathers. Look at their shoes. Could they be in trenches with those shoes? Could I in my bare feet?”
Peter stared at the frightened guests, then his gaze darted to Lola’s bare feet amid the shattered bulbs. Behind her, Lola heard Willa gasp.
“You’re safe, Peter,” Lola said again. “You made it home. You’re safe.”
Repeating the words over and over, Lola took slow, steady steps toward him, one hand outstretched, the other still shining the light on the guests as she fought to keep from wincing in pain. She reached Gordie, but she didn’t look away from Peter. From the side of her eye, she saw Gordie lower the umbrella and set it on the floor.
“Give me your hand, Peter,” she said. Her voice was trembling with the pistol so closer to her. She saw that his finger was on the trigger. It was be so easy for him to flinch and fire. She wondered what it felt like to be shot. Ridiculously, her next thought was for her dress.
A nervous giggle escaped her.
Peter stiffened.
“My dress,” she said quickly. She aimed the light downward.
“What?”
“It’s the first time I’ve worn it. I nearly rip it climbing out of the lift after the electricity went out. We were stuck between floors.”
“The lift?”
“The hotel lift.” She had his full attention now, and she could see his confusion invading the fear. “I had to climb out. Gordie helped me, though I think I could have managed without it, but I’m sure I would have torn my dress, so I asked him. He is ever so strong, even missing his arm like he is.”
Peter’s gaze flicked to Gordie. “He’s missing an arm.”
“From the war,” Lola told him in a matter-of-fact tone. “But he gets along fine. Don’t pity him.”
“I would never.”
“I know how much you soldiers hate pity.”
“The others all do that.” His voice was haunted. “Pity me.”
“Why do you think they do so?” She was close enough that with a quick lunge forward, she could grab the gun, but she wasn’t foolish enough to try.
“Because I’m— I’m—” The gun wavered. “I’m sick.”
“I don’t think you’re sick, Peter.” Lola didn’t lower her hand. “I think you are wounded like Gordie is but not in a way anyone can see.”
He didn’t speak for a long moment, the gun held half-aimed at her legs.
She fought another nervous giggle. Peter’s gaze darted to her.
“Only thinking that I’m glad you aren’t aiming at my dress anymore,” she told him. Her voice was still shaking. “I’d hate for it to be ruined.”
“What?”
“With a hole, you know.” She nodded toward the pistol. “Though, I think the black would hide the blood stains.”
Peter blinked, clearly more confused, then looked at his hand.
“Oh, God.”
The pistol fell out of his nerveless grip and clattered to the wooden dance floor.
Lola didn’t grab for it. She saw Brandon and Mickey both make to do so, and she held out her hand to stop them.
Peter put his face in his hands. “What did I do?”
“No one is hurt, not re
ally,” she added with a glance to Mickey, ignoring her feet. “It’s over, Peter.”
She stepped the rest of the way to him and held the torch out to Mickey. He took it from her and backed away as Lola wrapped her arms around Peter’s shuddering shoulders.
“You’re safe,” she whispered soothingly. “It’s over. You’re safe. We’re all safe. We won.”
His arms went around her, and he clung to her as though she was the only thing anchoring him to the present.
“No.” His voice was raw and aching. “No, we didn’t. Not all of us.”
Eyes burning with tears, Lola held him and let him weep.
Mr. Abernathy, head of hotel security, called Peter’s sister to come for him. Lola stayed with him, sitting at one of the club tables and holding his hand as they waited. She didn’t ask him questions, she simply held his hand quietly. He wouldn’t look at her, instead staring with hollow eyes at nothing.
When the young woman arrived, Lola excused herself and limped over to her. The woman wore an exasperated expression.
“Peter needs help,” she said without greeting.
“I know. He’s sick.”
“No, he’s wounded, and just like physical wounds, he can heal with the right care.” Lola certainly hoped that was true.
“I’ve tried everything,” the woman said defensively. “Nothing works.”
“This isn’t something you can do alone.” Lola paused, but then she went on. “He came here to have a drink before doing something rather drastic,” she told the woman, having reasoned it out as they waited.
“Like hold a club full of people hostage,” the woman said bitterly.
“No. To kill himself.”
Peter’s sister stared at Lola, shocked.
“Why else would he have a pistol,” Lola continued. “Why else leave home for his drink and wear his worst suit except to keep from causing you more trouble with the mess he would cause.”
The woman’s gaze shifted to her brother and the candlelight caught the tears welling in her eyes. “I never— Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s hurting, and I suspect he knows he’s hurting you, too.”
“Doesn’t he know it would destroy me if he died?” The woman’s voice was thick. “He’s the only family I have.”
“Then tell him what he means to you. Give him a reason to live. And find outside help. You can’t do this alone.”
