As he sat in his office surrounded by a sea of reports, Lethbridge-Stewart could feel a headache coming on. He was used to co-ordinating things – it was simply another part of his job as colonel – but the task he was currently involved in was proving to be more and more daunting with each day. So far they had been hard at it for two weeks, and now with a week behind them they had managed to see only two million people return to London. Two million of over eight million that usually lived and worked there.
As much as he knew it was a horrible thing to admit, considering how many had died, he’d rather enjoyed the weeks in which London was held in the thrall of the Great Intelligence. He preferred to be out in the field, commanding men, going into battle, making split-second decisions that could change the tide. It was why he’d remained in the military after National Service. But a few years as a staff officer was a small price to pay until his next rise in rank to brigadier. It was probably years off yet, but it couldn’t come soon enough for him.
Ambition was sometimes a curse, and had cost him many friends along the way, including one of his best friends from Sandhurst. Back then he was one of three lads labelled by others as the ‘holy trinity’ – him, Dougie and Johnston. The three cadets who had been more driven than others, always coming out at the top of their classes. The three of them made many enemies during those years, but they also caught the eyes of high ranking officers, among them Oliver Hamilton. After Sandhurst the ‘holy trinity’ soon fell apart; Johnston’s ideals had never quite sat easily with Lethbridge-Stewart and Douglas, and as a result he had ended up in a very different place to the other men.
He selected a report at random, and gave it a perfunctory browse. Those who felt like looting or striking had been taken care of, having no choice but to surrender to the martial law that had been in effect for the past week. There had been the odd spot of bother, of course, occurrences as far out as Kenton. Teething problems, Hamilton had called it, and Lethbridge-Stewart agreed. Returning the report to its pile he smiled grimly, regarding his surroundings. There wasn’t a surface in the room on which reports and train timetables weren’t stacked. He doubted returning the evacuees after World War II was half as bad – at least back then the entire city had not been evacuated.
Still, soon none of this would be his concern. Tomorrow he began his week-long holiday to celebrate his engagement, after finally convincing Hamilton to let him go. Procedures were now in place that would ensure that the re-populating of London would run more or less like clockwork, and his replacement could manage for a week without him. It was a break he was looking forward to; Sally and he rarely got to spend much time together, the last month especially so, so it was kind of Hamilton to allow her an unscheduled week off. It wasn’t exactly beach weather, but a week in Brighton was the best they could arrange at such short notice, and in his experience Brighton was not void of romance. All he needed now was to be relieved of his current duty so he could return home and begin packing. And, unless he was mistaken, Sally was already planning a quick engagement party in The Unknown Soldier, a pub not far from the London Regiment offices.
A brief rap on the closed door, and Sally poked her head through the gap. She was still in uniform herself, now acting as his assistant while Bell brought his replacement up to date.
‘Yes, Corporal?’
‘Major Douglas is here, sir.’ She glanced back into the ante-office, and her voice took on a less officious tone. ‘Two hours early.’
Lethbridge-Stewart smiled at this. That sounded just like Dougie. He was what the Americans called a ‘quick study’. Lethbridge-Stewart shouldn’t have been surprised that the major had finished his briefing so quickly. No doubt Dougie was certain he was all prepared for the laborious task ahead, a necessary step in his own soon-to-be-finalised promotion to lieutenant colonel. Well, Dougie would soon discover that staff work was less exciting, and more time consuming, than field work.
‘Send him in.’
Dougie entered, his face beaming.
‘Congratulations, Major Douglas,’ Lethbridge-Stewart said, walking around the desk and offering Dougie his hand. ‘Lieutenant colonel, eh? Are you sure the bath star won’t be too heavy for you?’
‘I’m sure I can bear the load, sir.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Official words done with, Lethbridge-Stewart dropped his formal posture and relaxed.
For a moment Major Douglas regarded him closely. ‘I was sorry to hear about Old Spence. A good officer.’
Dougie didn’t know Colonel Spencer Pemberton as well as Lethbridge-Stewart, but knew him well enough to feel the loss. ‘Yes, a good man, too,’ Lethbridge-Stewart agreed. ‘But enough time to mourn all those lost in recent weeks once London is up and running.’ He looked back at the desk and the reports upon it. ‘Sure you’re ready for this, Dougie?’
‘Made for it,’ Dougie said. ‘Couple more years and I’ll be after your job.’
At this Lethbridge-Stewart laughed. ‘My dear man, you’re more than welcome to it. In fact you can start right now.’
Dougie looked down at all the reports. ‘Paper work; my favourite.’ His smile dropped. ‘Anything I need to know that wasn’t in the official briefing?’
‘Need to know?’ Lethbridge-Stewart shook his head. ‘Unfortunately nothing I am permitted to tell you. Besides, I can’t imagine how knowing will help you in the task ahead. You will have enough to occupy your mind with over the next week. Six million other things.’
Dougie whistled. ‘Bit more than a couple of hundred soldiers to command.’
Lethbridge-Stewart raised an eyebrow. Dougie really had no idea, and probably never would. Unless Major General Hamilton chose to reveal such information. ‘Not to worry, once London is up and running again I’m sure you’ll be assigned to your new regiment.’
‘Lucky old me.’ With that Dougie walked around the desk and sat in what was no longer Lethbridge-Stewart’s chair. ‘Enjoy your holiday, Alistair,’ he said, the old mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. ‘Want me to let Doris know you’re on the way?’
There really was no answer to that, and so Lethbridge-Stewart chose to ignore it. Any other man and he would issue a quick reprimand, but Dougie had earned a pass by virtue of a long friendship. Still, he did have a point, even if it was unspoken. Brighton was possibly not the best choice for a romantic getaway this time. Unfortunately it was too late now. And, as if to prove the point, the door opened once more, this time without the prerequisite introductory knock.
‘Yes, Corporal?’ Dougie asked before Lethbridge-Stewart could.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Sally said, no longer smiling or joking. ‘A message for Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart, from St Mark’s. Staff Sergeant Arnold has gone missing.’
‘Missing? What the devil?’ Lethbridge-Stewart was certain Sally was mistaken, in light of the outcome at Piccadilly a few weeks ago.
‘Great time for one of your men to go AWOL,’ Dougie said.
Lethbridge-Stewart turned to look at Dougie. ‘He wasn’t one of my men,’ he said, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘But that hardly seems to matter now. Staff Sergeant Arnold died weeks ago.’
For a moment Dougie was stuck for words, his eyes moving from Lethbridge-Stewart to Sally and back again. He glanced down at the reports, the reality of his new position beginning to sink in. ‘Are you sure there isn’t more to know about this London Event, Colonel?’
‘Probably,’ Lethbridge-Stewart said. ‘But if you wish to know more, I suggest you contact Major General Hamilton. But before that, can you get your assistant to lay on a jeep for me? Looks like I’m needed in Harrow.’
Mary had no idea why she had got in the car with the strange man, but get in she had. Soon they were leaving Coleshill as she sat in the back seat, not much caring for the cramped space of the Morris 1300, her handbag on her lap. She tried to engage the man in talk but he simply refused to acknowledge her.
He had said Gordon, that Gordon was waiting for her, but it couldn’t be.
She remembered receiving the letter informing her of his death in ‘45, she remembered the darkness that had followed and the… She shook her head. It had taken her a long time to come to terms with the loss, to accept that she would never feel his arms around her, never hear him complain about Miss London Limited again. She smiled. She may have accepted all that years ago, but she still missed everything about him.
It couldn’t be her Gordon, then.
Only… No body had ever been returned to her. They said he was MIA – Missing In Action. Had they lied to her? Was her husband still alive after all this time?
Mary couldn’t even begin to get her head around such an idea. It was impossible, the Royal Air Force would never put her through that.
And what of that child’s voice. She refused to believe in ghosts, in anything mystical. She knew that young people today were all about meditation and all that new age mumbo jumbo, but she had no truck with it. Yet she couldn’t deny the voice she had heard, the boy telling her to find him. And then there was the strange man driving her to God knows where. To this Gordon who was waiting for her.
It was nonsense.
‘Do you have the time?’ she asked the man. He didn’t answer, of course. ‘Must be about time for Desert Island Discs and I do so love that. Listen to it every week, and this week it’s Lady Diana Cooper. Have you read her books? Her acting is better.’ Nothing. She leaned forward and tapped the man gently on his shoulder. ‘Can you please turn on BBC Radio 4?’
She didn’t expect the man to respond, but he moved his hand to the radio and twisted the dial until it found the station.
‘Thank you,’ Mary said and sat back, feeling a little bit more relaxed by the soft sound of seagulls and an introduction she knew all too well.
‘Each week a well-known person is asked the question, “if you were to be castaway alone on a desert island, which eight gramophone records would you choose to have with you?” As usual the castaway is introduced by Roy Plomley…’
She didn’t know where she was going, or even why, but she at least had Mr Plomley’s lovely voice to keep her company for the next three quarters of an hour. Something normal at last. ‘Lady Cooper, how well would you endure loneliness?’ Mr Plomley asked his guest, and Mary closed her eyes. It was a question she often asked herself, almost every day. And again she was reminded of Mr Cooper, wishing he were with her right now.
Mondays were always busy at the post office in Bledoe, which doubled as a little shop for those necessary supplies. George Vine usually didn’t mind it – what was a little hard work? He had lived through a world war, served as a private for a spell, and was no stranger to hard work. Unlike his sons, it seemed. He wasn’t keen on the way the world was changing for young people – too many opinions, ill-informed and outspoken with no real regard for the consequences. He had hoped living away from the main towns and cities would have kept his boys safe from such destructive influences, but it seemed he was now fighting a lost battle.
It had all started with Lewis and his mouthing off to his mother, something that would have once resulted in a slipper across the backside. But both George and Shirley had to concede that their boys were no longer… well, boys. They were becoming young men and at least one of them was ready to fly the coup. That Watts’ boy wasn’t helping matters, either, but George had no control over him – didn’t seem like his own parents did, either. Not enough discipline in the big city for George’s tastes. At least people were now slowly returning to London, which meant young Mr Watts would soon be gone, too; unfortunately he was taking Lewis with him. The boy had already told his parents that he was returning with his new best friend. Which, at least, left them Owain. Or so George had thought.
The last week the younger of the twins – younger by only five minutes, but legally that left them both with different birthdays – had been acting a bit strange. Owain had never been the most outspoken boy; even growing up he had been the quieter of the two, though always the most practical. Almost clinical in the way he thought and did things. But he had never been withdrawn, unhelpful. George knew his sons well, and he couldn’t understand why Owain had taken to acting so oddly. Shirley had suggested that perhaps it was a bad reaction to Lewis’ imminent departure, and she may have been right, but deep down George felt certain there was more to it.
He called out to Owain again. Still no answer.
He poked his head through the doorway into the kitchen and called out to his wife, who was busy sweeping the carpet in the living room.
She stepped into view, her hair in curlers under a shawl. She waved away the dust kicked up by the sweeping. ‘Yes, my love?’
‘Is he asleep again?’
Shirley glanced at the stair next to her. ‘I haven’t seen him all day. Are you sure he didn’t go out with Lewis and Charles?’
George shook his head. Of course he was sure. ‘Do you think I don’t know where my boys are? Go and tell him to get his bone-idle backside down here. Greg Whittaker will be here soon.’ His wife gave a long-suffering sigh but placed the sweeping brush against the wall and set to climbing the stair. George knew that between him and Greg they could easily unload the sacks of vegetables off his cart, but that was beside the point. If Owain wished to remain living under his roof then the boy needed to pull his weight.
Owain wasn’t asleep, Shirley Vine knew. He was simply distracted, upset that his brother was soon leaving home. She could understand that – after all, her sons had done everything together since they were born. They had never been apart for more than a few days before.
She knocked on his door gently. There was no answer, as she had expected. Owain was unusually quiet, had been since at least a week Saturday back. She went to push the door open, even got as far as lifting the small black latch, when she stopped, listening to the voices inside. One was Owain’s, the other she did not know, but it sounded like a small boy, probably around twelve years old if she was any judge of such things. Both were whispering so it was difficult to quite make out their words.
‘I can’t!’ Owain said, his voice not especially loud, but loud enough to make Shirley jump back in surprise by the sudden volume.
This time she didn’t knock. ‘Since when do you have people over without first asking—’ She stopped, barely inside his bedroom, and looked around. Owain was lying across the width of his bed, his long legs dangling over the end, while his chin rested on his hands, looking out of the window next to his bed. There was no one else in the room with him. Shirley was tempted to look under the bed, but there had been no time for anyone to hide from her.
For a moment Owain didn’t move, but then he slowly craned his neck around, enough that his mother could see his raw, bloodshot eyes, purple shadows beneath them. He looked like he hadn’t slept in months.
‘Owain, who were you talking to?’
‘What?’
Shirley looked around again. ‘There was a boy in here, I heard you talking to him.’
Owain didn’t move. ‘It’s just me here.’
‘Yes, I can see that, but… I heard another voice. Unless I’m going mad.’
For a brief second there was a haunted look in Owain’s eyes, but then it was gone. He swung himself around so he was sitting at the end of the bed. ‘I was just reading.’ He stood up abruptly and walked across the room towards her. ‘I’m going out. Back later.’ He carried on past her, and she stood there watching as he jumped down the staircase in two leaps, using the banisters for support.
Shirley wasn’t stupid. And she wasn’t going mad. She had heard another voice. She entered the room properly and looked around. It was tidy as usual, a copy of that new football magazine, Shoot, on the floor beside the bed. She supposed he could have been reading the magazine, except he had been facing the window, and the magazine was on the floor on the opposite side of the bed.
For the briefest of moments she felt a deep sense of panic rise in her. Perhaps it was Owain who was going mad? She shook her head. No, that was foolishn
ess – he was simply upset that Lewis was leaving soon. Yes, she nodded, that had to be it.
Being at St Mark’s Hospital showed Lethbridge-Stewart how much of an upheaval the evacuation had been, even to those on the outskirts of the main city. Even the ill and wounded needed to be moved to country hospitals, and now came the awkward task of transferring them all back to where they could get the best care. As a result, amongst so many other things affected by the evacuation, the NHS was now in a state of disarray. After the fallout from the invasion St Mark’s was one of many hospitals that had their mortuaries commandeered by the military. They were needed to house the many soldiers killed, until arrangements could be made for their bodies to be returned to families and proper burials (with honours in most cases) could be performed.
One such soldier was Staff Sergeant Albert Arnold. Lethbridge-Stewart hadn’t known Arnold for very long, but in the short time they served together he had proven himself to be a dependable soldier, a no-nonsense senior NCO. Arnold had died at the hands of the Great Intelligence, not that it had actual hands, but not before he had been used by the Intelligence to kill several good men. It had taken over his mind, possessed his body, and lured them all into a trap in Piccadilly Circus Station. The Intelligence had been defeated by feedback from its own pyramid device, which it had intended to use to install itself in to the mind of another, and as a result Arnold died.
And now his body was missing.
Lethbridge-Stewart looked from the hospital attendant, a man of Pakistani origin who could not be blamed, to Private Gwynfor Evans, a Welsh soldier who could, and would be, blamed. Lethbridge-Stewart had met Evans during the London Event: the sapper had been a driver for a truck he had commandeered near the end of the invasion, and, if Lethbridge-Stewart had his way, would have been court-martialled for acts of cowardice. On several occasions he tried to flee the Underground rather than stand his ground – even the Scot’s lad was a better soldier, and he belonged in 1746. And at one point Evans had even shot a fellow soldier, mistaking him for a Yeti. The man could not be counted on. Who put him on guard at the mortuary?
The Forgotten Son Page 4
