‘You’re in a hurry.’
Harry tried to move around him but felt something sharp knock into his back. Before he could turn he was kicked to the ground.
‘Get him up.’
Harry felt a massive pair of hands grasp him by the back of his jacket. The next moment he was hauled off his feet and up against a doorway by the large man.
‘Get the hell off me,’ Harry said, but his words were immediately answered with a sharp punch to his stomach.
Harry felt his knees buckle but the large man held him in place. The man he had knocked into moved forward and took hold of Harry’s throat, peering at his face. Harry could see that he was tall with almost completely white hair and pale grey eyes set deep in his head, while the remainder of his face was covered in skin so blanched and thin as to be almost a solid reckoning of the smog.
‘You make a sound I’ll cut your throat,’ the man said in a well-spoken quiet voice.
Harry tried to free himself but the large man gave him another blow in the stomach and this time he struggled to catch his breath.
‘You hold still or Kenneth here will hurt you. Now, I just want to have a look at this photo you’ve been flashing around at everyone. Where is it?’
The man turned to his large associate, Kenneth, who pulled open Harry’s jacket with such force that two of the buttons flew off and scattered onto the pavement. He thrust his great dirty hand into Harry’s jacket pocket, tearing the stitching in his haste to get at the photo. He found it and handed it to the white-haired fellow.
‘Who is she to you?’
‘Give me back the photo,’ Harry answered.
Kenneth’s hand tightened.
‘How do you know this woman?’ the white-haired man asked again.
‘She’s my wife.’
The white-haired man snorted.
‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m looking for her,’ Harry said.
‘And what’s your name?’
Despite the cold Harry was perspiring. The pain from the blow to his stomach was still reverberating throughout his body, but already his brain was focusing on coming up with a name different to his own. One settled on his lips.
‘Freddie. Freddie Johnson.’
‘Well Freddie, you’re coming with us. Where’s Jack gone?’
‘Here.’
The young fellow with dirty fingernails emerged from the smog.
‘He deserves a hiding.’
‘What do you want with Phyllis?’ Harry said.
‘Fetch the car, Jack.’
‘We ought to give him a proper hiding,’ Jack said, again.
‘I said fetch the car.’
‘All right.’
The white-haired fellow turned to face Jack.
‘And did you sort that little faggot out?’
‘He won’t be any trouble boss. He said this Harry fellow was married to Phyllis. I don’t buy it myself.’
‘Harry? You just said you were called Freddie?’ the white-haired man said, turning back to Harry.
Kenneth began to tear at the rest of Harry’s pockets. It was then that Harry realized he had made a terrible mistake. The man’s hands came to rest on his ration card. He slid it out from his pocket and handed it to his boss.
‘Well it seems you forgot your name, Mr Clarke. It’ll do you no good to lie.’
The pub door opened and several men poured onto the street. Harry felt the large man’s hands release their grip as he turned his head in the direction of the pub and Harry took his chance and kicked him hard in the groin. He felt himself free and pushed all of his weight against the white-haired fellow, who staggered back. Running out into the road, Harry cried for help and then kept moving. After bounding a few steps he smashed into a rubbish bin, knocking himself and the bin to the floor in a great clatter of metal and bones. He rolled across the pavement and got to his feet, stumbling into what he thought might be the middle of the road. He heard someone coming for him.
‘Get after him.’
A whistle blasted from somewhere around him and then a couple of the men started shouting. Disorientated and sick from the blow to his stomach, he turned and ran with no sense of where he was or where he was going.
THREE
Not since she was a child had Jean been this afraid of the dark. There was something particularly insidious about this smog, which muddied the light and molested everything it touched. She pushed her hands against the wall, the only solid object she could see, and scrabbled along, tracing its rough brick with her fingers. Finally she saw a gluey sort of light ahead. It was a café and to her relief open. She pushed at the door and slipped through the gap and shut out the night. Dust swirled around her and she broke out into a fit of coughing. Someone took her by the arm, guided her to a seat and thrust a glass of water into her hand, which she brought blindly to her lips and drank it down in one go.
When she opened her eyes she saw a young man and a much older woman standing over her. The woman, short and tubby, was dressed in a cheap blouse with an apron over the top. The apron had, at one time in its early life, been white but was now smeared with egg, lard and other stains. Her arms were muscular and covered with a patchwork of cooking scars and moles, and her large pink hands were lacquered with grease. Despite her miniature stature, there was something solid about the woman; the type who would never get frail, just old and stiff. She stood looking down at Jean, or rather looking her up and down, trying to take in her size and shape with an intensity that put Jean on edge.
‘You got yourself a bit of a cough there,’ the man said.
‘Don’t you joke Charlie, the poor girl has had a fright. You want another glass?’ the woman asked with an accent that Jean couldn’t place.
Jean gave a nod and the woman shuffled behind the counter to the sink.
‘That’s it love, you’ll be all right in a minute,’ the man said, taking a sip from a half full cup of tea.
When Jean had caught her breath she looked around the café. It was almost empty. A couple sat in the far corner, nestled against the counter. Behind them a small copper gurgled away, a wisp of steam rising up. The vapour looked so delicate in comparison to the oppressive and languid smog outside. On the other side of the café sat a man of around fifty stoking up a pipe with such care and reverence he might as well have been holding a Bible to his lips. He was wrapped in a thick black wool coat, the collar turned up to keep out the cold. There was a cup of coffee in front of him, but he seemed distracted and kept his eyes fixed on the door.
‘Where were you headed?’ said the man.
‘I was trying to find Albert’s.’
He frowned, took out a cigarette and tapped it on the table three times before taking it to his mouth.
‘Well you’ve found it.’
‘Oh right.’ She looked up at the menu above the counter and it did indeed say Albert’s.
‘And that grumpy lady in the apron is Albert’s wife, Elma.’
‘It’s nigh on impossible to see anything out there.’
‘I’ve not seen weather like it,’ he said.
Jean tried to suppress a cough.
‘Elma, fetch the lady a coffee, would you?’
The man turned in the direction of the counter. There was the clink of a plate being laid to dry and Elma’s head appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.
‘Give us a minute,’ she said and disappeared again.
‘I’m Charlie, by the way. Charlie Cannon.’
Jean smiled uncomfortably only half believing the name and looked up at him. He had a friendly looking jowly face. His eyes were large, moon-like discs, slightly bloodshot. He looked relatively young, although there were already lines appearing on his forehead.
‘And you are?’
‘I’m Jean Clarke.’
‘I haven’t seen you here before, have I?’
‘I was here yesterday. Well not the café. I was at the
theatre nearby with my sister-in-law and they had to stop the show because of the smog,’ said Jean, enjoying the lie that she had been present with her brother and Phyllis.
‘Was it any good?’
‘What I saw of it. The singing was very pleasant.’
‘What was it?’
‘La Traviata’.
‘La what?’
‘An opera.’
‘Some Eyetie nonsense, hey?’ he said, smirking in Elma’s direction.
‘Thing is, we got separated from my sister-in-law and she must have got lost because she didn’t come home.’
‘Dear, dear, dear.’
Elma came over and placed a cup of black coffee in front of Jean. The surface was lined with sediment and tiny bubbles.
‘Do you want milk? It’s only powdered mind.’
‘Please,’ Jean answered.
‘Just so you know we’re closing soon,’ Elma said and returned to the counter.
‘Thank you,’ Jean said, heaping two large spoonfuls of sugar into the coffee and stirring so hard that the bubbles were sent spinning into a whirlpool, where they all grouped together.
As she took a sip the café door opened and in walked a young woman. She was dressed in a long coat and wore a brown silk scarf around her head which made it difficult to see her clearly, but Jean could make out a heavily made up face. She walked straight up to the counter and Elma gave her a set of keys. The woman went to a door at the side of the counter, opened it and handed the keys back to Elma. She went through the door but was careful not to close it completely.
‘Elma, are we going to talk about this bacon?’ Charlie said, as Elma returned with the powdered milk.
‘Don’t keep on about it Charlie. I told you I don’t want it.’
She moved away quickly before he could say anything else. Jean’s eyes, unable to look Charlie in the face, turned their gaze towards his hands. They were large and his fingers were chubby with scuffed nails half bitten away. Yet, despite their appearance he moved them along the edge of the table with such a delicate touch that they seemed to Jean more like the legs of diminutive ballet dancers than fingers. It was almost as though his hands were doing the thinking for him, each tap of his thumb a new idea.
‘What was the woman’s name?’
‘Phyllis Clarke.’
Charlie looked at Jean blankly.
‘Don’t know the name I’m afraid.’
‘It’s just she worked in this café a couple of times a week.’
‘Elma, do you have any girls called Phyllis Clarke working for you?’
‘No-one by the name of Clarke.’
Elma brought over a small container of powdered milk and put it on the table. Jean took a large spoonful, stirred it into the coffee and then hesitated before adding a second.
‘I’m sure Mrs. Clarke worked here,’ Jean said, looking up at Elma.
‘We had a Miss Carter here, but she’s been gone six months.’
‘She went missing at the theatre. Sadler’s Wells.’
‘Doesn’t sound like someone who would work here, does it love?’ Charlie said.
‘Have you phoned the police?’ Elma said, sitting on a chair, her face flooded with what Jean felt was contrived concern.
‘Yes, of course, but you know with this smog, they’ve got a lot on their plate.’
‘Well I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. You should leave your number and we’ll phone if we hear anything.’
‘I just don’t understand why she would say she was working here,’ Jean said.
‘I don’t know love. Perhaps she was meeting someone here. We get a lot of young couples in here.’
‘Wait. I have a photo here,’ Jean said, removing it from her purse and handing it to Elma.
Elma looked down at it and then passed it to Charlie quickly.
‘Sorry, I don’t know her.’
Charlie had been staring at his cup furiously without taking a sip. He peered at the photo and held it firmly between his fingers.
‘You said she was your sister-in-law?’ he asked, suddenly looking up with a frown.
‘Yes, my brother Harry is married to her. He is terribly worried.’
‘Yes, well…I suppose he must be,’ Charlie answered and handed the photo back.
Elma silently got to her feet and went to clear up the other tables.
‘You said she went by the name of Clarke?’ he asked, still looking bewildered.
‘Yes, it’s our family name.’
‘Sorry I can’t help. I’d best get on,’ Charlie said, getting up.
‘There’s a piece in the paper about her,’ Jean said. ‘Didn’t you see it?
‘What?’ Charlie answered. ‘What paper?’
‘The Evening News.’
‘I don’t read the paper,’ Charlie said, glancing over at the old man at the other table.
‘Where are you headed?’ Jean asked, standing up, unwilling to let Charlie get away from her.
‘Back home. I got to unload some goods.’
‘I don’t suppose I could get a ride to the station, could I? Jean said, realizing that she was putting herself in a dangerous position by asking a stranger for a lift, but she wasn’t willing to let Charlie get away from her so easily.
Charlie tapped the back of his seat and looked towards the counter.
‘Well, I’m not really going that way.’
‘It’s just I’m not a local and I’d hate to get even more lost. My brother knows I was coming here,’ she said, by way of a precaution.
‘Yes, sorry. Right. You better come with me then,’ he said.
He turned to Elma who was wiping the counter with a damp cloth. ‘I’ll drop the stuff round tomorrow morning?’
‘Charlie, I don’t want it. You worry about yourself.’
‘It’s legit.’
‘How do I know?’
‘I’ve seen you all right for things in the past.’
Elma stared at Charlie, unconvinced.
‘They were gonna throw it away. Dirt in their lungs from all this smog but the meat’s fine and dandy.’
‘I don’t want to poison my customers thank you very much.’
‘Better than serving up that horse meat you got out the back.’
‘Horse meat? I’ll give you horse meat.’ She was about to say something else but stopped, looking at Jean before continuing, ‘All right, bring us a little in the morning. A little bit, mind.’
Charlie gave a distracted nod and glanced at Jean, who stood waiting calmly. As Charlie opened the door Jean peered back at the interior. There was something cruelly sterile about the room, like a waiting room or hospital; it was a place where people came to forget or lose themselves for a while. The couple in the corner held onto one another with no regard for Elma as she wiped their table and told them it was time to go. Then Jean noticed the man who had been sitting at the opposite table was gone but when she thought about it she could not recall his leaving. She glanced over to the door through which the girl had gone and as she did, Elma saw her looking and went over and pulled it shut.
‘Are you coming then?’ Charlie said.
Jean hesitated, but decided to go with him.
Outside, the smog had not let up; if anything it had become worse.
‘My van’s just up here.’
She kept close to him. Charlie moved through the smog with ease. Barely any light escaped from the windows of the houses and what little that did was as meek as the moon in daylight. On one of the roads the smog thinned enough to see three or four buildings, but they looked miserable, as if they were suffering from a wasting disease, or were the skulls of dead giants lined up in a row.
The scent of tobacco and coffee was mingled on Charlie’s breath and she could smell alcohol too, something sweet and distant, but from what she could tell he did not seem drunk. Jean was reassured by how quickly and assertively he negotiated the path and a couple who suddenly
appeared from the gloom walking in the opposite direction to them. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, clearly not desirous to be drawn into conversation.
Something about him niggled at her thoughts. Phyllis had lied about her job and both he and Elma had gone quiet at the mention of Harry. And there was something strange about the café itself. It was nearly nine in the evening and to her mind it was late for a place like that to be open. Jean wondered if she should be scared of Charlie but there was nothing immediately threatening about him. If anything, it was he who looked withdrawn and anxious.
They reached Charlie’s vehicle, a small grey Austin van. He came round to the passenger side and opened the door for her. She folded her body into the seat and he shut the door firmly, making the van rock. He climbed in the driver’s seat and they both sat clumsily silent and looking out of the windscreen. They couldn’t see a thing.
‘Perhaps we should walk?’ Jean asked.
‘I can’t leave the van. I've got perishables in the back.’
He switched on the engine but it wouldn’t start. He waited a moment and gave it another go.
‘Come on old girl,’ he said, trying it a third time.
The engine juddered and finally started. He turned on the headlights which flickered and sent out two shafts of light into the smog. The dust twisted in and out of the beams, the light congealing into the darkness. It was just possible to make out the shape of a car parked ten feet in front of them. Instinctively both of them leaned forward in their seats and tried to make out the road, but there was no other visual aid. It seemed as if they would have to use their imaginations and carve out the city for themselves.
‘Where do you want me to drop you?’
‘The nearest tube station will be fine, thank you.’
‘Fair enough.’
He began to turn the steering wheel slowly and smoothly. Jean placed her hand against the door to brace herself.
‘Easy now,’ he said, talking to the van.
They moved out into the road and eased their way by the parked car. The engine chugged unhappily. They sat in silence for some time, Charlie shifting and fidgeting in his seat.
‘The streets haven’t been this empty since the war,’ he said, after a while, keeping his eyes fixed on the small visible patch of road.
The Smog (A Jean Clarke Mystery Book 1) Page 5
