Direct Hit

by Mike Hollow

  Albert waited for him at the top, then followed him into the small sitting room at the front of the flat, overlooking the street. It struck him as a miserable place. The curtains were still open, and even by the residual daylight that managed to penetrate the grimy windows he could see the state the room was in.

  “Come on, Bob,” he said. “Where’s your blackout curtains?”

  “I can’t afford blackout curtains,” said Gray. “I’ve put a couple of nails in the top of the window frame there. Hang that old eiderdown on them.”

  Albert picked up the eiderdown, cautiously keeping it away from his nose, and hooked it on the nails. He drew the cheap floral-pattern curtains over it.

  “Will that keep the light in?” he said.

  “I haven’t had any complaints yet.”

  Gray switched on the light.

  “Take a seat, my friend,” he said, and slumped into an old armchair. Albert took the one facing it, on the other side of the small gas fire that sat in the hearth.

  “You shouldn’t be drinking so much, Bob,” said Albert. “It won’t do you any good.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m not as bad as I look. Things have been a bit difficult for me the last few months, that’s all. I have a little drink to get me through the evenings, but I’m all right. Have one yourself.”

  He gestured towards the table. Albert picked up the bottle of Gordon’s gin that was standing in the middle of it and pulled out the cork stopper. There were several glasses too, but he couldn’t tell which ones were clean. He chose one that looked as though it might be and poured himself a double measure.

  “Got anything to go in it?” he asked. “Tonic?”

  “Water,” said Gray.

  Albert took the jug of water from the table and added some to his glass.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  “Cheers.”

  Bob wasn’t very talkative tonight, thought Albert. He sat in silence himself. If Bob didn’t want to speak, that was all right.

  Eventually Bob opened his mouth.

  “You’ve been a good friend to me, Albert,” he said, “just like your George, and don’t think I don’t appreciate it. I’m sorry about the state of this place. I just don’t seem to be able to keep on top of things these days. I wish you’d known me before, back in the good old days, before all this happened. I was a different man then.”

  “War changes people, Bob. I know that as well as any other man.”

  “Don’t talk to me about war,” Bob snarled. He seemed to have become animated for the first time since Albert had arrived. He put his glass down and glared at his guest. “This isn’t a war, it’s a shambles. You should’ve seen us. Retreat, retreat, nothing but retreat, till the Germans pushed us into the sea. What kind of country is this? Sending us into action with rifles against tanks. Those politicians should’ve taken a turn at sitting on the beach with us. That would’ve bucked their ideas up. Shoot the lot of them, I say.”

  “But you’re back now, Bob. You got away.”

  “But George didn’t, did he? And what about the rearguard? What about the Coldstreams, the East Lancs? They didn’t get away, didn’t stand a chance. All dead or captured now. And all those people waving at us on the trains when we got back, as if we’d just won the war or something. What were they thinking? You don’t know what it was like over there.”

  “I think I do.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Albert, of course you do. I shouldn’t go on like this. It’s just that I can’t get it out of my head. It was pitiless. Stuck on a beach waiting for a place on a boat that might never make it through, running for your life every time a Stuka came screaming down to bomb us. Men were trying to dig holes in the sand to get away from it all. Can you imagine it?”

  “Don’t go upsetting yourself now, Bob,” said Albert.

  “But George was the best friend I’d ever had. Your George. You must feel it even worse than I do.”

  “I do,” said Albert. “I do.” He took a swig from his glass and sat in silence, watching the weak flame sputtering in the gas fire.

  “I wish I’d had a mate like him when I was a kid,” said Bob. “No one ever cared about me when I was a boy, but he always did, always watched my back. In the end it was so bad we didn’t know what we were doing. Your George died right beside me. Maybe I am drinking too much, but I just can’t stop thinking he took the bullet that was meant for me.”

  “You’re all right now – you’re home. They won’t get you back into uniform now.”

  “If they find me I’ll kill myself. I’m not going back.”

  “But they won’t find you, will they? You’ve got yourself a new identity card. Nobody even knows who you are now.”

  “That’s right,” said Bob, tipping the last of his own glass into his mouth and refilling it. He took the card from his pocket and passed it to Albert. “Just like the real thing, isn’t it? New name too: Bob Gray. I made sure it was something ordinary. Not Smith or Brown, of course, that would be too obvious, but something that wouldn’t stand out.”

  Albert studied the card and nodded approvingly. He handed it back.

  “If the Army come looking for me now,” said Bob, “they’ll only have my old name. They’ll never find me. Besides, I reckon there’s hundreds of men doing the same, maybe even thousands. Who wouldn’t, after going through that? They’re not sending me back, that’s for sure.”

  “And when the war’s over you’ll be able to settle down quietly and get on with life. No one’s going to bother about a few deserters then: it’ll all be old history. You’ll see: everything’s going to be all right.”

  Bob sat up straight in his chair, holding his glass tight. Albert could see the intensity in his eyes.

  “All right? I don’t think so, Albert. I’ve gone too far now. You didn’t know me before the war started. I wasn’t like this then. I didn’t drink much: just the odd pint, that’s all. I was just an ordinary bloke, happy as Larry till all this kicked off and I got called up. It was the Army that did this to me. They’ve ruined my life, chewed me up and spat me out. They turned me into a killer, and that’s all that’s left of me. Look at me now: hiding away here, drinking all night because I can’t sleep. I tell you, Albert, there’s no way back for me.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Jago was on the Central Line, approaching Holborn. Far above his head the war was beginning to leave ugly gashes on the city’s streets, but here underground there was something comfortingly normal about the loud clattering of the train through the tunnel, and he found himself relaxing. He looked at his watch; he wasn’t expected until seven, so there would be plenty of time to walk from Holborn.

  He decided not to bother taking the branch line from there to Aldwych: it hardly seemed worth the trouble of changing, as it was only one stop. He’d never seen many people using it, and that was probably why. Rumour had it that the government was going to close Aldwych station and convert it into an air-raid shelter, but he hadn’t seen any official announcement yet. It would make sense, he thought. Since Saturday’s raids some East Enders had taken to buying a penny-ha’penny tube ticket and riding round for hours until the bombing stopped. Who could blame them?

  He got off at Holborn and took the escalator to the surface. As he headed for the exit he could hear a strange commotion. A group of poorly dressed people, twenty or more, had gathered in the station’s entrance hall and were yelling angrily. Some had children in tow, and all were clutching a variety of bags, blankets, and pillows. They evidently wanted to get into the station, but were being blocked by a smaller number of uniformed railway staff. He moved a little closer so he could make out what was happening.

  A stout woman in an ill-fitting brown coat and scuffed shoes pushed her way to the front.

  “Get out of the way,” she shouted. “We’ve got children here. Are you going to leave us out here to be blown to pieces?”

  “I’m sorry, madam,” replied one of the uniformed men, his tone betraying the stra
in of the confrontation. “We’re not authorized to admit members of the public to use the station as a shelter. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  Other women joined in the dispute. They looked tired and worn, and some were weeping. No doubt the Transport Police would be along very soon to disperse them, thought Jago, but he felt sympathy for them. He imagined they’d been under the bombing for the last few nights and were desperate for safety and shelter. But the authorities had a point too: if they let a few in, thousands more might follow them, stampeding the underground stations and putting life and limb at risk. He was glad it wasn’t his problem to solve.

  He edged past the disturbance and out onto the street. The noise faded behind him as he set off down Kingsway towards the grand portico of Bush House, which loomed solemnly at the far end. The tall, stone-faced buildings that lined both sides of the road looked strong and safe in the early evening light, a far cry from the flimsy hovels of London’s docklands.

  At the thought of the recent bombing he began to feel uneasy. People on the pavement around him were hurrying to get home from work before the blackout, yet here he was, looking for all the world like a man out for a carefree night on the town. He felt his shoulders tense. Even now there might be bombers droning their way across the Channel from northern France. It was the same feeling he’d had on Saturday night when the air raid started. It was irrational, and he knew he had to get to grips with it. There was surely no mystery to it: two years on the Western Front explained a lot. The relentless bombardment of German artillery had killed men in their thousands, but for every one who died there were probably ten walking the streets today bearing some kind of wound, visible or invisible, physical or mental.

  He had long since come to terms with his own experience, or so he thought. But perhaps he hadn’t: maybe it was just that for the last twenty years or so no one had been shelling him. It was clear to him now that the air raids were touching a nerve deep inside him that he had simply tried to deaden over all these years. His mind might tell him he had recovered, but his body was saying something different. He was in a new battle, and this time it was a battle with himself.

  He stopped in the doorway of the Stoll Theatre to calm himself. He couldn’t arrive like this. The building was reassuringly solid, its expansive stone façade rivalling the grandeur of Whitehall or Buckingham Palace. It seemed to trumpet the pomp and wealth of London, the heart of an empire on which the sun never set – and which now for the second time since this theatre was built was sacrificing a generation on the altar of power.

  “No!” he said to himself under his breath. He must not let his thoughts drag him back to the trenches. He rested against the wall and watched the scant passing traffic for a few moments. Within his own lifetime this part of London had changed out of all recognition. He remembered his father bringing him to a smaller, humbler theatre nearby when he was a boy and telling him about all the old playhouses that had stood here in the days before it was all swept away – not by bombs but by developers. At the turn of the century this whole area between Holborn and the Strand had been one of the last rookeries in London – a warren of stinking slums, narrow cobbled alleys, tumbledown jettied houses, and street-corner pubs. Now, he thought, probably the only thing that remained of those days was the Old Curiosity Shop, just round the corner in Portsmouth Street, a fitting monument to the great slum-hater Charles Dickens.

  The people who’d lived in that maze of back alleys must have been astonished to see Kingsway emerge in its place, one of the widest and finest streets in London, and even more so when the underground subway was opened to take electric trams along the whole length of it. Double-decker trams were still running beneath his feet as he stood there.

  This was now undoubtedly the world of the rich, and he was heading for one of that world’s most celebrated bastions.

  At the bottom end of Kingsway he walked round the curve of Aldwych and into the Strand. He crossed the road and saw before him Savoy Court and the hotel entrance he had passed a hundred times but never used. The only thing missing was the famous illuminated “Savoy” sign above the entrance; he assumed it must have been taken down because of the blackout regulations.

  Before coming out he had changed into his best suit, the one he didn’t use for work: a double-breasted navy-blue pinstripe bought just before the war. Over this he wore his grey gabardine trench coat. Since the weekend he had attempted to restore his new fedora to its original glory, with some success, but still he was careful to remove it before anyone in the hotel could see it.

  He pushed the revolving doors and entered the hotel. The front hall was like something out of a palace, its walls clad in sombre mahogany and the floor a spotless chequerboard of black and white marble. The moment he crossed the threshold he felt out of place. Back in West Ham he might be a respected detective inspector, but here he was just an East End boy who didn’t belong. He was relieved to see Dorothy Appleton standing by the reception desk, waiting for him.

  She strode over to greet him. Dressed in an elegant powder-blue suit and a white blouse, her skirt just skimming her knees, she looked disconcertingly at home in these imposing surroundings.

  “Why, Mr Jago, how delightful to see you,” she said, shaking his hand. She steered him towards the cloakroom. “Leave your coat and hat here and we’ll go down to the restaurant. Oh, and before you start getting concerned, the dinner’s on me. This is a business meeting, and my paper will pick up the tab.”

  No sooner had Jago handed in his coat than the air-raid alert sounded. He looked at Dorothy questioningly.

  “Does that mean dinner is postponed?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “This is the Savoy: nothing interrupts the service. We’ll just be dining a little further down than usual, and sadly you won’t have a view of the Thames.”

  A member of staff appeared beside them and ushered them to the marble stairway leading down from the front hall. They descended the steps until they reached a large underground room.

  “This is the air-raid shelter,” said Dorothy.

  It took Jago some time to take in the scene. The fine décor of the large columned room was offset by an incongruous array of steel and timber props supporting the ceiling, and neatly stacked sandbags. Tables were laid with immaculate white damask tablecloths, and there was a tiny dance floor. To cap it all, a dance band in white jackets was playing “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square”.

  A waiter led them to a table for two and brought them menus. Jago continued to survey the room. The number of dinner jackets he counted made him feel down at heel even in his best suit.

  As if sensing his discomfort, his companion whispered, “This is where the idle rich like to spend their evenings these days. You and I are probably the only honest workers in the room. I could do without all of them – except for him, of course.”

  Jago turned his head to see who she was referring to.

  “Who?”

  “Just over there: don’t you recognize him from the movies? It’s Leslie Howard. I just love him. He’s so English. In fact – but no, I won’t bore you with that. Let’s see what this place has to offer tonight.”

  Dorothy began to study the menu. Jago picked up his and scanned the dishes listed, but then snapped it shut and threw it down onto the table.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

  “Whatever’s the matter?”

  “I don’t belong here. People in my world never get to eat food like this, in a place like this, even in peacetime. Not five miles from here there are hundreds of people with no homes left, and they’re grateful to get a cup of tea and a sandwich from the WVS. Eating here, it’s like spitting in their faces.”

  “Now don’t get all sanctimonious on me, Mr Jago: this is my treat.”

  “I’m not being sanctimonious,” said Jago, his voice betraying his rising anger. “I’m just trying to bring a little reality into this fantasy world you and these stuffed shirts are living in.”

>   “Fantasy world? You don’t know me at all, Mr Jago. You think just because my paper puts me up in a fancy hotel, that makes me some kind of empty-headed East Coast socialite? Credit me with enough sense to know what goes on outside a place like this.”

  “I sometimes wonder whether you Americans know anything about what’s going on anywhere outside your own country. It’s always the same: isolationism, and making money while the world burns.”

  “And have you ever considered there might be some Americans whose job is to make sure exactly the opposite happens? People who force a little reality onto their compatriots’ breakfast tables? People like newspaper reporters, for example?”

  Jago fell silent. She had a point, he conceded reluctantly.

  “All right, then,” he said, “I’ll grant you that. But that still only makes you an exception to the rule.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said. “I don’t object to being thought of as exceptional.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jago, regretting his outburst. “I do apologize. You must think me a real misery. It’s very kind of you to invite me here, and I appreciate it. I’m sorry about the way I spoke to you at the police station yesterday too. There’s no excuse for bad manners.”

  “I must admit it wasn’t my impression of an English gentleman, but I accept your apology in the spirit in which it’s made. And I offer you my own in exchange: I was a little feisty in that meeting. My only excuse is that I’ve met too many men who think women are only there to make the coffee – or perhaps over here I should say the tea. But since we’re not making excuses, I won’t offer that in extenuation.”

  “Accepted likewise,” said Jago.

  “There,” she said, “that’s better. Shall we start again?”

  “Yes. I shall accept your hospitality and eat with good grace. Just no champagne, please.”

  “It’s a deal. Now, first things first. No more ‘Miss Appleton’: you must call me Dorothy. And I confess I already know that your first name is John, so do I have your permission to call you that?”