Without Conscience

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘It’s a disused drainage pipe. God knows how far it goes down,’ he said, pointing at the cavern. ‘The council have been meaning to block it up for years. Now I think they’re hoping the Luftwaffe will do their job for them. This was always where Harryboy went when he was playing cowboys … or when he was in trouble. He was the only one who dared go beyond a hundred yards of the entrance.’ He rolled his wheelchair forward a little and pointed down into the impenetrable darkness. ‘That’s his hideout.’

  David and I exchanged worried glances. ‘What do we do now?’ he said, verbalizing both our thoughts.

  ‘Go in after him, I guess.’ I said at length. ‘But not all of us. We’d make too much noise. And the last thing we want to do is panic him. Let me go. If he’s got Peter in there, I want to get to him first.’

  ‘Is that wise, sir? There’s safety in numbers,’ said Sergeant Sunderland.

  David pulled a face and chewed on his lip for a moment. ‘Actually, I think my one-eyed friend is right for once. If we all stumble down there we could make matters worse than they are. He’s not exactly a rational fellow. Yes, I think that for our first shot, it should be just one of us goes in.’ He turned to me. ‘Are you sure you want it to be you?’

  I nodded. ‘Very sure.’

  ‘OK, boyo. Give it a go … but you’d better take this with you.’ He pulled a revolver out of his raincoat pocket and held it out to me.

  I hesitated a moment and then common sense overrode my dislike of guns and I took it from him with a nod of thanks and slipped it into my own pocket.

  ‘We’ll give you fifteen minutes. If we’ve not heard anything by then, Sunderland and I will come in after you,’ said David.

  I was just about to pull back the rusted wire netting when Rachel rushed forward and gave me a tight hug. ‘Take care,’ she said softly and I felt the caress of her warm lips on my cheek.

  ‘You bet,’ I said, returning the kiss. And then I slipped behind the rusty wire netting and ventured into the mouth of the tunnel.

  For a moment I was halted by the powerful smell of decay and drains which assailed my nostrils and challenged my stomach. I grimaced but pressed on. I was surprised how quickly I became used to the stench. It seemed a natural element of this strange underground world.

  For a while the tunnel descended gently and then levelled out. Within a couple of minutes I had lost sight of the entrance and now I was using my torch, pointing downwards at my feet, to guide me forward, slowly but not always surely. The thought struck me of how ridiculous and melodramatic the situation was: here was I edging my way forward down a disused drainage pipe in Stygian darkness in the search for a crazed murderer and a little boy. There was no certainty whatsoever that Harryboy Jenkins was actually anywhere near this Godforsaken place. For all I knew this could be the wildest and darkest of all wild goose chases. Well, I told myself, I was here now so I had to go through with it.

  After a while I stopped and strained my ears to catch any noise that might indicate another presence – a human presence – in the tunnel. I was certainly conscious that there were other non-human presences about. I had seen several of them in the beam of the torch scurry by: mice, rats and various unpleasant insects. But as I listened, apart from the gentle moaning of the wind as it passed along the tunnel, I could hear nothing of significance.

  I pushed on further into the void. And then I heard it. A cry. An inarticulate, high-pitched cry. It wafted on the invisible air around me like the wail of a long dead spirit. But I recognized it as the cry of a living child.

  Peter.

  My God, we had been right. Harryboy was here – down here in this man-made Hades and he did have Peter with him. I hurried on, stumbling frequently in my haste, but I didn’t care. I just had to reach the boy before it was too late. I prayed I would not face the bleakest of ironies that, after all our efforts, I would get there just in time to see Peter die.

  The passage seemed to curve slightly and as it did so I saw a pin prick of light ahead. I was almost running now, the beam of my torch swinging violently on the ground. Then the cries ceased suddenly and once again the air was filled with that eerie almost-silence, just strange indistinct rustles and the hum of the wind. Then I saw them: two figures in the distance, illuminated by a small fire. It was like a nightmare scene from some Brueghel canvas. As I moved closer, I could see that Harryboy had one arm around Peter’s neck and in the other hand he held a knife close to his face. The bastard seemed to be cutting the boy’s cheek which was stained with blood. I could not tell whether Peter was still conscious or not: his body was limp and his eyes were closed. My heart thudded in my breast. Don’t tell me he’s dead!

  My gut instinct was to cry out in rage and race forward, leap upon Harryboy and let him have it, a round of bullets in the heart. Thank heavens that for once I ignored my gut instinct. This reaction would have been disastrous. If Peter were still alive, my sudden appearance racing towards him out of the gloom would simply prompt Harryboy to stick the knife in.

  I switched my torch off and, as I approached the feeble circle of light, I crouched low to the ground. However it was clear that Harryboy had sensed that there was someone out there in the tunnel. Maybe he had heard me running or glimpsed the beam of my torch. Whatever the reason, he knew. Dragging Peter’s inert body with him, he took a step forward past the fire.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he shouted, the cry reverberating down the labyrinth. ‘I know you’re there. I heard you. Come for Harryboy, have you?’

  Now if this were a Hollywood gangster movie and I was Edward G. or James Cagney, I’d holler, ‘Give yourself up Harryboy. The game is over. We got the place surrounded.’ But it wasn’t in a movie. This was for real and real lives were at stake. One in particular. And I reckoned I would spook the bastard more if I didn’t respond at all to his cry. He couldn’t be absolutely sure that there was anyone there out in the pitch black. That uncertainty would grow if I made no answer. That would unnerve him. And the more he peered into the dark and strained his ears to catch any sound to confirm his suspicions, the more likely it would be that he would leave Peter alone. At the moment he had the boy clasped in front of him like a shield. Peter’s head had drooped down and I could no longer see his face. I still had no idea whether he was dead or alive.

  I quelled all the strong mixed emotions that boiled up within me at the thought that Harryboy might have killed the boy and concentrated my efforts and thoughts on the task in hand: nailing the swine. I wasn’t near enough to shoot him with any certainty yet. I dare not risk firing in case I hit Peter.

  I shifted, slowly and softly to the left until I felt the wall of the tunnel. I picked up a small stone and threw it at the far wall. As I’d hoped, the noise caught Harryboy’s attention. My plan was to draw him nearer to that side of the cavern while I circled behind him and grabbed him from the back. He took a few steps forward, moving towards the sound of the stone, dragging his limp charge with him. He thrust his head forward as he peered into the inky void.

  My plan seemed to be working at first, but then suddenly the situation changed.

  ‘Come out!’ Harryboy cried. ‘Come out where I can see you. Or else I’ll have to cut the boy some more.’

  At these words my blood ran cold. In my cleverness, I had actually increased the danger that Peter was in.

  ‘I’ll count to five,’ he called again, addressing the dark. ‘If I don’t see you by then, the knife goes in again.’ With glee he brandished the knife, its bloodstained blade caught by the flames of the fire.

  What the hell could I do? The options were rather restricted, to say the least. If I wanted to prevent Peter from being wounded again, there were no options at all. Slipping the gun in my overcoat pocket, I called out. ‘OK, I’m coming. Just don’t hurt the boy.’

  Slowly I moved into the circle of light created by the camp-fire.

  Harryboy, who had been gazing in the wrong direction, expecting to see someone emerge from the right side of the ca
vern where I had thrown the stone, turned sharply as he heard my voice. Then he saw me.

  ‘You,’ he snarled in anger. ‘You again. I should have killed you when I had a chance.’

  ‘Let the boy go,’ I said quietly. ‘You can deal with me. You and your knife. Just let the boy go.’

  His eyes flickered wildly and his features formed themselves into a chilling leer. ‘Don’t think I will. He obviously means a lot to you. That’s good, that is. You see I can amuse myself by causing him some pain and at the same time hurt you. Double the fun, eh? I can deal with you later when the boy is dead.’

  I took another step forward.

  ‘Stay right there. Do not move again … or else the boy dies straight away.’

  I froze. It seemed that Harryboy held all the prime cards in the game at the moment. If Peter had not been there I would have launched myself on him with my bare hands, risking the peril of his knife. But as it was I couldn’t do anything like that without endangering the boy.

  He hauled Peter’s inert figure up higher until his little face was on a level with Harryboy’s shoulders and then he took the knife to his face. ‘Another cut,’ he grinned, ‘just to make sure you know I mean business.’

  He drew the blade of the knife across Peter’s cheek producing another thin red line along the pale flesh. Suddenly Peter’s body jerked violently and his eyes shot open. The pain had propelled him from his comatose state into full consciousness and he yelled out in agony. My heart leapt as I saw that Peter was still alive but I also felt sick to the stomach to see such torture. And I was helpless. I knew full well if I so much as made one move towards Harryboy, he would stick the knife right in and I’d lose Peter altogether. However self-controlled I was because of this terrible knowledge, I couldn’t stop myself calling out the boy’s name.

  ‘Peter,’ I cried, my voice almost breaking as I did so.

  His eyes widened in surprise at the sound of his name echoing around him in the shadowy chamber. He turned his head in my direction and saw me for the first time. All at once his eyes widened and his sad, frightened face became animated with excitement.

  ‘Johnny,’ he bellowed in recognition. Without a thought of the knife which hovered inches away from his face, his little body wriggled, twisted and gyrated, like someone experiencing the fiercest of fits, desperate to be free of its restraints. It was as though his body had received a massive electrical charge: his small form was convulsed with energy and it was all focused on reaching me. In one frantic movement, he seemed to physically shrink his body while thrusting forward, propelling himself out of Harryboy’s clutches. He fell to the floor and began squirming along the ground like a furious snake towards me. His violent actions had shaken Harryboy’s stability. He tottered clumsily like a drunken man and for a moment it looked as though he was about to fall over but instead he stepped sideways in an attempt to steady himself. In doing so, his foot landed in the fire. It was his turn to cry out in alarm. I intended to add to his distress. I had already snatched the gun from out of my pocket and stepped forward. Now that he had no shield to protect him, he was mine.

  THIRTY - SEVEN

  Sitting at a desk, smoking a cigar in a large well-furnished office in an anonymous building in Whitehall, his face in shadow, the important man addressed the other occupant of the room who was sitting opposite him.

  ‘You’ve made a bloody mess of things, haven’t you?’ he said, leaning back in the padded leather chair. The important man was at home here and in total control of the situation, relaxed and confident. He was not only in possession of all the facts concerning this unsavoury little affair, but, more importantly, he was cognisant of the bigger picture also. And in the end, that is what mattered. There were going to be rough patches along the road to victory. Innocent people would be hurt, killed even, but the government, the country must trundle on, overcoming any such unpleasantness along the way. His tone was easy, matter of fact. He could have been passing comment on the weather. He saw no need to express his dismay and anger in words. That was a futile exercise.

  ‘I suppose I have,’ said Sir Robert Gervais.

  ‘You and your bloody lap dog, France,’ said the important man, puffing heartily on his cigar. ‘Well, he’s paid the price for his over-zealous diligence. But it leaves rather a nasty mess on the carpet for us to clean up.’

  ‘I never thought it would get out of hand the way it did.’

  ‘You turned a blind eye, my dear sir, when you should have been censorious.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Let us hope so. The whole business has been most unsavoury. You have caused problems where none should have existed. To be frank, we’ve put up with your little peccadilloes for long enough because of your importance to us – to the war effort. It is now time for restraint.’

  ‘I understand.’

  The man exhaled a gentle cloud of pungent smoke. ‘I wonder if you do.’

  ‘What is going to happen?’ asked Sir Robert after an uneasy pause.

  ‘We’re going to take you away for a while. There’s a safe house in Scotland … you can carry on your work there for a few months while the air clears down here. You’ve left some bloody big cracks for us to smooth over.’

  ‘Scotland.’

  ‘You leave tonight. And, sir, no more dresses for the time being. Is that understood?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. I think that’s all,’ said the important man, a tight smile easing his features. ‘Leave the rest to me.’

  THIRTY - EIGHT

  I really didn’t intend to kill Harryboy Jenkins. I am not a murderer. Despite my hatred and contempt for this despicable lump of inhumanity, I did not regard myself as his great judge and executioner. My hands are soiled enough without taking on that role also. I just meant to wound him, to incapacitate him sufficiently so that I could take him prisoner. But as I raised the gun, he leapt forward with a manic roar and before I had time to aim carefully, he was almost upon me and so I fired. I fired twice. For a split second, the great ox was stopped in his tracks by the gunshots and then as two great badges of blood flourished on his chest, his whole body shuddered and flew backwards with the force of the bullets. He fell dead on the ground, his face frozen in a terrible grimace.

  Slowly Peter clambered to his feet, and like me stared down at the monster, not quite believing it was all over. We stood for what must have been a minute like this before he turned and looked up at me, a smile quivering on his lips. ‘I told you I could help you catch criminals,’ he said.

  I grinned back at him, but as I moved forward to give him a hug, he fell into my arms in a dead faint. I felt his brow: it was on fire. The fever had taken over again. Scooping him up in my arms and with the aid of the torch, I hurriedly began the trek back to the opening of the cavern. I had to get this boy to hospital pronto.

  Behind me lay the twisted body of Harryboy Jenkins, the dying flames of the little fire still illuminating his twisted features.

  Later that night, I shared a pint of beer in the Guardsman with David. It certainly had been a fun-packed evening for me. Once emerging from the tunnel and hurriedly recounting my adventures, we set about getting Peter to the hospital. Sergeant Sunderland raced back to the police car and radioed for an ambulance and for more men to help recover Harryboy’s body.

  While we waited for the ambulance, I observed Jack Jenkins as he sat in his wheelchair peering into the dark of the cavern, his face immobile, his expression enigmatic. I could only wonder what tangled thoughts were going through his mind. No matter how evil Harryboy was, he was still his brother and now he was dead. Could he accept that situation with equanimity, or would that filial cord be wrenching his heart out? No doubt he was also aware that he would have the burden of telling his mother that her youngest son, her demon son, had been killed. Whatever his feelings, he kept them securely to himself.

  Accompanied by Rachel, I travelled in the ambulance to the hospital with Peter, while David and his ser
geant organized the retrieval of Harryboy Jenkins’s body.

  That hospital part of the evening is like just a vague dream in my memory now. Peter was returned to his old ward. I remember I was told by the doctor who examined him that the next twenty-four hours would be critical, but he was hopeful. I had to resign myself to that and left the medics to their ministrations. I managed to find Susan McAndrew, who was on duty on another ward, and gave her a brief résumé of events. She reacted to the account as though it was a horror story, which I suppose it was.

  I felt weary and empty as Rachel and I stepped out of Charing Cross Hospital into the bitter cold night air.

  ‘You look done in, Johnny,’ she said softly. ‘I think you should go home and get some rest. Come back to the hospital tomorrow.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ll see you home first,’ I said.

  ‘Nonsense. I don’t need you to do that. I’m not frightened now. There’s no Harryboy Jenkins waiting in the shadows for me any more. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ I said, not really having the energy to argue.

  ‘I’m sure. You get a good night’s rest.’

  I hugged her tightly and we kissed.

  On arriving back at Hawke Towers I realized that a good night’s rest was an unlikely prospect. My body was tired but my mind was awhirl with images and thoughts. I was sure that even if did I lay my head on my pillow old Morpheus would refuse to wrap his arms around me. So, on the off chance, I rang David’s office at Scotland Yard. He was still there.

  ‘Fancy a last pint at the Guardsman?’ I said.

  ‘Do I,’ he said.

  ‘How is the boy?’ David asked after he’d downed a good quarter of his pint in one gulp.

  I shrugged. ‘He looked pretty poorly, but the doctor was hopeful. It’s a waiting game.’

  ‘Ah, these young ’uns. They have great resilience, y’know. I’m sure things will be OK.’

  I nodded wearily.