The Darkest Hour: A Novel

by Tony Schumacher

  Rossett squinted at the photo and then leaned back as far as the handcuff would allow.

  “Propaganda. I’ve seen it before. The government in exile churns that stuff out all the time. I’ve heard they use actors and try to stir things up here with them. That’s all bollocks, I just do my job and pay no attention, simple as that.”

  Windsor nodded, picked up the photo, and placed it with several others, most showing similar scenes of grim, gray despair and death. He left the folder on the table next to Rossett’s shackled hand and Rossett frowned as his eyes roamed across the pictures.

  “Are you sure, Sergeant?”

  “Of course. Who would just stand there waiting to be shot like that?”

  “The same people who quietly walk onto the trains at Nine Elms, that’s who.”

  Rossett thought about the shuffling early-morning loads he’d seen leave so many times. It was true that not many of them ever struggled or tried to fight back. He could think of barely a handful who had ever tried to run away. He’d assumed it was because they trusted him when he told them they were going to work on farms in France. Why wouldn’t they? He believed it himself.

  He looked at Windsor, who had also sat back from the table and was holding the tin cup under his nose, breathing in the steam off the hot lemon, eyes staring at Rossett through the haze.

  “What confuses me, Sergeant Rossett, is why today is different, why today, of all days, you decided to stop doing your job.”

  Rossett glanced at Leigh and then back at Windsor.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Every day, you get up and do your job for Jerry. You don’t ask questions, you don’t cause problems; you just go and do what you do. We know this. We’ve watched you. We’ve even thought about killing you to stop you, and we would have if the powers that be hadn’t thought it would be bad propaganda seeing off the brave British Lion. So we’ve let you get on with it, let you do your dirty deeds for the Germans. And you’ve done it bloody well, right up until today, and quite frankly, I want to know what’s happened today for you to say enough is enough, to throw it all away to rescue one Jewish boy. I want to know why.”

  Rossett thought for a moment and nodded toward Leigh, who had lit another cigarette. He replied, “I was using the kid as an excuse to spring the resistance lads who were at Charing Cross. I couldn’t let his lot be shot, could I?”

  “Nice try, Sergeant.” Leigh raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  “Come along, Sergeant, please don’t waste my time.”

  Rossett looked from Leigh to Windsor and then back again. He traced his finger through some spilt tea and then sighed deeply. “I felt bad about the boy, all right?” Rossett looked up at Windsor.

  “Really? How very noble.” Windsor smiled at Rossett and then steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. “It’s just that I wondered . . .” Windsor suddenly reached down again into the case, and Rossett wondered what mystery he would pull out next. He was dismayed to see it was Jacob’s pouch, the one with the sovereigns.

  “I wonder if your newly found conscience was pricked by these?” Windsor emptied some of the coins onto the table, then placed the pouch down next to them.

  “It wasn’t the money. Why would I have gone back when I already had it in my pocket?” Rossett replied, shaking his head and looking first at Windsor and then up at Leigh.

  Windsor smiled, reached into his pocket, and produced another handkerchief, this one clean.

  “I think, perhaps, you were going back for this, or rather its friends, the ones the boy has told you about.” Windsor placed the handkerchief on the table and slowly unfolded it to reveal a small cut diamond, shining in the bare light of the weak bulb. The size of a little fingernail, it glistened and seemed to light the room itself.

  Windsor traced his index finger around the diamond, causing it to roll on the cloth and catch the light, then looked at Rossett.

  “I think the boy is the key to more of these, and you went back to get that key. You haven’t found your conscience; you’ve merely found your price. When I asked the boy about the diamond he told me you knew where the rest of them are buried, that he’d told you his part of the secret and you knew where the rest of these things are hidden.”

  Rossett stared at the diamond. He’d never seen anything like it before in his life. For some reason, his mind flashed back to his wife and a promise he’d made a million years before, on the night he had asked her to marry him: “One day I’ll buy you a beautiful ring.” He’d meant it. She’d laughed, but to him it was vow, a vow he hadn’t fulfilled.

  She’d died before he could buy her the ring, and he suddenly felt ashamed. With his free hand, he wiped his forehead, feeling the gash in his palm stinging and suddenly glad of the pain. He then sat back from the table as far as he could, as if to distance himself from the diamond and the photographs of the dead and the dying.

  His head throbbed both from the beating and the pressure he was under, and he closed his eyes a moment to rest his senses.

  “I didn’t know anything about any diamond.” Barely whispering, the fight gone out of him.

  Windsor smiled and shook his head.

  “Sergeant, please, let’s not play games.”

  Rossett shook his head slightly and spoke softly again.

  “I didn’t know about the diamond, ask the boy. I don’t know how all this has come about. I don’t know anything about any diamonds.”

  “You had it in your pocket, with the coins. Did you not know about them either?”

  “I hadn’t really looked. I didn’t know it was there.” Rossett knew the truth sounded unlikely even as he said it, but he said it anyway, eyes still closed.

  Windsor looked at the file as Rossett spoke, then absentmindedly picked up the diamond and folded it back into the handkerchief before slipping it into his pocket. He sighed and chewed his bottom lip, looking at Rossett’s lowered head before speaking again.

  “John, it won’t serve you to lie to us. We’ve already spoken to the boy. He has told us you’re going to get the rest of the diamonds. I know you are lying.”

  The use of his first name caused Rossett to lift his head and open his eyes; he heard it so little nowadays, it almost felt like Windsor was talking to someone else.

  Windsor tilted his head sympathetically and continued, as if talking to a child, “You aren’t leaving here. You do know that, don’t you? We’ll find out soon enough where the diamonds are. We can trace your movements today, speak to people you’ve spoken to. We will find out your plan. One way or another. Even if it means spending some time interrogating the boy—thoroughly—we’ll find out.”

  The final part of the sentence hung in the air.

  Windsor finally closed the file on the desk.

  “John?” he continued as he stood from the table, his voice louder now, more certain. “Make no mistake, you are going to die here, in this place. It can either be a good death—you’ll be remembered as a patriot, I’ll see to that—or it can be a bad death, a difficult death, a long death. Do you understand?”

  Rossett looked at Leigh, who folded his arms grimly as Windsor spoke.

  “Don’t make this difficult, John. We will find what we are looking for whether you tell us or not. There is an easy way and a hard way. Please . . . I implore you, choose the easy way.”

  Windsor crossed to the door, which Leigh opened for him. He left the room without a backward glance.

  Leigh paused, then smiled at Rossett.

  “I’ll not be long. Don’t go anywhere, will you?” Leigh left the room and closed the door behind him. Rossett looked at the guard and then lowered his head onto the tabletop to think. His forehead rested on the wood that had been warmed by his arms and he closed his eyes to shut out the world, but thoughts bounced around like wasps in a nest and he couldn’t focus.

  It w
as going to be a long night.

  Chapter 27

  JACOB WAS COLD. The smelly old blanket the man had given him was too thin, and, when he pulled it to cover his shoulders, his feet popped out the other end and his bare legs got goose bumps. He opened one eye and looked at the men playing cards across the room. They looked rough and he didn’t like them.

  One of them glanced over, and Jacob shut his eyes quickly and pretended to be asleep. He lay still before he slowly opened his eyes again, so slowly at first that he was looking through his long eyelashes like a tiger through the long grass in Africa, like the one his mother had shown him in a book.

  He thought about his mother, and about how she had once gently stroked her fingertip across his eyelashes and teased him.

  “My beautiful man has the eyelashes of a beautiful woman!” she had said before suddenly tickling his belly.

  He missed his mother.

  The men across the room started to laugh, but not in the same way as his mother had. When they laughed loudly they sounded angry, so he closed his eyes again and wished they would go away.

  Jacob really didn’t like the men.

  He rolled over to face the wall. Maybe he’d see grandfather tomorrow.

  He hoped Grandfather was all right. He’d done and said everything the old man had told him.

  He remembered the words exactly. “When somebody asks, you tell them what?” The old man had sat on the end of his bed and made Jacob stand with his back to the fireplace, repeating the words.

  “I tell them there is more treasure, but I don’t have it.”

  “And then what do you say?”

  “I tell them the name.”

  “And what is the name?”

  “Rossett.”

  “And then what do you say?”

  “I tell them it is a puzzle and that I must go with them.”

  “And then what?”

  “I never tell them the rest until it is time.”

  Jacob smiled as he remembered his grandfather’s face. The old man had wrinkled his nose, smiled, and then thrown his arms wide as Jacob ran toward him.

  “Good boy. You must never forget this, you must always remember and practice the puzzle in your mind so you will remember . . . yes?”

  Jacob had nodded as he had buried his head in his grandfather’s shoulder, smelling the worn warm cardigan.

  Lying on the bed right now, he imagined he could smell his grandfather again, pretended his grandfather was still with him, keeping him safe.

  “My treasure,” his grandfather had said as he held him close. “My beautiful, beautiful treasure.”

  Chapter 28

  “CAN I HAVE a drink?” Rossett said, his voice heavy and defeated.

  The guard on the opposite side of the room shook his head and remained standing, stiff as a board, arms behind his back and eyes raised, looking at a space on the wall opposite, above Rossett’s head.

  “I’m parched. Come on, chum, just a little water? I’ve a hangover from hell and you fellas gave me a good kicking. I just need a drink, please?”

  Rossett picked the empty mug off the table and proffered it, but this time the guard didn’t even shake his head; he merely ignored Rossett, who held the mug up for a moment longer, maybe ten inches off the tabletop, before smashing it down in frustration.

  The ceramic mug shattered when it hit the table, and shards flew in all directions. The guard flinched and looked at Rossett but didn’t move from his position, merely shaking his head a fraction and resuming his vigil on the spot on the wall.

  Rossett sighed and wiped his arm across the table to clear off the fragments of broken mug before leaning back in his seat.

  “One cup of fucking water? That’s all I want.”

  Rossett jerked his handcuffed wrist, and the heavy wooden table jolted. The U-bolt his wrist was handcuffed to rose an inch or two before dropping back down, safe and secure.

  “I’ll shove this fucking table down your throat.” He slammed the table again, this time harder. It lifted an inch off the floor and banged back down.

  The guard finally looked at Rossett wearily.

  “Look, do us both a favor and be quiet, eh? We’ve got a long night, and you’ve got bigger problems than trying to get my goat, so shut up.”

  Rossett shook his head and leaned forward again.

  “Shit house” was all he said before he gripped the leg of the heavy chair under him and in one movement swept it up and tossed it across the room at the guard, who easily fended it off by raising his own leg and trapping it with his foot. Rossett was crouched over the table, standing as straight as his handcuffed wrist would allow. The table was too heavy to use as a weapon, but he gestured with his free hand for the guard to come in and have a go.

  The guard sighed wearily and pushed the chair back toward Rossett, stopping when he was about two feet from Rossett’s reach and sliding the chair closer with his foot.

  “You ain’t gonna wind me up, so sit down and maybe I can get you that drink if you beh—”

  Before the guard finished his sentence, Rossett gobbed a dirty ball of bloody phlegm and spat it across the distance between them.

  The guard turned his face, but the spit landed with a thick splat against the side of his head. He touched his ear and, feeling the mess there, grimaced as he flicked it away.

  “You dirty bastard” was all he said. He launched himself across the gap as the one-armed Rossett took a half step back and kicked with his right foot toward the guard’s advancing left knee.

  The kick landed perfectly and Rossett thanked the gods, as that had been his only chance.

  The guard stumbled forward and Rossett trapped the man’s head tightly under his free left arm. Pushing forward and down with all his might, not allowing the guard to straighten up, he managed to force the guard, facedown, almost onto the tabletop.

  Close to his handcuffed wrist.

  He squeezed, tighter than he had ever squeezed before. He knew he couldn’t strangle the guard from this position, but he could keep him from crying out. The guard pushed against Rossett’s arm, trying to maneuver it over his ears, and Rossett squeezed harder and looked down to the reddening head of the guard as it lay between Rossett’s chest and the table.

  Rossett took a deep breath and jerked the guard a couple of inches closer to his handcuffed wrist, which was straining like a guard dog on a leash, trying to get into the fight.

  He drove his knee into the guard’s side and jerked him again. Now the guard was weakening. Fighting for breath, he moved a few inches, pulling at the arm around his neck, and Rossett had his chance.

  Using the broken ceramic handle of the mug he’d held in his manacled hand since smashing it, he traced its sharp edge along the guard’s neck, beneath the ear that he’d just gobbed on. Rossett closed his eyes and heard a muffled yelp as the shard broke the skin and dug into the tissue beneath.

  As he expected, the guard found new strength as he felt the blood trickle out, and Rossett gripped even harder, feeling the skin split and catch, inch by inch, as he pulled the handle across the throat, pushing it deeper, searching.

  The guard thrashed at Rossett’s back with fists that were trying to find his head. Rossett ignored the blows as he dug with the shard, searching until finally he found the point he’d been looking for. His hand suddenly became hot and wet with the gush of a burst jugular. The guard frantically grabbed at Rossett, and one hand scratched on the table. There was another muffled cry, softer this time.

  “Sssssh” was all Rossett could think of saying as the guard flapped an ever-weakening hand against his back. Rossett waited for the flapping to stop, and as it eased he thought about how many people he had felt pass to the other side in his hands.

  Finally, the guard stopped moving.

  Rossett twisted the shard deep into the
wound to check if the man was still alive.

  He wasn’t.

  Rossett relaxed his grip and slowly let the body slide to the floor. He knelt next to the guard and quickly patted him down. He found nothing except a pocketknife, some small change, matches, and an empty wallet. Rossett placed the booty on the table and then, with his free hand, he pulled his raincoat belt out from behind him where he had fastened it between the two loops when he had bought the coat.

  He hated the flapping intrusion of a loose belt, and it was a tradition that he always tied it behind him before he wore a coat for the first time.

  Those who might have wondered why he never threw it away would have had their question answered as he took the belt in his teeth and opened the pocketknife quickly with his bloody hands.

  He glanced toward the door as he worked. He placed the belt on the tabletop and managed to cut off the end opposite the buckle. Then, holding it up as if it was a dead snake, he shook the belt and dragged it through his teeth for a moment until out of the end dropped a bright and shiny handcuff key, never used but salted away for a worst-case scenario.

  Rossett nearly cried out with joy when the key rattled onto the table, and he quickly uncuffed himself, rubbed his wrist, and surveyed the room once more. He was free of the table but not yet free of the room.

  He pressed his ear to the door and listened: nothing. He knew there was at least one guard out there, and surmised that if the door was sturdy enough to prevent noise from getting out, it could just as easily stop noise from getting in. For all he knew there were twenty of them sitting waiting for him. Rossett turned the handle slowly and then tried to ease the door open.

  It didn’t budge. Locked.

  He crossed to the boarded-up window and looked through the cracks. It was dark outside and there was glass in the window, but other than that, it offered no clues.

  He squeezed his fingers behind the old timber of the bottom board. At first, he could barely get his fingertips into the gap, but by rocking them back and forth, he slowly managed to get three fingers of each hand behind the wood.