‘How powerful are police motorbikes, sir?’ said Private Bell.
‘The sooner you pick up the golf bag the sooner you’ll find out,’ said Mike.
If this bloke Mike hadn’t been so big and tweedy and a henchman of that posh officer, he’d have told him where to stuff the golf bag. All in all, he was beginning to wish he’d never seen the damn thing. What was so special about it? The bloke who’d thrown it away hadn’t thought much of it, otherwise he wouldn’t have slung it, would he? He remembered a story he’d read in a newspaper about a bloke who’d bought a painting for a pound and sold it to a museum for thousands. Maybe the toff who’d thrown it away didn’t know how much it was worth, but the posh officer did. In the meantime, muggins was a beast of burden.
‘I’d carry it myself,’ said Mike, ‘but I’m older than you and I’ve a bad leg.’
‘Any more excuses?’
‘Yes, I was shot yesterday.’
‘Go on … ‘
‘Ricochet.’
‘What’s it like being shot?’
‘If Hitler doesn’t behave himself you might find out.’
Private Bell heard what he thought were a lot of motorbikes back-firing. From experience Mike knew they were gunshots.
‘What’s that?’ said Private Bell.
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Mike, ‘Follow me and don’t drop the bag.’
‘Bloody hell.’
They ran to the tramcar bent double. As they did so they heard more gunshots.
‘I’ve been hit,’ said Private Bell to no one in particular in the tramcar, which was just as well because no one was paying him any attention. ‘I’ve been hit.’ He dropped the golf bag and stared at a scratch on the back of his hand.
‘Good job there’s not eggs in there,’ said a soldier, ‘and keep your head down.’
35
If Sir Charles’s vital functions had been hooked up to sensors they’d have set off bleepers. The police had tried to storm their way in, on whose orders?
‘I did try to warn you, sir,’ said Sergeant Bell.
Two constables dragged a fallen colleague to safety. The contents of a food hamper littered the Monument’s base. Sir Charles ‘read’ the situation. The supplying of the Irishman with food and water had given someone the idea to go in and sort things out. The person responsible had placed George and Jack in terrible danger. Sir Charles’s preparations to expect the unexpected had all been centred on the unpredictability of the ‘enemy’ not on ‘friends’.
What was happening inside the Monument? The Eavesdropper, sitting on the very edge of his seat, hands tamped to the earphones he was wearing, was trying to find out. When Mike entered, Sir Charles, eavesdropping on a single ear phone, held up a hand to show he was listening, that he needed all his concentration to find out how the Irishman was reacting to this botched attempt to winkle him out.
‘I’ve been hit,’ said Private Bell. ‘Hoy, I’ve been wounded.’
‘Shut up,’ said Mike, ‘it’s only a scratch.’
‘I don’t feel well.’
‘Sit down and put your head between your legs.’
‘I want to see a medic.’
‘You’ll see the back of my hand if you don’t shut up. People are trying to find out what’s going on inside that Monument and, to do that, they need quiet … here, take my handkerchief, use it as a bandage. There are two young lads in there in a lot more danger than a scratch on the hand … and stop muttering, it is only a scratch.’
36
Sergeant Small, despatched by Sir Charles to find out who had ordered the storming of the Monument, returned from his mission looking glum.
‘It was the Chief Constable, sir. It’s all gone badly wrong … no hostages freed and the Irishman is still safe inside his bolt hole. Another constable dead and one badly wounded.’
‘I’ve been shot as well,’ said Private Bell.
‘It’s a flesh wound,’ said Mike, ‘nothing serious.’
‘But you can still ride a motorbike, Bell?’ said Sir Charles.
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘Good man. Sergeant Small, the police motorbike I ordered you to get for Bell …’
‘The Chief Constable wasn’t keen, sir.’
‘After the mess your boss has made of things I don’t think he’s in a position to deny me anything. Get back to him and don’t pull your punches … tell him to expect a phone call from the Home Secretary. Bell, you like to ride fast?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And run over pheasants?’
‘Eh?’
‘Never mind. Take the golf bag to the Vicarage and this to The Hall,’ handing him the envelope containing the photographs.
On the front of the envelope he’d written: FOR THE ATTENTION OF MARIGOLD STRIKER. Marigold, is the man in the photo Doyle? ‘Bell, you are to wait for a reply. Tell Cook to feed you … eat in the saddle if you have to but get back here ASAP.’
‘I wouldn’t like to tell that cook what to do, sir.’
‘Tell her Sir Charles said you had to ask.’
‘And who’s he?’
‘He owns The Hall.’
‘Are you Sir Charles?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Bloody hell. I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘I know you will. One more thing before you go.’ Sir Charles removed from the envelope those photographs showing George being used as a human retriever. ‘I don’t want Elizabeth seeing those. Sergeant Small, get Bell the most powerful motorbike you can find.’
37
Sir Charles read the Eavesdropper’s log. Since the attempted storming of the Monument the Irishman had done a lot of shouting. He’d threatened to kill the boys, told them he’d a mind to blow out their brains. He’d shouted abuse at King George. He’d said five Hail Marys. Many times he’d warned the boys not to try anything. On this aspect of his behaviour the Eavesdropper had made the comment: ‘Suggests he sees the boys as a threat, that though they may be bruised and browbeaten they are not subdued, they still have fight in them or at least he thinks they have.’ He has ordered them up the stairs. ‘If I can’t see you I’ll be less likely to kill you. Without you two I’m a dead man. And don’t think you can get out of the door at the top, it’s locked and I have the key. If I’m trapped then so are you … don’t doubt me, you fine young English gentlemen, I’ll take you with me, if I have to.’
The Chief Constable’s frontal attack had made dialogue with the Irishman a thousand times more difficult.
‘Shall I ring him, sir?’ said the Negotiator.
‘What’s he doing?’ said Sir Charles.
‘Showing signs of calming down,’ said the Eavesdropper. He checked his log. ‘The time between his outbursts is getting longer. He’s been quiet for the last ten minutes.’
Sir Charles looked through the tramcar’s windows. Soon it would be dark. It was going to be a long night. The tweeting of thousands of roosting starlings made him think himself in some kind of urban aviary. The only other sound to be heard in this cut off part of the city, put in limbo by the dire events taking place inside the Monument, was the plaintive cry of the newspaper seller. The chap with the lungs of an opera singer.
Food spilt in the aftermath of the abortive attack provided pigeons with a banquet. A generator arrived to power portable lights.
How sad and solemn the scene looked. Streets were built for traffic, people and bustle. If anything should happen to George and Jack he’d never forgive himself.
The Irishman had used his fists on them, had he, the bastard. The problem was that no one, not himself or the Irishman, was in control of events. A condemned man, for that’s what the Irishman was, could not be counted on to behave in a rational manner.
‘Shall I ring him, sir?’
‘Is he still quiet?’
‘Yes, sir. What he’s doing I don’t know … nothing that makes a noise anyway. The boys are quiet too, apart from the odd sniffle.’
A tummy rumble told Sir Charles he’d not eaten. He looked at his watch. Had the siege been going on for as long as that? If he was feeling peckish what must the boys and the Irishman be feeling? If only the Chief Constable had obeyed orders they’d now be talking to someone who’d had a good meal. It was much easier talking to a chap who’d dined well … thirst would be their problem.
‘It’s of vital importance that we get him to talk,’ said Sir Charles. ‘We must get him to trust us. If only the boys weren’t in there.’
‘But they are,’ said Mike.
‘Your Chief Constable has a lot to answer for, Sergeant Small.’
‘I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes, sir.’
‘Nor would I, if anything happens to the boys.’
‘You are very fond of your grandson, sir?’
‘Yes, I am … ring him.’
Through the earphone he’d used before, Sir Charles joined the Eavesdropper in being able to hear what was going on inside the Monument.
He heard the field telephone ring. With each unanswered ring the tension in the tramcar increased. Sir Charles was aware of pressing the headphone he was holding too hard against his ear, that its Bakelite was becoming slippery with his sweat. What was going on in there? All he could hear was the field telephone ringing and ringing. It rang with an echo like a bell being rung in a cave. Someone coughed. It sounded like a boy. It seemed to him that the person doing the coughing was doing so in order to draw attention to himself as you might in a shop when a shop assistant has failed to notice that you are waiting to be served.
‘Please, sir.’
It was Jack’s voice. Sir Charles’s heart broke into a gallop. ‘Go on, you are doing the right thing. You are not being aggressive, you are showing the vile fellow good manners which, though he does not deserve them, is the right thing to do if you don’t want him to kill you. You sound calm and under control. You are a brave lad, Jack.’
‘Please, sir, the phone is ringing. Please, sir, the phone is ringing.’
‘Let them wait,’ said the Irishman.
‘Maybe they want to give us food. I’m hungry and thirsty and so is my friend George.’
‘I’m thirsty as well … thirsty and hungry for a free Ireland.’
‘Shall I answer it, sir?’
‘Touch it and I’ll kill you … back up the stairs and out of my way … go on, do as you are told unless you want a bullet in your head.’
The noise he heard through the headphone made Sir Charles wince.
‘He’s firing through the door,’ said Mike, ‘he’s hit the redoubt. I can see sand trickling out of a sandbag … the bastard.’
‘He’s reloading,’ said the Eavesdropper. ‘I wonder how much ammunition he has … how many weapons.’
‘I’ll answer the phone when I’m ready,’ said the Irishman, ‘do you hear? When I’m ready. Do you hear me? Answer me, damn you, answer me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jack.
‘Yes, sir,’ said George.
‘They made me wait, now I’m going to make them wait … I’m going to make them sweat.’
‘Let’s give him time to calm down,’ said Sir Charles. ‘At the moment I fear he’s a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. If he’s not rung within the next thirty minutes we’ll ring him … give him five rings. If he still refuses to answer give him five rings every fifteen minutes. If he’s anything about him he’ll see the pattern … make him think he’s in control because he knows what to expect.’
38
While they waited for something to happen, Sir Charles and Mike mulled over the problem of how to rescue the boys. By now it was dark. Lights on tripods lit up the bullet scarred door at the bottom of the Monument. Every so often, more by reflex than conscious intent, the two men picked up binoculars and studied it. The magnified image seemed only to magnify the problem.
‘I wonder what decision the Cabinet has reached over Hitler’s invasion of Poland,’ said Sir Charles. ‘For us, the siege has rather put international events on the back burner. It will soon be Sunday, a new day.’
‘Sunday, the third of September, 1939,’ said Mike. ‘Do you think we are saying goodbye to the last day of peace between England and Germany?’
‘I do. Halifax will be dithering, but Chamberlain has backbone … more than most people think.’
‘If we could talk to Jack and George without the Irishman knowing that would give us a tremendous advantage.’
‘What do you suggest? Give them their own field telephone.’
‘We have to do something.’
‘We are, we are being patient … anything happening inside?’
‘Quiet as the grave, sir,’ said the Eavesdropper. ‘Sorry, sir, that was inappropriate.’
‘He’ll be exhausted,’ said Mike, ‘after the attack to winkle him out by force of arms he’ll be licking his wounds. He’s a fox gone to earth.’
‘Time to let him know, I think,’ said Sir Charles, ‘that the hounds know where he is. It’s imperative that we get him to talk to us. Give him five rings. It will cheer up the boys.’
‘It’s ringing, sir,’ said the Eavesdropper.
Sir Charles picked up a headphone and joined in the listening. After the fifth ring the Irishman screamed. In a strange sort of way he knew how the fellow felt, for he too wanted to scream. He had it in him to scream louder than the Irishman. His heart ached for the boys but especially for his beloved grandson. The unpredictability of all that had so far happened, scared him. In a gesture of despair he knew to be unworthy of a leader, he buried his head in his hands, concern for his grandson and Jack overwhelming him.
‘We’ll get them out safe,’ said Mike, ‘I know we will. The Irishman’s like that big stag I’m after. I’ve missed him twice but I’ll get him. You know why? Because he’ll make a mistake.’
‘He already has,’ said Sergeant Small. ‘He’s told us that his wife lives in Northern Ireland and the name of his child. If your American friend, sir, identifies him as the man Doyle, some good old fashioned police work will track down his family. I’ve taken the liberty, sir, of making a few phone calls. There’s not many IRA men the Ulster police know nothing about. What I’m going to suggest, sir, is not the Queensbury Rules but I think you’ll agree with me, sir, we are not dealing with a gentleman, are we?’
Harry’s unexpected appearance in the tramcar stopped the good sergeant from explaining more of what he had in mind.
‘Aunt Elizabeth sent me,’ said Harry. ‘She wants to know what’s going on and so do I. Don’t blame the despatch rider for telling us more than he was supposed to … Cook’s bread and butter made him blab like a brook.’
The news that Elizabeth knew of the danger facing George and Jack made Sir Charles aware that another burden had been placed on his shoulders.
‘I suppose the “Babbling Brook” played the wounded soldier?’ said Mike.
‘He did mention a few times that he’d been wounded. He’s a good chap, though, gave me a lift here on the back of his motorbike … damn scary. The last time I was that scared was when you, Uncle Charles, and Mike made me retrieve my shotgun from the Tyne, remember? Marigold told me to tell you that the man in the photograph is Doyle. This is from the boffins at the Vicarage.’
Sir Charles opened the envelope. What he read made him smile. So, that was the secret of the golf bag.
39
The banshee wail of an air raid siren.
‘I keep forgetting about Hitler,’ said Sir Charles.
‘It’s not the real thing, sir,’ said Sergeant Small. ‘We had one last night. It’s to get folk used to knowing what to do when the Germans start dropping bombs.’
‘I’m a fighter pilot,’
said Harry; ‘the RAF will stop them doing that.’
‘If it comes to war, sir, I wish you all the luck in the world.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Switch off those lights,’ shouted an angry voice. ‘You’re the Bull’s Eye on the bloody dartboard.’
‘ARP,’ said Sergeant Small.
‘I’ll bet he has a little moustache, just like Hitler’s,’ said Mike.
‘As a matter of fact, sir, he does. Do you know him?’
‘I know the type.’
‘It’s dark,’ said Harry, stating the obvious.
‘It won’t be when your eyes get used to it,’ said Sir Charles. ‘In the trenches I used to read Shakespeare by moonlight. I must admit that my familiarity with the text did help. And tonight we have a moon. Has the siren upset Doyle?’
‘All quiet, sir,’ said the Eavesdropper.
‘The number of burglaries will go up, you mark my words,’ said Sergeant Small. ‘Blackouts is like giving thieves a ration card. Tyneside Corks are hard enough to keep down when you can see them, never mind when you can’t. The sales of black Balaclavas will go through the roof, you mark my words.’
‘Without its lights the city is more like what I’m used to,’ said Mike. ‘It’s like this when you lot are in bed and I’m out chasing poachers. The Monument’s column could be a tree, couldn’t it? Black shapes … it doesn’t do to have imagination when you’re out at night in a forest. Let your dog roam free, but, if you want to stay sane, keep a leash on your imagination. Don’t you think the shape of that building over there looks like the Duke of Wellington? It won’t look like that in the morning, in the full light of day. I’d love to get my hands on the Irishman.’
‘Have you been at the herbal?’ said Sir Charles.
‘My hip flask was lonely; would you like to pat it on the head?’
‘No, I would not.’
Spies on Bikes Page 29
