Fragments (Out of Time)

by Monique Martin

  Austerity took the fun out of most things a soldier on leave usually enjoyed — movies, nightclubs and late-night carousing. There were a few dance clubs and canteens, but entertainment was generally hard to come by.

  Elizabeth saw a sign about a dance and was just about to ask Simon about it when the siren came. At first, the sound was off in the distance, but as other sirens closer to them began to wail, it was a loud and insistent two-tone warble.

  “Air raid?” she asked. It was a stupid question, but she was giving herself a pass. It was her first war, her first air raid and, quite possibly, her first panic attack.

  Simon’s gentle grip on her elbow became a vise. “This way.” His voice was as tight as her stomach.

  She looked up, straining to see the bombers, but the sky was just a steely gray. The sirens and Simon insisted she stop dawdling and get a move on.

  They fell in with the crowd since they seemed to know where they were going. An air raid warden with his trademark helmet blew his whistle and waved people toward the shelter that was also marked by large signs with arrows pointing the way.

  No one ran, but they weren’t casual about it either. They moved quickly, but there was no panic. The omnipresent “Keep Calm and Carry On” signs seemed to be doing their job. It was very much business as usual. And after three years of bombing, it was no wonder. Children giggled with delight and pretended to be manning the anti-aircraft guns or engaging in spitfire dogfights. Others dragged their feet and shuffled along in that wonderfully put-upon way only children can.

  The moan of the sirens faded as they went further down into one of the Underground shelters. An elderly woman struggled down the stairs. Simon took one arm and Elizabeth took the other as they helped the woman down the final steps. All around them, people were doing the same thing. If someone needed help, it was given. Children who were separated from parents were looked after until they were found. No one shoved. Everyone made room as best they could as people continued to stream in until the platform was filled to bursting. Some people had blankets and appeared to have somehow beaten the sirens to the punch.

  “It’s not as common as it was during the Blitz,” Simon explained as they found a spot along the wall to wait it out. “But before dark, some Londoners leave their homes and apartments in a nightly migration to the Underground shelters. They’ll stay here every night.”

  The atmosphere was shockingly normal, even pleasant. It was almost as though they were having a campout or enjoying a night at the canteen and not huddled in a subway tunnel. A little white rabbit hopped through the crowd with a boy not much bigger in chase.

  His mother brought up the rear of the little parade. “Charlie! I’ve told you it’s not a pet to be carried about.”

  “Monty!” Charlie snatched up the rabbit, giving him a few quick soothing pets before stuffing Monty into his coat. He looked up defiantly at his mother. The little rabbit’s head poked out of his coat and seemed to do the same. “It’s bad luck to eat the white ones, mum. That’s what Billy said.”

  “Billy’s been telling you porkies.”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  The mother sighed, took little Charlie by the hand and dragged him back through the crowd. “Billy!”

  Poor bunny, and poor Charlie. She’d read that the government encouraged people not to just grow their own vegetables, but to raise rabbits, chickens and even pigs in their gardens, if they could. She’d even seen a few public allotments for pig clubs. It was a clever way to increase food production. Nearly every bit of available space including backyards, public parks and even window boxes were used to grow things or raise them. But when push came to butcher, she wasn’t sure she’d have the stomach to do the deed. It was just something else she was grateful she didn’t have to endure.

  “Maybe Monty will be one of the lucky ones,” Simon said.

  Elizabeth leaned into Simon and rested her head against his chest. “I hope so.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  After less than half an hour the air raid warden told them it was over. Just like that, the tunnel emptied and life restarted. When the all-clear siren, a single-toned blast, stopped, the world became unnaturally quiet. Dusk had passed and the streets fell into that singular darkness brought by the blackout.

  They caught one of the last big, red double-decker buses for the day and, despite the chill, rode on the top deck back to the hotel. A single chimney of smoke rose from a fire in the distance.

  When they got back to their rooms Elizabeth felt the grime of the day caked on her skin. She shivered to think about what the city must have been like back in Dickens’ day when the air was thick with coal smoke. A bath before dinner was definitely in order.

  Clean and feeling refreshed, she wrapped one of the towels around herself and went into the bedroom to dress. Simon was lying down in the middle of the bed reading the book he’d bought earlier and looking damn hot doing it.

  His shoes and socks were off, his long legs crossed at the ankles. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up to mid-forearm, one hand behind his head propping it up on the pillows as the other held the book. Only Simon could make reading in a sweater vest sexy.

  He lowered the book and peered at her over the edge of the binding. She saw the smile in his eyes. He laid the book down on his chest and stared at her.

  “What?” she said, checking to see if she had something stuck to her face.

  “You are so beautiful.”

  No matter how often he said that it still made her blush.

  “You’re biased.”

  He closed the book, put it on the side table and rolled onto his side. “Infinitely.” He got up and walked slowly toward her. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

  He ran a finger over the still damp skin of her shoulder and along the hollow of her collarbone. With excruciating tenderness, his hand touched the side of her neck and then cupped her cheek. He leaned in as he urged her closer. The kiss was soft and gentle, but anything but chaste. There was a feeling of tethered restraint behind each touch. When Simon pulled away, his eyes were so dark with love and desire it made her tremble.

  He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. The towel fell open as he laid her down on the comforter. One knee on the edge of the bed, he leaned down and kissed her neck with passion he’d been holding back.

  Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat.

  He grasped one wrist and held it down on the bed as he feverishly kissed her neck and jaw.

  A horrible realization interrupted Elizabeth’s otherwise very pleasant thoughts. “Do you think they’re watching us?” she asked breathlessly. “Right now?”

  Simon barely paused long enough to answer her. “Who?”

  “The spy people.”

  “Let them,” he said as he pulled off his vest and they both worked on the buttons of his shirt. “Maybe they’ll learn something.”

  His shirt partially undone, he dove back down for another searing kiss and Elizabeth stopped caring about anything else.

  ~~~

  The next day, they took the Tube up to Bloomsbury to Professor Giles’ office where the bookseller had directed them yesterday. It was in one of the many buildings that made up the many colleges that made up the University of London. Luckily, Giles was more than happy to accommodate a visiting professor. He was the quintessential absent-minded type — tall, tortoise shell glasses, a bit of a potbelly and wisps of hair that curled away from his head like dozens of unruly thoughts escaping. The gleam in his eyes when Simon asked about the various codices meant she’d be sure to lose them both in details well beyond her scope of knowledge.

  They’d found a ridiculously large book on the professor’s dusty top shelf that had a color plate depicting the sword Nothung. They discussed the intricacies of Norse mythology while she did her best to recreate the image on a piece of paper. She sketched several other items to belie the importance of the sword.

  Her art skills left a lot to be desir
ed, but she managed a fair rendering. The sword in the plate was enormous, nearly four feet long with an extremely tapered point. The pommel was in the shape of an eagle, wings extended. The grip was covered with interwoven snakes and the guard looked something like horns. The blade itself was typical of most great swords, except for two things — the jagged edge that ran a full two feet down the edges of the top half of the blade beneath the hilt and the runes that were etched on its surface.

  Elizabeth did her best to copy everything as precisely as possible. Several of the runes were frighteningly familiar. “Is this what I think it is?” she asked pointing to the jagged S-shaped rune.

  Simon and the professor leaned over her shoulder.

  “Oh, yes, the Sig rune,” the professor said. “It was originally a rune for the sun called Sowoli. But of course, the Nazis corrupted it as they did with so many other things. Here.” He pointed to more runes. “This one and this one here used to have entirely different meanings. Now, they’re symbols of the virtues of SS officers. Faith in the cause and self-sacrifice.”

  The professor’s gaze lingered on the sword. “That is an unusual piece, isn’t it? I’m not sure I’ve ever quite seen that particular configuration of runes before.”

  They’d done their best to disguise their interest in the sword with more general questions about mythology. The last thing they needed was for the professor to fixate.

  “They’ve done that a lot, haven’t they?” Elizabeth asked. “Take pagan symbols and turn them into something else?”

  “Yes!” the professor said happy to expound on the subject. “They’re quite adept actually at usurping other religions and turning them to their own purposes. Both from Christianity and Paganism. You’ll see symbols and even rituals that might once have been a celebration of the winter solstice warped into parts of an SS dinner party.”

  “Sounds more like a religion than a political party.”

  “Yes, doesn’t it?” the professor said as he scanned his bookshelves. “I’ve often thought as much myself. Himmler in particular is rather adept at using mythology and the occult to increase the zeal of his men, or so I hear. Not that I hear much. The hallowed walls of academia can be terribly thick sometimes.”

  “I know the feeling,” Simon said.

  “Supposedly,” Giles said, “Himmler and Hitler admire the epic struggles often found in Norse mythology and even in stories of the Holy Grail. Parsifal in particular.”

  “That’s another Wagner opera, isn’t it?” Elizabeth hadn’t forgotten everything Simon had tried to teach her about opera.

  “Yes, they both share a great affinity for his work,” Giles said. “Personally, I’ve always found it rather overwrought.”

  “Agreed.” Simon said. “You’ve been so very helpful with our research, I’m hesitant to ask too much of you, but I was wondering about something else. We were at Smith’s bookshop and he mentioned that you’d bought a copy of The Book of Iona. I don’t suppose you have it here. I’ve been searching for it. For a colleague.”

  “Smiths…” Giles took off his glasses and chewed thoughtfully on the earpiece. “The Book of Iona…oh, yes!”

  Elizabeth and Simon exchanged quick, excited glances. This was the moment they’d been waiting for.

  “But I’m afraid I don’t have it here.”

  So much for the moment.

  “I don’t actually have it at all anymore. It’s funny you should say you wanted it for a colleague. I bought it for a dear friend. Was his birthday present as a matter of fact. Sometime last month. I can’t remember precisely.”

  “Pity,” Simon said looking at Elizabeth for help.

  “Is he a professor too?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes, although he doesn’t teach anymore. He’s a bit of an odd duck, you see. Regardless, I have to say he is the most talented linguist I’ve ever known. Rupert Morley. Has a place over in Cirencester.”

  ~~~

  They thanked Professor Giles for his time and it was all Elizabeth could do not to run out of his office and all the way to Cirencester. That was until Simon told her it was about a hundred miles away. Both her feet and her stomach protested against the idea of running that far. They agreed to have lunch first and then save the world.

  They found a large cafeteria. Simon explained that it was one of the hundreds of British Restaurants the government controlled in an attempt to keep food costs down and its citizens fed. They had Welsh Rarebit, which Elizabeth always thought had actual rabbit in it (Run, Monty, run!), but ended up being just burnt toast and a tangy cheese sauce. The side dish was, ironically, carrots. They split a piece of victory sponge for dessert. An actual sponge might have been better. But, Elizabeth was determined to eat every mouthful. She had a bad case of the guilts.

  “You don’t have to finish it,” Simon said.

  “I do.” She forced down the last bit. “Everything I don’t eat is something someone more needy needs. Needier needs? Either way, it’s less for someone else.”

  “I don’t think one bite of cake is going to make a difference.”

  “Maybe not, but—” The rest of her sentence died in her throat.

  “What’s wrong?” Simon asked.

  The hair on the back of Elizabeth’s neck stood on end as a cold chill ran through her. Sitting at a table less than twenty feet away was the German, Hans. She took a calming breath and didn’t answer the panic knocking at the door.

  Simon followed her gaze. “Dammit. Come on,” he said as he urged her to get up. She sure as heck didn’t need urging.

  They tried to move casually, but every sound, every movement felt like a claxon going off announcing, “We’re here!” They hurried to the door and slipped outside. They’d barely gone twenty feet when Elizabeth looked behind her. The door to the restaurant flew open and Hans spilled out onto the sidewalk. His face was pale, making the red from his scar look angrier than before. He scanned the crowd and found them easily. He sneered and set out after them.

  “Not good,” she said. “He saw us.”

  “This way.” Simon pulled her across the street.

  Once they were on the other side, they wove their way through the pedestrian traffic. It was mid-afternoon and the streets were filled with people, most of whom it seemed were going in the opposite direction. Elizabeth desperately searched for a policeman or even an air raid warden. Someone. Where was a marauding band of GIs when you really needed them?

  As they hurried through the crowd, she saw a big blue police box and a ridiculous series of thoughts tumbled one after the other through her mind. Maybe Dr. Who was there? She idly wondered which doctor it would be. No, it was a real police box and not a Tardis. Darn it. But, police were good. They could go inside and call for the police. That’s what the boxes were for, after all. They could go inside and be trapped like rats while they waited for an unarmed police officer to come from some station a block or more away and defeat the patient Nazi who would surely wait and not just kill them.

  They ran past the police box and Simon pulled Elizabeth toward a Tube entrance, which was really little more than a sandbag bunker above a hole in the ground. Elizabeth nearly slipped as they hurried down a short set of steps and through the main concourse. They ran past the ticket booth and down an absurdly enormous escalator before Simon yanked her into an offshoot tunnel. After another long, narrow corridor, they headed down an even longer set of stairs. At the bottom, they ran through an archway and onto a crowded platform.

  Simon’s grip on her hand was so tight it hurt, but she sure as heck wasn’t about to complain or let go. They serpentined through the crowd toward the far end of the tunnel. A train pulled into the station and brought a blast of warm air with it. Elizabeth looked back and saw Hans weaving his way through the crowd. One hand was stuffed into his jacket pocket and she knew he was holding a gun.

  The train doors opened and a wave of people washed out. She lost sight of Hans for a moment as he struggled against the tide. But he reappeared a se
cond later and their eyes met. The coldness in his expression took her breath away.

  “He’s right behind us.”

  Simon yanked on her hand again and they tried to duck out through one of the exits, but it was so packed with people, they couldn’t get through and had to press on down the tunnel. The further they went the thinner the crowd became. Finally, they reached the end, an aptly named dead end.

  They turned back just in time to see a man stumble into Hans. It looked like they were arguing, but it was difficult to tell because Elizabeth couldn’t see the other man’s face. Hans tried to shove the man away, but he held on to Hans’ arms.

  The interruption gave them what they needed, a chance to run for the exit. They started for the archway.

  Hans suddenly fell back against the tiled wall, his shoulders hunched and a hand clutching his stomach. The other man stepped back and helped Hans slide down the wall as though he were instantly drunk. Hans slid all the way down until his chin was resting on his knees. The other man patted his shoulder in a friendly manner. The man straightened Hans’ hat before he stood back up and then turned to face Elizabeth and Simon.

  The last thing she expected was to recognize his face. And when she did, her heart flipped. It was Evan’s doctor from Guy’s hospital.

  “Dr. Webber?”

  Dr. Webber wiped the blade of his knife on Han’s coat, folded it and slipped it into his coat pocket. His expression was flat and unreadable.

  Elizabeth looked up at Simon. He’d seen it too. He jerked on her hand and pulled her back toward the crowd. “Come on.”

  They ran for the exit and melted in with the crowd as it poured through the corridor, up the wooden-planked escalator, more stairs, past the ticket collector who shouted something after them and finally outside. Elizabeth didn’t know what to think. What on earth was Evan’s doctor doing there and why had he just killed Hans? She supposed she should be grateful for that last part, but not knowing why he was there and who he really was scared the bejesus out of her.