The Darkest Hour

by Tony Schumacher

  “Put the light on.”

  Kate rolled her eyes and turned, flicking on the switch behind her. Rossett looked through the doorway along the hall, about fifteen feet long with five doors leading off it, three to the left, two to the right.

  “I’ll need to tidy up. The living room is on the right. Put him in there. I’ll make us some tea.”

  Kate entered the first doorway on the left. Rossett stepped slowly into the flat and closed the door with his heel. He waited in the hallway a moment, listening. All he could hear was running water, the bang of a pipe, and the clang of a kettle lid. He took a step forward and looked into the kitchen where Kate had gone. It was small but functional. At one end, there was a small window where Rossett could see his own reflection.

  Kate struck a long match, lit the stove, and plonked the kettle onto the burner.

  “You can relax, you’re safe.”

  Rossett nodded, not totally convinced, before backing out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

  The first door on the right was a closet. The next room was in darkness, and he slid his hand along the smooth cold wall looking for where he guessed a light switch might be. He found it and flicked it on.

  The living room was huge. Rossett realized it must run across nearly the whole front of the house. The floor-­to-­ceiling windows had plush gold and green drapes tied back halfway down. He counted five windows, and guessed the room to be thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide. At one end sat a grand piano and a heavy brown leather sofa.

  The other end, the one nearest to him, was more homey, with soft fabric sofas and a thick cream woolen rug nestled around a dark iron fireplace that was taller than Jacob. The room was lit by two huge chandeliers, and as soon as Rossett had placed Jacob on one of the sofas he set about drawing curtains and lighting the two small table lamps near the fireplace.

  He turned off the main lights and checked the curtains again for gaps.

  “Can you light the fire, please?” Kate called from the kitchen, her voice accompanied by the clatter of cups and cupboards.

  Rossett found a bucket of coal and some balls of newspaper next to the fireplace. He knelt down and started to build the fire, aware now of how cold and damp the flat felt. He looked up and saw some iron radiators against the wall. Their thick black paint reminded him of elephant skin covered in wet mud.

  He guessed they were cold.

  “Maybe you should light the boiler as well,” he called out.

  “What boiler? It hasn’t worked in years!” Kate shouted back, a light chuckle in her voice.

  Rossett struck his match and fired the newspaper under the coal, watching it catch and leaning forward to blow some soft encouragement. The fire let off some reluctant crackles. Rossett leaned back on his heels and watched it grow. He reached his hands out to the flames to warm them and then stood up, letting go a soft groan from his slowly relaxing but still aching body.

  “You sound like you’re getting old.” Kate entered the room behind him. She was carrying a silver tray crowded with a teapot, cups, and some toast, which she set onto a small coffee table in front of the empty sofa, opposite the one where Jacob lay silently sleeping.

  “I feel like I’m getting old.”

  Kate crossed to Jacob, who was lying with his face toward the back of the couch in a fetal position, dead to the world and still fully dressed.

  “I’ll fetch him a blanket. He must be freezing.”

  “The fire will warm the room soon,” Rossett replied.

  Rossett watched Kate leave the room, then turned back to the fire. He stepped back, wiping the dust off his hands onto his coat and looking at the pictures on the mantelpiece, on either side of an ornate china clock that showed the wrong time.

  Broken like the boiler.

  He picked up a photo in a twelve-­inch gilt frame and held it toward the lamp so he could study it closer, just as Kate entered the room behind him carrying some woolen blankets, which she draped gently over Jacob.

  “My father,” she said, looking up at Rossett while still kneeling next to Jacob, her hand resting on the blankets.

  The picture showed a dashing young army officer in full dress uniform standing next to a large plant on a small table. It was the typical formal portrait that proud young men had had taken prior to going overseas during the Great War. Many homes had them, but not many had them in frames as expensive as this. Rossett could see that the young man in the photo had the swagger of someone who was born to lead. There was also the sly smile of someone buoyed by the certainty of youth.

  Rossett did some math in his head and looked down at Kate, who had turned and was now sitting on the floor in front of Jacob’s couch, basking in the glow of the fire, staring into it, cheekbones sharpened by the lamps and the flickering flames.

  “He made it back then?” Rossett asked.

  “He did. Well, most of him did.”

  “He was injured?”

  “Not as such. Nothing you could see, anyway, but Mother said he was different when he came back.”

  Rossett looked at the picture again and wondered if there was anyone who went to war who didn’t become a casualty of some kind.

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He was killed in the first days of the invasion. He was in Kent somewhere, with the Home Guard, when the Germans broke out of Folkestone. Apparently, they were trying to hold a crossroads, six of them standing up to six hundred.”

  “He was brave.”

  “He was a bloody idiot. Do you have a cigarette?”

  Rossett put the picture back on the mantelpiece and looked in his pockets for his cigarettes. He crouched down in front of Kate, who had the sort of faraway look that coal fires in dark rooms often cause. Kate smiled at him as she took the cigarette he offered, lightly resting her hand on his as he lit it. He allowed himself to enjoy the soft touch of her smooth fingers for a moment longer than it took to light the cigarette, then lowered the match and extinguished it with a flick of his wrist.

  Kate pulled her head away and blew a long plume of smoke up to the high ceiling as Rossett stood again and took his place next to the fire. Kate rested her hand with the cigarette on her knee.

  “I read about what you did in France and during the invasion.” Kate looked up at Rossett. “Are all those stories true?”

  She drew on the cigarette again, watching him.

  “Most of them.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  Rossett frowned. Nobody had ever asked him before why he’d done the things he had done. They had only ever been interested in telling him he was a hero or trying to get stories out of him. He looked at the picture again.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I . . . um . . . I don’t know. I suppose . . . I suppose I wasn’t really thinking anything.”

  “A bit like you and Jacob?”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t think then either, did you?”

  Kate studied Rossett for a moment. Rossett felt his legs growing uncomfortably hot through his trousers, and he stepped away from the fire and sat down on the other settee. The silence filled the room and he felt uneasy.

  “Will this tea be brewed?” he asked, staring at the pot.

  “You be mother.”

  Rossett busied himself with pouring two cups as she watched him from the floor, cigarette hand resting against her chin. He stood and passed her a cup before retreating to the couch again, suddenly awkward in his movements and not sure why.

  “Mummy was very angry with Daddy. She wanted him to stay in London, away from the fighting. She said it was all a waste of time charging off. She knew the Germans were here to stay. He didn’t even have a gun. Can you imagine? Not even having a gun?�
��

  Rossett didn’t reply, as he tried to slip a finger into the dainty handle of the teacup he was holding.

  “Such a waste, taking on the Germans when you haven’t even got a gun,” Kate said to the fire, tucking her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms around them, making herself small.

  They sat in silence for a while until Rossett spoke again.

  “What is your mother doing now?”

  “Not much.”

  “Retired?”

  “Mummy died three years ago.”

  “You said she was in Yorkshire?”

  “She is, buried.”

  “I’m sorry,” replied Rossett, aware that he hadn’t seen any pictures of a woman in the flat.

  “She couldn’t take it.”

  “Your father’s death?”

  “Hmm, that, and all this.” Kate raised her eyes to the ceiling and waved a hand around the room. “All this damp, despair, grayness. She was sick for a long time and then . . . well, she couldn’t take anymore.”

  “Did she . . . ?”

  “Yes, she killed herself.”

  Kate sucked on the cigarette and stared at the fire; she swallowed down the smoke and then let it leak from her nose, slowly and less dramatically than before.

  Rossett watched her and then followed her gaze to the fire. “It was a picture that started all this.”

  “All what?” she asked.

  “Jacob and me. It was a picture, in another house, different from this one but with the same kind of picture. Someone else who died fighting the Germans. Made me realize.”

  “Realize what?”

  “That I was wrong, that what I was doing was wrong. I’m trying to make it right.”

  “By helping Jacob?”

  Rossett nodded.

  “What about the diamonds?”

  Rossett looked up.

  “How do you know about the diamonds?”

  “I’m Koehler’s secretary. What he knows, I know.” Kate shrugged, smoking again.

  “Koehler knows about the diamonds?”

  Kate nodded.

  “How? Chivers?”

  “They captured a resistance soldier. He cracked, told them the lot, plus whatever your friend Chivers told them.”

  “Fucking Chivers.” Rossett shook his head sadly.

  “The diamonds, did you get them?”

  “That’s why you came for us, isn’t it?” Rossett looked at her.

  “No, I told you, I came because of the boy.” Rossett shook his head as Kate continued. “You’re taking the moral high ground here, but you were looking for diamonds, weren’t you?” Kate lifted her chin, a flash of hurt crossing her face.

  “I don’t care about the diamonds,” Rossett replied.

  “What were you doing in the cemetery then, cutting the grass?”

  “Getting them for Jacob. He’ll need them.”

  “Won’t you?”

  Rossett shook his head.

  “What are you going to do?” Kate probed, softly.

  “I need to get the boy out.”

  “And then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You could go with him.”

  “After what I’ve done?” Rossett shook his head again. “I don’t think so. They’d have me at the end of a rope in no time.”

  “Not necessarily. You could say you were forced to work by the Germans. If you escaped, they could use you for propaganda.”

  “The way the Germans did?” Rossett glanced at her and then back to the fire.

  “You’d be alive. You’d be free to start again, and maybe you could look after Jacob, help him rebuild his life.”

  “After I took it away?”

  “You didn’t take it, this occupation took it.”

  “I wish I could believe you, and I wish I believed the free government would believe it.”

  Kate swirled her teacup slightly and stared into it.

  “You could tell the free government about Chivers. That would buy you some brownie points.”

  “Rat out one double agent? I doubt that would help much.”

  “He’s close to the leadership of the communists. He’s been under suspicion for a while now, by both sides of the resistance. He’s important to them.”

  Rossett thought back to Dracula at the wood yard pulling out the Browning in the office. The communists had obviously come to the same conclusion as the royalists.

  “The fish-­and-­chip shop, that must have been when he telephoned,” Rossett said.

  “Chivers has been working for us, the Germans, for over a year now. He was picked up in a raid at the docks, and Koehler turned him. He’d always been a go-­between for the two resistance groups, a sort of fixer. He was perfect for Koehler and easily swayed with the chance of making some money.”

  Rossett put the cup down and rubbed his hand across his forehead.

  “I should have left him in the warehouse.”

  “For selling you out?”

  “For being a traitor.”

  “We’re all traitors. It’s just that you and I are more honest about it.”

  Rossett leaned forward in the chair and rubbed his temples with his fingertips.

  “Who was in the picture, the one that started this?” Kate asked gently.

  “A boy.”

  “Your son?”

  “No.”

  “Who?”

  “A young man who went to fight the Germans and who never came back, someone else’s son and another wasted life.”

  “And that made you go and get Jacob?”

  “That and a pint of whiskey, yes.”

  “You were drunk?”

  Rossett nodded behind his massaging hands.

  “Would you like a drink now?”

  Rossett shook his head. “I need to sleep.”

  “You can use the spare room.”

  “I’ll stay here with Jacob.”

  “I’ll get you a blanket.”

  Rossett nodded, his head pivoting on his fingertips. Kate stood up and watched him for a moment before leaving the room. Once she had gone, Rossett looked at Jacob, then at the fire, before slowly sinking to his side and lying down on the couch. He kicked off his shoes and let them fall to the floor. His feet felt cold and he crossed them over each other and drew his knees up to his chest. A sudden urge to cry pushed behind his eyes and he squeezed them closed tightly, sliding his hands in between his knees and clamping them tightly together.

  “Are you all right?”

  Rossett opened his eyes and looked at her as she held the blanket like a beautiful undertaker ready to cast a shroud.

  He nodded, unable to speak.

  “Are you sure? Maybe I should get you a drink?”

  He shook his head.

  She laid the blanket across him, letting it cover him from the feet up until only his head and shoulders were visible, a mirror image of Jacob on the opposite couch.

  “Will you be all right?”

  Rossett nodded.

  “I’ll be just across the hall, if you want me.”

  “Thank you for your help.” He finally found words.

  “You don’t need to thank me.”

  “I need to save him,” Rossett said softly.

  “You will.”

  “I lost one little boy, I won’t lose another.”

  “Your son?”

  Rossett nodded again, aware he hadn’t spoke of his son for years until these last few days. It was as if Jacob had breathed new life into long-­buried memories. Kate knelt down and rested a hand on Rossett’s shoulder, squeezing it through the blanket. He looked at her, saw how beautiful she was, and felt the weight in his chest again. Kate tilted her head and smiled the softest of smiles. Ro
ssett closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at her and fight his emotions at the same time.

  He felt her hand touch his face, that softness again, so soft in a hard world. He moved his head a fraction so that his cheek filled her palm and his lips brushed her fingertips. He felt the solid thump of his heart, one, two, three times, and then he breathed in through his nose and enjoyed her scent.

  “I can stay here with you,” she offered.

  “No,” he said quietly.

  “Just to sleep . . .”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “It isn’t safe for you.” Rossett opened his eyes, and he could tell that she understood.

  “If you need me, I’ll be just across the hall.”

  IT WAS MAYBE three hours later when she heard Rossett cry out. She got out of bed and opened her door. Rossett shouted again, as if he was in pain, like an animal caught in a trap and longing for freedom.

  Jacob opened the living room door, sleepy eyed. Holding his blanket over his shoulders like a shawl, he stood in the half-­light looking at Kate, a drowsy ghost.

  “He’s having a bad dream,” he whispered.

  “I know, come here,” said Kate, holding out her hand and beckoning Jacob. The boy sleepily padded across the hallway, and she took him into her room and lifted him into her bed. Jacob moaned softly as she pulled the sheets over him. He rolled onto his side and with a soft smacking of his lips buried his face into the soft white pillow, an angel at rest.

  Kate lay on top of the blankets awhile, listening to the silence that had crept back into the flat after Rossett’s shouts subsided. But she couldn’t rest.

  Half an hour after Jacob had joined her, some nighttime rain tapped on her window and wind crept under the frame, causing her curtain to rock back and forth a fraction. Kate watched the curtain for a few moments and then slid off the bed.

  She tiptoed along the corridor to the tiny kitchen to make tea. She worked quickly and silently, glancing up at the window as another flurry of rain rattled against it, urged on by the wind.

  That was when she saw him.

  Rossett stood silent, a ghost in the reflected glass of the kitchen window. Kate turned and looked at him face on, standing in the doorway.

  He looked terrible. A man who found dreams harder than reality. His eyes were heavy and his shoulders hung low. His right hand was resting on the doorframe, and Kate saw his bruised knuckles and bloody palm for the first time.