“Oh, sorry! Don't want to get you in trouble with the big boss, I mean apart from God that is! Ha, listen to me going on, I'm so excited! And call me Rachel, why don't you? No need to be formal. Why not get yourself a drink and come join us? My platinum blonde pal over there is Charlotte Marsh. You know, the feature writer for the London Weekly? She'd love to meet you, I've told her all about Duncaster; maybe you can confirm it, so she knows I'm not crazy?”
“Of course,” replies Black, and nods to Charlotte, who gives him her best Hollywood starlet smile. “I'll get whatever passes for a gin and tonic in here and join you.”
Rachel rejoins Charlotte who asks,
“So, planning on becoming a nun, or just debauching a man of the cloth in time-honored tabloid fashion?”
“Behave yourself!” warns Rachel. “That man is an old friend, Reverend Black. You remember what I told you about him?”
“Ah, the redoubtable vicar from haunted East Anglia!” says Charlotte. “I will be the soul of discretion, don't you worry! He's a bit old for me, anyhow. Nice eyes, though.”
Rachel tries to glare her friend into submission. Charlotte gives a sly grin and asks.
“Just on the off chance, do you happen to know if he's married?”
“God, you're awful!”
The priest's arrival cuts off their banter.
“I was redirected here from your agency office,” he explains, taking a seat. “Your editor seemed a little bemused when I asked for you. He said that when you're not at your desk, you're usually in the pub.”
“That's our girl!” says Charlotte, lighting a cigarette.
“You came here to see me?” asks Rachel.
“Yes,” the priest replies. Then, with a glance at Charlotte, “I assume we can speak freely about certain matters?”
“You mean those Saxon ghosts that went around killing all those people?” asks Charlotte. Heads turn at the next table.
“Speak up,” says Rachel, “I don't think they heard that at Buckingham Palace.”
“I see you have confided in Miss Marsh,” says Black, with a slight smile. “You see, Rachel, my superiors in the church have contacted me about a problem that you might, conceivably, be able to help solve.”
“I suppose it involves the paranormal in some way?” she asks, careful to keep her voice low.
“Yes, I'm afraid so. In a rather disturbing and unpleasant way.”
Charlotte leans forward, staring wide-eyed at the priest.
“Tell us more!”
The priest takes a sip of his drink, then begins,
“This week, I'm in London for a conference on the role of church schools in post-war education. Yes, we are planning for victory! Anyway, a Catholic priest, Father O'Connor, approached me and asked about Duncaster and the Sentinels. I was a little evasive, at first, until he told me why he was interested ...”
***
Rachel settles into the passenger seat and Tony nods to a buff-colored file folder on the dashboard.
“I called in some favors at the Defense Ministry. The least I could do for the woman who saved my life!”
“You're a treasure, Lieutenant Beaumont!” she says, giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Just so long as I don't get buried,” he jokes, pulling away from the curb.
Rachel looks through the contents of the file as Tony weaves his staff car through London's evening traffic.
“There's not much to it,” Tony goes on. “Happened about a month ago. Just a typical hit-and-run raid that went wrong, for the enemy, that is. After we gave them a beating last year, they've been less willing to make massed attacks, but they still send out plenty of lone raiders.”
Rachel studies a few typewritten sheets reporting the incident, plus a photograph of a ruined building. The dark-green tail section of an airplane sticks out of the wreckage, the swastika marking still visible.
“Heinkel One-Eleven,” she says automatically. The Heinkel's tail fin is distinctive. The silhouettes of most hostile and friendly aircraft are familiar to her by now. It's one of the ways she's become a Londoner by adoption.
“Correct!” says Tony. “Of course, the front of that type is pretty much all perspex. Excellent visibility, but zero protection in a crash.”
Rachel looks more closely and sees - what was once - a man. The remains lie among the tangle of metal where the cockpit was smashed in by the impact. She can make out a leg, what might be part of an arm, and other indeterminate pieces. She puts the photo back into the folder.
“So it was just the one guy, the pilot, in the actual crash?”
“Yes,” he replies, “the bomber was tagged over the estuary by two RAF night-fighters and took a hit. Its engine caught fire. The pilot managed to keep flying high and level long enough for his crew to bail out. By that time, it was too late for him, though. Went straight into a warehouse, killed a night-watchman. Could have been worse, but he'd already dropped his bombs. Missed the docks, as it happens.”
She reads the report, but there's nothing to add the photograph.
An enemy came under cover of night to attack us and was destroyed. Why should this man's spirit remain, where so many have passed on in this war? What anchors him to one piece of earth?
“Rachel,” says Tony, putting a hand on hers for a moment. “Do you have to do this? I know Black is a good man, and you want to help him. But remember what happened in Duncaster. You've been almost free of them lately – the ghosts. And you've had no strange dreams, have you?”
“No,” she admits, patting his arm. “And I don't want any. But Reverend Black does seem concerned, and his instincts were right last time. I might not be able to help, but I should try.”
Tony gives her a boyish smile.
“Well, here goes! Let's see what happens!”
It's almost twilight when they arrive. The East End is the part of London nearest to German air bases in occupied Europe, and home to a lot of prime targets. According to Churchill, the worst is over, but night raids are still frequent. It shows in the eyes of the people, the sleepless nights spent in shelters, or deep in the stations of the London Underground railway. By day, a million adults and children go about their lives half-awake, moving like pale zombies through their battered neighborhoods.
My god, Rachel thinks as they climb out of Reverend Black's car, these people seem like refugees in their own country.
A line of schoolchildren files past. Some kids are shouting and joking, but most seem preoccupied. The night is never far away for Londoners.
“Rachel?”
Black's voice brings her back to the present. The clergyman is standing at the entrance to a side street with another man in black. Tony and Rachel are introduced to Father O'Connor. He's short and plump with a pleasant smile.
“I'm so glad you could come,” says the Catholic priest, with a trace of Irish accent. “It's a terrible thing to have to ask anyone, I know.”
“Well, I can't promise anything, but can you show me where the haunting's taking place?”
The priest leads the party up the side street.
Just the place for lost souls, Rachel thinks. Or maybe worse. We're walking through the gaping wounds of London.
She shudders at the thought of the damaged city reacting like a wounded animal, lashing out in fear and rage. She tries to shake off the thought.
“This is the place,” says O'Connor, opening a door that bears traces of green paint.
The door opens into hundreds of square feet of wreckage. Two sides of the building are gone, the third is shored up with wooden beams.
“I must get the number of their cleaner,” says Tony, picking his way inside after the priests. Rachel brings up the rear, already feeling an ominous sense of a presence that can't be seen, or at least not yet.
“You didn't tell me what the nature of the haunting is, Father?” she asks.
The Irishman stops and turns, his face shadowed in the poor light.
“The workmen detailed to
pull the place down said they heard screaming out of nowhere. It spooked them so badly they wouldn't finish the job. Apart from anything else, we really need what's left of this place demolished. Kids might get caught in it if it collapses.”
Rachel nods and walks slowly to the rough center of the ruined building.
“Have other people reported noises?” she asks.
“Yes,” replies O'Connor. “The locals try to keep away from here. Especially around the time of night when the crash happened. That's the worst time, apparently. And it's been getting louder, more frequent, lately.”
Rachel closes her eyes and tries to recall her encounters with the dead in Duncaster.
There's no instruction manual for this, she thinks. But maybe if I just kind of open my mind, something will happen.
After a few moments, she hears an odd phrase.
“Enemy coast ahead!”
She opens her eyes, looks round.
“Did you say something, Tony?”
“No, why?”
He walks up, puts an arm around her shoulder.
“I thought I heard someone say something about an enemy coast.”
“In German?”
“No, it seemed like English. But then, I was hearing it in my mind, like I did with the Sentinels. I'll try again.”
Eyes closed, she again hears the clipped, clear voice.
“Thames estuary dead ahead! Keep alert for English aircraft, stand by to commence our attack run!”
She can see the silver snake of the great river ahead and below. She's sitting in mid-air, or so it seems, the transparent cockpit of the bomber all around her. She looks down at England between her feet. The roar of the engines are almost overwhelming intercom chatter between her crew. There's a stutter of automatic fire as the gunners test their weapons.
“Rachel? Rachel, can you hear me?”
A voice in a dream. Tony is far away. The reality is the enemy city below, the moonlit river that winds through its heart giving their position better than any map. The full moon is their friend, illuminating river or lake or even railroad lines, mocking the blackout. It's a bomber's moon, a great heavenly searchlight picking out the enemies of the Fatherland.
“English fighter! No, two!”
Instinctively, she takes evasive action, feeling the plane's frame flex under the stresses of random turns. More gunfire, and not just from her crew. A fiery stream of cannon shells pass just under the port wing. She feels a series of jarring shocks through the air-frame and the port engine falters. Instruments show oil pressure falling.
“We're on fire!” shouts the navigator, then the voices of frightened men fill her head.
Rachel opens her eyes, staring around in panic, shouting,
“Get out, get out!”
She's crouching amid brick rubble, wood splinters, and fragments of plaster, with Tony trying to stop her from falling into the debris.
“Cramped cockpit?” asks Reverend Black.
She nods, stands up straight and brushes off her clothes.
Smart cookie, he's ahead of me.
“You were shouting something in German, that time,” says Tony. “Was that him?”
Rachel nods.
“The pilot's reliving it, over and over again,” she explains. “His last few minutes, when he gave up his life for his friends. Perhaps that's the key. His sacrifice.”
Tony is about to speak when a piercing shriek echoes around the warehouse, seemingly coming from all sides at once. It's hard to tell if it's a man's voice, or if it’s even human. The men cover their ears, but Rachel doesn't bother, knowing the sound isn't one you can block out physically.
That was the moment of impact, that created a soul in torment, she thinks. Trapped in a cycle of fear and suffering.
“Why? Why him, and not the hundreds or thousands of other war dead?” asks O'Connor, crossing himself.
“I don't know, Father,” she says. “Perhaps because his fear was so much greater than most? He must have known what he was doing long before . . . before the end.”
“When did the crash happen?” asks Black.
Tony opens the folder and checks a form.
“Just after two pm. That's over four hours away,” he says.
“No reason why he should run to a timetable,” observes O'Connor.
“No, but maybe it's worse at the precise time of day,” says Rachel. “And the full moon is tonight, isn't it?”
The men look puzzled, but Tony nods.
“I think that explains why it's been escalating,” she goes on. “Somehow, the bomber's moon is fixed in his mind. He saw it as his friend, that night, but it led him to his death.”
“Are you proposing to stay here ‘til two in the morning?” asks Tony.
“I think I should be here at that time. It might be the way to make contact, to help him. If I can help at all.”
“Well, I'd be delighted if you could all join me for supper in the meantime,” says O'Connor.
They file out of the ruined warehouse. Nobody attempts to make conversation for a while.
***
In the early hours of the morning, the blacked-out streets are lit by a huge harvest moon. As the party makes its way from Father O'Connor's home to the warehouse, they are stopped briefly by a police officer on the lookout for looters. He recognizes the priest's voice and waves them on.
“Does he know where we're going?” asks Rachel.
“He's probably guessed,” says O'Connor. “It's common knowledge round here. Nobody goes near the place after dark.”
They are more tentative as they make their way into the warehouse this time. Colorless moonlight casts deep shadows, it is hard to be sure what you're treading on. Rachel finds the place where she stood earlier and asks Tony the time.
“Just before two,” he replies. “Are you sure you want to follow him all the way down?”
“I think I have to know him to help him,” she says. “What other way is there?”
Rachel prepares herself amid the wreckage of the warehouse. The three men stand around, close enough to catch her if she falls, but not too close.
They don't want to crowd me, she thinks. Or is it that they're afraid of what I represent? Even two men who believe in miracles?
Rachel shakes her head, trying to dispel all thoughts of herself, closes her eyes. She's timed it right. Again she is piloting her aircraft over the Thames estuary. She hears the gunners test their weapons, the sudden warning of enemy fighters. She nurses the crippled bomber upriver, shouting at her comrades to bail out and take their chances. She keeps demanding responses until the silence convinces her the others are out, maybe safe. She loosens her oxygen mask as it’s useless at this low altitude.
The moonlight shows the tangle of London streets spread out below. A great city looking like a chart inked in monochrome. Rachel can make out individual houses, neatly-kept gardens, even a London bus on its route. Far too low to jump for it even if she could leave the controls. Instead, she goes in straight and as slow as possible, aiming for the silver curve of the Thames, sure until the last few seconds that she can splash down and take her chances in the water.
The ground comes up fast, a big ugly building is startlingly clear in the pallid light, then the front of the Heinkel smashes in and she's hammered back through her seat by the impact. The pain is incredible and she cries out one word over and over as her body is broken. Just before darkness engulfs her, she smells something, a pungent odor.
Is the main fuel tank ruptured? Oh god, am I going to burn?
“Rachel!”
She sees Tony's face upside down, smiles up at him. The strong chemical smell is still there. O'Connor is holding a small bottle under her nose.
“Thanks Father. Do you always carry smelling salts?” asks Rachel,
He plugs the bottle and puts it back inside his coat.
“Comes in handy,” the Irishman says, “I get to deliver bad news to people. Sometimes they faint.”
“Well,” says Black, as he helps Tony lift Rachel to her feet, “We know a little more.”
“What was that word she was shouting?” asks O'Connor. “It sounded little 'Mutti'?”
“German for mommy,” explains Rachel.
He died crying for his mother. Him and thousands of others in this war. How can I send this one son back to the woman who bore him?
Then she sees him, a few yards away. He's trying to get up from a heap of rubble, but his flight suit is unmarked. He moves painfully, his limbs not bending as nature intended, and she thinks of the way a stepped-on spider can keep moving. The others look, but then they look back at Rachel. She knows they can see nothing. She wants to call to him. She can't remember the details in the file, the crew roster. And she didn't know it when she was him, joined with his spirit in the last moments of his short life.
How many of us think of our own name, have it in the forefront of our minds?
“What was his name, his full name?” she says, without turning.
Tony says, “The pilot was Michael Udet.”
Rachel walks towards the dark, twisted shape that's still struggling to stand.
“Michael? Can you hear me, Michael?”
Even in the dim, pale light, she can see that the man was wrecked as thoroughly as his plane. Rachel forces herself to look him in the face, where his eyes once were. What remains of the pilot's jaw moves, and another scream rings out in her mind. He reaches for her with an arm that's almost complete and she flinches, then responds. She half-expects her fingers to pass through his, but instead, there's a jolt like an electric shock. For a timeless moment, she becomes him.
Rachel relives Michael's life not in sequence but in chaotic fragments, images from childhood, adolescence and his time in the Luftwaffe jumbled in shifting, kaleidoscope patterns. But, from hundreds of faces, one reappears again and again, an idealized image lit with the gold and green of a perfect summer remembered. It's of a smiling blonde-haired woman bending down, holding out her arms to her little boy running to her. Closer, closer, but then just before she can enfold him, she vanishes.
Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1) Page 14
