Avenging Steel: The First Collection

by Hall, Ian

  No, Mr. McIntyre wasn’t signed in, and no, they didn’t expect him; he had no booking for that night. To make matters worse, no one knew where he lived, he’d never left any address with the hotel, ever.

  As I floundered in the foyer, I caught sight of Sadie. My heart missed a beat when I saw her with a couple of German officers; by their rapt attentions, I got the strict impression they were not going to let her out of their sight.

  I had to wait, drinking beer in the bar until I saw her make a move for the toilet. I looked around, and reasoned I could reach the toilet door without suspicion. I didn’t wait, just walked right in.

  I caught her in pre open-mouthed scream. Holding my hand over her face, I gave her my most harmless look. “I’m not going to hurt you, Sadie. I’m looking for McIntyre.”

  She frowned, her face relaxing under my grip, so I removed my hand. “Do you know who’s outside?”

  “Yes!” I hissed. “I need to speak to McIntyre.”

  “He’s not here.” She looked in the mirror, and fished in her handbag to renew her lipstick. “Friday’s our night.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t give me those convicting eyes, either!” she spat at me. “A girl’s got to make a living.”

  Oh my. By her own admission she’d descended from lush to floosy to prostitute. “I need to see McIntyre,”

  “Wednesday night? He’ll be at the Yacht Club, or the Harbor Bar.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Back in town,” She looked mystified at my questioning gaze. “Go back to town, turn left. Down by the harbor. Watch out for Jerry.”

  “Thanks, Sadie.”

  She struck a proud pose in front of the mirror then walked outside. “Wish me luck.”

  Luckily a taxi rolled in just as I walked outside. Two golfers, cases, clubs and all. As the driver helped them to the hotel door, I quietly let myself in the passenger seat.

  When the driver returned he almost shit himself in fright. “Jesus!” he roared as he sat down. “Where did you come frae?”

  “Frae Glasgow.” I said in my most western brogue. “Harbor Bar, please.”

  For all its slightly impressive name, the Harbor Bar was more house than tavern. A small bar sat in the corner, and the beers were all bottled. McIntyre was not to be seen.

  “I’m looking for John McIntyre.” I asked. “A friend said he might be here.”

  I’m not sure if I felt the blow on the back of my head when I sat at the bar, or when I woke up later. Either way it felt skull-crunching, and if my hands hadn’t been tied behind me and onto a chair, I was sure I would have been able to feel the volcano sized bump.

  Around me was dark.

  Then a torch shone in my eyes. “He’s coming round.”

  “Who are you?” asked another voice.

  I don’t think I could have managed a word at that point, no matter how they encouraged me; a pain shot from my spine to my skull, I felt sure my head was open and bleeding copiously.

  “Name!” more insistent this time.

  My face got slapped. “Argh!”

  Someone grabbed my chin, the light cut into my tear-filled eyes. “Name?”

  “Baird, James Baird.”

  “Aye, so your pass says, but they’re ten a penny here.” I detected some Irish lilt in there somewhere.

  The door opened, letting in a cold draught. “What’s going on here?” I knew the voice.

  “We caught him boss, asking questions.”

  “Aye we…”

  “Shut up the lot of ye.” McIntyre snapped. “Get him untied. Come on, get him into the car.”

  “He had papers,”

  “…an’ a shit-load o’ money.”

  “Give it to me,” Through my bleary vision I could see McIntyre’s eyes burning up the message. “Shite! Get him up to the house, I’ll be back later. Treat him good. He’s one of the good-guys.”

  From tormentors, the men turned to my best friends, settling me in the back seat of a car, cradling my head on the way in. I got passed a wet towel, which I folded and laid on my splitting head. Oh that soothed. But I was distracted, my training forgotten; I hardly noticed a thing about my drive, just the crunch of gravel as the car came to a halt and a two-storey building; almost a country house.

  “Missus McIntyre?” the men shouted as they helped me inside. I half expected to see an old lady, John’s mother, but a very pretty lady appeared in front of me, nurse’s uniform, and set about immediately finding out the problem.

  “What did you hit him with, for goodness sake?” she had tilted my head towards her bosom, and was parting my hair near the blow.

  “A bottle,” I could hear the cowering in his tone. Mrs. McIntyre was not the sort to be mucked around with.

  “A full one.”

  “Shut up Harry!”

  I gave a wry smile, which of course, no one could see. “It’s probably worse than it looks. Right?”

  “No, they could have killed you. Poor man. What a bunch of wassocks.”

  My bump went suddenly cold, cold and wet. “Ice,” my nurse informed me. She stuck two pills in my mouth, then nursed a glass to it. I supped water, letting the tablets do their will.

  “He’ll sleep now.” She said. “Get him upstairs to Brian’s room while he’s still got some legs on him.”

  Some legs on me? I didn’t get the meaning until they turned me at the top of the stairs, my head grew real heavy, my legs now trailed behind me, and I don’t think I stayed awake long enough to feel the fluffy bed beneath me.

  Killing a Dead Man

  I awoke to rain hitting the window, thick sheets of it.

  My skull felt disturbingly numb, my inside head fuzzy and difficult to concentrate.

  I swung my feet off the bed, still fully dressed, shoes and all. I tapped my pockets, nothing.

  Holding on to furniture as much as I could, I walked to the door. It had a lock, and I half expected to be a prisoner, but it opened easily, its painted hinges creaking.

  I smelled porridge, and my stomach protested. Oh, yes, almost a full day without eating. I walked downstairs carefully, meeting a half-familiar face at the bottom. “You’re up then?”

  Bright boy, this Irish. “Aye. Any chance of something to eat?”

  “Ben here,” he led the way to the kitchen. I remembered it vaguely from the night before.

  He took a ladle from a large pot, and dunked some stodgy porridge into a bowl. “Salt?”

  “Salt’s fine.” I said, sitting down. We didn’t say much as I ate, the bowl was so delicious. “Milk’s good.”

  “Aye,” he answered. “Straight from the cow, no processed shite here.”

  “Where’s McIntyre?” I resisted the temptation to lick the bowl clean.

  “He’s getting’ the men together, he says I’ve to tell you anything you need to know.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kenny, sure enough, Kenny Cafferty.” I shook his hand, although he showed reticence to the gesture. “I was the one that whacked you last night.” Guilt showed on his face like dark clouds.

  “Well Kenny. Did McIntyre get the message?”

  “Aye, the ‘boss’ got it alright. Although he says you’re a bloody idiot for bringing it yourself. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

  I sat back, hoping he’d ask me to have another bowl, yet too nervous to ask for myself. “I jumped off the train.”

  “You did what?” Kenny’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. He crossed to the stove, and poured us both a strong brew of tea, so thick; you could have made soup with it.

  “The Germans routed our stagger team. The courier passed the message onto me.”

  “That was bad form.”

  “Well, then he ran away, diverting them away from me, so maybe he knew what he was doing. At least we got the message through.” I supped the brew, no milk or sugar, liking its raw cleansing taste on my palate. “I need to get home.”

  “It won’t be today,” Kenny
shook his head. “Ivy reckons you may have a concussion. She wants to see you after her shift.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “Down at the harbor. Jerry has a surgery down there, she helps most days.”

  It made sense, work as resistance, but have the cover of a member working with the Germans. “Ivy?”

  “Ivy McIntyre, the boss’s missus.”

  My heart saddened slightly; I wondered if poor Ivy knew what her husband did on Friday nights.

  I slept some more that morning, on the couch in the living room. Kenny, to his credit woke me every couple of hours; he excuse was a cuppa, or a biscuit, but I could tell the instruction had come from Mrs. McIntyre. By afternoon I felt much better, although the swollen lump on my head hadn’t receded much.

  Ivy arrived just after four, and made an inspection of me first, before she did anything else. “John should be back soon, he’ll want to see you before tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “The raid, it happens tonight.”

  I suddenly felt the walls close in on me, feeling like I was in some weird part of a Hitchcock film, discordant violin strings screeching. “I have to get out of here.”

  “Oh you will, but we’ve got one job to do first, and we were hoping you’d lend a hand.”

  I didn’t like the look in her eyes; she’d suddenly turned very cold, detached. “And what would that be?”

  “Well, all the men will be busy on the beaches and in diversions; it’s up to us to get Charlie Peacock.”

  “Us?”

  “Me and you.” Damn, she said it like she meant it.

  “Me and you?” I pointed a nervous finger. Me, the untested Biggles, now-reluctant master-spy, and a nurse?

  “Well, we may have some assistance, I’m not sure.” She gave me a smile, and then looked at me, my shoulders, my waist. “What size are you?”

  “Thirty eight,” I replied.

  “Trousers?”

  “The same, I think.”

  At a quarter after five McIntyre showed face briefly, verified my helping his wife, and disappeared again, taking Kenny with him.

  When she told me the rough points of her plan, little did I think I’d be heading back to the Marine Hotel, seemingly the source of all excitement in town.

  By six, I had John’s full dinner outfit on, although the trousers were pulled tight with a belt. My money and ID card had been returned to me; basically I was ready for a night on the town.

  Ivy drove, taking us there in an old Morris something; I never paid much attention to cars, and determined to open myself up in future.

  Walking into the Hotel with Ivy on my arm, knowing her husband would soon be directing invading commandoes onto the beach was quite the surrealist thing I had ever done. Apart from jumping off a perfectly good train, of course; seems I was having an adventure after all.

  It made sense that I caught sight of Sadie, sitting alone at the bar; the hotel seemed to be her territory. Considering I was arm in arm with her boyfriend’s wife, I was glad when I didn’t catch her eye.

  We remained in the dining room, in one of the darkest corners, but still able to see the entrance to the bar. Contrary to my imagined evening, we ordered dinner, wine, and began to chat about our lives, and how they had been changed with the war, and the subsequent invasion. Then Sadie appeared, looked around the room, and headed straight for us. My stomach turned, expecting a huge cat-fighting scene.

  “Room 112,” Sadie slipped a key onto the table. “Give me half an hour,” She walked quickly away.

  As her figure retreated back to the bar, I couldn’t put the facts together in any cogent manner. “You know Sadie?”

  “Oh yes, we all know Sadie,” she leaned over the table conspiratorially. “It’s amazing the secrets men will blabber when their dick is engaged somewhere moist.” I could hardly believe what she’d said; those words from such a pretty mouth. Despite my will to the contrary, I felt my face redden. “Oh, my. James, I do believe I’ve embarrassed you! So sorry. I’m a nurse, darling, I do know all the terms, you know. Having a coal-miner’s mouth is part and parcel of the job, I’m afraid.”

  “But Sadie?”

  “Sadie works for us, dearie.” She laughed taking a swig of wine. “Germans like a bit of fluff too, you know.”

  “And Friday nights?” I could hardly bring myself to ask the question.

  “John comes here, splashes a few quid, and Sadie gives him a whole week’s intelligence. Sometimes they’re up all night.”

  “And tonight?”

  “Sadie will make sure Charlie’s attention is diverted somewhere nice, and we whack him.” She shook the key between us. “Room 112.”

  I’m glad Ivy was keeping time, because my mind was elsewhere. “Okay, dearie, now’s the time for a bit of acting. Go get us a room, while I powder my nose. I’ll make sure the desk-staff get the idea.”

  I didn’t know quite what to feel, nervous on so many levels, I just mechanically went through the motions. Thankfully the desk clerk paid me no attention whatsoever. I gave him a five pound note, and was presented with a key. Then Ivy sidled close. “I can’t wait,” she said salaciously, and virtually dragged me upstairs. With the clerk waving my pound change in the air, I just waved it away. Not a bad tip to keep his mouth shut.

  Once in our room, we ruffled the blankets on the bed, generally making it look like we’d had a good time. She dug into her handbag, and produced a rope garrote, which she handed to me. “Know how to use this?”

  I gulped, nodded and looked at the weapon; eighteen inches of rope and two wooden handles. On my week’s course I’d been taught the rudiments. I’d slipped it round human throats a few times, but never pulled it tight. I’d slipped it cross-hands over a tree stump, and sucked the life out of that old tree.

  I pushed the unassuming weapon into my jacket pocket.

  “It’s time,” Ivy said, bringing me back to the moment. “Are you okay with this?” I nodded. I was doing it for my country, for my King, and for old Winston himself, wherever he was, Canada, North Africa. Ivy brought me back. “James, don’t think of it like taking a life. This man’s already dead; you’re killing a dead man.”

  We walked slowly along the landing, the door numbers rising slowly.

  112.

  Ivy listened, her ear hard against the door. “He’s busy.” She grinned, and made an obscene thrusting gesture with her hips. “I’ll open the door, you go in first.” I saw her pull a pistol from her bag, and wondered what else she carried in there. I gripped the wooden handles, crossed my hands ready to strike.

  The lock opened silently, and in one push the door opened wide.

  Lights were on in the room and the pair engrossed on the bed, mid-coitus. Probably due to Sadie’s choreography, Charlie had his back to us, gripping the kneeling girl by the hips. His head was raised looking at the ceiling, eyes closed. There could never have been an easier garrote target. I slipped the rope over his head before he knew what was happening, pulled hard on my handles. I felt him tense, then he began to thrash.

  Everything happened so quickly.

  I felt Charlie’s hands flounder near my head, and ducked out of the way. A mostly naked Sadie scampered across the bed, her nether regions red and hand-marked. If anything I pulled tighter; damn him if he hadn’t given her a good spanking first. Ivy stood beside me, gun at the ready, stuffing the corner of a pillow into poor Charlie’s mouth, trying her hardest to avoid his flailing hands.

  Suddenly one of the handles of my garrote broke, and Charlie spun out of my grip. “Damn!” Thankfully he sprawled, gasping, onto the bed, and I leapt on top of him, pulling his neck to one side.

  Ivy pressed the gun into the pillow, held it near Charlie’s head. I could see what she intended. “No! “ I snapped. I jerked his head roughly to one side, giving it a good couple of hard tugs. “Too much mess.” Then it happened.

  With a resounding ‘crack’, Charlie’s neck broke; his head now saggy and loose in my
hands. I dropped him in an instant, thankful, yet reviled by what I’d just done.

  “Well done, James.” Ivy patted my back. “What happened?”

  I picked up the broken garrote, and showed her the small empty loop. The two wooden pieces lay on the floor.

  “Quick thinking.”

  In silence Sadie dressed quickly, as Ivy and I put Charlie’s clothes into a pillowcase.

  Disposing of the body proved to be the easiest of tasks. We simply dropped him out of the window.

  Minutes later, we reversed the car close to the flower bed he’d landed in, and folded him into the boot.

  I don’t think the whole thing took us ten minutes.

  At half past eight, I stood on the platform of Troon station dressed in my own clothes, awaiting the last train of the day; my last chance to get away from the scene.

  A few miles south, men were waiting on beaches with lanterns, welcoming British Commandoes to do the King’s work.

  And Biggles, formerly master spy, and now reluctant assassin, was getting out of town.

  Once aboard, I’d never felt such gratitude as the train eased out of every dark station without delay. No ‘papiere’ checks, just a slow languid return to Glasgow.

  I stayed that night at the nearest hotel to the Train Station, and slept the sleep of champions. No dreams, no cold sweats, no recriminations.

  The welcome I got back in Edinburgh was worth a tale on its own.

  But, it will have to be told another day.

  Avenging Steel

  Part Two: The Nuclear Option

  The Nazi Hit-List

  Ivanhoe never came to my office. It was against every rule, law and ordinance we worked to.

  Yet there he was, sitting in Alice’s chair, immobile, stiff as a board. Only his blinking allowed me the knowledge that he actually wasn’t dead. Alice had scarpered as soon as Ivanhoe had appeared, giving us the office to ourselves.