by Hall, Ian
We simply got inside and she drove off.
Possibly the last place I expected to find myself was back at the South Wishaw Parish Church, where we all got out, standing on the pavement like nothing had ever happened. The Reverend Trevor, leaning on the wall gave me a second glance but said nothing to indicate he recognized me. “Where are you from?”
“Edinburgh,” I replied.
Bill nodded. “Me too, well, close enough.”
Trevor looked at us both, up and down. “Can any of you handle a gun?”
“I can,” I answered, raising my hand. Bill shook his head.
“Right. If you’re caught today, you’ll either be shot, or returned to prison to face whatever fate. I can give you a pistol. If you’re caught with it, you’ll be shot on sight. What do you want to do?”
“I’m not going back to Carstairs, they poison people…”
“Don’t worry,” He waved his hand. “By now Carstairs is gone.”
“Then give me a gun.”
He held up a single finger, and seconds later a boy scout, in full uniform, kilt and all, belted towards us, passing the Reverend a cloth-wrapped package. Trevor handed it to me. “These ladies will drive you as far as they can, then you’re on your own.” He turned to Margaret. “Shotts, Bathgate, Broxburn; remember, keep to the side roads.”
Margaret nodded, and we all piled back in the car. As we took off, I could see a car behind us stopping. Boy, the Reverend was going to have a busy day.
We got out of Wishaw without a hitch, and when we hit the lesser roads, I started to relax. Not quite to pumping my fist for freedom, but let’s just say my July 4th was turning out a dang sight better that I’d ever thought it would.
I patted my trouser pocket, feeling the presence of my notebook, the beginnings of my Tree of Liberty; I could hardly wait to get started. But first I had to get back to Edinburgh, and I had to rid myself of the thorn in my flesh; MacManaman and Alfie had snatched me from the Edinburgh streets once. I was determined they’d never do it again.
At Broxburn, Margaret announced the end of the line. I couldn’t argue, she had rescued me from prison, and was abandoning me before we all got caught. I embraced her with true thankfulness, and walked away with a cheery wave.
“What now?” Bill asked.
“Well, I’m heading to the Pentland Hills.” I said, pointing ahead. If I get there, I’ll turn left, and let the slopes guide me into Balerno or Currie. Mum has relatives in Currie, I should remember the way.”
Walking ten miles on main roads is maybe a four hour trip. When you’re constantly on your guard, watching for Germans, and taking side streets, cutting across fields, I was hardly surprised when darkness fell and we were still short of our target.
Luckily woods were in huge supply, and we curled up against a wall for the night. My stomach protested, but as I said to Bill, it was better than a gas chamber.
The next morning, we strolled into Currie. It felt a bit strange, people walking around, oblivious to our plight. I soon found Aunt Marsha’s house, and we slipped through the gate, walking round to the back door.
Marsha herself opened the door, holding a young boy behind her body, brandishing a heavy wooden rolling pin.
I held my hands up, stepping back from the step. “Aunt Marsha, it’s me, James Baird, Veronica’s son.” Her eyes clouded with doubt, searching mine for recognition. “It was maybe four, five years ago? Mum came, your father had died, and there was a funeral. I can’t remember more, sorry.”
“Jamie…” she passed the rolling pin to the boy, and stepped to the side. “Come in, come in.”
But I held my hands up again. “Aunt Marsha, we’re in trouble. I’m afraid Jerry is looking for us. I don’t want to bring them down on you…”
Her face immediately became serious. “You get your arses in here right now, I’ll decide who comes into my house. I’ll put the kettle on.”
I think there, walking into that small kitchen, I finally allowed myself to relax.
The cup of tea was followed by porridge once we told her we hadn’t eaten for more than a day. It’s amazing how mothers get so fussed about that. We, of course, couldn’t furnish any details, but we did tell her that something big had gone down in the south.
“Carstairs?” she asked out of the blue.
I could hardly believe it. “What the heck do you know about that?”
She laughed. “Where do you think all the women came from? There’s been folks driving down there for days now. They were looking for drivers, cars, said they’d provide petrol, but the women had to be prepared to die. Lots of us went.”
“You were there?”
She nodded. “Two days ago.”
“Boy,” Bill said, finishing off his plate. “It’s a small world, right enough.”
“So, did it happen? Like they said?”
“Aye, yesterday, Friday, July 4th.”
“And my little Jamie Baird was actually there. You know, that makes it all the more personal. Your Uncle Charlie’s in Singapore, well he was the last time we heard anything.”
“What unit?” Bill asked, “My brother’s there, Royal Scots.”
“Charlie’s in the Engineers. I told him to go down the pit, but he said the coal dust would kill him.”
I suddenly thought of her finances. “How are you doing for money? You know, with Charlie gone.”
“She smiled, “Oh, we get by. There’s more ways to make money now than before.”
Neighbors came out of the woodwork at the news of our breakout. I felt like a celebrity.
By the time she’d finished fussing over us, we had new jackets from Charlie’s wardrobe, new clean trousers from the house next door, new caps, and what made the cream of the milk for me, two old ID cards. Not recent ones, but we could pass if they didn’t check the birth dates too accurately. The donors said they’d report them missing on Monday at work.
It being Saturday, I even had a Hearts scarf to wear, although it felt downright weird putting on the wrong team colors. I had a shilling in my pocket, a handkerchief, a washed face.
I said goodbye to Bill, and remembered I had his address in my notebook; Easthouses Road, just south of Dalkeith. Sitting on a number 12 bus, as I waved goodbye to our new friends, I felt on top of the world.
Yet I knew I headed to the blackest pit of my life.
The Pits of Hell Itself
I considered going home, seeing mum, and Alice, man how I longed just to drop my revenge and go home, but I couldn’t.
If MacManaman or Alfie found out I was alive, they’d kill me for sure, and they had the muscle and power to do it. And I wouldn’t put it past them to do something to the family either. I had made up my mind. No matter of my need to tell them of my being alive-and-all, I had to do this job first. If I got out of it in one piece, I’d have time for family reunion later.
I also had incriminating evidence on me. I had my notebook filled with stuff I didn’t need to divulge, and I had the gun Reverend Trevor had given me. I needed a bolt hole, and luckily I knew where to find it.
I got to The Scotsman office around noon, my presence only known by the watchman, Peter. Once upstairs I quickly dumped the maroon and white scarf on the hat stand; enough of that Heart of Midlothian, rival team baloney. I also changed into my own jacket hanging there, my good one. It didn’t come close to matching the trousers, but I didn’t care.
Dad’s thick rimmed glasses and a trilby completed the disguise. Well, that and in my time in the camp I’d grown a considerable bumfluff beard. I hardly recognized myself in the mirror.
In a moment of introspection I began to write a note for Alice. It was difficult, but it had to be done. In the end, it became more of a letter of confession, but once the Carstairs stuff was out of my system and down on paper, I felt better about it. I also told her details of my Tree of Liberty idea, and asked if she’d be interested in making it happen if I didn’t make it.
Writing one letter to her also m
ade the one to Mum and Frances easier.
Holding my tears back, I left them both in envelopes on Alice’s tidy desk.
It’s quite astounding how cathartic confession is. I left my office in far better spirits than I’d arrived, and even took the damn Hearts scarf with me; it provided another level of anonymity. However I did have a task to perform. I systematically searched every office on my floor, then the floor below.
Soon I had two quid in my pocket, from scouring my boss’s desk. Thanks Charlie. On the floor below I found a small pair of binoculars; I had no idea who my benefactor was, but I thanked him as I left. I laughed out loud when I found the next object of desire; it wasn’t an Omega, just a cheap brand, but the wristwatch was a God-send, and when I wound it up, it started ticking.
My observation kit was complete. Now I needed food.
I took off with a mission, hit two bakers shops, and walked to Lauriston place with enough pies and cakes to last me three days.
At the front of the German HQ, the old George Heriots School, stands the impressive grandeur of the Royal Infirmary. It took me two minutes to find the right windows to observe the German gate opposite; high enough to see the walkway from the school to the gate, close enough to have quick access to the street.
The art of observation is to see without being seen, and I had managed that quite easily. The floor I had chosen turned out to be a side ward, and one window belonged to a large store-room, perfect for my use. I even managed to snag a chair. With my new binoculars focused and at the ready, I sat down and waited.
I watched that distant archway the rest of the day, and despite its frequent use, never saw my quarry. Once midnight arrived, I stretched on the floor, and considering the events of the previous days, found sleep easy to find.
In the morning, I relieved myself into a convenient sand bucket, and resumed my post.
At exactly five to twelve, they appeared, strolling down the walkway as if they didn’t have a care. And to be honest, apart from me they didn’t. I could hardly believe my luck. I had the two of them.
Leaving binoculars and food behind me, I sprinted down the wide staircase and out of the building. When I regained Lauriston Place, I spotted them easily enough, heading to Lady Lawson Street. I coaxed my body to relax, and set off in pursuit; I was seventy yards behind, and on the other side of the street. They walked past the fire station, and then turned down onto the cobbles of Lauriston Street, heading for the West Port.
I checked my watch and put two and two together; it was noon, time for the Sunday pubs to open.
As I followed, always looking in front of me, and searching for a route to follow if I was discovered, I found it quite incredulous that the ‘best’ of the home-grown Gestapo could be so cocky not to check behind them even once.
Halfway down, two German soldiers stood guard at a small arch on the left. I had no idea what the building served, but a Swastika flag had been fastened in position above the door. I kept to the opposite side, and gave them as much room as the roadway would allow.
At the bottom of Lauriston Street lay the Burke & Hare bar, and my two villains were walking straight for it. Once they were inside, I checked the bar for other entrances; there were none, one way in, one way out. If I performed the deed inside, I would have to leave through the door in plain sight of the German soldiers just a hundred yards away.
However, the Burke & Hare sat on a convoluted crossroads, and just round the corner, the road split again; it provided me with lots of avenues to escape.
I took up position across the road from the door, and waited. I needed a little cover to enter the bar; it couldn’t just be me and them. Luckily I was in Edinburgh, and the Saturday night crowd always needs a hair-of-the-dog remedy. Within fifteen minutes seventeen men had passed through the doors. It was time to act.
The Burke & Hare was infamous for being a bit of a strip bar, and due to that premise I had never been inside. I found the main room immediately claustrophobic, but headed for the bar, seeing MacManaman in deep conversation with a man not Alfie. Searching the bar for the thug gave me only two possibilities; he was either in the toilet, or in the back rooms somewhere. I turned, heading for the gents.
I could hardly believe my luck. Standing peeing at the urinal, stood Alfie the thug; both hands busy, his back to me. I quickly pulled the gun from my waist, grabbed the chambers, and slugged him over the head. Thinking my task over, I didn’t follow through with an immediate second blow; my mistake.
Despite the thump I’d given him, he turned round, now pissing on the floor, his eyes were glazed, but he wasn’t down. As he let his tackle go, I hit him again, this time the butt of the pistol meeting his temple with an almighty crunch. Still he staggered, now pissing on my trouser legs. “God, what does it take!” I hit him at every word, punctuating my question with blows.
Thankfully he slowly fell to the ground.
I bent over his shaking body, and with a memory of every beating, I hit his head until he lay still, in a puddle of piss and fresh blood. I had no need to check his pulse. The man was dead, and I had performed half of my surgery.
I now knew I had no time to spare. With nearly twenty men in the bar behind me, it was just a matter of minutes before my deed was discovered. I checked the pistol, cocked it, and returned to the bar.
With my pistol under my jacket I walked straight to MacManaman’s table; he was still in fevered conversation.
“Hello, Mister MacManaman,” I said as I drew my pistol. “Remember me?”
I pumped three bullets into his chest as he stared incredulously at my face, the life quickly fleeing from his eyes.
The man next to MacManaman initially leaned away, then he reached inside his jacket. God, he was pulling a gun on me! I swiveled my aim, and gave him the same treatment; this time two did the trick, sending him reeling away across the floor, chairs tumbling under him.
The whole five bullets had taken maybe four seconds.
As I ran to the door the crowd parted before me.
I ran outside, and turned immediately left, curling round the building onto Bread Street beyond. I raced for eighty yards, past the Co-operative Store, then dropped my trilby into a corner. Turning into the narrow arch of Bread Street Lane I sprinted faster, unwinding my traitorous maroon scarf from my throat, and tossed it into a doorway. I checked my flight, slowed to a quick walk and forced myself to look inconspicuous as I crossed over Fountainbridge, and onto Riego Street beyond. My dad’s glasses were now in my pocket, my appearance changed completely.
A lane at the end was a fine place to dump the pistol, now almost useless to me anyway, and thirty seconds walk put me back on Lauriston Place. I had been on the run for all of two minutes, and already put five streets behind me.
In another five minutes, I was pulling the doorbell for the apartment.
I had actually made it.
To be continued…
Thus ends The First Collection of the Avenging Steel series.
Watch out for the next volume… “Avenging Steel 4: The Tree of Liberty”
Appendix 1: An Introduction to the Characters…
James Baird…
James is our main character, our story’s hero and the book’s narrator. He is a 20-year old philosophy student at Edinburgh University, and is soon recruited by the S.O.E. as an agent. His code-name is Biggles, and is used by the S.O.E. as a liaison between cells in Edinburgh. He also works at The Scotsman newspaper as a writer and copy-editor. His father, in the Scots Greys Regiment, is stationed in Palestine.
Alice Howes…
Alice is James’s partner in spy-crime, girlfriend, and the head of the S.O.E. cell inside The Scotsman newspaper. She is from the border town of Selkirk, and speaks fluent German; her father having been a POW from the Great War who stayed in Scotland in 1918. She seems to take her orders from Lilith, but her actual bosses are unknown to James. Alice also works at The Scotsman newspaper as a copy-editor.
Leutnant Möller…
<
br /> Gerhardt Möller is the German officer in charge of German bias/slanting for the Scotsman newspaper’s stories. James has to report their stories to Möller each day by one o’clock for his inspection. James suspects Möller has opened the hand of friendship to him, but cannot be certain.
Ivanhoe (Mr. Irvine)…
Ivanhoe is James’ contact within the S.O.E. in Edinburgh, and the man who recruited him. James only glimpses the level at which Ivanhoe works, but does harbor the suspicion that Ivanhoe might be the top S.O.E. man in Scotland.
Lilith…
Named after the character by George MacDonald, Lilith is a beautiful enigmatic S.O.E. contact, possibly working in conjunction with Ivanhoe, but definitely also operating outside his purview. Lilith introduced Alice to James, and is Alice’s main contact. Although James seems to be in love with Alice, Lilith’s face comes to him at the oddest times.
Balfour…
Code name Balfour, after the R. L. Stevenson character in Kidnapped, he is Ivanhoe’s right-hand man. He has accompanied Jamie on a few missions, and is stoic; very-straight forward.
The Baird Family in Edinburgh…
Veronica Baird is James’ mother. She lives for her family and rules with a slightly flexible iron rod. Frances is James’ fourteen-year-old younger sister. They live in a first floor apartment in Bruntsfield, on the edge of the Links and Meadows.
