by James Rouch
Without comment on the dubious compliment, the sniper transferred the gold to his own pack, along with a few extra trinkets and a little currency donated by the others.
‘Now don’t be unhappy, friend.’ Adopting a paternalistic manner that his youth made unconvincing, Ripper consoled Dooley by patting him on the shoulder. ‘The old guy has a point. Hell, a stud like you don’t want to waste his time on one frau and one farm. Think big.’ ‘Big?’
‘Sure. You don’t need a stack of gold to get what you want. Get yourself off to Miami, batten onto the wrinkled old dames who go there for their twilight years. All you need is enough for a decent set of duds, and you’re off. You could be ironing the wrinkles out of the old girls at the rate of ten a day, if you can keep it up. Know what I mean?’
Understanding dawned slowly, then burst upon Dooley’s face. ‘Hey, you’re right. The place is packed with widows… but I’d have to do it right. A few good suits, a tux or two, sports jackets… and I’d need a car, expensive but not too flashy, got to get the image right. It’ll take a bit of cash… think I can have a bit back, just to sorta get me started…?
NINE
Twice they were forced to take cover while Soviet bombers circled overhead. The first time they made the mistake of going down into a huge command shelter that was occupied by the inmates of a mental hospital. A dozen nurses and staff were trying to create a degree of order but as fast as they secured the co-operation of one section, there would be disruption in another and bedlam would break out all over again.
Much of the problem appeared to be created by the fact that the raid had coincided with a mealtime, and many of the patients, knowing only that they were hungry, were making their feelings felt.
Inga and Revell were besieged the instant they came through the blast proof doors and found themselves jammed into a corner while various hands plucked at their pockets in search of something to eat.
After several minutes of this not deliberately violent, but bruising, treatment, a member of the staff forced a path through to them and managed to convince the more reasonable of the patients that they had nothing. With the turning away of a few, the rest gradually followed until a single old man remained. He pulled at his bottom lip, looking at Revell and Inga in turn with an accusing glare. ‘But you have been eating.’
It was a statement, and Revell could only nod in agreement by way of answer. He looked around, but luckily none of the others had heard, or if they had then they’d already lost interest.
‘Oh, don’t worry about them. They’ll not bother you again. Are you surprised that I am so rational? I know you are. We don’t all gibber and caper you know, and all of us have been better since the siege started. They haven’t had the time to give us our treatment. But for some of us of course, treatment or no treatment, it makes little difference.’ The old man indicated a boy, squatting on the floor, whom two nurses were trying to get back into his clothes.
‘May I take your photograph?’ Inga went to take her camera from its case.
‘How very nice it is of you to ask. Most would just take it, without asking, as they might of an animal in the zoo. But I must decline. You would have to use a flash in here, and that would bring attention back to you, and I do not think the staff would be happy if I were to step beyond these doors. I hear the all-clear, you will be going now. Perhaps, if you can spare the time, you will come and we can talk again, perhaps?’
He held the door open for them as they went out, and at the last instant held Revell back by clutching at the material of his sleeve.
‘Do you know why I am in here? No, of course you do not. I was locked up because I kept starting fires. I burned down some huts, and damaged a warehouse and a school, but I never hurt anybody, never. I just wanted to see the flames. Isn’t it strange. Now for starting fires they would make me a general, but if I did not kill they would lock me up for that. Sometimes I wonder, is it really me who is insane?’
The air outside was heavy with the stench of fires and unconsumed cordite from a nearby anti-aircraft battery, but it smelt good after the shelter. When the warning went again only five minutes later they took the risk of spending a few minutes searching for somewhere better. At least there was no one else in it, and it was a rare thing to find any underground place in the city that did not fill with its quota of humanity when a raid commenced, but when a stub of candle was found and lit with difficulty the reason became apparent.
In a city where everyone lived with death as a constant companion, where no reminder of its proximity was necessary, the burial crypt of a church was not the place where any would shelter who could cram themselves into some other place. But there was evidence that in the recent past some had.
A corner held a few tattered scraps of cloth that might have been an improvised bed for a child or an elderly and infirm relative. Overlooked, in an alcove that had once held the urn now smashed on the floor close by, was a small ornate oil lamp that in peacetime would have remained unused forever but, here and now, where any economical way of providing precious light was valuable, its being misplaced would be a serious loss to a family. Revel 1 set it back on the shelf after examining it. Perhaps the owners would think to return and search here, if they still lived. And if they did not, then eventually others would find it. No corner of Hamburg had not been searched a hundred times already, and each would be scoured as many times again.
Without blast doors to blanket the sound they could hear the raid in progress. The whine of the bombs as they fell, the crash as they detonated, sometimes followed by the thunder of falling masonry. And the flak gun could also be heard, firing very short bursts at long intervals.
‘The gun is for show only. It cannot reach the aircraft, but its use is reassuring to some. There are a handful more scattered about so that the illusion is seen by all.’
Straining to listen, Revell was certain he could hear only two aircraft. ‘If the flak defences are so weak, how come the Commies aren’t over all the time. One week of round the clock bombing and it would be all over.’
‘The guns are not the only air defence. There are several batteries of missiles also. They were made here, in the city, and the few times they have been used they have brought down Soviet bombers, but they are mostly held in reserve, against just such mass attacks.’
‘The Ruskies must know all about them then.’ Inga was suddenly offhand. ‘It is possible, but I think they have problems also. We know that they are short of aircraft spares, of replacement pilots, of experienced ground crews. That is probably deliberate, the commander of the encircling Warsaw Pact forces is out of favour with the Kremlin.’
Looking for inspiration for a change of subject, Revell scanned the various tombs and inscriptions. It was not a likely place to find conversation that would take war and death from their minds. He needn’t have bothered wracking his brain, as after several minutes’ silence it was Inga who spoke. The topic she chose was a surprise.
‘Do you like movies about vampires?’
‘Eh? I’ve seen a few, on television, but they’re not my favourite viewing. You like them?’
‘Oh yes, I’ve seen hundreds. I love the suspense.’ She hugged her arms about herself. ‘I think it is… delicious.’ ‘I’m not sure if that’s the right word to use about vampires.’
For a moment Inga looked puzzled, then she laughed. It was a young, very pretty, very feminine laugh, a sound that could not have been heard in that gloomy place since it had been built. To Revell’s mind it would have been as effective a vampire deterrent as a ton of garlic pickled in holy water.
‘I suppose like all men you like to see a film in which a woman is abused by many men.’
‘No. No I don’t like to see that sort of thing.’ It was the truth, but he had to wonder if she recognised it as such. Oh, he’d looked through plenty of soft porn mags, even bought a few when he was having that trouble with the bitch, he’d needed something then. But rape, he found that at once both disturbing and
repelling. Under bright lights the crudities of the sex act were not pretty. He’d seen a stag film once. Even allowing for its poor quality he’d found it ugly, though he’d been fascinated, and roused, by a scene that showed a bound male about to be whipped by a plump and grubby-kneed whore attired in the classic costume of black leather mini skirt, thigh boots and peek-a-boo bra, that last being made to look even more ridiculous by being so ill-fitting that her nipples constantly strayed from the cut-outs and had continually to be wrenched back into place.
He’d never got to see the whole scene. Hal’s wife had returned at that moment, and they’d only just got back round the card table in time.
Even if Revell had been capable of encapsulating all that in a couple of coherent sentences for Inga, he wouldn’t have uttered them. He was working hard to combat his clumsiness with women, and at present was concentrating on thinking before speaking. It had taken a time to sink in, and he’d had to learn the hard way that while a piece of physical clumsiness, a grab at the wrong time, or done too hard, might be forgiven, a careless word could finish a relationship instantly.
Inga looked really beautiful in the candlelight. He needed her, and he wasn’t about to throw away his chances by doing either.
‘Come on then, let’s have a bit of tit.’ Dooley bounced the woman on his knee and stuffed his hand up her jumper. ‘Lovely, nice big fat ones.’ He tried with his free hand to haul the garment up, getting ready to dive on the matronly breasts with his tongue and teeth, but she broke away, grabbed him by the hand and towed him behind a curtain that screened an alcove from the rest of the room.
Dooley was half undressed before he realised that his frantic pace of disrobing was not being matched by the woman. She stood with her hand stretched out, waiting.
He fumbled through his pockets and thrust at her a few crumpled notes he’d held back from the others, then jumped as she gave a shrill, piercing scream and knocked them from his hand…
‘Sounds like our big friend has failed to make a conquest.’ Standing with the others in the street, Sergeant Hyde listened to the tirade of invective from inside, and then was almost bowled over as Dooley came hurtling out, holding more clothes than he was wearing and followed by a barrage of empty bottles.
‘Jesus, what’s she so sore at me for? I offered to pay, over the odds an’ all.’ With the others not waiting for him, Dooley had to perform a series of weird contortions as he alternately hopped, hobbled and stumbled along in their wake, trying to dress as he did so.
‘We warned you. You can’t use money here. A note’s too small to wipe your bum on, tastes foul as fag-paper and won’t buy a bloody thing.’ Burke took delight in pointing out to Dooley that he’d dropped a boot fifty yards back. ‘For a tin of sardines you could have your own sodding harem for a day, but for money, not a hope.’
The St Pauli district gave the impression of having received less attention from the Russian bombers and gunners than many other parts of the city. Perhaps it was an illusion, fostered by the generally different character of the buildings in the quarter, or perhaps it really had. Rumour said that no Russian soldier ever got leave; that alone would have given them good reason for doing what they could to preserve the facilities and, more importantly, the inhabitants of that famous red-light district.
Star shells kept the area perpetually bathed in harsh white light that was somewhat softened by the great piles of multi-coloured broken glass every few yards. It was as if whole buildings made of it had disintegrated and been swept up. Coming from the thousands of imploded neon signs it was every garish shade imaginable, and still huge quantities remained suspended in the thousands of broken signs and shop fronts.
At the concussion from any distant explosion, more small pieces would tinkle to the ground without seeming in any way to diminish the apparently inexhaustible supply.
‘What’s that address the colonel gave us?’ Burke accepted the scrap of paper from Hyde. ‘Bloody expensive bit of paper. It’s going to cost us fucking half of whatever we manage to get hold of.’
‘He could have stopped us coming, and without this we would never have found anything anyway.’ Patiently Clarence waited for a star shell to dip lower so that it would shine on a street sign currently in deep shadow. ‘Grosse Freiheit, this is the one.’
‘I sure would have liked to visit this place before the Reds got to remodelling it.’ Picking up the silver end cap from a neon tube, Ripper shied it into an alleyway. From the darkness came the angry spitting of a cat.
A scruffy figure huddled in a doorway threw aside the overcoat he was using as a blanket and with astounding speed dived into the alley to the accompaniment of clattering and crashing bins.
‘Looks kinda like he fancies pussy for supper…’ ‘Who doesn’t?’
‘I don’t mean that kind, Dooley… Aw, what the hell! Back home I knew a guy who ate a skunk, don’t see why this bunch shouldn’t finish off the stock of the local pet store.’
‘They probably have. I haven’t seen one dog since we arrived.’ As they passed, and while the thrashing and crashing was still coming from the alley, Hyde saw a young boy dart into the doorway, grab the temporarily abandoned coat and run off with it.
They would have missed the address but for Boris. He’d put on his wire-framed bifocals and was peering intently at every building they passed. The place they wanted was trying hard to be anonymous. From the wall beside the doorway the number had been removed, but over the years it had been there it had preserved the natural colour of the brickwork beneath it and that ghostly shadow now betrayed the location.
‘Do we knock?’ Incautiously, Boris pushed his head into the gloom. The others saw him reappear faster, the barrel of a pump-action shotgun just an inch from the end of his nose.
‘Geschlossen!’
It was an ugly guttural voice and Hyde decided that the owner likely matched it and was not about to be persuaded by sweet reason or the offer of a modest bribe. Taking a grenade from his belt he wrenched out its pin and held it towards the invisible guardian of the entrance. ‘You just reopened.’
The barrel withdrew and there came the sounds of someone hesitantly shuffling backwards.
‘Have to remember that stunt, Sarge, worked a treat.’
‘Stop trying to butter me up, Burke. You’ll be getting the same share as everyone else, and anyway it wasn’t all that fucking clever. I’ve dropped the pin. Have a look for it before my fingers get tired.’
Understanding of what was going on as the squad scrambled about on its collective hands and knees must have been the last straw for the not too strong nerve of the shotgun carrier. They heard running, then a distant door being frantically unbolted and finally slammed as the man made his escape.
Chrome and shiny red plastic were the dominant materials in the cellar bar. A small stage at the far end of the room was still flanked by a set of drums and an electric organ on one side and an easel holding a show card proclaiming ‘Freda, the Naughty Schoolgirl’ on the other.
‘If you really are buyers, then I can give you a little drinkies before we, shall we say, dicker?’
The figure that appeared through the curtains behind the small candlelit bar was grotesque. Wearing a sequin-scattered fluffy pink sweater whose plunging neckline revealed no cleavage, only a carefully shaved chest, heavy makeup that failed entirely to conceal shadow and a wig that was just too elaborate, too perfect to be anything else, the proprietor draped himself across the shining Formica surface and fluttered long false lashes caked with mascara.
‘Now what would you like?’
‘Somewhere to throw up would be nice.’ Burke would have added more, but Hyde signalled for silence.
Again the eyelashes performed their semaphore. ‘Naughty, mustn’t do that in here, especially as you have frightened off my dear little helper.’
‘You mean your bum-chum with the shotgun? I was wondering why he needed a weapon with such a long barrel, I suppose he uses it to…’
&n
bsp; The sergeant’s hint was less subtle this time, and Burke shut up while he concentrated on extracting his foot from under Hyde’s steel-shod boot.
‘Thank you, I do find that sort of talk so uncouth. Now, eh, oh, you’re a sergeant, how nice… what would you like to drink?’
‘Nothing. We’re told you can supply food, at a price.’ The transvestite’s honeyed tones were grating on Hyde, but he tried not to let it show.
‘My dear, even now, anything is available in Hamburg at a price. I’ll get the list for you.’ Coming out from behind the bar, the proprietor revealed himself to be wearing a short clinging skirt, split to past mid-thigh and calf-length boots with five-inch heels that made him teeter at every step. With an exaggerated hip action that wouldn’t have disgraced any main-street hooker or bump and grind stripper he crossed to a cigarette machine on the wall and pulled a scrawled list from behind it.
‘Here. Getting just a little low now, but most of those are in stock. Go on, feast your eyes on it. Some real goodies aren’t there?’
‘Seems kinda heavy on prunes and bean sprouts.’
When Hyde’s elbow made contact with his gut, Ripper backed off and ceased trying to read over his shoulder.
While the inventory was being examined the proprietor brought out glasses and poured each of them a nip of milky white liquid from an unlabelled bottle, giving the NCO a double measure. ‘This will put a twinkle in your… well, hope you enjoy it.’ Taking a tiny sip, he winked at Ripper.
It was that as much as the alcohol biting into his throat that made Ripper choke, until Dooley pounded him back into a normal respiratory pattern. ‘Heck, I’ve drunk everything, from ‘shine that were still warm through to my Aunt Emmie’s home brewed turnip gin, but I never come across anything like this afore.’
‘It’s an acquired taste. Like a little more?’ Ripper joined their driver in silence when he realised he was drawing the faggot’s attention.
‘There’s no prices.’ Hyde laid the paper on a table.
