by John Wilson
Adam had set off in good time from Lamb Building and headed down to Temple Tube. From there he would travel to Victoria and take the overland. He had not seen Jackson hanging around for a week or so and guessed Pemberton had realised his cover had been blown. However, he remained alert to the possibility that he was being followed. Walking through Cloisters, he saw an unfamiliar man in a gabardine loitering around the arch leading into Middle Temple Lane. Adam walked slowly, without looking behind him, through Fountain Court and down past Garden Court. On reaching the westbound platform he put his blue bag on the floor and made to read his newspaper. An echoing rumble heralded the approach of the train and only at that point did he look up and to his right. The man in the gabardine was leaning against the wall near to the stairs, a newspaper up to his face. Adam knew that he could ignore him for the rest of the journey.
Arriving in Bromley, Adam made his way up the High Street and when he was a decent distance from the station he stopped and looked behind him. The man with the gabardine was walking slowly up the road. Adam looked through him and continued on his way to court. It was a long but not particularly strenuous day. Mr O’Grady was a pleasant old man who didn’t look as though he could afford the guinea. The employer was represented by an elderly member of the Bar, armed with textbooks and legal authorities. After final submissions on both sides the Judge found for the employer. On early occasions when Mr O’Grady had been off work sick he had not claimed sick pay. It was only when he had heard of a report in another case that he sought payment. There was no express term that he was entitled to sick pay, so such a term would have to be implied. The Judge refused to imply such a term. If it had indeed been part of the contract the old man would have sought payment the first time he was ill. Judgment for the company with costs. Adam had the unpleasant task of explaining to the bewildered plaintiff that he had not only lost but would have to pay the defendant’s lawyers for their time. Not his best day in court.
As expected, on regaining the High Street there was no sign of the man in the gabardine. He had no doubt satisfied himself that Adam was gainfully employed and taken himself back to London. Adam popped back into Dr Johnson’s Buildings to feed Delia and change her litter. He was back in Chambers by 5.30 p.m. when he learnt of Blytheway’s success and found the note in his tray reminding him of dinner the following evening. Dusk was falling by the time he emerged again from chambers. There were still quite a few people about. The bombing had been abating as February progressed. Gaberdine was standing half out of sight in the archway leading towards King’s Bench Walk.
Adam lit a cigarette and walked slowly up Inner Temple Lane and then made his way to Chancery Lane tube station on Holborn. It was a cold evening and he pulled his overcoat more tightly around him. Crowds were pouring down into the underground from the southerly pavement and Adam joined them, vaguely aware of the private detective on his trail. The concourse around the ticket office was teeming with people, and on a whim Adam forced his way up through the throng coming down from the northern pavement, leaving his tail stuck down below. He broke into a run and within seconds was within the boundaries of Gray’s Inn. The blackout had begun. He felt his way further away from the entrance to the Inn – the brick of the buildings was cold and grainy against his fingertips – and, when it lay seventy-five yards or so behind him, took up a place to watch. If Gaberdine were to try and follow him, his silhouette would show as a separate shadow against the dark. Adam waited for twenty-five minutes and, satisfied that he had lost the man, he lit another cigarette and headed slowly through the Inn and up to Theobalds Road. The devastation there was terrible.
He pulled his coat sleeve back and tried to read his watch; too dark. He calculated that it must now be around 7.30. He would walk west. Public transport was fickle and uncertain in the dark and he was in no particular hurry. His progress was slow and halting. He cupped the glow from a stream of cigarettes. Gradually he made his way along to Oxford Street. This was no brighter but the pavements were wider and he was able to make slightly swifter progress. John Lewis, as was well known, had been blown out. And the trestle tables from which they now conducted their business had long been packed away.
He marked off the tube stations as he passed them – so far no air raid warning sirens had sounded – Tottenham Court Road, then Oxford Circus. He turned down into New Bond Street and headed south. The darkness was getting deeper and he was forced to use his hands again to feel his way, occasionally crashing into pedestrians going in the opposite direction, with mumbled apologies on both sides. At Bruton Street he headed west again, past Berkeley Square and finally down towards Shepherd Market.
The last time he had come to this place he had been anxious to be followed. He never thought then that he would have to come back. This time it had been imperative that no one who knew him saw him. He slowed as he approached the place where he had picked up Betty less than two months earlier. It was, he guessed, about nine in the evening now. The side streets were busier here, with men standing against the walls, watching from street-corners or fumbling their way down to Shepherd Market itself. Last time, he had walked up White Horse Street from Piccadilly. His current route was far less straightforward. He didn’t know where Betty Sharples lived. But he knew where she worked.
– Fancy some fun, sir?
A voice beckoned to him from a doorway but he ignored it and stumbled onwards.
– Suit yourself!
Finally he was within fifty yards of where he had first met Betty. He found an anonymous stretch of wall, leaned against it and strained to see through the darkness. Rubbing his hands together against the cold, he could feel the dust on them picked up on his journey. Shadows moved against shadows. People clung to the anonymity of the place so that a shadow would rarely leave the wall for long enough to permit a recognisable outline. There were occasional mumbled exchanges, the words impossible to make out. Now and then, shouting and an altercation. Obscenities and threats. How could he expect to make out her shape against all the other people milling around in the darkness? What if she did not work that night?
He had been standing there motionless for over half an hour when at last he saw her, in her well-cut coat, moving from the direction of Clarges Street back to her station. He fought an urge to go over to her, take her by the arm and pull into a doorway. She had deliberately misled him and he felt a surge of anger mix with his relief at finding her again. He stayed where he was. If he lost her this time he might lose her forever.
After about ten minutes a man approached her and there was an inaudible exchange between the two before they headed off together, Betty leading the way, back towards Clarges Street. Adam followed the two shadows as closely as he could, aware that if he let them get too far ahead of him he might lose them. Halfway along Clarges Street Betty stopped at a door, fumbled for a key and let herself in. A hall light brushed briefly across her face and he saw the half-familiar profile, the blonde hair showing under her scarf. Then the man followed, the door closed swiftly behind them and all was dark again. Adam edged towards the front door. There were six separate bells – bed-sits – one of which had her name against it. He memorised the number of the house and the bell and faded back into the shadows to wait.
About fifteen minutes later the door opened and the man came back out into the street and disappeared into the darkness. Barely enough time to take her coat off, Adam thought. A few minutes after this Betty emerged and headed back to Shepherd Market. Adam resisted the urge to follow her: he knew where she was going, and he knew where she lived. If he stopped her outside her door she might disappear again, and he needed to talk to her, to remind her of their deal. He patted his breast and felt the comforting shape of his wallet. It was getting late. He lit another cigarette.
Dropping the fag-end and twisting out the embers with his toe, he came to a decision. He pulled out his wallet and felt for the texture of a one-pound note. He needed her to help him. His mind made up, he strode back to where he knew she
would be standing. His eyes were becoming more accustomed to the gloom and he was able to pick her out almost immediately, a frail silhouette wrapped in the well-cut curtain material that was her coat. A sudden transitory glow lit up her lips and nose. She was smoking. He realised that his right hand had balled into a fist, crumpling up the one pound note. He was sweating despite the cold. He needed to look into her eyes.
Shadows upon shadows as people moved around. He saw the arc of her discarded cigarette and a splash of sparks as it hit the ground. She was fumbling in her coat as he made his way over to her. She had reached a cigarette and was groping for her matches when he reached her and struck a match from his own box. She looked up at him in surprise, her eyes widening as she looked him in the face. He saw her pupils dilate. The flame hovered moth-like around the tip as she sucked in hard on the filter then looked away.
– Hello again, Betty.
She looked at him and then looked away again, a mixture of pleasure and foreboding playing across her features.
– I wondered when you’d be back.
He shook the match until the light folded, and dropped it to the floor.
– I’ve come for your time,
he said, holding out the pound note.
She breathed in and then blew smoke out at an angle, avoiding his face. She looked harder and sadder.
– Go away, old man.
– Why are you doing this?
– You know why I’m doing this.
– Please take me back to your room. I need to talk.
– The bombing seems to have eased off. D’you think it’s seasonal? Only bomb us when it’s cold.
– Why did you lie to me?
– What do you mean?
– I went to Sheen Grove. There was nothing there …
– I thought you might. You’re not so stupid, are you.
– Why did you give that as your address when it wasn’t?
– It was my address!
Betty was shouting at him now and he sensed shadows turning around onto him. Harassment wasn’t appreciated. He lit another match and held it to her face. The angles between cheek and chin flickered as she stared angrily into his eyes. Her gaze dropped and quietly she repeated:
– It was my address.
– Is that where Joe died?
– They never found him, you know. Not even a piece of him.
– I’m sorry … I’m really sorry
The flame from the match had reached his fingers and he let it drop so that they were both in darkness once again. A firework-flare of her eyes was embedded on his retinas so that he wanted to light another match and see her again. See her now. In her pain.
– Please take me back to your place. I only want to talk again. Talk some more. I promise.
– No.
– Please, Betty.
– No. Why should I?
– I’m offering twice the asking price and I promise not to hurt you.
– No one gives more than the asking price.
He admitted defeat. In that private admission he saw the uncertain structures of the future collapse upon themselves. He could not force her. If she was not willing she was dangerous. Perhaps the portent of helpful developments from Roly (whatever they were) would save him. The imprint of her eyes in the darkness, the sadness of her situation, overwhelmed him.
– You’re right. I must go. I’m sorry …
And he began to walk away … then turned as if struck by a thought.
– May I have just one kiss? Please? You can have the pound for it.
He walked towards her and in the darkness she folded into his arms and before he knew it he felt the salty warmth of her tongue on his. A kiss that seemed to go on and on. And then, as though she was reaching for breath, it was over. He passed the pound note across, looked at the fragments of her that were visible, and, using touch, smoothed her skin and stroked her hair. He knew from her kiss how lonely she was – and how alone.
– Thank you, Betty. Thank you for everything. I’m so sorry. Goodbye.
And he headed off into the darkness.
– Wait! Wait! Come back. I’m sorry. Come back!
And she invited him back to her room.
****
She unlocked the door and moved inside. He saw the same light illuminate her features as she entered and he felt a pang of something that he thought might be love. Her room was on the second floor. It was small, modest. There was a bed, the sheets rearranged to hide recent activity, a wash basin and a small chest of drawers by the wall. There was a framed photograph on it, turned to the wall – the dearly departed Joe, he thought. All other facilities were obviously communal. They had been draped in one another’s arms all the way back to Clarges Street but, adept as he increasingly was in the ways of deception, he didn’t allow himself to read much into that. The weight of her head on his shoulder – too close and too trusting – struck a wrong note on that, however. She didn’t offer him tea.
– Why did you come back?
The memory of her tongue impeded logic. How could one tell from the feel of a tongue so much about someone?
– This is a really beautiful room …
He stumbled into silence.
– I’ve thought about you a lot you know. How is the cat – sorry, kitten?
– Oh. Fine. Fine. Cordelia. She’s called Cordelia.
– Do you see how stupid this is?!
He was taken aback by her vehemence. He nuzzled her neck and kissed her hair.
– I need your help, Betty. I need your help.
She twitched him off her, as though he were a cobweb.
– You want my help? I’ll give you my help. I’ve been thinking about this. You ain’t been telling me the truth. Fact is, you’ve been having it off with your boss’s wife and you want me to give you an alibi. But it’s not much of an alibi is it? Cos if you convince all of those idiots you’re telling the truth, your marriage will still be fucked (he was shocked at the obscenity) and you’ll still be fucked with everyone else. So, I ask myself, why is he doing it? And do you know what, I found only one answer that fits.
– And what’s that?
Adam was dreading the answer, although he had already guessed it. He needed her too much not to go along with her train of thought.
– What’s that?
– Because you love her. You bloody fool! You love her.
And she looked up at him and her eyes were full of tears as she said:
– You bloody fool!
– Please help me?
– I don’t know … Why are you doing this? She doesn’t love you. If she did, she wouldn’t make you do this.
– I don’t know why. I don’t know anything anymore. I just need your help.
– Why should I help you? Why should I help anyone?
His voice was as she remembered it. She had fallen asleep remembering that voice. The war would be over within a year, one way or another, and then everything that she, anyone, had done to survive would be forgotten. With a rare recklessness that betrayed her buried Presbyterian roots, she gave in.
– All right, all right. I’ll stick to our story.
– Thank you.
The crisis over, she put her arms back around his neck and kissed him in memory of their early slight intimacy. She felt his neck yield to her caresses. He stroked her breast through her overcoat and she realised that they had taken no steps to conform to the orthodoxy of such situations.
– But I still think you’re mad. She doesn’t love you. You must of gone all the way to Islington to find me, and then, when you couldn’t, you come all this way. It doesn’t make any sense.
– Well, I could say the same for you.
– There’s no need for that. I don’t need your help. You’re the one begging.
– Why are you doing this, Betty? You’re beautiful, you’re intelligent, why?
– Now don’t you go passing judgment on the one person who might save you, if that’s the right
word.
– But why?
– Look! I’m here cos Joe died. I didn’t want him to die and I loved him very much. And if he wasn’t dead I wouldn’t be here. But he is dead, silly sod. And no insurance. I can’t help it but at night when I can’t sleep I think, why can’t he still be alive? And then I think, if he has to be dead why did he have to die under a bloody bomb? Why couldn’t he of had a heart attack, or been killed in a piss-up or been run over by a car?
– You won’t move again will you?
– No.
And that one word carried so much regret and meaning that he felt he would never be able to read a word of literature without trying to excavate the meaning buried in the shortest outburst.
– Thank you.
– You’re mad, you know?
She extricated herself and arranged herself across the bed.
– You can have more for your money if you want to?
– No. No thank you. And thank you at the same time.
He left her there, putting the sweaty one-pound note on a dish by the door.
It was now well after midnight. As he began the long walk home he thought about what Betty had to say. She was right. He was taking ridiculous steps to protect someone who didn’t care for him. It was illogical. Then he thought of Novak. That was the only explanation. Novak was in the same position. There was no other explanation. He had to be protecting Katya. He would press him on this the following day. It would take him an hour or more to get back to Temple. He lit another cigarette.
But there was something else that Betty had said. Something about her own situation. It had something to do with that dream. He tried, as he walked, to untangle that mystery. But nothing worked. And so he walked on home, oblivious to the shadowy people, the dark and their mutterings. Betty had said something important. But he couldn’t work out what it was.
