Dominion

by C. J. Sansom

  He walked slowly to the nearest door, careful to make as little noise as possible on the stone flags. Next to it was a plaster statue of Christ, white body hanging from the cross, desperate agony on the thin bearded face. According to his mother, Mrs Baker said Christ was always waiting in a white robe, smiling in a garden, to welcome those who passed into spirit, but this figure was quite different: an agony of suffering.

  Stealthily, Frank opened the door. It gave onto a long corridor. At the end was a closed pair of double doors; behind them he could hear voices. For a second he stood rooted to the spot, terrified they had found him and were gathered there, waiting to pounce. He stepped backwards, suppressing a cry, as one of the doors opened. A tall young man came out, wearing a shabby apron over a black shirt with a white clerical collar. He had a shock of untidy brown hair and a round, tired, good-natured face. The smell of cooking drifted from the room. The man saw Frank and smiled.

  ‘Hello,’ he said cheerfully, in a loud upper-class voice. ‘Come for some grub?’

  Frank stared at him; he had no idea what he was talking about. He half turned, about to run, but the man said, gently, ‘Wait! It’s all right. You look as though you could do with some food.’ With an encouraging nod, he stepped back and opened the door wide. Frank saw a room filled with wooden trestle tables, where ragged-looking men and women sat eating bowls of soup. Two women stood by an enormous tureen on a table, passing out bowls and plates of bread. Frank realized it must be a soup kitchen. He knew there were more and more of them these days with all the unemployment but he had never seen one himself before. He wasn’t hungry but he was desperately cold and there was a gust of warmth from a big coal fire. He stayed where he was as the man came up to him.

  ‘Hello. I’m the vicar here. Call me Terry.’

  Frank knew some churches supported Beaverbrook and Mosley and others were against. He hesitated, but then walked slowly towards the warmth of the big room. Inside, it smelt of unwashed bodies and damp, fusty clothes. Most of the people at the tables were beggars, such as you saw on street corners, with matted hair and beards, tattered coats tied with string, lined, dirty worn-out faces. One or two, though, wore stained shiny suits in attempts to keep a former respectability. There were ragged women, too, one holding a tiny baby.

  ‘What’s your name, friend?’ the vicar asked.

  Frank hesitated. ‘David.’

  Terry looked at him curiously. He said quietly, ‘Never been somewhere like this before, eh? Where did you hear about us?’

  ‘I – I forget.’

  ‘Well, lots of people are down on their luck these days, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Come on, get some food. It’s not a night to be out. This filthy smog, I’ve never seen anything like it. You haven’t got a coat, you must be freezing.’ The vicar looked at him again, more closely, and then his eyes widened. Frank followed his gaze and saw, on the front of his grey cardigan, a dark splash of blood. He drew in a horrified breath, thinking he had been hit after all, then realized it must be Geoff’s blood.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ Terry said, quietly.

  ‘It’s nothing, I cut myself—’

  ‘Let me have a look.’

  Frank whispered, ‘It’s not my blood.’ He swallowed. ‘It’s my friend’s. He’s dead.’

  Terry hesitated, then leaned close. ‘Please, come with me.’

  Frank looked into the vicar’s tired face. Something in his voice and manner made him allow the man to lead him to a side room. It was a little office, with a steel filing cabinet and a table with a telephone on it, a black jacket slung over a chair. White surplices hung from a row of pegs. The vicar shut the door. He said, ‘A couple of people who’ve just come in said they heard shots nearby, police cars. They thought it was the local Jive Boy gangs. Was it something to do with you? Don’t worry,’ he added quickly, ‘I won’t give you away.’

  Frank leaned against the table. He didn’t answer but a desperate sigh escaped him. Terry looked at him. He said, ‘I know there’s something going on today, there have been raids all over town in spite of the fog. Are you Resistance?’ Frank didn’t answer. ‘I can help you but you have to trust me. I’m taking a risk even telling you I’ll help.’ He took a deep breath and Frank saw that Terry, too, was afraid. Everything in the vicar’s face told Frank he was sincere, but if Ben and Natalia and David hadn’t been able to save him, how could this man? Telling him anything was a desperate risk.

  The vicar stepped over to a door in the wall and opened it. A wave of cold stinking air and tendrils of yellow fog came into the room. He left the door open and went and stood by the other door, the one that led to the soup kitchen. ‘See,’ he said. ‘If you want to leave, you can. You might be able to get away in the fog, but you might not. I’ll help you but you have to tell me what happened.’

  ‘I was with some friends,’ Frank said. ‘They’re from the Resistance, we’re trying to get out of the country. We were at a house a couple of streets away. There was a raid. Some of my friends were killed. I ran away to stop them getting me. The Resistance don’t want the Germans to take me alive. I’m important; I wish I wasn’t but I am. Please – please, shut the door. Someone might see, and it’s so cold.’

  Terry closed the door. He took the jacket from the chair behind the desk. ‘Sit down, go on, you look done in.’ Frank sat, and Terry put the jacket round his shoulders. He looked at Frank’s bad hand. ‘How did you get that? The Germans?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘No. Some other people, when I was a boy. I’m not with the Resistance, I’m just – someone who needs to be got out of the country.’

  ‘Why?’

  Frank shook his head firmly. ‘I can’t tell you. The Resistance people know.’

  ‘Is David your real name?’

  Frank should his head. ‘No. He was one of my friends.’ He felt tears pricking at his eyes.

  ‘Can you tell me your real name? If you can, I can ring for help. I’ve a number.’ Terry nodded at the telephone on the desk.

  Frank hesitated, but it was all or nothing now. ‘Muncaster, Frank Muncaster.’

  Terry picked up the telephone. He dialled a number. Someone answered and he spoke with unexpected crispness, ‘Reverend Hadley, St Luke’s Church. I’ve a man here, says the police are after him. There’s been a raid nearby. His name is Frank Muncaster, repeat, Muncaster. Medium height, thin, brown hair, injured right hand.’ Then there was silence, the vicar occasionally nodding and saying ‘yes’ briskly. He looked at Frank again and asked quietly, ‘Do you know how many of your people got away?’

  ‘Sean and Eileen, the people who were sheltering us, they were –’ his voice trembled ‘– I saw them killed. And Geoff, one of my friends, he was killed too, it’s his blood on my cardigan. The other three – I don’t know. Outside, I heard a policeman say they were looking for “them”, so I hope some got away.’

  The vicar relayed the information to the person at the other end. At length he said, ‘All right,’ and put the phone down. He looked at Frank. ‘They’ll come to collect you. But it may take a while, the police are putting up roadblocks, closing off the whole district.’

  Frank stood up, panic searing through him. ‘They could be searching the streets. What if they come here—’

  Terry said, ‘It’s all right, if they do I’ll deal with them, they don’t know I’ve contacts in the Resistance.’ He smiled sadly, making his face look years older. ‘They think I’m just the local do-gooder. Our man told me you were in a mental hospital where you tried to kill yourself,’ he added, more gently.

  ‘I’d do it now if I could. So they don’t get me.’

  Terry shook his head. ‘That’s not what God wants.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Then why did he make a world where sometimes it’s the only choice you have left?’

  Terry closed his eyes. How exhausted he looked. ‘Would you like to pray with me, for your friends?’

  ‘No.’ Frank’s voice shook with emotion. ‘No.’

&
nbsp; They both jumped at the sound of a loud knocking. The vicar said, his tone suddenly one of command, ‘It’s the back door. I’ll go out and see. You stay here. If you hear me coming back with someone else, run outside. But wait for me outside the door, don’t go back on the streets or they’ll get you.’ He looked at Frank. ‘Will you promise? I’m your only chance. Please, do as I say. My wife’s in the soup kitchen,’ he added, his tone suddenly pleading.

  Frank nodded wearily. It was like David had said in that field, he had responsibility for other people’s lives now. And all because Edgar had wanted to show him how clever he was, that evening weeks ago in Birmingham.

  The vicar went outside. Frank got up and put his ear to the door. He heard voices from the church, echoing in the cavernous space, but couldn’t make out the words. Then footsteps, several of them, in the soup kitchen. He stood by the vestry door, ready to jump outside.

  But when he heard footsteps approaching the door there was only one set. Terry came back into the room and sat down on the chair. He let out a long breath, running his finger round the inside of his dog-collar, then produced a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He said, ‘They’ve gone. Did you put the latch on the church door when you came in from outside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank God. I’ve convinced them I did it hours ago, and so no-one could have got in from outside. Otherwise they’d have searched the whole place. The only other way in or out is through that back door, you see, that’s where people come for the soup kitchen. They gave me your description, they said there were two men and a woman as well.’

  So David and Ben and Natalia had all got away, at least so far. Terry said, ‘It seems to be it’s you they’re keenest to find.’ He looked at Frank curiously. ‘Are you a Jew? These roundups are unspeakable.’

  ‘No. No, I’m not a Jew.’

  ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘We had quite a few Jews coming to the soup kitchen, till they took them all away. Poor people, not even allowed to work in their professions any more.’ He sighed. ‘And all the others without work and homes – my predecessor started the kitchen back in the thirties, when the Depression and mass unemployment began; it’s been used ever since. It’s gone on for twenty years, apart from when everyone had work in the 1939–40 war. The police know me, they took my word nobody of your description came in. I hate lying, you know, even to them,’ he added.

  Frank said, ‘Thank you. Thank you for what you did.’

  The vicar smiled. He said awkwardly, ‘Perhaps the Lord is watching over us, eh?’

  ‘He didn’t watch over my friend Geoff, did he?’ Frank answered bleakly. ‘Or Mr and Mrs O’Shea.’ He looked up at Terry. ‘He doesn’t protect anybody, not really. Don’t you understand that?’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  DAVID AND BEN AND NATALIA STOOD, trying to quiet their rapid breathing. In the entrance to the alley they had taken refuge in, they saw two thin, weak beams of light. David thought, if it wasn’t for the fog, we’d all have been caught. But Geoff was gone, both the O’Sheas too, and Frank was lost. They would catch Frank now and it would all have been for nothing.

  ‘Where the bloody hell are they?’ an angry voice asked from the road.

  ‘We’ll never find them in this. They’re putting a cordon round these streets. We’re going to have to pen them in, do a house-to-house.’ The policemen’s footsteps faded away. They heard the sirens of Black Marias in the distance.

  Suddenly a yard door opened right beside them in the alley. Ben and Natalia instantly turned and covered it with their guns. David saw a shape in the entrance, made out a fat old man in a cap and raincoat, his mouth falling open with shock. There was something white at his feet – a small mongrel dog on the end of a lead.

  ‘Dinnae move, pal!’ Ben said quietly but fiercely. ‘Dinnae say anything and ye’ll no’ get hurt.’ The dog stared at him, then at his master. It growled softly.

  The old man gestured wildly at one ear. ‘Deaf,’ he said.

  ‘Fuckin’ ’ell!’ Ben leaned in to him. ‘Do you live in that house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The dog growled again. ‘Quiet, Rags,’ the old man said. ‘Don’t ’urt ’im,’ he whispered pleadingly. ‘’E’s old, ’e won’t hurt you. Please, ‘e’s all I got since my wife died.’

  Ben said, ‘We need coats.’ He gestured with his gun. ‘Go on, go back inside.’

  ‘Who are you?’ the old man asked pathetically. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Never you mind. What you dinnae ken can’t hurt you.’

  A note of anger came into the old man’s voice. ‘You’re Resistance, aren’t you? Takin’ advantage of the fog for some stunt. Why can’t you just leave people alone?’

  ‘We need warm clothes,’ Ben repeated grimly. ‘Fuckin’ get back in.’

  Natalia touched David’s hand briefly. ‘I’ll go in with him. Stay here, don’t move. Take this.’ She handed him her gun. ‘You know how to use it?’

  ‘I was in the army.’

  ‘Good.’ She touched his arm softly, then followed Ben and the old man through the gate.

  David stood in the fog. He was starting to shiver from cold; none of them had coats. He looked down the alley. It was quiet now but the streets would soon be full of policemen. A cordon, how could they get out of that? They would be captured, or shot like Geoff. He gripped the cyanide pill in his pocket. He thought, at least Sarah’s safe.

  He remembered the moment when the banging sounded at the front door. David had been lying naked on the mattress. Natalia was sprawled across him, a happy, slightly teasing expression on her face as she played with the hairs on his chest, making them into little bunches of curls. But she jumped up, immediately alert, at the first crash from the front door. She said, ‘Get dressed!’, her voice fierce, already throwing on her clothes. David had learned in the army to dress in moments. A second, splintering crash told him the door had been broken in. As he pulled on his trousers he felt the cyanide capsule. She had given him a smile, fleeting, of infinite regret.

  Ben and Natalia returned, slipping back through the gate. Natalia was wearing an old-fashioned fur coat that reached almost to her ankles, and Ben had on the heavy coat and muffler the old man had been wearing. He passed a blue raincoat to David. As he put it on David asked, ‘What have you done with him?’

  ‘Left him tied up on his bed. The dog’s wi’ him.’ He shook his head. ‘Stupidest bloody mutt I ever saw. He says a neighbour’s coming to do some shopping for him tomorrow. She’ll find him. If the police don’t first.’

  ‘Good at tying people up, aren’t you?’ David couldn’t help saying.

  ‘Just as well for you I am, pal. And for chrissake, keep your voice down.’

  Natalia walked slowly to the end of the alley, the others following. David said, ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of finding Frank in this.’

  ‘No,’ Natalia agreed. ‘We must find somewhere to hide. At least we have coats now, and they’ll be looking for people without them. Don’t worry, there is a contingency plan.’

  They spent over an hour feeling their way through the dark, deserted streets, not talking above a whisper, walking slowly to avoid bumping into things and to make as little sound as possible. They didn’t hear any more police cars. Twice they ducked into alleys or behind garden fences at the sound of footsteps, once they saw the weak lances of torch beams. They stood huddled by a wall until they faded away. Natalia whispered, ‘They’ll need hundreds to search the streets properly in this fog.’

  ‘Remember one of them was talking about a roadblock,’ Ben said. ‘That’s what I’d do, cordon the area off. Let’s keep movin’, we might be able to get out before they can set it up.’

  They came out into a wider street and walked slowly along, pressed against the walls. Then the brick gave way to spiked iron railings, bushes behind and the dim sha
pes of trees. There was a gate with a sign on it. Natalia bent down close to read it. Hanwick Park. She looked along the road. A little way ahead was a tall, fuzzy rectangle of light which after a moment David realized was a telephone box. Natalia whispered, ‘Let’s go in the park, we can hide among the trees. And I can telephone our people, get someone to try and collect us.’

  ‘What about the roadblock?’ David asked. ‘They’d never get someone here in time, in this.’

  ‘There’s a plan for something like this.’

  ‘What? Shooting their way through?’

  ‘Maybe not.’ She gripped his hand. ‘I can’t tell you. In case we get caught first. Wait and you’ll see.’

  ‘Come on,’ Ben said. He took off his coat and laid it over the spiked railings. David did the same and he and Ben managed to climb over. Natalia walked away up the street, invisible almost at once. Inside the park, David saw the hazy light from the telephone box dim, saw a shape in there. His heart lurched; she was exposed, any police coming close could see her. It seemed an age before she came out again, disappearing at once into the murk. She reappeared at the side of the railings and they helped her over.

  ‘I got through,’ she said, a triumphant note in her voice. ‘They’re coming.’

  The three disappeared into the dripping vegetation of the park. They followed the inner side of the railings right round; it was small, an open lawned area in the middle. Then, at the far end, they saw flashing lights in the road, torch beams, the shapes of men walking to and fro. Peering through the railings, they made out a police car parked sideways to block the entrance of the road, its interior lights on. More cars were parked behind.

  ‘We almost walked into that,’ Ben whispered.

  Natalia said, ‘It’s all right. We have to wait now. They’ll come.’

  ‘How are they going to get through that?’ David asked despairingly. He thought again of the cyanide pills. They could die here, together, he and Natalia and Ben. He felt a rush of fear.