Anarchy

by Olivier Bosman

“What for? For being drunk and disorderly?”

  Billings frowned. “Why do you keep assuming he’s drunk?”

  “Because he’s Irish!”

  “Not all Irish are drunkards. In fact, I was wondering if you could let him have your spare room.”

  “My spare room?”

  “I’ll pay you for it.”

  “No.” Mrs Appleby shook her head resolutely. “Absolutely not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we don’t know him from Adam.”

  “I think we can trust him.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Billings, but I have to put my foot down. Bringing home a stray dog is one thing, but a drunken Irishman…”

  “He’s not drunk.”

  “Being a Quaker and wanting to help people is all very nice and well, but this man could be dangerous! He could murder us both in our beds!”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “We don’t know him, Mr Billings. I don’t feel safe with a stranger in my house.”

  “I was a stranger too, wasn’t I? When I first moved in. You felt safe with me.”

  “But you had references. You work at the Metropolitan Police Service.”

  “It’s just the spare room, Mrs Appleby. He won’t go anywhere else in the house. And when I leave the house, so will he. I promise, I will never leave him alone with you. And I’ll pay you for the room.”

  “Oh, Mr Billings, it’s not the money. You know it isn’t.”

  “I can’t send him back out on the street. His wound might become infected. He could end up dying.”

  They looked into the kitchen. Enoch had fallen asleep on his chair. He looked peaceful, and boyish, and vulnerable. And he could tell by the softening of his landlady’s face that she had noticed it too.

  “Oh, Mr Billings, there are hundreds of poor people sleeping on the streets in London. Why should you go out of your way for this one?”

  Billings was about to say, because I like this one, but stopped himself just in time. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Mrs Appleby. I promise. You’re my favourite person in the whole world.”

  “Oh, Mr Billings.” The landlady blushed. “Very well, then. He can stay until his wound heals. But I will lock away all my china and silverware. And I’ll be locking my bedroom door at night. I suggest you do the same.”

  4. The Railway Plot

  When Billings walked into the office the following morning, he found Flynt leaning against his desk, staring at him. He stopped in the doorway and nodded carefully. Something had to be amiss. Why else would Flynt be waiting for him?

  “We have another meeting with Inspector England in five minutes,” Flynt said. “But before we go, I want you to brief me on your progress.”

  “My progress?”

  “Did you visit all the members of the Autonomie Club yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. They know nothing.”

  Billings took off his hat and coat and hung them on the hatstand.

  “So you’ve made no progress at all?” Flynt asked.

  “Well, I do have some letters here, addressed to Joseph Hirsch.” He took the letters out of his coat pocket and waved them in the air. “They were sent to his boarding house, after he’d been kicked out. The landlord gave them to me to pass on to him when we find him.”

  “What do they say?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t opened them yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I need a warrant. I was going to apply for one this morning.”

  “For God’s sake, Billings! The Hirsch brothers are wanted for murder in France. Of course a magistrate will sign you a warrant.”

  “I know, but I need to have the warrant in my hand before I open the letters.”

  Flynt frowned. “What difference does it make whether you open the letters before or after you have the warrant? Nobody will know.”

  “I like to stick to procedure, sir. You know me. This sort of thing can come back and haunt you when the case comes to trial.”

  He went towards his desk, opened the drawer and stuck the letters in it. He looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s almost time for the meeting,” he said. “We’d better get moving.”

  Flynt frowned. He got off the desk and followed Billings towards the doorway. “I’ve always wanted to work in Special Branch,” he whispered into his colleague’s ear. “This is my chance to show them exactly what I’m made of. I’m warning you, I’m not going to let you ruin this for me.”

  “Why would I ruin it for you?”

  “We mustn’t be late,” he snapped, and brushing past Billings, he stormed out of the office.

  Billings, Clarkson, Flynt and England were sitting around the meeting table. Billings was briefing his colleagues about his progress.

  “We spent all day yesterday visiting the addresses listed on the register that the manager of the Autonomie Club gave to us. We spoke to all of them. They all deny knowledge of what happened to Issachar Hirsch.”

  “Are these all anarchists?” England asked.

  “Well, they’re all members of the Autonomie Club.”

  “Then they’re lying!” England took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “This is a closed group of immigrants. It is impossible that nobody knows what happened!” There was a tone of irritation in his voice. “I must say, the French certainly knew what they were doing when they outlawed anarchists. If only we could do the same here.”

  “I disagree,” Billings said.

  This was met by stunned silence. England put his glasses back on and looked at him, surprised at being talked back to. Flynt frowned and shook his head, warning Billings not to disagree with someone from Special Branch. But Billings was oblivious to the reactions he had provoked and continued speaking.

  “I think that it’s precisely because the French government is so strict that anarchism has flourished over there.”

  England snapped back, “And it’s precisely because the English government is too soft and scared to infringe on people’s freedoms that the anarchists are all coming over here!”

  Now it was Billings who was stunned into silence. Flynt rolled his eyes as if to say ’I told you so’.

  “This country is crawling with anarchists,” England continued. “It’s because we have no restrictions on immigrants. All they need to do is register their names when they get off the boat, then they disappear into the slums of the East End. That place has become a quagmire of thieves, murderers and conspirators. This country is a shambles!”

  A long pause followed this rant. Flynt, Clarkson and Billings shifted uncomfortably in their seats. England noticed his colleagues’ unease and pulled himself together. “I apologise if I sound ill tempered, but I have great cause to be irritated. My department has found a coded message in the announcements page of one of the anarchist periodicals we regularly peruse.” He took a folded newspaper page out of his breast pocket and laid it on the desk for the others to see. It read:

  “Let us ride the Met with a bang! Interested parties assemble on first day of the cradle at two sevens, by the old doors of Abraham’s house.”

  “What does it mean?” Flynt asked.

  “Well, the Met refers to the Metropolitan Railway. I think they’re plotting to bomb it.”

  Flynt, Billings and Clarkson looked up with horror.

  “Image the carnage this could cause,” England continued. “A bomb going off in such a crowded and confined space. I think the announcement is a call for fellow anarchists to meet and discuss the plot.”

  “What does the rest of it mean?” Flynt asked.

  “Well, the day of the cradle is probably the date at which the meeting will take place. And two sevens must be the time.”

  Billings thought about this. “Perhaps the first line refers to the first day of the half moon.” He made a quick mental calculation. “That’s next Monday.”

  “And the time?” England a
sked.

  “Two sevens is fourteen. That would be two o’clock.”

  “And the location?”

  “Well, Abraham’s house could refer to a synagogue. And the old doors…”

  “Aldgate!” England interrupted. “The great synagogue in Aldgate! A meeting is being organised in or around the great synagogue in Aldgate on Monday the 2nd of July to discuss bombing a Metropolitan Railway train.”

  “And you think the Hirsch brothers are behind this plot?” Billings asked.

  “I do,” England agreed. “And I want you to go to that meeting to confirm this.”

  “Me?” Billings looked at Clarkson and Flynt, who were as astonished by this announcement as he was. “Why me?”

  “You speak French, don’t you? And you’re not part of Special Branch. If the plotters are as organised as I think they are, they probably know everyone from Special Branch. But they won’t recognise you. You will go undercover. Infiltrate this terrorist cell and brief us on all that is discussed.” England rubbed his hands with delight. “What was your name again?”

  “Billings, sir. John Billings.”

  “Well, John Billings. This is excellent detective work you’ve carried out. We could certainly use someone like you at Special Branch.”

  Billings couldn’t resist the temptation to shoot Flynt a furtive glance. His boss was fuming in his chair.

  5. Two Dead Anarchists

  Billings sat on his bed, staring at mugshots of the Hirsch brothers. The pictures lay spread before him on the blanket. They were taken by the French police when all seven had been arrested for attending an illegal anarchist meeting. They had been passed on to Inspector England, who in turn gave them to Billings.

  The Hirsch brothers looked very similar. Long, white faces; big lips; thick, curly copper-coloured hair; bushy red beards. The best way to tell them apart was by their physiques. The four older brothers were short and stout, whereas the younger ones were tall and lean. Billings had already memorised their names and ages. Ruben, 42; Simeon, 40; Levi, 38; Judah, 36; Issachar, 26; Zebulun, 24; and Joseph, 22. They’d been named after the sons of Jacob – the ones born to him by his wives, as opposed to the ones born to him by his maids, which would have been inappropriate. Billings knew his bible, so he had no problems remembering the names and birth order.

  He was wearing a faded brown woollen suit. He’d been given this by the Special Branch’s disguise department. On his dresser lay a moth-eaten brown cap, which he would wear to the meeting instead of his usual derby. There was also a theatrical stick-on moustache. He had parted his hair in the middle instead of on the side, and he had painted his temples white. He had made up a whole history for his new identity. His name was Jeremiah Quick. He was a thirty-six-year-old unemployed clerk. He looked old for his age. All those years of being looked down upon, of being passed over for promotion, of struggling to pay the rent, had aged him. He lost his job at the bank last year because his supervisor smelled alcohol on his breath. He’d been struggling ever since to find himself a new job. Nobody wanted to employ a thirty-six-year-old man. If you’re unemployed at the age of thirty-six, it was believed, then there must be something wrong with you. It was this feeling of rejection; of having been used and cast away; this frustrating lack of possibilities to better himself that had led him to become an anarchist.

  He assembled the mugshots, got up from his bed and went towards the dresser. As he replaced the photographs in the drawer, he suddenly saw the pistol he had placed in it a couple of days ago. It was a Bulldog revolver. It had been given to him by Special Branch. England had instructed him to conceal the weapon on his body and to carry it with him to the meeting. It was to serve as security, in case he got found out.

  His heart began to pound in his chest. It had been a long time since he had fired a gun – the Metropolitan Police Service did not routinely arm its officers. For the first time since being given his new assignment, he wondered whether he was really up to the task. But he swiftly banished these doubts to the back of his mind, picked up the pistol and stuck it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  He looked in the mirror. Did he look different enough, he wondered. He did not know who was going to be at this meeting. What if it was attended by someone he knew? He picked up the theatrical moustache and stuck it above his lip. It was bushy and v-shaped. No fancy pencil stripe or curled tips for him. This was a working man’s moustache, the type grown by young men to make them look older. And Billings certainly did look older. He barely recognised himself. He puckered his lips and moved his mouth about. The moustache stayed put. He picked up his cap, placed it on his head and was about to leave the room when he bumped into Enoch on the landing.

  Enoch jumped and staggered backwards when he saw him.

  “It’s me,” Billings said, pulling the moustache off his face.

  Enoch stared at him with wide eyes. “John? What on earth…”

  “I’m off to work.” Billings stuck his moustache back on.

  Enoch put his hand to his heart and laughed. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You gave me a fright. I thought you were a policeman.”

  Enoch’s laughter made Billings smile. He hadn’t seen the Irishman laugh before. He looked so radiant. So boyish. “I’m not a policeman. I’m a police detective.”

  “Why are you dressed like that?”

  “So I can’t be recognised.”

  “You’re going to spy, aren’t you? Spy on a gang of criminals?”

  “Something like that.”

  There was a pause in the conversation.

  “Is that what you were doing in the Duke of Avondale?” Enoch’s voice was softer now, as if afraid that he might be overheard by the landlady.

  “What?”

  “The pub where I met you. You weren’t wearing a disguise then.”

  “No. No, I wasn’t working then. I just went there for a drink.”

  “It’s a bit out of your way, though, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “The Duke of Avondale. Surely there’s a more local pub you could’ve gone to.”

  “I was there for work. I’d just come out of my shift.”

  “I see. So you weren’t spying on people? You weren’t trying to entrap them?”

  “Entrap them?”

  “It’s not your average pub, you know. The Duke of Avondale.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Enoch smiled. “I think you and I both know that it isn’t.”

  Billings could feel himself begin to blush. “What were you doing on the landing?” he asked, eager to change the topic.

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “I wanted to thank you. For helping me out.”

  “You already thanked me for that.”

  “But I wanted to thank you properly.” He put his hands on Billings’ chest and softly started pushing him back into his room.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m pushing you back into your room.”

  “What for?”

  “Because I don’t want the landlady to see what I’m about to do next.”

  “What are you talking about?” Billings was nervous. His heart was pounding in his chest, but he allowed himself to be herded back into his room anyway.

  “So if you weren’t at the Duke of Avondale to entrap the punters,” Enoch said, shutting the door behind them, “I can only assume you were there to look for pleasure. Am I right?”

  Billings turned his gaze away from Enoch and towards the closed door. “I have to go,” he said.

  “You can spare a few minutes, can’t you?” You’ve been so kind to me, and I want to repay you.”

  “You don’t have to repay me.”

  “But I want to repay you.”

  He grabbed the back of Billings’ head and slowly moved his face in to kiss him. He closed his eyes and planted a kiss on the detective’s lips, but when Billings did not reciprocate, he opened his eyes again.

  “
What’s the matter?” Enoch suddenly looked unsure of himself. He let go of the detective’s head and took a few steps back. “I was right, wasn’t I? You did go there for pleasure, didn’t you?”

  Billings didn’t know what to say. The cockiness with which Enoch had greeted him had disappeared. He looked vulnerable now. Even a little scared. Billings knew that he should have reassured him. He should have kissed him and hugged him and let him know that he wasn’t mistaken. But he didn’t.

  “I have to go now,” he said. He brushed past Enoch and opened the door. “You should go too. I told Mrs Appleby that I wouldn’t leave her alone with you.” Cursing himself inwardly for his cowardice, he rushed down the stairs.

  As Billings walked towards the great synagogue, he saw a man sitting on the lower steps that surrounded the building. He had curly red hair and a bushy beard. It was definitely one of the Hirsch brothers, but which one? Billings kept a close eye on him as he approached. Suddenly the man looked up. He was tall and lean, and there was a fierce and fanatical look in his eyes. Could it be Joseph, Billings wondered. Joseph was the youngest brother. The one the French police believed to have been the mastermind behind the textile factory bombing.

  Billings arrived at the steps and nodded at the man. The man nodded back.

  “I came about the announcement in the…”

  The man put up his hand to stop Billings from talking. “Bist ir a bruder fun der grunt?” he asked.

  He was speaking Yiddish. He had asked Billings whether he was a brother of the cause.

  Billings nodded.

  The man then asked him whether he spoke Yiddish.

  Billings shook his head.

  The man took a watch out of his pocket and checked the time. “You’re the only one,” he said in English. He stood up. “Follow me.”

  Billings followed him to a tall, abandoned building in a narrow alleyway. The wooden door at the entrance hung loose on its hinges.

  “In here,” the man said, walking through the doorway.

  Billings looked up at the building. There was a large crack on the wall that ran from the second-storey window to the front door, and there was a gaping hole in the roof. The building wasn’t safe enough to enter, but he had no choice. He followed the man up the rickety stairs to the second floor.