The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  ‘He didn’t say how the water was going to get out of my lungs?’ Colin whispered.

  ‘Time, Colin, time. I’ll come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk more then. Why don’t you write your mam a letter, let her know you’re OK?’

  Colin nodded, relieved someone was looking out for him, relieved he didn’t have to be a grown-up, just yet.

  THE MISSION

  Phil Williams jiggled his knee, his foot tapping out its own tempo. Cigarette smoke threatened to envelope them all. The smoke was better than the fog outside, which was winding its way around the propellers and the engineers scurrying like ants prepping the planes for the night’s run.

  ‘Come on, Williams, you’re not nervous about going up tonight, are you?’ A meaty hand was slapped down on Phil’s leg, putting a sudden stop to his involuntary jiggling.

  ‘I’m as nervous as you will be when you finally get a girl to agree to hop into bed with you,’ he rejoined, with mock bravado.

  His comment was greeted with gales of laughter from those close enough to hear. The banter was an integral part of relieving the palpable tension in the room. One of the Polish pilots had to have it quickly interpreted for him, before he too chuckled with the rest. ‘Hopping’ into bed hadn’t translated well.

  The men in the group were as close as brothers, yet there was a certain detachment between them too. An invisible barrier between the old and the new; the British and the foreigners. True, they were on the same side, fighting the same fight, but it just ‘didn’t do’ to get too attached to the new lads.

  ‘Five minutes, men,’ the Adjutant announced, fiddling with his watch strap. The energy in the room lifted, electric anticipation flashed across the faces of a generation. A decimated generation – one which would leave behind it widows, spinsters, and heartbroken mothers.

  Cigarettes were stubbed out, maps folded up and shoved deep into pockets. Friends acknowledged each other, their young eyes flicking away before fear engulfed them, before they froze to their seats.

  With the briefing room door opened, the pilots strode to their aircraft, running their hands over wings, checking props, and one by one the engines roared into life. Ground crew pulled away simply hewn wooden chocks from the wheels, and each aircraft rocked slightly, eager to escape. Adrenaline trumped fear, and each pilot focused on the task at hand. Germany.

  Taxiing down the barely lit runway, concentrating on staying between the lines, Phil gave no thought to Elizabeth. No thought that tonight might be the night they draft a telegram to her advising of his demise. To think of that would be madness.

  With all the planes in the air, in a tight formation, he was reminded of his childhood, when he and his gang would hurtle as a group to the river, racing ahead on their bikes, jostling to be the first one there, to get to the rope swing, to be the bravest, swinging over the unfathomable river, unfathomable to a group of eight-year-olds, where every river is a raging torrent. The difference was that tonight, only the mad among them wanted to be first.

  The fog embraced each aircraft, rendering them ghost-like over the cliffs of England, like wraiths in the night, come to spirit you to your death. The low drone of the aircraft, the moaning of a hundred souls in purgatory.

  The tightness in his neck intensified. He tried shaking it off, but the unease had settled, much like the fog. He checked his instruments again: altimeter; air speed indicator; artificial horizon; Each check was as natural as breathing. The instruments all presented as they should. His left companion, a dark smudge, the regulation distance away. Straight and level. His right-hand side companion a dash too close but, as he checked, the pilot made the tiniest correction, and settled where he should. Like an astronomer’s star chart, each plane a dot in the sky, equidistant from each other, in their right places, ready for action when the call was given.

  Static-toned voices filled his headset. Calm and measured. Nothing amiss. Why, then, do I feel dread seeping in through the canopy, wrapping itself round me, constricting my lungs? My heart?

  The command was given, ‘Half a minute, lads.’

  Phil shifted in his seat – he could see nothing in front and nothing behind.

  Another command, ‘Reduce altitude.’

  Calmly, Phil pushed forward on the throttle, the nose of the aircraft dipping down, the sound of the plane subtly changing. Measuring off against those on his wingtips, he levelled out. He could no longer see the plane in front of him, but at this stage of the flight, it was entirely probable he’d pulled ahead – especially as it was old ‘Kiwi’ Parker, the New Zealand chap, who’d waltz straight into Hitler’s house at supper if he ever got the chance.

  They were over France now, an inky black land filled with legions of Germans – a population subjugated , with one hand in the pocket of the Brits, and the other in Hitler’s. And they were not alone.

  The blackness below hit lit up like Chinese New Year. Arcs of light raced towards him. He peeled off to his left, hoping like hell the Pole on his left was doing the same thing. Like a waltz, the two of them danced in the sky away from the shots ringing through their formation. He had no time to look for Kiwi, or Mitchell Brady, his wingman on his right-hand side. Craning his tight neck, he swivelled his head like an owl trying to pinpoint the source. They were only here as an escort, had to get the bombers through.

  Crazed radio calls assaulted his ears. Bloody hell. ‘Someone tell me where they are?’ he yelled, slipping in behind Kiwi, the two of them forming a shield on the tail of the bomber they were escorting.

  ‘They’ve gone right, gone right,’ came back the frenzied cry – from whom, he had no idea.

  ‘Let’s go under and right,’ radioed Kiwi to Phil. Phil clicked his mic in response, his head still craning to see any enemy aircraft.

  Arcs of light lit up the sky to his right, and he dipped down, executing a perfect wingover as they peeled off to their right.

  Phil’s whole plane shuddered in shock, as strafing bullets decorated his metal tail. He tried his rudder, free and easy movement, but for how long?

  ‘Can anyone see my tail?’ he transmitted. His voice calm, matter-of-fact.

  No answer. Nothing to be done but to carry on. He’d know soon enough if the shots had done enough damage to take him down.

  ‘On your right, Phil, three o’clock,’ Kiwi’s long vowels distinguishing him from the rest of the men in his squadron, his rolling ‘R’s symbolising the calm country life he hailed from.

  Every fibre screamed at him to get out of there, to look after number one, but no, the mission was to protect the bomber – the bomber had to get through with its payload.

  The plane shuddered again, as he took another hit. Whoever was behind him must have been off his aim, given his plane was still functioning, albeit sluggishly.

  Tracking the plane at his three o’clock, he manoeuvred his craft directly behind the German Focke-Wulf Fw 190.

  Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.

  His finger hesitated on the controls, before pressing the fire button one more time, for luck.

  The Focke-Wulf seemed to pause in mid-air, then it gave up, plummeting towards the scarred earth.

  Phil looked for Kiwi, swivelling his head, when, from the edge of his peripheral vision, he saw another Focke-Wulf.

  Hells bells, I’m hit!

  He banked away, his tail gone. His geographical knowledge of this area was sketchy. He was near Wittes, so nowhere near anywhere. He couldn’t see Kiwi, or anyone else from his squadron. His height dropped two thousand feet, down to six thousand, then even further. He tried to level out, and heaved the nose up, slowing his descent. With the engine signalling its last gasp of life, it finally stalled.

  As a teenager, long family summers in Yorkshire had been made bearable by joining the Yorkshire Gliding Club. And it was those long-ago skills he now called upon.

  Forgetting those above him, he concentrated on landing, his rudder virtually non-existent, the ailerons heavy now. The elevators needed surgical pre
cision, they were overly sensitive, a constant complaint of the Spit pilots. It was all he could do to hold it steady.

  The rambling countryside flew up towards him. Fields stained by war.

  He ploughed into the ground.

  THE SAMPLER

  ‘I’ve finally got that old biddy to give us the details of the donor of the other sampler. Matching the one Sarah Lester put up for auction at Christie’s.’ Tania Foster bounced on her feet, a smile spread from one ear to the other.

  ‘I’m still not sure how you think it’s going to help ...’ Fuji started saying, before Tania interrupted enthusiastically, spluttering out her words in her haste to reveal her thoughts. He held up a hand. ‘But, as I was about to say, you’ve followed this through, so tell me what you’ve got.’

  ‘The original sampler, the one from Lester, we don’t have a provenance for that. But this second one, the one the experts say was done by the same person, does finally have a provenance ...’

  ‘You just like saying that word, don’t you?’ Fuji interrupted, his eyes crinkling even further at his own joke.

  ‘Stop it, Fuji, this is serious. The second one came from a woman who took it from her own wall at home. She’s a spinster ...’

  ‘God, do woman even call themselves that any more?’ Fiona interrupted, nursing a coffee at the other desk.

  ‘This one does. Now, can you two stop interrupting me?’ Her smile faltered a little as she rechecked her notebook. A quick scan of the notes, and her smile returned, ‘So, she took it off the wall, where it’s been hanging all her life. She was born in the house, and her mother, who’s dead now, of course, told her that one of her ancestor’s, some great-great-something grandmother had embroidered it when she was small.’ She slapped her notebook shut, with a finality Fuji was about to question.

  ‘Right, so we have a piece of fabric embroidered by an unknown grandmother, which randomly matches another piece of fabric an antique dealer sent off to auction, prior to disappearing, then reappearing, before she disappeared again, after somehow being connected with, not just one, but two, murders. And that helps us how?’ Fuji’s hair stood on end, as his hands raked through it. This case would leave him with no hair by the end, he was sure.

  ‘No, I’ve got all the names. The donor, her mother, and all the grandmothers’ names – both maiden and married names. Fortunately, the donor is a bit of a genealogy freak ...’

  ‘A spinster and a freak. I’m going to need more coffee to process this.’ Fiona threw over her shoulder as she loafed off to the canteen.

  ‘I give up, seriously.’ Tania sat down, stroking her notebook, as if reassuring it that she believed it.

  ‘It’s fine, Tania, keep talking me through it, I’ll draw up the links. I think we’re all frustrated here. Start with the donor.’ Fuji walked over to the cluttered board. Nothing new had been added in the past few days, and his whole stance explained his feelings about the case.

  ‘The donor’s name is Miss Barbara Woodly. That’s her maiden name. She’s never married. She’s in her very late eighties now, and donated the sampler because she’d got no family to leave it to, and wanted it to go to a good home instead of the tip when she finally dies. She was afraid whoever came in to tidy up her estate wouldn’t realise its age ...’

  ‘Uh huh,’ Fuji jotted it up, his back to her, wincing at the extraneous information Tania was sending his way. She was a talker, but she had a way with witnesses, so it was something he put up with. It just took her such a long time to impart the critical pieces of information.

  ‘Right then, her mother, who’s dead – she died in nineteen seventy-five – her married name was Kathleen Woodly, maiden name York. Her mother’s married name was Betsy York, maiden name Williams, Rebecca Jane Williams. But everyone called her Betsy. She showed me her family photos, and they’re all labelled Betsy, but the birth certificates are all for Rebecca Williams. Initially I thought that’s our R. J. Williams, but the dates don’t work. But she had this whole chart tracking back the paternal side of the family, and, if you go back about five or six great-grandfathers, there was another R. J. Williams – also Rebecca Jane Williams – that’s the R. J. Williams who embroidered the sampler. The census records her occupation as “Companion”. It’s amazing the information she had in her files. She’d make a great investigator!’ Triumphantly she closed her notebook again, her smile the brightest thing in the room.

  Fujimoto had stopped writing the names up on the board as soon as he realised there wasn’t wall space, let alone whiteboard space, for the sampler’s family tree. Massaging his temples, leaving black whiteboard marker smears, he finally asked the question troubling him. ‘Tania, it’s great that you followed this through, but I just can’t see how this helps us? I’m looking at the names and can’t see any link?’

  ‘Oh ... oh, hang on,’ she flipped open her notebook, her eyes scanning at supersonic speed. The census says Rebecca Jane Williams was a “companion”. I had no idea who she was a companion for, but then Barbara showed me a really, really old bible, with an inscription in it – wait for it, you’ll love this ...’

  Fuji sat down, resigned to Tania stringing it out, unintentionally – it was just her way.

  ‘The bible inscription said, “Dear Betsy, in appreciation of your companionship. Kindest regards, Edith Grey, Grey Manor, Grosvenor Square.” See! Grey – Edith Grey. She’s related to Richard Grey, some great-great-great-grandmother, I don’t know how many greats, but a ton of them.’

  ‘This is weirder and weirder. I don’t even know how this fits with everything that’s happened. Does Grey know about his ancestor’s samplers?’

  Tania smiled evilly, ‘Why would we tell him? He’s about to be convicted for murder?’

  Fujimoto circled the names Edith and Richard Grey with a red marker, linking them with a snaking red line.

  ‘I’d be interested to see what happens after we tell him. Let’s play with this a bit.’

  Fiona put her hand up, waving it around like a schoolgirl, ‘Let me, I’ll tell him,’ she winked at Tania.

  ‘You can tell his solicitor, but I want his phone calls monitored from the moment you do. I know Grey’s on a curfew, or whatever bail conditions he’s on, but I still want actual eyes on him. What will he do with this information? He’s already killed one man over a knife, and not for financial reasons, which is what worries me.’

  Instructions given, the room hummed with activity, phone calls, computers, the whirr of printers, and excited conversations all competed for precedence. Fuji could feel his pressure headache receding for the first time in weeks. He knew in his gut that this seemingly insignificant scrap of eons-old information was the key. Yes, it all linked back to that damn shop, but the link to Grey was the breakthrough he’d hoped for.

  THE FIGHT

  Pinned to the seat by a pair of meaty hands, Wiremu could do nothing but struggle ineffectually. He turned to see who was holding him, to be met with the cold eyes of Joe Jowl.

  ‘Hello, old friend. You like drinking in a bar? What a coincidence you chose this one – it’s mine. I’ve been meaning to catch up with you for some time now, so this is very convenient.’

  Wiremu squirmed, the crisp notes in his hand suddenly feeling heavier than lead. Not good. Not good at all.

  ‘I didn’t know it was your bar, sorry. Look, I was just leaving ...’

  ‘Leaving, were you? I hope you were planning on settling your bill before you left?’

  ‘The drinks have already been paid for ...’

  ‘Oh, these drinks have been paid for, yes, that’s true, but it’s not this bill that I was referring to.’ Joe sat down next to Wiremu, his considerable bulk filling the space.

  Wiremu tried surreptitiously to shove the handful of notes into his trouser pocket. The movement did not go unnoticed.

  ‘I have no other debt with you and, as I said, I was just leaving.’ He made to get up.

  Jowl reached out, clasping the smaller man firmly on his
arm, digging his fingers in painfully, dragging the Maori back down into his seat.

  ‘See the thing is, Mister Kepa – oh yes, I know who you are. I’ve heard all about you. Probably know more about you than your mother does. See, the thing is, you interfered with my family business, and the Jowl brothers don’t take kindly to others interfering in our business. We’re good churchgoing folk, and we abide by the word of Lord Jesus our Saviour, but we also need money to live, to follow the word of God, you might like to say. And when you owe the Jowl brothers, you have to pay the debt. You, sir, are well overdue on paying what you owe us.’

  Wiremu looked around the bar, trying to catch the eye of anyone who looked willing to intervene. Curiously, no one would catch his eye. It seemed that since Jowl had sat at his table, most of the other patrons had decided they had things to do elsewhere. The room was almost empty.

  No one was going to help the native. He was on his own. Resigned to his fate, Wiremu replied, ‘Fine. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘You owe me for the bottles of liquor which smashed, a couple of shillings ought to cover that.’

  Wiremu visibly exhaled in relief. A couple of shillings was fine – he still had enough for the trip down country. He thrust his hand back into his pocket, and pulled out two shillings.

  Joe changed his grip to Wiremu’s wrist, ‘I said a couple of shillings would cover the bottles which were broke, but that won’t cover the loss of the girl.’

  Wiremu frowned, ‘What girl?’

  ‘Don’t play the smart-arse with me. You know exactly which girl. The one you helped escape. You’re probably shacked up with her now. You native boys are all the same, can’t keep your hands off the white women. You want her, you have to pay for her. And given how much money I know you have, probably best you pay off her debt to me as well. She owes me for a bottle of gin, and her lodgings. So make it easy for yourself, and just put your little black hand back into your pocket and pull out all the dosh that fancy man gave you before. Maybe then you’ll be able to move on, but not with that mill of yours, I suspect ...’