by K. J. Frost
I think quickly. Okay, so she’s not in the services, but there aren’t that many uniformed personnel in here tonight for some reason, and those who are seem to be spoken for. Besides, there’s something about this young girl… Maybe it’s just that: she’s young.
I finish my pint and go over to her table, noticing that her glass is almost empty.
“Can I get you another?” I offer.
She looks up at me, startled.
“Oh… I should probably be going, thanks all the same,” she replies and goes to stand up.
“What’s the rush? It’s still early.” I’m not giving up that easily.
“My friend’s got a headache.” She nods towards the door. “I should go and make sure she’s alright. I wasn’t very nice to her just then.”
“I’m sure you didn’t mean it. And if she’s got a headache the best thing for her is a quiet lie down.” I smile. “One drink won’t hurt, will it?”
I notice her taking in my uniform and the discernible softening in her attitude.
“Well… I suppose I could just have one,” she says quietly, giving me a sweet smile.
“That’s the spirit.” I pick up her glass. “I’ll be right back.”
All the while I’m waiting at the bar, I watch her, making sure no-one else steps on my toes, but she’s still alone when I get back to her.
“One gin and tonic.” I put the glass down on the table and take a seat beside her. I had to guess at what she was drinking, but judging from the look on her face, I got it right. She raises her glass and I tip my pint towards her. “Cheers.”
She reciprocates, and takes a delicate sip of her drink. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
“You’re welcome.” I glance at the door. “So, your friend’s gone home, has she?” I ask, half fearing she might come back. I don’t need any interference… not now.
“Yes,” the girl says. “We probably shouldn’t have come in here tonight, what with her having such a bad headache, but the thing is, we were supposed to be celebrating my promotion at work, and she didn’t want to let me down.”
“I see.” I move a little closer to her. “And it’s not much fun celebrating by yourself, is it?”
“No.” Her voice is wistful.
I smile. “Well, you’re not by yourself anymore, are you?”
She smiles back. “No, I suppose not.”
“So, you got promoted?” I prompt.
“Yes. I’m not supposed to talk about what I do though.”
“Where do you work then?”
She hesitates. “I can’t say exactly, but I work at a factory in Kingston.”
I nod my head and try not to react. Kingston? That’s a bit close to home, given that I work there as well. Still, I suppose hundreds, if not thousands of others do too.
“And you can’t tell me anything about it?” I push, wanting to know more than ever now.
She shakes her head. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“You don’t think you can trust me then?” I ask, feigning a hurt expression.
“Oh no. I’m sure I can,” she replies, touching my arm.
I’m obviously not going to get anywhere pursuing that line, but her attitude to me has softened even more, out of guilt, I think. I place my hand over hers and give it a light squeeze. “Drink up then,” I urge. Now I’ve won her round, I’m starting to get impatient. She obliges, taking a larger sip of her gin and tonic, and smiling up at me.
By the time she’s finished her drink, she’s a little giggly.
“I think I’d better take you home, don’t you?” I say.
“Oh. Well, that’s very kind of you,” she replies. “That gin seems to have gone straight to my head. I should probably have eaten something before drinking so much, shouldn’t I?”
“Where do you live?” I ignore her question and stand up, offering her my hand.
“Beauchamp Road. Do you know it?”
“Yes, I know it.” I help her with her coat and, once she’s fastened it, I guide her to the front door. “What number?” I ask.
“There is no number,” she says, taking a deep breath as the fresh air hits her. “It’s just called Cavendish House.”
I know it very well. It’s an absolutely bloody enormous place. I’d planned to see if she’d invite me inside when we got to her home, but now I know where she lives, that’s highly unlikely. If she lives in that particular house, she must be living with her parents. Still, it doesn’t necessarily follow that they’re in. They could be out, or even away somewhere… I’ll have to try and find out.
I link our arms as we cross the street and lead her slowly down the road opposite, telling her about my time in ‘training’, about how I nearly crashed my plane more than once, and how lucky I was to walk away unscratched, after an altercation with a haystack in a farmer’s field while executing an enforced landing. The stories are all borrowed from George, of course, just like the uniform. She’s open-mouthed, in awe of my magnificent bravery, which is exactly the effect I’d been hoping to achieve.
We don’t have far to go and I need to make some kind of move before we get to her house. “You’re very beautiful,” I murmur, stopping when we’re about half way down the road. It’s particularly dark here and we’re shaded by some overhanging trees that still haven’t lost all of their leaves.
“Thank you.” She looks up at me, her voice betraying her shyness.
“No, thank you,” I say and at that moment, I can see in her eyes that I’ve got it right. If I’d tried to kiss her then, she’d probably have pushed me away. As it is, I’ve won her trust.
We start walking again and, before long, we come to Beauchamp Road and I can see the shadow of her house in the moonlight. The building is in darkness, but given the blackout, that doesn’t mean it’s unoccupied. I’ll need to be quiet. More to the point, I’ll need to keep her quiet.
“I’ve really enjoyed myself this evening,” I whisper as we go in through the open gate and walk up the wide driveway. “I—I don’t suppose I could come in out of the cold for a few minutes, could I?” I fake a stutter, pretending nervousness, but really wanting to know who else is at home.
She looks down at her feet. “I don’t think my mother would approve,” she replies. Damn… there’s a mother in residence. “And besides, there’s someone else…” Really? I didn’t expect that; not that it matters. Not now.
“You have a young man already?” I do my best to appear disappointed.
“Well, not as such. We were walking out, but… it’s a long story.”
“Perhaps we can meet again, and you can tell me all about it?” I suggest, just to keep the conversation going and get her closer to the house, away from the road and the possibility of being seen.
“Perhaps,” she replies, but I know she’s just being polite. Bitch.
“And in the meantime,” I add quickly, now we’re at the top of the driveway, “how about one little kiss?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, go on. One kiss can’t hurt.”
I don’t bother to wait for her to answer this time, but put my arms around her and lean down, covering her mouth with mine. She tries to pull back instantly, and when I don’t relent, she starts to struggle against me, her clenched fists pushing into my chest. I’m not having any of it and I break the kiss, replacing my mouth with my hand to keep her quiet. Her eyes widen in terror and she looks up at me and tries to shake her head as I drag her into the narrow passageway around the side of the house.
Twenty minutes or so later, breathing heavily, I look down at her lifeless body, propped up against the wall, a slow smile forming on my face. I take a last look, memorising the scene, then walk away, only remembering at the last minute to do up the buttons of my brother’s trousers.
*****
I close the door softly behind me and walk over to the Chief Superintendent’s desk, waiting for him to look up from the pile of papers in front of him.
“Sit down, Stone,”
he murmurs and I obey.
The chair is very low, which for someone of my height makes it particularly uncomfortable. I presume this is intentional. Not personal, but intentional – to make whoever is on this side of the desk feel in some way inferior to the superior being he or she is facing.
I glance around the office, which is larger than my own, two floors below, but much more impersonal. There are no pictures on the walls, or on the desk. There’s a small bookcase, filled with anonymous looking tomes of equal size and binding, and a cupboard, the doors of which are closed. Other than those two items of furniture, there’s just the desk and three chairs, two of which are occupied by myself and Chief Superintendent Dale. He looks like most people’s idea of a genial grandfather figure, with ruddy jowls, white hair and whiskers, and soft grey eyes. I know better than to be fooled by appearances though. He’s a man of steel and I’ve been on the wrong end of his temper more than once, most recently just two weeks ago, when I sat in exactly the same position and he told me to stop writing letters about enlisting, and leaving them on his desk, before tearing it up and consigning it to the wastebasket.
I’m aware that the sound of a pen scratching over paper has ceased and I focus on the man in front of me.
“Stone,” he says, leaning back in his chair and appraising me. I’m sure he finds me wanting in some way, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.
“Sir?” I sit forward slightly, just because I feel like it gives me a little more height.
He reaches over to one side of his desk and picks up a single sheet of paper, putting it down in front of him, but not looking at it.
“This,” he says, tapping the page with his forefinger.
“Sir?” I repeat, pleading a not entirely justified ignorance.
“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s got to stop.”
I stare at him this time, tempted to ask why, but aware that insubordination rarely gets me anywhere. I should know. I’ve tried it many times before.
“You’re an inspector in the Metropolitan police force,” he continues, once it becomes clear I’m not going to say anything.
“Yes.” I am aware of my own rank.
“One of the youngest we’ve had,” he adds.
“I know.”
He sighs and rests his elbows on the desk, looking hard at me. “So why do you keep persisting with this?”
I’m on the verge of telling him that it’s all in the letter; that I wrote a longer missive this time, because my previous, more concise attempts had fallen on deaf ears. However, I reason that he’s presumably read it for himself, and evidently failed to understand it, so perhaps I’d better explain, in the most simple terms I can manage. “Because there’s a war on, sir. I want to be allowed to enlist, like just about every other man in the country… including my own sergeant.” It still annoys me that Fielding was given permission three weeks ago to join up, and in doing so, has left me in the lurch, but that my repeated attempts to gain the same consent meet a brick wall – every single time.
“That’s because the government have imposed new restrictions on the number of men we can release. We’ve already lost too many reservists. And besides, we have a lot more young sergeants and constables available to send,” Dale points out. “What we don’t have in such great numbers are the senior men, like yourself, who can fill the higher ranks. Put simply, Stone, we can’t afford to lose you. You should feel flattered.”
I don’t reply, simply because I can’t think of anything polite to say.
Dale huffs out another sigh. “Do you think I don’t feel just as frustrated as you?” He raises his voice. “I very much doubt there’s a man in this building who doesn’t want to serve his country, but sometimes ‘service’ means staying at home and keeping the peace.”
He’s never spoken with such emotion before, not to me anyway, and I feel a little mollified by his outburst… but only a little.
“I value your work, Stone,” Dale continues, his voice softening. “If you can just keep your head down and get on with doing your job, you could soon be occupying my seat, or even one in a much more exalted position.” He gives me a smile, which I can’t return. The very last thing I want is to do his job, or anything like it. The thought of being chained to a desk, having my thought processes stifled by convention, telling other men how to do a job that used to be mine, is abhorrent. I’m ambitious, but only up to a certain point and I have no interest in going beyond that.
“The war’s six weeks old,” Dale says, leaning back again, holding the letter between the forefinger and thumb of his left hand. “And this is the fourth of these requests you’ve put in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want it to be the last,” he adds. “I explained this when we spoke two weeks ago… I don’t have time for this, and neither do you. My answer isn’t going to change.”
“Sir.”
“I mean it, Stone.”
“Yes, sir.”
He drops the letter down beside his desk and I know it’s hitting his waste paper basket, joining the previous three which he’s already rejected in similar fashion.
“I’m sure you’ve got plenty to be getting along with.” He sits forward and picks up his pen, then nods towards the door, dismissing me.
Back in my own office, I slump into my significantly more comfortable chair and lean back, staring at the yellowed ceiling. Part of me says I should heed Dale’s warning and stop my continuous requests for permission to enlist, but the frustration of not being allowed to ‘do my bit’ is wearing me down. As Dale has just pointed out, we’re six weeks into a war which, if the last one is anything to go by, could last for years. God, what an awful prospect. But what is worse is the thought of spending those years resting on my laurels while other men fight to keep our country safe. I fish around in my jacket pocket and pull out a half empty packet of Player’s, taking one and throwing the remainder on the desk. I use the lighter which I keep in the other pocket to light the cigarette and, taking a long drag, I place it in the ashtray and sit back, looking out of the window beside my desk.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I want to leave the police force. I like my job and I’d like to know that, if I did enlist, and I made it through, I’d have the opportunity to return here afterwards, because the last six years at Scotland Yard have probably been the most fulfilling of my life. That said, they didn’t have much to live up to; the previous twenty-six years were hardly a beacon of shining personal achievements. Okay, so once I’d joined the force, I rose through the ranks fairly quickly, but it was at a pretty substantial personal cost – a cost that forced me to move up to London in the first place. I often find myself wondering if I should have done things differently; if I should have prioritised personal life over professional, but then there’s no point in looking back and wondering ‘what if’, is there?
Chapter Three
I’m sitting in the kitchen, wearing my pale blue pyjamas and warm red check dressing gown, waiting for the kettle to boil. I can’t help but think about the girl’s body, lying against the wall and feel myself becoming aroused as I recall the struggle she put up when I forced myself inside her. I smile… She was a virgin, which I suppose wasn’t that surprising, given her age, but it added a certain frisson to the occasion from my perspective. My smile widens as I remember the pain in her eyes, momentarily replacing her fear, and her smothered cry, and the power I felt surge through me at that moment.
This is no good for me, though. I need to concentrate, not daydream, no matter how pleasurable the memories. I try to clear my mind and run through the events after I left her, to make sure I didn’t miss anything. I walked home at a fairly quick pace, taking care not to run, just in case anyone heard my footsteps at such a late hour and was alerted by them. As soon as I was back in the safety of my own bedroom, I undressed, switching on the light to check the uniform for any tell-tale signs of my evening’s activities. I couldn’t be sure whether she’d bled or not, and needed to make
certain there were no marks on the fabric to give me away. I sat on the bed, studying every inch of the front of the trousers through my magnifying glass, which I keep in my bedside cabinet, breathing out a very long sigh of relief when I found them to be spotless. I then folded George’s uniform and, putting on my pyjamas, crept along the landing and replaced it in his room.
The whistling kettle makes me jump, bringing me back to my senses, and I get up, lifting it from the gas and pouring hot water over the dusty tea leaves, before putting the lid on the pot, covering it with Mother’s disgusting tea cosy and fetching the teacups and saucers from the cupboard, putting them on the table in front of me.
I sit again. Of course, I thought about moving the body, rather than leaving it in the passage beside the house like that, so obvious and easy to find, but I realised that moving her might make more noise, and that was the last thing I needed. In any case, I have to admit, there was something rather satisfying about leaving her there like that, unashamedly marking my territory.
And it is my territory… or it will be.
*****
The sound of a horn tooting outside the window makes me start and I sit forward again, noticing that my cigarette has burned away to a long line of ash. I let out a sigh. This is a common occurrence for me and happens with monotonous regularity. I buy packet after packet of cigarettes, light them, have one puff, put them on the ashtray and promptly forget all about them. The problem is that I never smoke when I’m out, so unless I take advantage of these moments at my desk, I don’t actually get to enjoy the satisfaction and solitude of a quiet cigarette. Even the ones I light at home tend to get forgotten, because something crops up, or my mind drifts off. It’s just a waste of time. A bit like my attempts to enlist really.
I pull another cigarette from the packet and light up again.
“This time, I’m actually going to smoke it,” I say to myself, keeping it balanced between my first and middle fingers, rather than letting it turn to nothing in the ashtray.
