Beware This Boy Page 19

  He steeled himself, went inside, and lit the lamp, keeping the wick low. The air inside the shelter was stale, damp, with a hint of something else that he didn’t want to acknowledge. He pulled aside the green curtain. The smell was stronger here and he almost gagged on it. He moved aside the stack of blankets. There was the body now, already stiffened with rigor mortis. He’d folded her up and she’d stayed in that position, so she looked tiny and almost childlike now. He dragged her out, rolled her in one of the blankets, and picked her up. She was too stiff to put on his shoulders, so he had to hold her as if she were indeed a child. A child he was carrying to bed, perhaps, the way his mum had carried him when he was little. He couldn’t remember his dad doing it. He kicked the remaining blankets into place as best he could, blew out the light, went into the passageway of the shelter, and pushed open the door.

  The inner commentary started up again. He thought for a minute he was speaking out loud but he wasn’t sure. No point in crying over spilt milk. Get her buried. Nobody will ever know and you can get on with things. Soldiers have to keep going no matter what they’ve done.

  He headed for the bombed-out house where he’d first holed up. The streets were completely deserted, the houses dark, but he found he had no trouble seeing where he was going.

  If you try to shrink into the shadows or if you act like you’ve got something to hide, you’ll draw suspicion. Shoulders back, brisk walk, march like a soldier.

  His burden felt light. Her foot was sticking out from the blanket. She had lost her shoe somewhere. Where? God, it didn’t matter. Nobody would be looking for it. He turned the corner and into Dorset Row. So far, so good. There was the Cowan house. Everywhere around him was quiet as the grave. He struggled over the rubble that was in front of the door and got inside. Once in the hall, he gently lowered the body to the floor and pushed it against the wall. Should he hide it any more than that? The wall had been loosened by the blast and was leaning in at an angle. One good shove would bring it down. He did just that, and in a cloud of dust the wall collapsed, partially covering the body.

  Not a good move, Brian. What if somebody heard?

  This time he did speak out loud, answering himself. “Walls are always collapsing after a raid. Besides, there’s nobody left on the street.”

  He scrabbled with the rubble and completed the job. Mrs. Swann was quite hidden.

  He stepped back. Maybe you should say a prayer for her.

  “What sort of prayer?”

  The Catholics say, “May God have mercy on your soul.” Say that at least.

  “All right.”

  Buck up, Brian. It’s all done now. You’d better get back before anybody misses you.

  He slipped out into the darkness.

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 27

  WHEN EILEEN ARRIVED AT THE FACTORY, SHE FOUND Mr. Cudmore waiting for her in front of the clinic.

  “Miss Abbott, Mr. Endicott has come in today and Mr. Kaplan has persuaded him to take part in the film he’s putting together. Mr. Kaplan suggested a good location to start might be here in the clinic.” He allowed himself a little smile. “Mr. Endicott is not quite comfortable being photographed and we thought something on the active side might help him relax.”

  “Good heavens. What do you mean, active?”

  Before the secretary had a chance to elaborate, Lev Kaplan appeared carrying a heavy-looking camera on his shoulder.

  “Good morning, Miss Abbott. Ready for stardom?”

  “Perpetually. Do come in.”

  Endicott was trailing behind with obvious reluctance. She ushered them into the waiting room.

  “I’ll just take this opportunity to check in with the inspector,” said Cudmore, and he disappeared.

  Lev grinned at Eileen. “Thank you for giving us your time, Miss Abbott. We won’t take long.” He started to set up his tripod. “I thought I’d do a pan of the waiting room first. It’s so cozy.”

  Eileen felt almost sorry for Endicott, who was fidgeting with his tie like a schoolboy on a first date. “Yes, very nice, very nice,” he muttered.

  “Now then, Sister,” said Lev. “Pretend Mr. Endicott has just come in. Open and close the door. Good. Start talking. We’ll do a voice-over later, so don’t worry about what you say. Just be as natural as you can. Good. Go into the surgery and show him the equipment. Smile. Talk it up.”

  Eileen produced a smile and Endicott grimaced fiercely with what she presumed was his equivalent. In fact, his awkwardness brought out her professional side. She was used to men who collapsed into shyness in the presence of a nurse.

  “Miss Abbott, perhaps you can demonstrate how you handle blood donations,” Lev called out. “Mr. Endicott, would you just lie on the bed for a moment?”

  “Do I have to?” asked the other man, and he twisted his moustache frantically. “I wasn’t expecting to be donating today.”

  “Think of it as a contribution to the war effort. It won’t hurt. I can guarantee Miss Abbott is very gentle.”

  Endicott climbed reluctantly onto the cot.

  “Yes, that’s it. Now cover him over with your pretty quilt, Miss Abbott. Good. Nice smile, now. That always does wonders.”

  Eileen patted Endicott’s arm. “Will you remove your jacket, sir. Now roll up your sleeve. I’ll just take your blood pressure first.” She tightened the cuff around Endicott’s arm and pumped up the pressure.

  “Hmm, 170 over 95. Rather high.”

  For the first time Endicott became engaged in the process. “What does that mean?”

  “I suggest you check with your GP. He will probably recommend a regimen of diet and exercise for you. You might have to cut out any alcohol.”

  “Oh dear, do you really think so?”

  “It isn’t something to be ignored, sir. However, one reading isn’t conclusive. The circumstances might have elevated your pressure. A lot of men react in a similar fashion.”

  “That’s nice,” said Lev. “Very nice. Mr. Endicott, perhaps you wouldn’t mind lying back again and we can do a repeat.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t donate blood today, Sister,” said Endicott as he lay back.

  “Miss Abbott, will you stroke his head, soothe him – do something comforting. Mr. Endicott, you can smile up at her appreciatively.”

  Eileen’s encounters with Charles Endicott had been minimal. He was the factory owner, she his employee. She wanted to tell Lev he was being too American again. Take his blood pressure, all right, but stroke his forehead? No, thank you. However, before she could do anything one way or the other, they heard loud screams and cries from outside the clinic.

  The door burst open and Cudmore rushed in.

  “Sister, Sister, come quick. There’s been an accident on the floor. One of the girls has been scalped.”

  Tyler and Eagleton had just arrived at the factory when they heard the screams. They ran through the lobby and shoved open the doors to the factory floor. One of the women was half sitting, half lying in front of her machine with her hands to her head. Blood was streaming through her fingers and had already soaked the front of her overalls. She was sobbing and moaning. A small group of workers was hovering nearby, clutching at each other, unable to look away but terrified by what they saw.

  Tyler could see Miss Abbott kneeling beside the injured girl, the top of whose head was a red, jellied mess.

  Eileen bent over. “Francine. Francine. Let me have a look. Take your hands away.”

  The girl hardly seemed to hear her. She was uttering loud, frightened cries.

  Tyler crouched down as well. “Come on, lass. Let the nurse have a look.”

  Francine’s sobs subsided slightly, but when she removed her hands and saw the amount of blood on them she let out a high-pitched wail.

  Tyler nodded at his constable, who went over to the other women.

  “Come on, ladies, step back if you please.”

  They shuffled away a few feet. Tyler saw several of the women from the canteen among them. The photograp
her was standing nearby, not intervening, apparently waiting to be called upon if necessary.

  Eileen had a medicine bag beside her from which she took a sterile dressing. She unwrapped it and placed it on the girl’s head. Almost immediately the cotton turned scarlet.

  “Do you want me to hold it in place?” Tyler asked.

  Eileen nodded. “Now, Francine,” she said to the girl. “Scalp wounds always bleed a lot, so this seems much worse than it is. You’ll be all right when we get you stitched up.” She looked over her shoulder. “Mr. Cudmore, will you go and telephone for an ambulance.”

  The secretary hurried off to do her bidding and Eileen slipped her arm around Francine’s shoulders.

  “We’re going to get you to sit up on the bench, Frankie. You’ll be more comfortable … I’ll need your help, Inspector.”

  Kaplan stepped forward. “We’ll do that. You keep pressure on the pad.”

  “All right. You take her under the hips. Inspector Tyler, get her shoulders. On the count of three swing her onto the bench, gently as you can. One … two … three.”

  They got Francine up and sitting. Without being asked, Kaplan took another pad from the medical bag and handed it to Eileen, who replaced the sodden one. Tyler heard a whimper from one of the other girls but it was quickly suppressed.

  The nurse addressed Pat O’Callaghan. “Go to the clinic. Bring me the packet of ice that’s in the refrigerator. And a pillow and a blanket.”

  Pat took off.

  Francine’s face was grey-white. Tyler could see her eyes were starting to roll up in her head.

  Eileen spoke firmly. “Francine, sit up straight, there’s a girl. I’m going to put a bandage on to keep the dressing in place. Do you think you can hold your head up while I do so?”

  “I’ll help her, Sister.”

  Tyler was rather surprised to see it was Mary Ringwald-Brown stepping forward. She came over, grasped Francine by the chin to hold her steady with one hand, and pushed down on the pad with the other. Eileen took a triangular bandage from the bag.

  In spite of the pressure Mary was putting on the wound, the amount of blood still flowing was horrific. Eileen started to wrap the pad in place.

  Cudmore came hurrying back, Pat at his heels. “The ambulance will be here right away, Sister.”

  Pat handed over the ice pack and Mary held it on top of the bandage.

  Eileen took a long syringe from the bag, which she thrust through the seal of a small ampoule.

  “Pat, roll up her sleeve for me … Francine, make a fist, there’s a good girl.” She plunged the needle into the swelling vein. Francine yelped – there had been no time for finesse. Fortunately the tranquilizer was fast-acting, and within moments she became quieter, although her body continued to shudder like a motor car running out of petrol.

  Eileen covered her with the blanket and propped a pillow behind her head.

  “What happened?” Tyler asked.

  “Apparently her hair got entangled in the wheel of her lathe.”

  At that moment the scream of the air-raid warning siren tore through the room. Tyler had heard it only once before, when Whitchurch had run a practice. It was a horrible sound, the rise and fall of the wailing like some strange animal in agony.

  Eileen straightened up. “Oh God, that’s all we need.” She addressed the girls. “All right everybody, to the shelters. Hurry.”

  “What about Frankie?” Mary asked.

  “We’ll be fine here. I don’t want her moved.”

  “I’ll stay,” said Pat.

  “No, you won’t. We’ll be all right. Get out of here.”

  The siren continued to wail.

  Eagleton had already got the group mobilized. “Everybody to the shelters. Come on, hurry.”

  They had been well drilled and began to move to the exit.

  “Pat, Mary, get going,” commanded Eileen.

  Reluctantly Pat obeyed. Mary followed. Her hands were stained with Francine’s blood and she was wiping them, unheeding, on her overalls.

  “Good heavens, I’d better check on Mr. Endicott,” said Cudmore.

  “Speaking of which, where is he?” Kaplan asked. “He must still be in the clinic.”

  “I’ll have a look,” said the secretary and he scuttled off. The siren continued.

  Eagleton returned. He looked nervous. An actual bombing raid was new to him too.

  “Eager, go with the women, there’s a lad,” said Tyler. He looked at Eileen. “I’ll stay here. If we have to move her you’ll need help.”

  Francine was out for the count by now.

  “I’m not going anywhere either,” said Lev. “Yanks can tough it out with any Limey.”

  In spite of the situation, the others had to smile.

  “All right. Let’s at least get ourselves underneath one of the machines,” said Eileen. “It’ll give us some protection if the ceiling comes down. We’ll reverse what we did before.”

  The two men picked up Francine and shifted her as carefully as they could so she was lying underneath the lathe. Eileen squeezed in beside her.

  She waved her hands at the two men. “Take cover.”

  Tyler thought the best thing to do was cram himself in the space under the nearby machine. He slid into something wet. Then he saw, just above him, a long swatch of once-blonde hair dangling from the wheel. A piece of scalp was still attached.

  Lev gave the password and was admitted. As always, from his American perspective, Comrade Arnold seemed formally dressed for a mere evening at home. He was wearing a navy blue blazer, striped tie, and grey flannels. His shoes were highly polished. Only his canary-yellow socks appeared out of place.

  “Who’s here?” Lev asked.

  “Everybody but Comrade Cardiff.”

  “Has the new guy, Bolton, arrived yet?”

  “Yes, he has. They are all a little concerned about your message.”

  Lev had chalked Hitchcock requests meeting tonight on the church wall.

  Arnold led the way down the hall to his room. “I do hope this is necessary, comrade,” he said fussily. “It really isn’t safe to meet other than at our regular times.”

  “I’d think it was the opposite. Being unpredictable has always seemed a much better course of action. However, who am I to say? I’m just an ignorant Yank.”

  He received the customary giggle as a response.

  As with the previous meeting, the room was already filled with tobacco smoke. Nobody was talking. Comrade Bolton was sitting just inside the door with his cap and overcoat on; Chopin was by the fireplace, also wearing his outdoor clothes and fingerless gloves, his hands outstretched to the low-burning fire. He nodded a greeting to Lev, but Comrade Bolton glared at him in such an obvious, provocative way that Lev felt a surge of anger. How that lad had got to this age without somebody killing him was a miracle.

  “Sorry, I don’t have any tea to offer you,” said Arnold. “Rationing, don’t you know.” He pulled forward a rickety-looking chair just as they heard a knock on the door. “Ah, that must be Comrade Cardiff. I’ll let him in.”

  Lev could hear the faint sound of music from the upstairs room. The invisible landlords were home. Who were they, and what did they think was going on in their parlour? he wondered.

  Arnold returned, the Welshman behind him. Cardiff looked angry.

  “I’m on the night shift, comrades. I’d like to get this over with quickly. What’s so urgent?”

  “I’ll be working at Endicott’s for a while longer,” said Lev. I want to know what the plans are. As you can imagine, comrades, I have no desire to be present in the factory if it is going to get blown to smithereens.”

  Chopin looked up, startled. “What you mean? Who said so?”

  Lev shrugged. “It’s as obvious as the nose on your face something is in the works. Incidents like today aren’t enough. They only slow down production for a short while.” He looked over at the Pole. “Were you the one responsible for the so-called mishap?”
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br />   Arnold jumped in with surprising firmness. “Better not to ask questions like that, comrade. Who does what shouldn’t be part of general parlance.”

  “Hey, I’m a Yank, don’t forget. We don’t use ten-dollar words if we don’t have to. I assume you’re telling me to keep my trap shut.”

  “Quite so.”

  “Suit yourself. However, what’s been done so far is piddling – a woman injured, no general strike, no significant halt in production.”

  “Sunday not piddling,” said Chopin without turning his head.

  “According to you lot, that was an accident. Lucky for us, unlucky for those women.”

  Nobody spoke. Even Comrade Bolton was still.

  Lev continued. “What comes next has to be major and we all know that. Let’s not kid ourselves. I assume our esteemed leader, Patrick, is planning another ‘accident.’ And soon. Am I right, Comrade Arnold?”

  Arnold had lit his pipe and he sucked on it hungrily. “I’m not able to answer you at this time, Comrade Hitchcock. I am awaiting orders.”

  Cardiff spoke out sharply. “I’m with our Yankee comrade, look you. I don’t want to be killed either. I’d like to live another day and continue with our work. I want to know what the plans are. And do they involve me or not?”

  Arnold shrugged nervously. “All I can tell you is that Comrade Patrick has something in mind that is very close to being executed. But until all is worked out, it’s better you not know.”

  “Christ almighty,” said Lev. “Are we talking about days? Tomorrow? Next week?”

  Bolton spoke up. “Don’t get your knickers in a bleedin’ knot, comrade. It will happen soon, I promise.”

  “You promise. Why is it you promising? I thought we had an equal stake in this mission. Why do you have special privilege?”

  The youth sneered at him. “Let’s say I’m currently acting as Comrade Patrick’s lieutenant.”

  “Really? I find it hard to believe, our illustrious leader would rely on a kid like you. You’ve hardly let go of your mommy’s titty.”