Beware This Boy Page 26

  An explosion hit so close he felt the floor tremble, and he went to the pantry. His grandmother had put a chair in there, tucked under the sloping ceiling. Just enough room for one person. He felt a rush of bile into his mouth as he looked at the dark space. He’d rather take his chances in the living room. He went over to the table where he knew he should take cover, but he couldn’t stand it. He got up again and ran up the stairs to the bedroom. He rummaged in the back of the wardrobe, where he had been storing all his clothes since the redcaps had come. He took out his army overcoat and cap and put them on. The coat was heavy – not practical really, not warm enough, not flexible enough to permit much action – but he felt comforted by the weight of it, by its legitimacy. He hurried back downstairs through the kitchen and slipped out the back door. He was taking a risk of being seen but he didn’t care. He had to get out. He had to do something.

  Keeping close to the wall, he trotted around to the front of the house. The street was completely deserted. The siren had stopped howling but the noise of the explosions and the flak was horrendous. He actually saw the stick of black bombs tumbling out of one of the Jerry bombers, falling through the beams of the searchlights. Then the ground shuddered as the bombs landed.

  He started to run. At the corner of the street an air-raid warden popped out of an archway.

  “Get under cover, you bloody idiot,” he yelled.

  Brian ignored him and just ran faster, until he could run no farther. His chest was hurting from the exertion and he was forced to slow down. Suddenly there was a huge blast of fire as one of the barrage balloons floating near the Bull Ring burst into flames. He couldn’t see if an aeroplane had collided with it or if the ack-ack guns had caught it by mistake. It was falling to the ground like a giant burning ember.

  One more street and he was at the canal. The flames of a burning building were reflected in the water so that it looked as if it too were on fire. A couple of firefighters were focused on trying to bring the blaze under control. The heavy hose looked barely manageable. One of them saw him and called out something over his shoulder. Brian didn’t hear what he said but the meaning was clear. They desperately needed help.

  “Soldier, we could use a hand here,” shouted the man. His face was red in the glare and he was not young.

  “What do you want me to do?” Brian asked.

  “Help us raise the hose. We trying to train it on the upper windows.”

  Brian grabbed hold and the three of them were able to lift the hose sufficiently to train the water on the burning house.

  “Let’s hope we don’t run out of water tonight, like we did before,” said the man. “It’s already bad – the main line got hit. Good thing we’ve got the canal.”

  Brian couldn’t believe how hot it was this close to the flames. He felt as if the skin on his face was being seared. But as he leaned back like a man in a tug-of-war, the fire was awakening something within him, a strange sensation, as if he were no longer human, as if he had superhuman strength. If the other two men let go of the hose, he would be able to hold it up on his own. Earlier he had seen the underside of a bomber and felt only pity for the anonymous crew. Now he felt as if he hated all the Jerries, all those men who had willingly dropped their explosives on this street; he hated all those who had created such destruction.

  “Did everybody get out in time?” he yelled at the fireman in front of him.

  “Let’s hope so, ’cos if they didn’t, they’re goners by now.”

  Brian was almost sorry. If necessary he would have run into the heart of the fire to rescue anyone who might be trapped there.

  He had completely forgotten about the woman he had himself killed not so very long ago. He was not Brian the murderer, the deserter, he was Brian the saviour, the protector of the innocent.

  It must have been an hour before the firemen could eventually let Brian go. He waved his farewell and he half ran, half walked in the direction of Water Street. He knew Donny Jarvis lived in one of the back-to-backs, the end house, and he went straight to it. He didn’t knock – nobody would hear him anyway – he simply tried the doorknob. It opened at once. People didn’t lock their doors in this area of town. All comings and goings would be noticed. Except, he hoped, in the midst of a raid.

  Donny was by himself, lying on a couch in front of the low fire, smoking one of his ever-present fags. He sat up when Brian burst in, wary, testing the air like an animal.

  “What the fuck – Brian. Didn’t recognize you for a minute with the gear on. Come in, why don’t you. Come for a cuppa and a biccy?”

  “No, I fucking well haven’t. I want those sodding papers I’ve paid for.”

  Donny drew a steady, deep inhale of smoke, never taking his eyes off Brian. “There wasn’t enough money. It’ll cost you another fiver.”

  “Fuck you. You got plenty of bloody money.”

  A violent shudder shook the house and they both had to wait. A shower of dust drifted down from the ceiling.

  “Good thing Ma and everybody’s gone to the shelter,” said Donny. “Me, I figure it’s either got your name on it or it hasn’t. What do you think, Bri?”

  “I don’t give a fuck.” He reached into this pocket and took out the knife. “I tell you what, though. This has got your bleeding name on it unless you cough up those papers.” He flicked the button and the blade jumped out.

  Donny went very still. Some animals do that when they’re threatened. It doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous.

  It was after five in the morning when they finally heard the all-clear siren. Tyler had been dozing but he woke up and looked at his watch. The raid had lasted nine hours. After a few minutes, the door opened and their warden looked in.

  “All clear. You can go now. I suggest you get home as fast as you can. This might not be over yet … Be careful where you step. There’ll be a lot of debris.”

  Stiffly, like people alighting from a long train ride, they got to their feet and began to shuffle to the exit. Little Fred had been asleep for the past hour, and Lev picked him up to carry him outside.

  One by one they emerged from the shelter. Tyler felt as if they had stepped into Hell’s inferno.

  Houses in the street behind them were burning, and smudge flares, intended as camouflage, were lit along the side of the road, making the air thick with choking smoke. The guns were temporarily quiet, the raiders had passed, but the streets were filled with noise – the crackling of flames; the horrendous crashing sound of buildings collapsing; the constant scream of the ambulances. For a moment they all stood on the steps, held motionless by the horror of it.

  Gently Lev put the boy down. “Where do you live, Mrs. Latimer?” he asked the mother. “My friend and I will see you home.”

  “I actually live in Church Stretton. I was heading for the station when the siren sounded,” she said.

  One of the Welshmen heard her. “So was we, look you. We’ll accompany you, if that’s all right, missus. Come on, laddie. Upsadaisy.” He hauled Fred onto his back. His weight was nothing for a man accustomed to carrying sacks of coal.

  “Do you want a lift too?” one of the other men asked Muriel. She nodded shyly and he hoisted her up the same way.

  The warden had been waiting. “Hurry up, folks.”

  “Bin nice knowing you,” said the leader, and the little pack of short, bandy-legged men trotted off at a good clip, the young mother in the middle of them.

  “I hope there’s a train running,” said Lev.

  The two sisters said their goodbyes and dashed away. They’d withstood the raid very well, Tyler thought.

  The Wilsons lingered for a few moments. “Goodbye. You were quite splendid,” Mr. Wilson said to Lev. “And you too, sir,” he added. “Kept us calm, I must say.” They all shook hands.

  “Cheerio,” replied Lev.

  Mrs. Wilson had resumed her cool demeanour. The unexpected intimacy of the night was already gone. It would become good fodder for dinner anecdotes, thought Tyler. But
he’d liked them. Liked all of them, these unchosen companions of the night. He gave himself a little shake. God, he was getting to be quite sentimental. If he went on like this for the duration, he’d end up like mush.

  “Where to now, mate?” Kaplan asked him.

  “I thought I’d go to one of the first-aid posts. They might need help.”

  “I’ll come with you. I’ve done a St. John Ambulance first-aid course.”

  “Good Lord, Kaplan, you are full of surprises. Your list of accomplishments is endless.”

  Lev shrugged. “Just good old Yankee know-how.”

  There was a lot of debris littering the street, dreadfully recent. They went past a house on fire, the firefighters holding the hoses as steady as they could. The heat was almost unbearable. Only the shell remained of somebody’s home. All their precious, irreplaceable things gone.

  Neither Kaplan nor Tyler spoke. There was nothing to be said.

  They helped out a nearby first-aid post for a couple of hours. The more serious cases were sent to the hospital, so their task was mostly to bathe scrapes and bruises and offer cups of strong, sweet tea to the fearful and shocked.

  The nurse at the post was a cheery old bird, called out of retirement by the current crisis. Her name, she said, was Sweeney, like the notorious barber.

  “Good to see you chaps helping out,” she said. “Can’t just leave all the mopping up for us women.”

  “But you do it so much better,” said Lev, who seemed to consider it his mission in life to charm women. Tyler had to admit he was very successful at it.

  Mrs. Sweeney was not one to mollycoddle the less seriously injured. “There’s others worse off than you,” she said more than once to anybody who was inclined to moan and groan.

  Dawn was creeping across the sky when the flow of people to the post finally stopped.

  “I can manage now, gentlemen,” said the nurse, “but I can tell you where you’d be really needed if you’re up to it.”

  “Where?”

  “The mortuary.”

  Tyler and Kaplan set off up the hill. The sun was barely breaking through the dark clouds and it was damp and chill. Some fires were still not under control but the fire wardens had mostly subdued them into black smoke. The air was thick with the smell of burning. Rubble was everywhere. They passed a bus that had been hit by an explosive. It was on its side, partly buried, in the middle of the road. Tyler hoped that the passengers had got out in time.

  People were still emerging from the shelters. A grocer was sweeping away the shattered glass from the front of his shop. The windows and door had been blown off. His assistant was scrawling a message on a piece of wood. COME IN, WE’RE OPEN.

  As they reached the gates of the mortuary, a voice hailed them. “Inspector! Mr. Kaplan!” It was Eileen Abbott. Tyler didn’t miss the expression of delight on Kaplan’s face.

  “I called in at Number Four first-aid station,” said Eileen. “Mrs. Sweeney said you were on your way here.”

  “We’ll be glad to help out if you need us,” said Tyler.

  She looked doubtful. “It won’t be pretty.”

  “I’m sure it won’t,” answered Tyler.

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Kaplan. “I’m tougher than you might think.”

  She gave him a brief smile. “Come on, then.”

  They went inside. As she had warned them, it wasn’t pretty.

  All the bodies recovered so far had been placed on cots packed closely together. Only a few were covered. It seemed as if the ambulance men had run out of coverings after a while. Despite regular mopping of the floor with carbolic detergent, the air was starting to get bad. Brick dust, burned bodies and clothing, dead flesh.

  An exhausted looking WVS woman was walking between the rows of dead with a clipboard, making a record of the tags that had been tied to the cots.

  Eileen went to her and gently removed the clipboard from her grasp. “Miss Mady, I’ll take over now. You get yourself home right away. It must have been a terrible night.”

  The other woman was no longer young. “I’ve only done four rows. They started bringing them in as soon as the all-clear sounded. We’re running out of room.”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ll make do,” said Eileen. “And these gentlemen are going to assist me.”

  Miss Mady reluctantly surrendered her task. “One of the police reservists, Constable Baker, has been helping. He just went upstairs to the reception hall with a list.”

  She left, walking slowly, as if she might awake the dead that surrounded her.

  “Give me the clipboard,” said Tyler. “I’ll do the recording.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. Mr. Kaplan, would you go upstairs and start questioning the relatives. They’ll be coming in by now, anxious for news. Ask for the address of the person they’ve come about and, most important, get as exact a description as you can of the missing person.”

  “Will do.” He paused for a moment. “Feeling better?”

  Eileen looked at him blankly. “I, er, yes, thank you.”

  Lev took the register she handed him and followed Miss Mady up to the reception hall.

  “We have to match up the bodies to that list,” Eileen said to Tyler. “The really hard part is when we bring family down for a formal identification.”

  “I can imagine that is difficult,” said Tyler. It was something he’d experienced.

  “Generally people are good and don’t make a fuss.”

  The swinging doors opened and two stretcher-bearers entered. They were covered with dust and dirt and had obviously been working for hours. They deposited the stretcher on one of the few remaining gurneys. Tyler felt his heart sink. The mound underneath the blanket was ominously small.

  “Do you have an identity for the casualty?” Eileen asked the first man.

  “Yes, Sister. She’ll likely be Daisy Marsden from 65 Granite Street. She were in the cellar. House took a direct hit.”

  Tyler made a note.

  “Approximate age of victim?” Eileen continued.

  The man took a notebook from his pocket and opened it up. “According to the warden’s list, she’s five.”

  “Colour of hair?”

  “Brown, I’d say.”

  “Eyes?”

  The man glanced at his partner, who had sagged against the wall and was staring at the floor.

  “Brown,” said the other man.

  Tyler wrote down the details.

  “Is the whereabouts of next of kin known?”

  The first man consulted his notebook. “Parents are Henry and Ethel Marsden. One child, Daisy. Missus was pulled out but she’s hurt bad, as I understand. He’s overseas. Poor sod. What a thing to come home to.”

  He looked on the verge of tears and he pinched the bridge of his nose to keep them back. He was short and skinny, looked to be call-up age, but was probably in a reserved occupation and doing night duty as an ambulance driver. His eyes were red-rimmed, the pupils dilated. He was shaking. Tyler had seen that look before. The poor sod was in a state of shock.

  Eileen was keeping her voice crisp and professional. “Is the body intact?”

  “Not a mark on her. I don’t understand it.”

  She lifted the canvas sheet. Tyler recoiled. He couldn’t help himself – the body was so tiny and doll-like. It was completely covered with red brick dust but there were no visible signs of injury except for a thin line of blood from the corner of the child’s mouth.

  “She died from concussive impact,” said Eileen to the stretcher-bearer. “Typically the lungs burst, but sometimes the heart is crushed inside the ribcage.”

  She took a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped away the blood and some of the dust from the cheek. Tyler could see that when the alarm sounded, the child’s mother had prepared her to go into the shelter, her warm clothes probably at the ready. Daisy was wearing a green wool coat over her nightgown, white socks, and neat black shoes with a V strap. She had been a pretty child
. Tyler was glad to bury his head in taking down the facts. He felt a lump in his throat. What a tragedy for the father to come back to. If he came back, that is.

  “Thank you,” Eileen said to the two men. “You can put the stretcher in the number thirty-seven spot.” She noted down their numbers, which were on their arm bands. She smiled at them both. “There’s a tea urn upstairs. Go and help yourself.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said the first man. They nodded their thanks, lifted their all too light burden, and trudged off.

  Eileen and Tyler exchanged glances, not speaking.

  The doors swung open again and a man came in. He was stooped and was wearing a shabby overcoat, but his badges of authority were his yellow arm band and the tin helmet of an ARP warden. He was carrying something at arm’s length that was wrapped in a blood-soaked flowered frock. Eileen intercepted him.

  “I’ll take care of this,” she said to Tyler, who had been about to join her. Obedient to her tone of voice, he stopped in his tracks and waited.

  “What have you got, John?” Eileen asked the warden quietly.

  “Leg, ma’am. Left. Male. Found on the pavement on Fleet Street. There was a dress shop blown out just across the road and I snatched up the first thing I could find to wrap it in. Didn’t seem right to just leave it lying there.”

  Eileen unwrapped the fabric so she could take a look. The severed leg had little resemblance now to anything living. Only the dusty raw flesh and bone at the hip end indicated that it had once been part of a human being. The remnants of the trousers were grey flannel. The foot was intact, still in its black leather shoe and, rather incongruously, bright yellow socks. Not a lot to go on when they tried to identify the corpse.

  She rewrapped the leg. “Thank you, John. I’ll deal with it now.”

  “I almost forgot … you will need this.” The warden handed her a piece of creased paper. “It’s a list of all the occupants registered on that part of Fleet Street. Numbers 82 and 84 are the worst hit. They’re on fire. Funny thing was, the bomb didn’t drop on them. Maybe it was a delayed-action kind.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Bombs do funny things. I’ll go back and see what’s what as soon as I can hand this over.”