Beware This Boy Read online

  For a moment Donny dropped the masquerade. “What makes you think it’s only going to be a couple of bombs? This isn’t a sodding poncey boys’ club we’re talking about, Bri. We’re frigging serious. Look at it like an incendiary. Not so powerful in itself, but when it spreads – watch out. One bomb can set a whole bloody city ablaze, and after that, the country.”

  Brian guffawed. “My God, Donny, you should hear yourself. That’s the worst kind of shite I’ve heard in a while. Who’s your ventriloquist? You couldn’t come up with rubbish like that on your own, that’s for sure.”

  Donny’s façade cracked, and briefly raw, primitive anger showed through. Brian had scored a hit. He tried to balance his weight so he could be ready for an attack if it came. His heart was pounding and he was giddy.

  “No need to insult a pal,” said Donny. “Anyways, whether you believe me or not don’t matter a piss. I know it’s true. So whaddya think? All I want from you is to make the timers.”

  “People will be killed.”

  “No, they won’t. They might get some plaster dust in their golden tresses, but it won’t be serious unless you’re the kind of silly bint who considers that the end of the world.” Again he gave his funny grin, his scar showing white on his lip.

  “Where am I going to get the materials?”

  “We’ll bring them to you. Jackie, your cheeky little brother, is being most helpful. He can be our go-between.”

  “And if I say no?”

  Donny shrugged. “That’s your bloody choice, of course, but that don’t make no sense. Here I am offering you freedom: papers that can get you into Ireland. You’ll be able to walk about, come and go, just like anybody else. You won’t be shut up in a bleedin’ house, hiding under the bleedin’ bed with the po. But on the other hand, if the frogs did receive a little tip, quietly over the phone, that’s it – off you go. They’ll throw away the bleedin’ key to the glasshouse. That is, if they don’t hang you first.”

  Brian stared at him. He could feel a sour taste in his mouth.

  “Ooh, you do have a mad face on, Bri.”

  “I could turn myself in and blow the whole story.”

  Donny nodded as sagely as any judge. “You could, Bri, you could. But I know you won’t do that.”

  “How the fuck can you be so sure of that?”

  “Her name’s Vanessa.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I’m sure you’d like to see your wife. What man wouldn’t? She’s a smasher, that one. You do what I ask and you’ll see her soon. You don’t and …”

  Brian sat down and ran his fingers through his hair. His head was throbbing.

  Finally he said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Jolly good, old top.” Donny stood up and stubbed out his cigarette on the floor. “Like I said, Jackie will be our messenger boy. He’ll bring you the stuff you need. No need to wait. Get ’em done right away and Bob’s your uncle, off you go to Paddy land. And Bri … don’t try to be a bloody hero. It’s too late for that. I’ve told Jackie to get in touch with your Vanessa. He’s going to bring her to you tonight. That’s nice of me, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What if she can’t come tonight?” Brian blurted out.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’s as keen to see you as you are to see her.” Donny actually licked his lips – “From what I’ve heard, she likes a bit of dock, does your wife.”

  Brian couldn’t hold back. He grabbed Donny by the lapels, almost spitting into his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He could see that his outburst pleased Donny. He let him go immediately, but it was too late. Donny had evened the score. He’d hit the Achilles heel.

  “Doesn’t mean bloody anything other than what you want it to bloody well mean. She’s a tasty bit of crumpet and you’re still newlyweds, aren’t you. She’ll have missed getting it. That’s all. Now come and see me out before the old lady gets back.”

  Brian followed him into the hallway. Jack was sitting on the stairs. He was picking at a scab on his knee.

  Donny patted his head as if he were a dog. “Good boy, Jack. We’ve done our business. Your brother will tell you all about it. Ta-ta.” He pulled his muffler around his face, opened the door, and slipped away. The fog was creeping back and it lingered on the doorstep, sour as ever.

  Brian turned to look at his brother. Jack looked so desperately miserable Brian could hardly feel angry at him.

  “Bri … I’m so sorry …” He was starting to cry.

  Brian ruffled his hair. “It’s done now. As it is, it might all be to the good. Now you’d better get going. You’ve got a job to do for me. You’re going to talk to Vanessa.”

  “Right.”

  “What are you going to tell her?”

  “Donny felt it was best if I said you were at home but she couldn’t tell anybody until you talked to her. National security.”

  “Great, she’s going to think I’m a frigging spy. Well, never mind. I don’t want her coming here to the house. I need more privacy. Tell her to meet me in the shelter. But late. Midnight.”

  “What if there’s a raid?”

  “There won’t be. Weather’s too bad for the bleeders to try tonight.”

  The boy nodded fearfully. “Ta-ta, Bri.” He left.

  Brian went into the living room. His throat felt so tight he was afraid he might choke. He sat down and put his head in his hands. They’d know at the barracks by now that he’d gone AWOL. The redcaps would come for him soon.

  Could he trust Donny Jarvis? Was it possible to get away to some kind of peace? He and Vanessa? Would she come with him? Oh God, he hoped so with all his heart.

  Tyler looked questioningly at the nurse.

  She said quietly, “Her right arm was severed in the blast and the fingers on her left hand were so damaged they had to be amputated.” She sighed. “It’s especially hard on girls to lose their ring finger. This young lady had a lovely engagement ring. The ambulance men collected it. We cleaned it up and put it in that dish. Frankly, I’m not sure if that is the best thing to do or not. She hasn’t taken in the extent of her injuries yet. Her fiancé is apparently overseas.”

  Miss Ruebotham indicated that Tyler should bring the one chair as close to the bed as he could. She bent over the girl. “Miss Sumner, Miss Sumner. There is a police officer here who wants to ask you some questions. Do you understand?”

  Sylvia was obviously deeply sedated, but her eyelids fluttered and she gave the faintest of nods.

  Tyler leaned in. “Hello, Sylvia. It’s Inspector Tyler from Whitchurch. Remember me?”

  The corners of her mouth turned up a little. “I’m not at the hostel, am I?” Her voice was as faint as a bird’s cry on the wind.

  “No, you’re not,” replied Tyler. “I’m working in Brum for now. I’ve been asked to look into the explosion at the factory. Do you remember it? Are you up to talking to me, lass?”

  Sylvia didn’t respond immediately. It was as if she were at the bottom of a deep pit and the sound of his voice was delayed before it reached her. Finally she said, “Is Tess all right?”

  Tyler glanced at the nurse, who shook her head. “Don’t worry about the others now, Miss Sumner. Just do your best to answer the inspector’s questions.”

  “If it gets to be too much, I’ll stop,” Tyler said softly. “Can you tell me what you remember? Do you know what happened?”

  Sylvia ran her tongue over dry lips. “Can I have a drink?”

  Miss Ruebotham poured a glass of water.

  “I’ll give it to her,” said Tyler, and he slipped his hand behind the girl’s head so she could drink. She sipped a little, then waved it away. He eased her back onto the pillow.

  Her eyes looked into his. “Is Irma all right? And Prue and Audrey?”

  Again the nurse deflected the question. “Never mind all that for now.”

  Tyler could see the alarm on Sylvia’s face. “They’re not dead, are they?”

  Miss Ruebotham made
a tutting sound. “We can talk about that later. We just want you to concentrate on getting well.” She indicated that Tyler should continue.

  “Sylvia, was there anything different about yesterday? Any change in procedure or that sort of thing?”

  “Prue and Audrey moved … our bench … two workmen at the other bench. We were late … Mrs. Castleford said we could tray up ourselves … she had to count something with Mr. Riley.” The effort of speaking was rapidly tiring her out. “And Audrey started … she’s thin as a stick … a man touched her in the fog …” She fell silent and her eyelids drooped.

  “Try to stay awake, there’s a good girl,” said the nurse, and she snapped her fingers next to Sylvia’s ear.

  Sylvia blinked. “Is my mum here?”

  “She’s arriving later today,” Miss Ruebotham answered.

  Tyler tried again. “Did the explosion happen when you were traying up?”

  Sylvia struggled with her answer. “Yes, I think so. There was a terrible bang. And it was hot. So hot. I think my hand got burned.” She moved her head restlessly. The memory clearly distressed her. The nurse was making signs to indicate Tyler should finish up.

  “Sylvia …” He had to wait for her to float once more to the surface of her consciousness. “Sylvia, can you think of anything that might have caused the detonators to go off?”

  “Audrey … Audrey pulled the pot. I told her to be careful. It was wobbling …”

  “Is that usual? Have you seen the pot wobble at other times?”

  Sylvia didn’t seem to hear the question. “My hand hurts.” She struggled to sit upright. “What’s happened to my arm … my hand hurts … what? Inspector, what’s happened to my arm?”

  Miss Ruebotham all but shoved Tyler out of the way. “I think that’s enough for now, Inspector.”

  He stood up and left the matron thrusting a hypodermic needle into Sylvia’s arm. Her cries followed him out of the ward.

  “What … what happened to my arm … Where’s Colin? Is he dead? Who’s died? What’s happened? Inspector, don’t leave me …”

  Neither of the two men who’d also been injured in the explosion were able to speak to Tyler. Doug Aston was in critical condition and Peter Pavely could hear nothing except an appalling ringing in his ears. He was sedated.

  Tyler decided to walk back to the factory. Not too far from the hospital, one of the streets had been badly damaged in Friday’s raid. Most of the houses had been reduced to rubble. Watched over by a solitary constable, some residents were picking through the ruins of their homes. They seemed stoic, almost apathetic, but Tyler knew how much grief and anger lay beneath the surface. He shared it with them.

  An elderly woman was sitting on what remained of her front steps. She was bareheaded and dressed in a threadbare black coat. She was stroking a tabby cat lying on her lap. It was obviously dead.

  Tyler stopped. “Are you all right, ma’am? Can I do anything for you?”

  The woman looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “He hated being in the shelter, so I left him in the house when the alarm sounded.” She waved at the debris behind her. “We got a direct hit. I was in the shelter but the warden looked for Boots for me. They found him lying by the door. I shouldn’t have left him.”

  At that moment a warden came up who seemed to know the woman. He was carrying a canvas bag.

  “Now then, Mrs. Paget. You won’t do him or yourself any good sitting here. You’ll catch your death of cold. Let’s get the moggie properly buried, then we’ll go to the first-aid post and get you a nice hot cup of char. There’s a couple of ladies there who’ll help you see what else you can salvage.” He nodded at Tyler. “I’ll take care of her.” He took the limp cat from her arms and put it gently into the canvas bag.

  “I shouldn’t have left him,” the woman muttered.

  Tyler wasn’t sure if his stomach was churning for want of food or from a need for warmth and company, but before he returned to the factory, he decided to follow up on Alf’s recommendation to eat at the British Restaurant. The place was steamy, noisy, and crowded. He looked around. There were a few men in overcoats and trilbies who were probably from the nearby government offices. A handful of women with baskets on their arms he guessed had been shopping. However, he knew without been told that many of the customers were victims of the bombing raids. Some of them had likely been given meal vouchers by the local WVS. They were the quiet ones who were hunched over, their hands cupped around their bowls of soup as if they could pull the warmth into the core of themselves.

  The food was served canteen style and Tyler joined the queue.

  “Wot’s it to be, sir?” The woman behind the counter held her serving spoon in mid-air. He hesitated. “New here, aren’t ya,” she said.

  He grinned. “How do you know?”

  “You’ve got a country look to ya.”

  “I, er –” Tyler didn’t know how to respond to that.

  “Us Brummies get pasty-like. You look like you’ve been out in the fresh air.”

  She was a nice-looking woman, close to his own age, he’d guess. She didn’t look pasty, but maybe the steam from the hot plates had given her some colour.

  “Where you from, then?” she asked.

  “Shropshire. Whitchurch.”

  She beamed. “Oh, I know Whitchurch. Went there a few times when I was a nipper. We had relatives that ran a pub down in Wem. The White Horse. Ever heard of it?”

  Tyler shook his head. “No, I haven’t. And I thought I knew most of the pubs in the vicinity.”

  A man standing behind Tyler burst out in exasperation, “You two going to go through your entire life stories or what? Can we get a move on?”

  “No need to get riled up,” said the server to the other man. “He hasn’t been here before.” She turned back to Tyler. “You get your complete meal for eleven pence. Today we have shepherd’s pie and two veg, which today is peas and carrots, and your pudding, which today is treacle pudding.”

  “Don’t forget he also gets a roll or slice of bread and butter and a cup of tea or coffee,” said the man, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “I was coming to that,” said the server. “Is that what you’d like then, dear?” she asked Tyler.

  He wasn’t about to refuse after all the fuss. “Thanks. Sounds good.”

  She made up the tray. “Tomorrow we’ve got Irish stew. It’s good and filling. You should come back.”

  Tyler paid his eleven pence and carried his tray to an empty table by the window.

  The man who’d been behind him in the queue followed.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Tyler would like to have told the miserable sod to get lost but he just nodded politely. The man sat down and started to unload his tray. He immediately stuffed some of the bread and butter into his mouth, and began talking through unchewed food.

  “Blimey, I thought she wasn’t going to stop offering what was on tap,” he said, spitting bread crumbs as he spoke. “Wish I could get that kind of service. Must be that good country fresh air you’re giving off that attracts them.”

  Tyler cut into the shepherd’s pie. “Must be. Can’t think of any other explanation.”

  “You here on business?” the man asked.

  “Sort of.”

  “I bet I can guess what you do,” the man continued, undeterred. “You’re an insurance agent. Am I right?”

  Tyler stared at him. “What makes you think that?”

  “I can always tell. It’s the tie, you see. You can tell what a man does by his tie. Yours is quiet, you might say, nothing flashy. Don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”

  Tyler couldn’t help but notice that his companion was wearing a brightly coloured tie that appeared to have been liberally sprinkled with brown sauce. Or maybe that was the pattern.

  “Besides which,” continued the man, “you’ve got what I’d call a careful look to you. Sizing people up all the time, you are. Well? Am I right? You’re in the insurance b
usiness, aren’t you.”

  Tyler had to laugh. “Something like that.”

  Fortunately for Tyler, his unwanted dinner companion soon saw somebody he knew and went to sit with him. Tyler scarfed down his meal and, with a wave to the friendly server, hurried back the factory.

  Cudmore was waiting for him outside the cubbyhole.

  “Mr. Riley showed up on his own account. Would you like to see him this afternoon?”

  “I would. Did you get hold of anybody else?”

  “Only two others, I’m sorry to say. I was able to get word to Mick Smith, the dillie man on the first shift. He is here. I asked him to wait in the canteen until you could speak to him. Our second dillie man, Joe Abbott, was not at home. We do have the caretaker, Wolfsiewicz. He is here every day. Mrs. Castleford is under doctor’s orders to rest but her husband will bring her in tomorrow. Things will be a little more normal, if I may put it that way, tomorrow and I thought we could cover more ground then.”

  “More competent thinking, Mr. Cudmore. Right, let’s hear what Mr. Riley has to say.”

  Phil Riley was a short, slim man with horn-rimmed glasses, black hair slicked back from his face, and a pencil-thin moustache. Fancies himself a bit of a masher, thought Tyler. The proximity forced on them by the tiny space was uncomfortably intimate. Tyler could smell the pomade that Riley had used on his hair. It looked freshly applied. He’d also augmented his moustache with some kind of black pencil.

  “It must have been a dreadful shock to you, what happened on Sunday, Mr. Riley. My job here is to determine what exactly occurred. Just so we make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Good on that,” said Riley. He had some kind of accent that Tyler couldn’t immediately identify. Maybe North Country?

  “I was surprised you came in to work at all today,” continued Tyler. “You were given permission to stay at home, I believe.”

  Riley grimaced. “Yes, we was given permission all right but nobody said we’d get paid, and I can’t afford to miss me wages. I’ve got three nippers at home and a sick wife. I don’t have the privilege of staying home.”