Comes the Dark
David Stuart Davies
Copyright © David Stuart Davies 2006
The right of David Stuart Davies to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
First published in the UK in 2006 by St Edmundsbury Press.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
The sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark.
The Ancient Mariner
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Prologue
They walked down the empty street like lovers, holding hands and pausing occasionally to steal a kiss. She leaned against him, happy to be with such a good-looking man. Tonight lovemaking might even be enjoyable, for a change.
It was late and only a sliver of a moon provided a meagre illumination. He gazed down at her face. It was a young face but somewhat careworn and far too heavily made up. He felt a strong desire to scrub all the muck off and see the real face beneath.
She giggled again. The silly bitch. But it was pleasing to him that she irritated him so much. It made the killing easier.
‘Where are you taking me, you naughty man?’ she said, her voice light and playful. She wriggled with pleasure. He could not tell whether it was genuine or not, but assumed that it was part of a routine she used regularly. You get what you pay for.
He did not reply to her question. He said nothing. It was not necessary to say anything anymore. He had baited his hook and she was caught on it. Now it was time for him to take control, to complete the task. Words were no longer important.
Affecting a smile he squeezed her hand and then gently pulled her into the darkened doorway. She came—eagerly—like a lamb to the slaughter. Leaning against the wall in the darkness she unbuttoned her coat and pressed her warm body against his, swivelling her hips against his groin. For a fleeting moment, instinctively, his body responded to her seductive movements before he squeezed such thoughts from his mind.
Her lips reached up to his, but before she could kiss him, he had his bare hands around her throat. Suddenly, for the first time since they had met earlier that evening, she felt uncertain. What was he playing at? She didn’t like it rough. She tried to pull away, but it was too late. He held her fast.
Her body stiffened with fear. With an awful clarity she realised what was happening to her.
The touch of her smooth throat beneath his firm grasp aroused him far more than her writhing body had done. Now she began to struggle against him in a desperate attempt to break free. This pleased him further. His eyes glittered with amusement.
This was fun. Now he was having a good time. The tedious preamble being over, he could enjoy himself. He watched her face contort with terror, the silent mouthing lips, the frantic, rapid eye movements.
For some moments he delayed the inevitable, revelling in the power and inhaling the stench of fear. She wriggled in his grasp like a crazy marionette but there was no escape.
His fingers squeezed tighter. An obscene croaking noise emanated from the girl’s overly painted face as he crushed her windpipe.
Saliva drooled down her chin.
Tighter and…tighter.
Slowly, her body began to sag and slip away from him. Her eyelids flickered like the wings of a damaged butterfly and then closed for ever. He smiled and relaxed his grip, allowing the girl’s head to loll sideways, her tongue protruding like some grotesque appendage.
Now it was his turn to giggle.
He stood back, gently releasing his hold and allowing the girl’s lifeless body to slide to the floor. In the gloom he could just make out her rag-doll posture, limbs all askew, as though she had been cast aside by a careless owner.
Perfect.
He bent down and kissed her cheek lightly. ‘Good night, darling,’ he whispered in her ear, then he pulled a tube of lipstick from his pocket and inscribed a bright number 2 on the dead girl’s forehead.
After checking that the street was still deserted he stepped out on to the damp pavement and went on his way, wondering how long it would be before the constable on the beat would discover the tart.
1
Spring came hesitantly to the city this year. After the bombing and destruction London had suffered during the winter months there were limited places where the season could erect its green flags of renewal. Reluctant weeds sprouted amongst the debris that had once been houses, factories and shops. Daffodils bloomed warily in the remaining city gardens and in the parks trees slowly began unfurling their leaves despite the dusty atmosphere that now seemed to pervade the metropolis permanently. While occasionally the weak infant sun bathed London in a pale yellow light, very few of the inhabitants of the capital noticed. Their minds were elsewhere. Spring no longer heralded the warm lazy days of summer, holidays by the sea, the hop-picking season, the odd glass of ale on a bench outside the local, sunbathing on the lawn. All that belonged to the past now.
Before the war.
Now there was a new set of concerns and values.
For a one-eyed private detective operating in London business had been sprightly in the early part of the year. It was true that there had been no Maltese Falcon for me to chase after or any other dramatic/romantic investigation to raise the tempo of my heartbeat, but these dark days had certainly stimulated the infidelity rate. London appeared to be the adultery capital of the world. It was as though the uncertainty that the war had brought to all our lives had caused moral codes to be cast aside like an empty fag-packet. Grab some love today, who knows what will happen tomorrow, seemed to be the creed. As a result there had been a stream of irate husbands, distressed wives and suspicious mothers-in-law calling at the office of Hawke Investigations, Priory Court, just off Tottenham Court Road. It was up to me, they said, to find out the truth: to nail the cheating bastards. And for a fee, I did their bidding. Well, it was a job, I told myself in my gloomy moments. It put bread and Spam on the table, whisky in my belly and a full packet of Craven A in my inside pocket. What more could a man ask? A lot more, if the truth be known.
And yet it was a living. Not the kind of living I’d hoped for, though. I would have been much happier dressed in khaki on some battleground, fighting for my king and country instead of checking cheap hotels, peering through windows and trailing sad middle-aged men as they kept an assignation with some tart. But as an ex-copper with an eye patch I had been deemed worthy only of office work. I couldn’t be trusted to shoot the enemy. Being a Cyclops, not only might I miss, but I’d most likely hit one of our own men instead. That was the official line anyway. I determined that I wasn’t going to spend the duration shuffling paper around, so Johnny One Eye became a private detective instead.
>
I soon found out that the glamorous image of my new profession as presented by the flicks was a purely fictional one. Certainly, in my experience, no beautiful blondes in low-cut gowns came seeking my help to get them off a murder rap and, similarly, I’d never been involved in a case of international intrigue where the stakes and the fees were high. Instead, I spent most of my time, when working, dealing with domestic disharmony.
As I lay in bed one morning in May, contemplating my lot, while fine splinters of fierce early morning sunlight struggled into the room around the rough edges of my blackout curtain, I wondered what my brother Paul was doing this fine day. The last I’d heard of him had been around Christmas. A brief letter which told me little apart from the fact that he was fighting somewhere overseas. Since then no message, nothing. I supposed that was a good sign really. If he’d been killed I would have received one of those dreaded ‘We regret to inform you’ telegrams.
I missed him. He had been my rock during our youth when we had been shunted from one orphanage to another. He is three years older than me and took on the role of mother and father. I’m not sure I would have survived without his strength and guidance. Then, as we hit adolescence and so-called maturity came our way, we had drifted apart somehow. I joined the police force and he moved south to Dover to work in a munitions factory. When war was declared, unknown to each other we both joined up in the same month. He sailed through training and was assigned to a regiment and was soon in the thick of it, but a jammed rifle going off in my face quickly put an end to my military career and my twenty-twenty vision.
I scrabbled on my bedside table and snatched up a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. I lit a fag, inhaled deeply and immediately felt better. I was not going to get maudlin today. As there was no case on hand and I had some cash to call my own, I would treat myself to one of Benny’s breakfasts, what he called his ‘Air-Raid Breakfasts’, served from 7 a.m. until 10. One rasher, an egg, bread and butter and a large mug of tea for 1/8d. A real bargain. At the thought of this I hastily stubbed out the fag, leapt from the bed and headed for my tiny communal bathroom along the corridor.
Half an hour later, washed, shaved and suited in my second-best blue pinstripe, I was on my way to Benny’s in Greek Street, Soho. Somehow the sunshine made London look worse. The smoky streets and the crippled buildings appeared more pathetic when bathed in bright light. There was something incongruous about the canopy of a clear, pale-blue sky above the shored-up damaged edifices and gaping rubble-filled spaces where houses and business had once stood. Where some buildings had been hit, leaving a gap, next to the lucky one next door that still remained standing one could see surreal signs of habitation on the once interior walls now exposed to the harsh daylight: mirrors, calendars, family pictures still hanging there. It was as though the city was being unmade, house by house, courtesy of the Luftwaffe.
It was just after nine when I turned the corner into Greek Street. It was busy with people hurrying past, mouths tightened and heads down as though they didn’t want to acknowledge the passage of strangers or really take note of their surroundings. Trying, I suppose, to keep reality at bay.
Benny greeted me like a long lost son. ‘So the prodigal returns,’ he grinned, patting me on the back. ‘I thought you had deserted me, Johnny.’
‘How could I do that, the man who makes the best salt-beef sandwiches in the West End?’
Benny’s grin widened and he gave a little shrug. ‘That I can’t deny. You want one now?’
‘Not this early,’ I grinned. ‘I’ve set my mind on one your Air-Raid Specials.’
‘A wise choice. Take your usual table by the window and I’ll see to it.’
I did as I was told, and he scuttled off into the small back kitchen. Benny’s was quiet this morning. There was a young couple, holding hands and whispering to each other across the table, ignoring their food. Lovers, immune to the outside world, held in their little bubble. Towards the back there was a grey-haired fellow eating voraciously, his ARP helmet sitting on the table by his plate. He looked tired and had obviously been on watch in the night and was getting some grub before heading home for a well-earned snooze. Near the door there sat a stern young man in a belted raincoat who stared ahead of himself as though lost in thought, while he stirred his tea mechanically. His hair was plastered back in a severe fashion and there was a strange ferocity about his expression.
While I waited for my breakfast to appear, I pulled out a copy of the Daily Mirror to catch up with the latest unpleasantness. The war was not going well for us. The Nazis had consolidated their control of Europe. That spring the Nazis had invaded Denmark and Belgium and had made advances into France. It was as though Adolf was breathing down our necks. The paper told of more bad news: the German battleship Bismarck had been at it again. This time it had sunk one of our best ships, HMS Hood. At home, criminal violence was still rife. There were reports about looting and black-market scams and another murder in the West End. ‘The Blackout Strangler Strikes Again’ announced the lurid headline. Another young girl, a prostitute, had been found strangled in a doorway. A PC Benson had found her in the early hours of the previous day. It was the second such murder in a month.
It was a relief to discard the newspaper when Benny arrived with my breakfast. I saw that he had slipped me an extra rasher. To be honest, this was a mixed blessing. I loved going to Benny’s and I was fond of the man himself, but his food was another matter. A cobbler could have found a fine use for these rashers. Still, with a hearty dollop of OK sauce and a vivid imagination, not to mention a firm set of teeth, eating them could be quite an experience.
As Benny returned to the counter the young man rose stiffly from the table and went to pay his bill. I took little notice until, seconds later, I heard his voice raised in anger.
‘Don’t come that with me. I gave you a pound note. Now give me my change.’
Benny looked astonished at this outburst. ‘I’m sorry, mister, but you’re mistaken. Look, look in the till, there ain’t no pound notes, just your ten-shilling one. Pound notes are rare. I’d know if you’d given me one.’
‘You cheating bastard,’ snapped the young man.
With a swift determined movement he leaned over the counter and grabbed Benny by the lapels of his white jacket. ‘I want my proper change,’ he growled.
Benny was too shocked to reply. His eyes widened in fear and his mouth worked silently like a goldfish out of water.
I dropped my knife and fork and went over to them. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’ I said easily.
The young man turned in surprise, his face shiny with perspiration and his eyes blazing with anger. ‘This dirty little Yid is trying to cheat me out of my change.’
‘It’s not true, Johnny,’ cried Benny. ‘He gave me a ten-shilling note. He says it was—’
The young man tightened his grip on Benny’s lapel, pulling him even closer to his face. ‘Don’t lie, you bastard Jew.’
‘I think you’d better let him go,’ I said quietly, curbing the anger that was swelling within me.
The young man looked astonished. ‘So you’re on the Yid’s side, eh?’
‘I said let him go.’ My words were slow and deliberate.
The young man frowned and slowly released his grip of Benny’s lapels.
‘That’s all we need in this country,’ he sneered. ‘Bloody Yid sympathisers.’
Now it was my turn to grab lapels. I yanked hold of the young man’s jacket and with some force pulled him towards me. ‘I think you’d better leave now,’ I said placing my face as close to his as I could.
His eyes registered uncertain emotions. He was not sure how to react to me. He was fine bullying small aging café owners but someone his own size and age was a different matter. Suddenly his body stiffened and he began to push against me, resisting my grip. His mistake. With a quick, sharp movement I kneed him in the groin. He let out a yelp of pain and crumpled before me.
‘That’s all w
e need in this country—bastards like you who pick on innocent fellows,’ I said. Still maintaining my even tones. ‘Now beat it and don’t come back or I won’t be so gentle next time.’
The young man glared at me but I could tell from his demeanour that he had no intention of taking this encounter any further. Awkwardly he moved towards the door.
‘You’ll be sorry about this, I can tell you,’ he snarled in my direction, then he pointed an accusative finger at Benny. ‘We don’t want your sort in our country. You’ve been warned.’
He slammed the door shut with such force that the glass rattled.
‘And we don’t want your sort in our country either,’ I said quietly to myself.
Benny slumped against the counter, the colour drained from his face. ‘There was no pound note, Johnny. Honest.’
I nodded. ‘I know that. It was just an excuse. He just wanted to have a go at you. He was a member of the Britannia Club, the fascist mob. Jew-haters. He was wearing their small red-white-and-blue badge.’
Benny shook his head in disbelief. ‘I thought they’d shut the fascists down. They’ve put Mosley away in prison. I thought that was all over.’
‘They put away the figureheads, including Ramsay, but you can’t stop this sort of thing by a few arrests. The Britannia Club is a private organisation. They’re still legal—no public meetings or demonstrations…’
‘But they attack little café owners, eh?’
‘If they’re Jewish.’
‘That’s me,’ he flashed me a feeble grin. ‘Well, thank you for coming to my rescue, You’re a regular Tom Mix, riding to my rescue.’
‘Just let me know if you have any further trouble. I must admit it would give me great pleasure to have a reason to smack that chap hard in the face.’
‘You bet. But…oh your breakfast, it’ll be cold by now.’
‘It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’
I returned to my table. The other customers avoided my gaze. They didn’t want to be tainted with the rather nasty scene they had just witnessed. To be honest, I couldn’t blame them. The incident had rattled me somewhat. I knew about the fascists and their perverted hatred of the Jews but this was the first time I had encountered it at first hand and it left an unpleasant taste in the mouth that Benny’s breakfast could not dispel.
Comes the Dark Page 1