Comes the Dark

by David Stuart Davies

  He gave me a sepulchral smile. Apparently I was expected; he led me into the hallway and up the staircase to a salon on the first floor. Here another penguin-suited minion handed me a glass of champagne and ushered me into the brightly lit room. Immediately I was aware that I was the only man there in a lounge suit. The place was awash with fellows in smart black dinner suits and crisp white shirts and ladies in evening dresses. I felt as though I was walking into a black-and-white film.

  I took a big gulp of champagne.

  ‘Mr Hawke, how wonderful.’

  I turned and saw that it was Lady McLean, dressed in an elegant flowing black gown made of some shiny material which no doubt was very expensive.

  ‘Good evening, Lady McLean,’ I said, giving a little bow.

  ‘Just call me June. It makes me feel less old.’

  Before I was able to respond with some candy-floss flattery I found myself surrounded by about half a dozen of the other guests. Sir Howard and Guy Cooper were among them and some faces I did not recognise. One fat, greasy fellow with a walrus moustache borrowed from a very large walrus prodded me gently in the chest.

  ‘I say, young feller, I gather you’re the hero who saved Guy from buying a packet from some Yiddish tart this afternoon?’

  This comment seemed to amuse the group and I joined in with their chuckling.

  Walrus-man stuck out his chubby hand in my direction. ‘Pleased to meet you. Lord Alfred Wordsworth.’

  It was a name I knew. He was a respected industrialist.

  I shook his hand. ‘John Hawke,’ I said, part of me wanting the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

  Guy stepped forward and took me to one side. ‘We must have a talk later, Mr Hawke, but I think that Jocelyn is about to entertain us now.’

  As though on cue a piano struck up at the other end of the room. The crowd gathered round in a semicircle and the pianist, a young blond-haired man with the staring eyes and the shiny features of a ventriloquist’s dummy, gave a little bow and struck up with his song:

  As I go rolling down The Strand

  I see them strolling hand in hand

  And I really don’t, just don’t under-stand

  Why are there so many Jews around in Lon-don?

  Why can’t the Jews just simply disappear?

  Hitler’s got them on the run in Ger-many

  Why can’t he do the same thing over here?

  The assembled throng beamed with beatific smiles and nodded knowingly at each other, while tapping their fingers in time with the music. I looked around at the faces of my fellow guests as the pianist rendered this foul ditty. They all seemed amused, these apparently intelligent, well-heeled individuals, all oozing an air of charm and sophistication and yet obviously carrying within them a burden of hate and disdain which my poor brain could not understand. I found myself feeling sorry for them as well as despising them.

  ‘Again!’ someone shouted and the pianist gave a reprise, allowing the members of the Britannia Club to join in this time, especially raising their voices for the last two lines.

  There was laughter and applause. I grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing flunkey. If I was to survive this evening I needed some anaesthetic.

  ‘What a nasty little song.’

  I turned in the direction of the voice and found myself looking at Anna Neagle’s twin sister. Well, someone who looked as though she’d used the same mould at least. She was gorgeous: tall, elegant, with blond hair moulded in great curves and waves around her beautifully alluring face. Her clear blue eyes dared me to respond to her observation.

  I could not have agreed with her more about the ‘nasty little song’ but I was aware that it wasn’t my place to admit to it in a room full of rampant fascists. In fact I was surprised the girl had the nerve or the foolishness to do so.

  ‘You really think so?’ I said evenly, sipping my champagne.

  ‘I certainly do,’ responded the attractive young woman in the same forthright tone. ‘It trivialises the situation. The Jewish problem is not a suitable subject for a music-hall song. Their hold on this country is far too serious—too tragic—to sing silly ditties about it.’

  ‘You could be right.’

  ‘I am’. The matter was not up for discussion. ‘You’re John Hawke, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. And who are you?’

  ‘I’m Eunice—horrible name. My father is Sir Howard McLean.’

  Oh, so it runs in the family, I thought. I knew it would be naïve of me to wonder why on earth this pretty young woman, the daughter of the head of the Britannia Club, held such strong, perverted racist views—why, rather than enjoying a night out on the town having fun, dancing at a night club, she preferred to mingle with a bunch of narrow-minded fascists. But in some ways I am naïve.

  ‘What do you do?’ she asked, her eyes peering into mine with a devilish intensity.

  ‘Do?’ I asked warily. I had to be careful here. I really didn’t want to give too much away about my real life, but I was also sure that if I spouted a pack of lies they would easily be found out. I tried to deflect the question.

  ‘Why are you interested?’

  She smiled, brushing her body against me and slipping her arm through mine. ‘Because I like the look of you, if you know what I mean.’

  I felt my libido stand to attention. I did know what she meant. I wasn’t that naïve.

  ‘That’s gratifying,’ I said, feeling both flattered and rather frightened at the same time. If this conversation had been taking place in the Velvet Cage with a stranger I would have been at ease and confident, but getting the come-on from the attractive daughter of the leader of a fascist organisation was a new experience and was making me somewhat hot under the collar.

  ‘We should get together, away from here. I’m sure we’d have a good time.’

  My libido was now starting to draw pictures.

  I took another gulp of champagne. As I drained the glass I saw Sir Howard approaching with Guy Cooper. They looked serious, wearing matching frowns. For a fleeting moment I wondered if my cover had been blown. If it had, what on earth would they do? Put me up against the wall and shoot me?

  Sir Howard took my arm gently. ‘John, I wonder if we could have that quiet talk now?’

  I found the words ‘What about?’ trembling on my tongue but I managed to keep them to myself.

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  Sir Howard turned to his daughter. ‘Would you mind leaving us, my dear? It’s business.’

  Eunice groaned. ‘Just when I was enjoying myself.’ She pulled away from me and then gave me a little peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said before slipping away.

  ‘I see you’ve made the acquaintance of my daughter,’ observed Sir Howard drily.

  ‘I think it’s more the other way around.’

  ‘Remarkable girl, if…unpredictable.’

  ‘This little talk ...’ I prompted, in an attempt to get the conversation back on track. The last thing I wanted was Sir Howard thinking I was lusting after his daughter.

  ‘In private,’ said Guy, taking my arm.

  The two men exchanged glances in a conspiratorial way and then led me through the throng of guests into a side room.

  I felt a growing sense of unease. I really had no idea what I was letting myself in for now.

  13

  It had been a good day.

  He had been active and involved in normal duties. At times he had almost forgotten the gnawing ache. Almost. The searing discomfort when he visited the lavatory was always there to remind him in spades. Pissing broken glass with throbbing pains in the gonads was the Devil’s aide-memoir of his condition. But he was resolved that he wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

  He had more work to do. More tarts to see to.

  And it had been a good day. The best for ages.

  He had functioned normally and the place had been buzzing with the details of the murders. They really had made an impact. He h
ad really made an impact.

  It thrilled him. If they only knew his secret. Well, they would be amazed. Not him, they would cry. Not him, he’s not capable of that.

  Oh, but he was.

  As he lay on his bed in the darkness, smoking a cigarette, despite his discomfort, he was smiling. In a strange way, he pondered, this condition is perhaps not such a curse after all. I am making my mark on the world. I’m important.

  It had been a good day.

  And tomorrow would be better. Then he would kill again.

  14

  Sir Howard McLean and Guy Cooper led me away from the party into a side room which was illuminated only by two table-lamps.

  ‘It’s better in here if we are to talk business,’ said Guy, slipping a silver cigarette-case from his jacket pocket and offering me one. I could see that they weren’t my usual cheap Craven As but posh, imported handmade jobs. I took one and Sir Howard flicked a desk-lighter for me.

  ‘We assume that you are a staunch supporter of our cause,’ said Cooper. ‘I trust we are right in our assumptions?’

  ‘If your cause is to get rid of the Jews, I’m certainly with you,’ I replied with some vehemence, the words almost sticking in my throat.

  Both men smiled. ‘A succinct summation, I should say, eh, Guy?’ observed Sir Howard, his stern features relaxing.

  Cooper nodded. ‘You have already proved yourself to be a quick thinker and an able sort of chap. This afternoon’s performance was first class. We know that you were invalided out of the army and now work as a private detective.’

  Homework had been done.

  I nodded and blew smoke casually into the air.

  ‘You’re just the sort of fellow we need in the club. We feel you might be very useful to us.’

  ‘I’m not much of a talker. I’m afraid. I couldn’t get up and spout, make speeches.’

  Sir Howard sat at a desk, his face thrust forward and bleached by the harsh rays of the table-lamp. ‘That’s not what we we’re after, at all, John. In the current restrictive climate words are simply not enough. We need action.

  ‘Let me put you in the picture. We in the Britannia Club are a very vulnerable species at present. These days being an outspoken or organised fascist can easily lead you into jail. Since Mosley’s incarceration and the forced dissolution of the BUF, it’s not safe for self-respecting people like ourselves to raise our heads above the parapets for fear of being arrested. We are only tolerated because our meetings are private, by invitation only, and we do not express our anti-Semitic beliefs in public. In other words this foolish, ill-advised government has effectively tied our hands and gagged us. It expects us to stand silently on the side-lines while our country is destroyed.

  ‘So you see, if we are not able to act within the law—the law doled out by the Jewish-sympathising government—we have to make our own laws, our own rules. We are men and women of principle after all, and our aims are of the noblest: Britain for the British. What, I ask you, is wrong with that?’

  After a moment’s pause I realised that this was not a rhetorical question.

  ‘There is nothing wrong with that. In fact it is our duty,’ I responded earnestly.

  Sir Howard grinned. ‘I told you, Guy, this was a fellow after our own hearts.’

  Cooper blew smoke into the air and nodded. ‘Good man.’

  ‘You see, we don’t think that it will be very long before Hitler will be here…’

  ‘In Britain?’ I could not keep the shock out of my voice.

  ‘Indeed. The Führer has already conquered Europe. All he has to do now is cross a little stretch of water to add Britain to his conquests. The man in the street has no real concept of what is happening. In simple terms, John, we have to mobilise our troops, help to cleanse the capital in readiness for what will inevitably be German rule.’

  Guy placed his hand upon my shoulder. ‘Behind the docile front of the Britannia Club, we organise vigilante groups: young men who feel the same as we do and are not afraid to use their fists or any other forms of violence to help cleanse our city. With the Jews you knock them down and kick them when they are down.’

  I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Veiled and to some extent circumspect though their language was, these smooth, well-bred thugs were talking about lynching-mobs. They were talking about murder.

  I stubbed my cigarette in a large ornate ashtray and prayed I would say all the right things. I was certain that if I didn’t, I wouldn’t see another sunrise. I knew I had to play it cool.

  ‘That sounds fine by me, but where exactly where do I come in?’

  ‘Do you want to come in?’ said Cooper gently, as though he were asking whether I took sugar in my tea.

  ‘If it helps the cause, of course. I want to see a brighter, better Britain. A Jew-free Britain.’

  ‘Excellent. We’d like you to help co-ordinate some of our groups in the East End. Their strikes must be brief and brutal and they must be able disperse before any counter action can be taken by the Jews or the police are called in.’

  ‘And we’d like to target some of the synagogues too,’ said Sir Howard. ‘A few well-placed torches should do any damage the Luftwaffe fails to carry out.’

  ‘Just tell me what to do,’ I said with a fervour to match their mood and expectations. I felt that I had turned into some kind of automaton, mouthing exactly what they wanted to hear, while I was squirming inside with fear and disgust.

  ‘However, this is small beer to what we believe will happen in the next six months. By Christmas things will be very different in this country. And we shall need all the good men we can get on our side.’

  ‘I am on your side,’ I snapped, almost giving a Nazi salute.

  Cooper smiled. ‘I know. Now, we hold planning meetings once a week. I think it would be useful for you to come along to the next one, this Saturday. It promises to be rather special. It would give you a chance to meet some of the other lieutenants, as we call them. We could then plan the specifics of your involvement.’

  There was no turning back now. I had to go further down this crazy, dark path that I’d stumbled upon. Barbara had been right.

  The Britannia Club was responsible for Isaac’s murder, and probably others, too. If I could accumulate sufficient evidence, I’d get this lot behind bars for the duration and see that the killers faced the hangman. Noble stuff, Johnny, old boy. However, I was also aware that if I put a foot wrong before I’d got enough information my life wouldn’t be worth a pin’s fee.

  Well, you wanted danger, you stupid bastard. Now you’ve got it.

  ‘Count me in. I’ll be there,’ I heard myself saying.

  ‘One further thing,’ said Cooper, ‘this is our private arrangement. Do not discuss it with anyone else.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘We mean it,’ added Sir Howard brusquely. ‘No one else. Not all the members are aware of our…extracurricular agenda, shall we call it? My daughter, for instance, has no knowledge of these activities. On this occasion I would advise you adhere to the government warning about careless talk…You catch my drift I hope.’ The eyes narrowed into a cold stare.

  I caught his drift all right. He was circumspect no more. I could recognise a threat when one was thrust under my nose.

  ‘As I said, I’m not the talkative type.’

  ‘Good. We meet at 7.30 on Saturday evening.’

  Both men extended their hands and I shook them firmly, sealing the bargain. My God, it seemed that I had sold my soul to the fascists.

  Sir Howard rose casually, slipping once more behind the mask of bluff bonhomie. ‘I suggest that we return to the party now. I am sure John would welcome another glass of champagne.’

  Once back in the brightly lit room where the party was at full throttle the two men left me to my own devices. My initial instinct was to run for the hills. I felt a kind of stifling claustrophobia, being trapped in a room with these smartly clad traitors. I also felt dirty, contaminated, as though I had co
me into contact with some unpleasant disease. But I suspected that an early departure would have seemed suspicious. Looking around the room, I was reminded that in fact there were two types of fascist present: those misguided souls who held the belief that the Jewish nation were to blame for all the ills besetting this country, and those vicious zealots who were determined to go to any lengths to destroy them.

  While I was pondering my next move, Lady McLean appeared at my side. Again I was struck by what an attractive woman she was for her age. She must have been a gorgeous head-turner as a girl. She gave me a gentle, beguiling smile and took my arm, leading me to a quiet area of the room. ‘I hope you realise and respect the trust we have placed in you, Mr Hawke.’

  I nodded seriously. ‘Of course.’

  ‘If this movement is to succeed, if we are to reach our goal —a unified and British Britain—we need young men like you with vision, dedication and drive. You could go far. Don’t let us down.’ She raised her eyebrows prompting me to respond.

  ‘I am with you all the way,’ I lied in the most convincing way I knew how.

  She squeezed my arm tightly, flashed a brief smile and left me. It was a warning. A polite, civilised threat.

  I grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing flunkey. A little alcoholic anaesthetic was needed. I was just about to take a sip when I saw a face heading towards me through the throng. It was none other than my friend from Benny’s café.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said briskly. I half-expected him to click his heels and go into the Heil Hitler routine.

  ‘Good evening.’

  ‘We keep bumping into each other.’

  ‘Don’t we. Do you think people are beginning to talk?’

  There was no change in his expression. I hate people with no sense of humour. Especially those with Jew-baiting tendencies. ‘Are you giving another performance tonight, like the one in the café?’