Comes the Dark

by David Stuart Davies

  When I eventually emerged from the doorway, I kept to the side streets as I made my way via this roundabout route to Cambridge Circus. I kept glancing over my shoulder to check that I had been successful in shaking off my shadow. It seemed that I had. There was no ominous silhouette dogging my heels. In the bustle of the circus I hailed another cab and gave him directions. As he pulled away from the kerb, I peered through the rear window in time to see a tall man standing by a waiting taxi and pointing at my cab. No doubt he was uttering the deathless line: ‘Follow that cab!’ My shadow had lived up to his name. This fellow was clever and as tenacious as a limpet.

  What was I to do now?

  I leaned forward to speak to my driver. ‘I’ve got a problem.’

  The cabbie shook his head. ‘I don’t accept cheques, food coupons or IOUs. I only take cash, mister.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got the cash,’ I said quickly to reassure him. ‘That’s not my problem.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The taxi behind us is following me.’

  The cabbie craned his neck to look in his rear-view mirror. ‘I see him. Is it the lady’s husband by any chance?’

  ‘You could say that. Any possibility of losing him?’

  ‘You naughty boy.’ He chuckled like a cheeky school kid sharing a dirty joke. ‘Yeah, I think I can do the honours. Cost you a bit more though.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘In that case hold on to your hat, my son.’ So saying he thrust the vehicle into a high gear and it lurched forward as though it had been shot from a gun.

  The cabbie drove like a wild thing. He must have been a racing driver in a previous life. He swerved dangerously but skilfully in and out of traffic; he sped through red lights; he took tight corners with a squeal of brakes as I was flung hither and thither within the confines of the cab; he zoomed down narrow streets without a thought of encountering oncoming traffic; he mounted the kerb to avoid pedestrians crossing in front of him; and he whistled merrily constantly throughout this hair-raising journey.

  After ten minutes of this funfair ride, he screeched to a halt on a quiet street which ran parallel to the Strand.

  He turned to face me, a big grin lighting his features. ‘That should have done the trick, my son. Doubt if anyone could have stuck with me through that little lot.’

  I nodded in agreement. I had only just made it myself.

  ‘Best fun I’ve had in years,’ he beamed. ‘Now then, where’d you like to go to?’

  ‘No offence but I think I’ll go the rest of the way on foot.’

  My racing cabbie seemed disappointed at this but said nothing. I handed over a generous fare and stepped out of the vehicle.

  ‘Happy to oblige,’ he said, still grinning, and with a cheery wave he drove off at a more sedate speed.

  I waited until he had disappeared from sight, leaving me alone on the darkened street, before pulling up the collar of my raincoat and resuming my journey to rendezvous with Paul.

  I made my way down to the Embankment. It was quite dark now and pretty cool, and there were few pedestrians about. There was a full moon which kept hiding briefly behind gently drifting clouds. It sent intermittent diamond ripples across the dark water of the river. Still clasping the brown-paper parcel I walked along towards Cleopatra’s Needle, my rendezvous point. I glanced down at my watch. I could just make out the figures on the luminous dial. It was nearly 9.30. I was a little later than I had expected but I knew that Paul would wait for me—he had little alternative.

  As I approached the Needle I saw that there was a figure loitering nearby. I quickened my step but as I grew nearer, I faltered. The figure was too tall and lean for Paul and his stance was unfamiliar to me. As I approached the man turned to face me.

  In the filtered moonlight I saw his features. I recognised them: I had seen this man before. That long face with the thin prominent nose, those dark, glittery raven’s eyes and the determined chin. But where had I seen him before? He was unexpected and out of context. A face from the recent past which had floated by me somewhere was now presented to me without a proper grid reference and while my brain reached frantically into the filing-cabinet of my memory it failed to come up with an answer. Instinctively, I knew he would speak to me. Instinctively I knew that he had been waiting for me. Instinctively, I knew he was dangerous. Suddenly I felt a cold, squirmy feeling in my gut. What now, Johnny boy? What now?’

  I glanced around me. There was no one else in sight. The Embankment was deserted. There was just the faint hum of distant traffic, the slight swish of the gentle breeze rippling the trees and the occasional dark shape of some vessel sliding and sloshing by out on the dark waters of the river.

  For what seemed ages we stood facing each other, this familiar stranger and I, as though in a scene from some Western gunfight, only I couldn’t go for my gun because I didn’t have one with me. I rarely carried one. After I lost my eye when a rifle exploded in my face I didn’t trust guns. They killed people. However, I would have trusted one just now.

  ‘Mr Hawke,’ he said at length. His voice was low and calm with a trace of amusement in the tone.

  ‘That’s me,’ I replied.

  ‘You’ve come to meet your brother.’

  I had some flippant remark ready to trip out but somehow I reckoned this was not the time to play the wise guy. ‘Yes,’ I said simply.

  ‘He can’t make it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked with some urgency, my stomach squirming all the more as a real sense of fear began to grow within me. Not fear for myself but for Paul.

  ‘He just knew too much.’ Now the man smiled briefly before his face resumed its sardonic mask. This shifting of his features did the trick. My memory clicked into place. I recognised him.

  ‘You’re a policeman,’ I said, surprising myself. I had seen him at the Yard in a uniform.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The smile returned again briefly. ‘But you’ll know all about me. Your brother will have told you.’

  I wish he had, I thought. I shook my head. ‘He’s told me nothing.’

  ‘And so that’s why you’re here,’ he replied sarcastically.

  My brain was now on overtime, trying to work out what this fellow thought I knew. It could only be one thing. And if it wasn’t, it was worth a try.

  ‘You’re the killer,’ I said.

  There was a smile again. I am not a squeamish sort of fellow, but that smile made me shudder. It was alien, produced by a consciousness that was not normal. A smile that had lost touch with humanity.

  ‘He did tell you, then.’ The eyes glittered with a strange satisfaction.

  By ‘he’ I assumed he meant Paul. ‘He didn’t tell me,’ I said. ‘You did.’

  His brows rose in mild surprise.

  ‘Why else would you be here?’ I explained. ‘What have you done with my brother? If you’ve harmed him—’ I took a step forward, anger overriding my sensible self.

  He stepped back and pulled a gun from his raincoat pocket. ‘Stop there—now!’ he snapped, the sardonic, languid pose disappearing swiftly. ‘Stop there…or I’ll use this.’

  I did as I was told.

  ‘Where is Paul?’ I asked quietly, in reasonable tones without emotion. It was a performance. I was acting cool and calm when in reality my brain and gut were rivals in a jitterbug competition. I feared the worst for my brother.

  ‘You needn’t worry about him. His troubles are over.’

  My stomach lurched and I felt vomit rise in my throat. ‘You’ve killed him?’ I said eventually. I already knew the answer and my head began to spin.

  ‘I silenced him, yes. And now I must do the same to you.’

  There are times when I’m thankful for spending hours in darkened auditoriums watching movies. This was one of them. Escapism, it’s called, but it can be educational too. From nowhere my brain snatched a memory of an old gangster film where the hero was faced with such a dilemma as I was: big brute with a gun about to shoot him.
I remembered how the hero extricated himself from this life-threatening situation. But, of course, that was the movies and I was starring in real life. However, I had to do something and I had no ideas of my own, so I had to go with Hollywood.

  My assailant took a step nearer and raised the pistol in readiness to shoot. In an instant I had snatched the hat from my head and hurled it with great force in his direction. It was only a soft trilby and certainly was not going to do him any harm, but a dark object flying towards him at speed distracted him sufficiently to allow me to duck down out of the immediate range of the gun and dive at his legs.

  As I brought him down in a rugby tackle the gun went off, but I felt no pain and so I assumed the bullet had missed me. We grappled like school kids in the playground, rolling over and over on the damp pavement as though we were participants in some wild party game. He was a big man and strong, but he lacked my agility and in this way we were strangely matched. My aim was to get the gun from him but he kept his arm outstretched, ramrod-straight, beyond my reach, so I had to take a different tack. I kneed him in the groin. The effect was instantaneous. He bellowed in pain and folded before me, crashing to the ground and scrunching himself into the foetal position. For a moment he lay still, breathing heavily. I crouched over him and tried again to snatch the gun, but before I could do so he rallied. Rising up, he twisted round and brought the weapon crashing down on my head. A selection of pretty fairy lights paraded before my eyes as I staggered backwards. In the haze I saw him scramble to his feet. I launched myself forward and with both hands grabbed the arm that held the gun. The force of my assault caused us both to rebound backwards against the parapet. The gun spun from his grasp and dropped into the river below.

  Frustration at losing the gun fuelled his anger and gave him an extra burst of energy and strength. He advanced on me like a madman, eyes wide with fury, mouth set in a crazed grimace. Before I knew what had hit me—he had. I received a solid punch hard in the gut—more fairy lights—and then he rammed his fist against my chin. It made an unpleasant sound. This time the fairy lights flashed brightly and then flickered fitfully before darkness came to entertain me. It slipped over my head like a black velvet hood. I was dimly aware that my legs were giving way and with a strange sense of relief I sank into unconsciousness.

  33

  I woke just as the sky was lightening. A new day was dawning I and a blistering headache was making itself felt, like an irate landlord hammering on your door in the early hours of the morning while you are trying to sleep off a hangover. That wasn’t the worst of it. My body seemed to have rusted up and I found it almost impossible to move. I was still lying on the damp pavement by the Embankment, still alive, thank God, but secretly wishing I were dead. As I prised my head from the wet stone paving my vision softened for a while, as though someone had thrown a veil over me. Gradually, with much flickering of the eyelids, it cleared and focused. I saw the occasional pedestrian pass by giving me a wide berth. To them I was just another drunk who could not take his booze. If only that had been the truth.

  With infinite slowness I got myself into a standing position. At this time my mind was focused solely on my physical movements. My recent history, how I had come to be lying on the Embankment feeling like and probably looking like a dead fish on the slab and, more important, the whereabouts of my brother, did not at first impinge on my consciousness.

  At last I was erect, though, I have to admit, rather stooping in my erectness. I was now aware that not only did my head ache, but my chin and my stomach were suffering equally. With much gritting of the teeth, I began walking, robot-like, in the vague direction of home, my full attention still concentrating on the mechanics of moving forward. One foot slithered in front of another. Slowly, the stiffness eased and I began to pick up speed. Time passed and I was almost moving normally when I spied, as though it were a mirage in the desert, a little tea-bar ahead of me. Its lights and cheery ambience beckoned. It was a small portable job, selling warming fluids to the early-morning ants on their way to work. This thought prompted me to glance at my watch. It was nearly seven o’clock.

  I purchased a mug of scalding-hot tea and leaned against the parapet to drink it. Its medicinal warmth surged through my body bringing feeling and humanity back to my weary frame. I replenished the mug and repeated the process. The effect was close to miraculous; my headache eased and my limbs began to feel relaxed. Tea, I came to the conclusion then, is a wondrous elixir. I may never touch another glass of Johnnie Walker again.

  Of course, with this revivification the floodgates of awareness also opened and vivid memories of my last waking moments came back to me. In a speeded-up movie in my mind I relived the events of the previous evening, starting with the wild Keystone Cops taxi-ride and then the encounter with the killer on the Embankment, our tussle and my descent into unconsciousness. A little voice within me told me that I was lucky to be alive but, I wondered with a sagging heart, was Paul? And I wondered why had I been spared. I remembered the gun spiralling over the parapet into the water. Maybe the killer, relieved of his weapon, panicked and headed for the hills.

  ‘You want another tea, guy? On the house,’ called the cheery tea-bar owner. I was his only customer.

  ‘Set ‘em up Joe,’ I replied. ‘You got fags as well?’

  ‘Just Woodbines,’ came the reply.

  ‘Any port in a storm.’ I realised that as I said this I was actually grinning. Where did that come from? I was as far away from the land of mirth as it was possible to be.

  Another cup of tea and a harsh Woodbine later and I felt almost ready to join the human race again.

  There were no taxis around at such an early hour and so I foot-slogged it back to Hawke Towers. Another raincoat-man was on sentry outside but I ignored him. I wasn’t quite ready for that yet. When I got indoors I slumped down on the sofa for what I intended to be a five-minute rest, but very quickly I sank into beautiful, dreamless sleep. If it hadn’t have been for my bladder I could have been there all day, but after about an hour the effects of three mugs of hot tea made their effect felt and brought me back up to the surface.

  Reluctantly I went to the bathroom and washed, shaved and put on fresh clothes. Like it or not I had to go to the Yard and see David. I’d have to confess about going to meet Paul, but at the same time I now had proof that he hadn’t murdered the girl, or anyone.

  As it happened the Yard came to me. I was just knotting my tie when the doorbell rang. I prayed it wasn’t a client. At present my mind was in no fit state to deal with someone’s errant husband or a missing uncle.

  I found David on the threshold. He was looking grim but at least he was on his own. In truth I was relieved to see him.

  ‘And where did you get to last night?’ The tone was neutral but there was something friendly, sympathetic even about the eyes. I could see he was still caught between his two roles: my friend and a professional policeman.

  This was no time for beating about the bush. I told David everything. When I finished he remained silent for some time, fiddling with his hat, then he sighed.

  ‘Here’s another fine mess, Stanley,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘Do you know the copper?’

  David nodded. ‘Don’t know him but I know who he is. Name of Lowe. Bit of a dark horse, I gather.’

  ‘Much darker than you gathered. At least you now know who the killer really is and that my brother is innocent.’

  ‘Yup. Well, we’ll get the posse round to Lowe’s gaff, although no doubt he’s scarpered.’

  ‘But I’m worried that he’s hurt Paul.’

  David looked grim and nervous. He hesitated a moment before he spoke. ‘Your brother was found last night in phone box about a mile away from the Yard. He’d been shot.’

  My stomach lurched. ‘Shot! My God. He’s not dead?’

  David gave a weary sigh. ‘He’s not dead, but he’s in a very bad way.’

  ‘He’s alive then,’ I snapped, desperate for David to confirm t
he fact. For Christ’s sake, my brain yelled, where’s there’s life there’s hope.

  ‘He’s alive, but—’

  ‘Don’t give me your bloody buts. He’s alive.’

  David nodded.

  ‘I want to see him. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s in Charing Cross Hospital. He’s due for an operation this morning. He was shot in the stomach. He’s lost a lot of blood. I know it’s cliché, Johnny, but he’s in good hands. You should be able to see him this afternoon if he’s come out of the operating theatre.’

  I slumped in a chair, tears springing unbidden to my eyes. I had never contemplated losing my brother. It was something that was not on my life’s agenda. He had always been there. The only one who had always been there. He had been my mother, father, friend and protector in the dark days of my youth. He was the only family I had ever known. And, although, we had grown apart in recent years, I had always been conscious of that firm invisible link between us. Now that was in danger of being severed. I pushed back the tears with as much masculine force as I could muster while David turned away, embarrassed, and fiddled some more with his hat. Suddenly, my self-pity was swamped by a sudden hot tidal wave of anger, anger directed at the bastard Lowe.

  I jumped to my feet. ‘David, do me a favour. Let’s go to Lowe’s place together now. You’re right, he’s probably done a bunk, but you and I might be able to pick up a trail, rather than a set of your bobbies.’