by Guy Walters
The man shook his head and continued to cough, albeit marginally less convulsively. After another half a minute it had dwindled to an occasional – but painful-sounding – hacking.
‘How long have you had that?’ Armstrong asked.
‘Since I came in here,’ the man replied. He sounded well-spoken.
‘When was that?’
A pause, and then:
‘Fuck knows.’
‘Can I ask why?’
This time there was no pause.
‘Fuck knows. And you?’
There was no other way to reply.
‘Fuck knows,’ said Armstrong.
This caused the man to laugh, which set off his cough again. After it had subsided, the man spoke once more.
‘How do you do,’ he said, stretching his hand across the gap between the mattresses. ‘I’m Fergus Walker. What did you say your name was?’
It transpired that Walker had earned his place in the cell for the crime of booing at a cinema newsreel.
‘I was down at my local fleapit with my girlfriend,’ he said, ‘and we were waiting for the main picture to come on – something with Jean Harlow I think it was – when they started showing one of those SBC broadcasts about how great everything is now. You know the type of thing . . .’
Armstrong nodded.
‘This one was a particularly noxious example, all about Mosley touring some steelworks in Wales with the King. Did you see it?’
Armstrong shook his head while Walker erupted into another coughing fit.
‘Anyway,’ Walker resumed, ‘both Mosley and the King are walking around in their fascist uniforms, radiating superficial bonhomie, with “Hail good fellow” and all that sort of crap. Then there’s this appalling scene in which Mosley turns to the King and says something along the lines of . . .’
At this point Walker affected a passable imitation of the Leader, his tone drawling and patrician.
‘. . . “Your Majesty, last November you visited these good people at their factory and said, ‘Something must be done to see that they stay here – working.’ And was something done? No. However, I hope you can see here today that something has at last been done, and that these people are not only still working here, but are here to stay!”’
As Walker started coughing again, Armstrong reflected that such a broadcast was typical. Mosley had hauled the King out at every opportunity – it gave him a legitimacy, if not an electoral one, then at least a legitimacy in people’s hearts.
‘So did the King reply?’ Armstrong asked.
‘You bet,’ Walker replied. ‘In that silly American accent of his. He thanked Mosley for all the good “wurk” he had been doing to get the country back on its feet, and all the time Mosley stood there sporting that grin of his, lapping it up. Then – and this is the point at which I started booing – some steelworker leads the others in a three cheers for “The King and Our Leader”. You should have seen their faces – smug and just, I don’t know, repellent. I suppose I’d had a bit to drink beforehand, so I made my feelings quite plain.’
‘What happened next?’
‘An usher came down and told me to shut up, that I was disturbing the rest of the audience. I told him where to get off, and said I was entitled to make my feelings clear. He warned me not to do it again, and I said I most certainly would start booing again if the management insisted on showing those two clowns on the screen. Then he walked off and the film began. My girlfriend was a little embarrassed by all this, especially as everybody else in the cinema was turning around and looking at us.’
‘Did they say anything?’
‘Who?’
‘The audience.’
‘Not a word. They just tutted – you know what people are like. Anyway, after the film has been running for about ten minutes, there’s this commotion at the back, and the next thing I know three men in suits come and wrench me out of my seat.’
Walker paused for another cough.
‘Did they take your girlfriend too?’
‘No. They left her there and wouldn’t even tell her where they were taking me. I kicked up a hell of a fuss and tried to break free, but they were big chaps. I demanded to know why they were taking me, who the hell they were, all that. But it was useless. The next thing I know – whack! – I get this terrific bash on the back of my head and wake up in this shit-hole.’
‘And what happened after you woke up?’
Walker didn’t reply, not because he was coughing, but because he didn’t want to.
‘Sorry,’ said Armstrong, ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’
‘No need to apologise. Um . . . after I woke up . . . well, that’s when it started.’
‘What started?’
‘I . . . I don’t think I want to talk about it. Not now, if you don’t mind.’
Walker’s voice had become subdued, croaky.
‘Sorry, Walker.’
Walker waved his hand as if to tell Armstrong not to worry.
‘It’s Fergus,’ he said. ‘I think cellmates should be on first-name terms, don’t you?’
Cellmates, thought Armstrong, the full reality of his new situation sinking in. They had taken his watch away, but he guessed it was late afternoon. It had already been a long day, and it was about to get longer. He was both hungry and thirsty, but he was not going to ask for anything, was not going to show any signs of weakness. He had prepared himself for this moment, albeit over twenty years ago, at the outbreak of the war. Then, he had wondered how he would cope if he was incarcerated by the Germans. It would never have occurred to the young Lieutenant Armstrong that one day he would be locked up by his own people.
He feared the torture because he feared the unknown. If that clone had told him that they were going to pull his nails out, then he could have prepared himself. But his mind raced, conceiving horrors that should have been inconceivable. What had they done to poor Fergus here? He had been just another drunk young man at the pictures with his girlfriend, expressing himself in the boisterous fashion common to all men at some time in their lives. And now he had been locked up for it, and worse, physically savaged. However, the difference between Fergus and Armstrong was that Fergus had nothing to tell. Armstrong, on the other hand, knew too much, too much that they would love to know.
He looked across at his cellmate, who was staring up at the ceiling. Something about Fergus’s story didn’t add up, thought Armstrong, something about it stank. Surely the HMSSP had bigger fish to trawl for than those who had committed minor misdemeanours, no matter how unpatriotic? No, Fergus was a stooge, a ‘new best friend’ sent to tempt him into telling him what he had been doing. Armstrong could see it now, could see how Fergus would like their relationship to grow. The gradual building-up of confidence after the abrasive start, which would lead to the mutual sharing of secrets. For all he knew, Fergus might even be a real prisoner attempting to atone for whatever crime he had committed by helping the HMSSP. People would do anything to get out of this hole, even help their tormentors in exchange for freedom.
They came at three in the morning. Armstrong had been drifting in and out of sleep, his throat parched and sore. He had come close to asking for some water, but had decided against it. The door slammed open, the light from the corridor making him squint as he sat up. Silhouetted in the opening was the figure of a man in a suit, whom he recognised as being clone number two. Behind him he could make out two more figures, both in the Blackshirt uniform of black fencing jackets, black breeches and knee-length black riding boots.
They remained silent as they took him away, as they dragged him down the corridor, as they tied him to a chair in yet another small room. He readied himself for the violence that was to come – the punches, the kicks, God knew what else. He was afraid, but he knew he could take it.
To his surprise, the men left the room. What was this? Were they making way for some expert? Armstrong took several deep breaths, steeling himself. He had seen and suffered enough violence in the war
, had killed and seen friends killed, but had never had to endure drawn-out sadism. The violence he had experienced was sudden and explosive. One second you were alive, the next you were dead, or – perhaps worse – savagely maimed. But torture was different, horrific in its slowness, in its anticipation.
The lights snapped out, causing a momentary surge of panic to overwhelm him. A few more deep breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth, not too quickly – and he could feel himself approach what approximated to a relaxed state in a torture chamber.
A white square appeared on the wall in front of him. Armstrong recognised it as the light from a slide projector. What were they going to show him?
A clicking sound from over his head told him that he was right. It was a projector, and it was showing its first slide, which consisted solely of three crudely written words:
HE DIDN’T TALK
A click, and then:
SO WE DID THIS
Another click.
It was a black-and-white photograph. The image was slightly out of focus, but the noose was clear enough, as was the face. It was Alec’s.
Behind him, hidden hands adjusted the focus.
* * *
One of the advantages of Otto’s flat is that no one can see who comes in and out. The block, on Lawn Road in Hampstead, is of a radical design called ‘deck access’, which features external walkways along each floor. But while the front doors of most of the flats in his block can be seen from the road, Otto’s – number 7 – is hidden by a staircase. Naturally, it is no accident that Otto has chosen this flat. It suits his purposes very well, especially today, as he is expecting a visit from Tony.
Otto knows Tony likes whisky, so he has bought him a bottle of the finest Scotch. Otto is sophisticated enough to know the difference between blended and malt, and he has procured a bottle of Glenfiddich from a pub on Haverstock Hill. He goes into the small and virtually unused kitchen, and takes two tumblers out of a light green cupboard. The tumblers are new, and still carry the maker’s sticker just below their rims. Otto picks them off with a little difficulty.
The doorbell rings. Otto looks at the clock above the kitchen door. Six o’clock – Tony is on time. Otto hurries to the front door, not wishing to leave Tony exposed on the walkway. Yes, he knows the front door is hidden, but there could be others around, not least that nosy old woman from next door.
Otto looks through the keyhole, sees the bottom part of Tony’s face and smiles. He unlocks the Yale and slides the chain across. Tony walks in without saying a word. No pleasantries are exchanged, no chitchat. It feels as if they are about to commit some crime, perhaps a sexual crime, thinks Otto, who knows a little about that. Otto leaves Tony standing while he fetches the tumblers.
He returns, brandishing one towards Tony, who nods back.
‘I’ve got you some finest malt,’ says Otto. ‘I hope you approve.’
‘I do,’ says Tony, taking a glass into which Otto has poured a generous inch.
‘Well, I thought we should congratulate ourselves on your new position.’
The two men clink their glasses together.
‘And,’ says Otto pointedly, ‘our new recruit.’
This time no clink, but a slight raising of tumblers.
‘What are you going to call him?’ Tony asks.
Otto grins and walks over to a low white cupboard. He bends down, slides its door open, and takes out the Monopoly set that Tony gave him in March.
‘My wife and I enjoy it,’ says Otto. ‘It’s rather good . . .’
‘For something so capitalist,’ says Tony.
‘Precisely,’ Otto continues. ‘Anyway, I was rather tickled by the idea of naming him after one of the counters.’
‘Oh yes? Which one?’
‘I thought “Dog”.’
Tony takes a sip of his drink.
‘Very appropriate.’
‘I thought so,’ says Otto. ‘And I’ve got a new name for you.’
‘What?’
‘Top Hat.’
‘I approve.’
‘I doubt the game’s makers would feel the same way!’
‘I expect not,’ says Tony. ‘Anyway, Top Hat is better than Boot, at any rate.’
‘Perhaps we’ll find someone to fill that name, as it were.’
Top Hat chuckles slightly, hiding the fact that he is taken aback by Otto’s verbal dexterity in what he knows cannot be his first language.
‘Why don’t we sit down?’ says Otto.
Chapter Three
A Funny Place
August 1937
ARMSTRONG STAYED SILENT for three weeks. His reticence was brought about by a mixture of shock, stubbornness and disbelief. He spoke neither to his captors, nor to Fergus, who left the cell after a few days. They had actually killed him, Armstrong kept thinking, cold-bloodedly executed him within a few hours of arresting him. He was shown the picture repeatedly, and its impact never diminished. He had known Alec for decades, had known every expression that his face could bear, and yet here was a new one, one that told Armstrong there was no life behind this face, that it was merely a collection of protuberances. Here was a nose that would no longer have air rushing through its nostrils, here was a mouth that would no longer smile, here was a pair of eyes that would never again open. It seemed unreal, and Armstrong couldn’t help but feel that perhaps it was. He thought that it might be a fake, but each time he looked at the picture there was no doubting its awful veracity.
The clones never touched him. They threatened torture, but none came. They questioned him endlessly, deprived him of sleep, starved him, but they never so much as slapped him. That surprised him – if they were capable of killing Alec, then they were capable of lesser horrors. Why did they leave him alone? Did they want him to remain unharmed so that he appeared presentable for some form of trial? At first he fancied that his position still gave him some protection, but he soon dismissed it. The rules, if there still were any, had changed, replaced by the thin laws of barbarism. And how quickly it had happened! In just a few months, society had mutated, had allowed itself to show a hidden face, one set in a permanent sneer of violent hatred. Armstrong knew the face was not that of the majority, but it was threatening that majority, forcing it apart.
How much did his captors know? As the days went by, Armstrong became increasingly convinced that the answer was very little. The clones, as well as the men in full Blackshirt uniforms, asked him plenty of questions, but it became apparent that whatever information they had was risibly incorrect. Armstrong had expected them to know more, had reckoned they would have mentioned at least some of the names on his list, but the names they did spit out meant nothing to him. Although he did not allow himself to assume that the network was intact, there was a good chance that it was. Still, without a leader, it was little more than a collection of decent men.
Eventually they had seemingly got bored of him, and he was sent under armed guard to his present home – Peveril Internment Camp in Peel on the west coast of the Isle of Man. For the next two months he received the occasional beating and constant verbal abuse – what one of the guards liked to euphemistically call ‘thorough debriefings’ – but the authorities had seemingly decided that Armstrong was less of a threat than they had supposed. The food was minimal in quantity and abysmal in quality, a near starvation ration that was designed to keep the inmates weak and listless.
Normally it was Churchill’s snoring that kept him awake, but tonight Armstrong had no need of sleep. Even though Winston had lost nearly two stone since he had been interned in April, it hadn’t made any difference to his nocturnal rumblings. The guards, perhaps out of a sense of mischief, had seen fit to place Armstrong’s bed next to Churchill’s, which meant that Armstrong had slept badly every night for the past several weeks. Winston was apologetic – after a fashion – but he growled that he couldn’t help it, and that Armstrong was perfectly within his rights to hit him when he snored, something Armstrong could never
bring himself to do.
But tonight it didn’t matter, because this was going to be Armstrong’s last night of captivity. By tomorrow he would be miles away, back on the mainland, away from this hellhole. No longer would he have to stare out at the blueness of Peel Bay, gazing at the fishing boats through fifteen feet of barbed wire. No longer would he feel the intense claustrophobia of being trapped in what had been a row of boarding houses, packed in with a couple of hundred of his parliamentary colleagues, all understandably bellyaching at the lack of creature comforts, let alone the deprivation of their liberty.
He looked at his watch. Half past eleven. Armstrong had wanted to go later, but Paddy had told him that earlier would suit them better, especially on a Saturday night, when the guards would, be carousing with the local girls down at the Albert Hall on Shore Road. Armstrong could hear the sound of the band even now, carried in through the window by a slight breeze. The dance hall was only three hundred yards away, but that was further than he had been able to walk since he had been interned. Even if the escape failed, Armstrong thought, it would be good just to be able to stretch his legs.
Armstrong got out of bed, cursing the anguished creaking of the tired springs. Winston stirred in his sleep and stopped snoring. Armstrong paused, hoping not to rouse him. Churchill had wanted to come, of course, but he had reluctantly accepted that, at sixty-two, maybe his escaping days were over. Perhaps if he had lost some more weight, Armstrong had told him, he might have been able to squeeze through. Winston had glowered at this, not knowing whether Armstrong, his junior by nearly twenty years, was being serious.
After giving his roommate half a minute to resume his deep sleep, Armstrong slipped his jacket off the back of the room’s only chair. It was the same jacket he had been wearing when he was arrested on Vauxhall Bridge Road. Even nearly three months on, Steinberg & Son occupied his thoughts almost as much as Alec did, but now was not the time for reflection. Now was the time for thanking God he had not been wearing a pinstripe suit that morning. The jacket was a plain dark blue, and after months of daily wear, and with some deliberate distressing, its former conspicuous Savile Row provenance was no longer apparent. He had even carried out some extra tailoring on it, by inserting around £20 in the lining. If the plan went well, this money, bought from the more amenable guards at usurious rates with the camp’s own paper money, should get him to London.