by Guy Walters
He tried standing up, but he couldn’t. This wasn’t an attack, this was pure exhaustion. His body demanded sleep, insisting that he lay where he was. Armstrong fought hard, but he knew that this time he would have to surrender to his body. He had punished it ruthlessly, exerting it more than a man half his age would be capable of.
As he drifted off, he didn’t notice the two young women in colourful bathing costumes rounding a bend in the path. They stopped, and then approached him cautiously, bending over his wet and bloodied body, exchanging confused, slightly frightened glances.
‘Quick!’ one of them said. ‘Go and get Father! Tell him to bring a wheelbarrow or something!’
Perhaps Armstrong heard that, because the woman who stayed behind to cover him with their towels thought she detected a slight smile on the man’s face.
* * *
Abram Aronovich Slutsky sits very still at his desk in the headquarters of the NKVD in Lubyanka Square in Moscow. As head of the INO, the Inostrannyi Otdel – the foreign intelligence department of the NKVD – Slutsky has a lot to think about. His superior and chairman of the NKVD, Nikolai Ivanovich Yezhov, has just had a meeting at the Kremlin with Stalin, who says that he wants to see the fascist regime in Britain torn down. Yezhov has told Slutsky that it is up to him, as head of the INO, to do it. In turn, Slutsky knows that it is Otto who will really have to make it happen.
Slutsky is a great believer in Otto, and knows him to be brilliant. Certainly, Otto is an eccentric, but then many brilliant men are. As a young man, Otto was a disciple of Wilhelm Reich, a German Communist and sexologist based in Vienna, and even published Reich’s writings on the quest for the better orgasm and his views on Freud and Marx. The Party is aware that Otto has a healthy appetite for the joys of the flesh, but the Lubyanka knows that it needs its complement of men with unusual qualities.
Otto has been a great recruiter, Slutsky thinks as he gets up and walks slowly to the two small windows of his third-floor office. He looks out on to the square, gazing at the statue of Feliks Dzerzhinsky, the founder of this great organisation. Otto has had a lot of success with men at Cambridge University, although he has recruited many more from outside that privileged institution. One of the most successful has been the man Moscow now calls Top Hat, a name chosen by Otto for no explicable reason. It is on the shoulders of Top Hat that the burden will fall, because he is the man best placed, the most high up.
There is a soft knocking on the door.
‘Yes?’ says Slutsky.
The door opens. It is Natalya, his assistant.
‘A package from Denmark, Comrade Slutsky,’ says Natalya.
Denmark. Denmark is the route Otto uses to send information back to Moscow. Slutsky likes packages from Denmark, because they are normally full of good news. Slutsky nods, whereupon Natalya deposits the parcel on his desk.
‘Thank you, Comrade,’ says Slutsky.
Slutsky waits for Natalya to leave the room, and then carefully opens the parcel. It is a game of some sort, a board game. What is this? Monopoly. He opens the box’s lid, and finds a note written in Otto’s large, looping hand.
Comrade, allow me to introduce you to Dog.
Perhaps Otto is a little more than eccentric; perhaps he is in some way cracked. However, after Slutsky has perused the contents of the box for little more than five minutes, he knows that Otto is even more brilliant than he could possibly have hoped. The Comrade Chairman will be very pleased with this, but in the meantime, Slutsky is going to keep Dog to himself.
Chapter Four
He Do the Police
ARMSTRONG AWOKE WITH a start. It was around four in the afternoon, and he had been asleep on a large faded sofa in the conservatory at Logan House. He had not slept well. Even two days on, the image of the boat capsizing kept playing through his mind, along with the look of horror on Craven’s face as they were thrown into the water. The helplessness he had felt was stirred up in his dreams, transformed into guilt, a guilt he couldn’t help feeling despite the fact he knew that Craven’s death hadn’t been his fault.
‘James?’
He turned round to see the tall figure of Richard, accompanied by Molly, a grey-muzzled black Labrador, standing in the doorway to the garden.
‘You all right, old chap? You were making a frightful din.’
Armstrong rubbed his eyes and looked at his new watch, a present from Richard.
‘Sorry – I was . . . dreaming.’
Molly came over and licked his hand. The tenderness of the bitch’s gesture put a slight smile on Armstrong’s face.
‘D’you need anything? Something to drink? A tablet?’
Armstrong shook his head.
‘No thanks, Dick, I think I’ll be okay. Perhaps a walk. Yes – a walk. Clear my head.’
‘Now that’s an excellent idea! I can bore you at great length all about my plants.’
Armstrong got up slowly and walked over to the door. He was limping slightly, and every limb felt stiff.
‘Want a stick?’ Richard asked.
Armstrong glowered back.
‘What, to hit you with?’ he replied.
For the next couple of hours the two men walked slowly around Richard’s gardens. They were indeed impressive, featuring plants from all over the world, including South Africa, India, New Zealand, even Chile. Richard told Armstrong that the gardens had been started by his great-grandmother seventy years ago, and he felt it his duty to look after them. His wife Pamela was also a keen gardener, and he joked that he wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t had green fingers. Sadly, their two daughters, Emma and Daphne, seemed to have little if any interest in things horticultural, and he feared that unless one of them married a gardener, then the gardens were surely doomed.
At the estate’s highest point, Armstrong found they were strolling down a walkway flanked by trees whose foliage consisted of curving bristles with thick green points.
‘Monkey puzzle trees?’ Armstrong guessed.
‘Correct! How did you know? I thought you were a duffer at this.’
‘Mary liked them. She thought the branches looked like pipe cleaners.’
For a moment Richard felt awkward. His friend had been a widower for six years, and whenever Mary’s name had come up he hadn’t known what to say. He leaned down and scratched Molly’s head.
‘Er, you know, James, I’m still very sorry about Mary. Dreadful business that. Don’t know how you cope.’
‘Well, it was she who gave me the strength to cope in the first place,’ said Armstrong. ‘It was ironic really, as though she was preparing me for her own death. Not that she was, of course.’
‘A fine woman, Mary. One of the best.’
‘Thanks, Dick.’
They walked in silence for a few more yards.
‘Christ!’ Richard exclaimed, stopping in his tracks. ‘Nearly forgot to ask! How’s young Philip? Have you had any news since you were locked up?’
‘He’s with Mary’s mother. They’re staying—’
Armstrong checked himself. He knew he could trust Richard, or at least he was pretty certain he could, but surely there was no need for him to know?
‘What’s that, old boy?’ asked Richard.
‘I’m sorry, Dick,’ said Armstrong, ‘but I’ve decided not to tell anybody where he is. I’m sure you understand.’
Richard turned to him. Armstrong braced himself for an indignant comment as his old friend looked him in the eye.
‘This is what it’s come to, hasn’t it?’ said Richard.
Armstrong nodded.
‘We can’t trust each other any more, can we?’
‘It’s not that, Dick . . .’
Richard held up his hand.
‘No need to say it,’ he continued. ‘If you can’t keep your own secrets, then how can you expect me to keep them for you?’
‘Thanks, Dick.’
‘It’s not just us, though, is it? It’s the whole bloody country! It’s happening even up h
ere, even in little Drummore of all places.’
‘What happened there?’
Richard breathed out.
‘Well, we had a teacher – a Mrs Norris – at the school in the village. Nice lady she was, had lived and worked here for twenty years, give or take. She was a widow with no children of her own – her husband had died in the war – and the school and the children were her life. Well, one day she decides to teach a class of eleven-year-olds about the difference between fascism and democracy. She tells them – and this is only what I’ve heard, I can’t promise it’s deadly accurate – that “democracy is a form of government controlled by Parliament and the majority of the people and fascism is a form of government controlled by one man’s will”. She left the children in no doubt as to which system was preferable.’
‘Good for her,’ said Armstrong, although he was aware that Mrs Norris was being referred to in the past tense. ‘So what happened?’
‘Well, one of her charges was a girl called Iona Keith, whose father, Donald Keith, only happens to be a leading member of the Party up here. He lives a couple of miles up the road, makes his living repairing tractors and what have you. Anyway, take it from me, he’s a really nasty piece of work. So, young Iona gets back home that afternoon and tells her parents what she’s been learning in school, and, well, you can imagine what happens next.’
‘I think I can.’
‘At ten o’clock the next morning, two policemen arrest Mrs Norris in front of her class for “unpatriotic activities”. She’s taken to Stranraer Police Station, where she’s held and questioned all day. Eventually she’s released on bail, but told by the school that she cannot go back to her job until she’s been cleared.’
‘This is—’
‘Wait a second. Two days later her body washes up over at Terally Point. They find a note in her cottage, on the kitchen table, saying that if she cannot teach any more, then she might as well not live.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Armstrong softly.’
‘Quite,’ said Richard. ‘The place is in an uproar about it. A few nights ago Donald Keith’s workshop burned to the ground, so of course the whole village is under suspicion. We’ve had police and Blackshirts all over the place, and we’ve been told that if the offenders don’t give themselves up they’ll impound all the boats in the harbour, which would be a disaster for the fishermen. So now the fishermen are going around telling those who they think are guilty to hand themselves in or they’ll get what’s coming to them.’
‘Divide and rule,’ said Armstrong.
‘Quite,’ said Richard again. ‘All because poor Mrs Norris wanted to do what she thought was right.’
Armstrong looked down the line of monkey puzzle trees. In the distance he could see the blueness of Luce Bay. His mind slipped back to a time before Mosley, before the crisis, back to a time of innocence. Alec, Craven, Mrs Norris – three people who would still be alive if the Blackshirts had never come to power. They were gangsters, thought Armstrong, nothing more than criminals in uniforms, mere costumes that gave them a veneer of military order and respectability.
Molly started nuzzling Armstrong’s thigh, as if she was trying to coax him out of his reverie.
‘Stop it, Molly!’ Richard snapped. ‘You greedy animal!’
Armstrong gave the bitch a pat and a rub.
‘I think she deserves an early supper, Dick.’
Armstrong had a look in his eyes that meant Richard couldn’t refuse. It wasn’t a particularly pleading look, he thought, not even a very sad one. But it was distant, as though Armstrong had seen a ghost with whom he’d made an appointment. For you, dear, said Pamela later, that’s really rather good.
Armstrong left at eight o’clock the next morning. Richard had given him the use of the girls’ car – a two-seater Austin 7. Armstrong had refused at first, saying that he could take the train, but he knew that the modest little car would afford him more anonymity. He would drive the 130 miles or so to Carlisle, and from there take an express train south to London, where he intended to get in touch with Craven’s wife. It would take too long to drive all the way; he just didn’t have the time.
It was a beautiful morning. Ten minutes after leaving Logan House, he was driving along beside the still waters of Luce Bay, the brightness of the early sun reflecting off its surface. He drove through small villages, sensing faces watching from upstairs windows. He was glad that the car was modest – he could imagine what the reaction would have been had he been in his ‘Light Twenty’. Because of its size, the Austin made for a pretty uncomfortable ride on the rough roads, but this was only a small discomfort.
He drove through the village of Sandhead, after which he took a right turn that brought him round the top of the bay. In another ten minutes he would be on the main road that would take him to Newton Stewart, Dumfries and then on to Carlisle. He estimated he would get there by mid-afternoon. If his luck was in, he might even be able to catch a sleeper, paid for out of the money sewn into his jacket. He also had an additional very healthy £50 given to him by Dick. What was even more potentially useful was the contents of his left jacket pocket – Richard’s old service revolver, a Smith & Wesson, complete with six rounds of ammunition.
Had Armstrong left Logan House half an hour later, he would have changed his plans completely. Had the police phoned only ten minutes after he had left, Richard reckoned he would have been able to use his powerful Humber to catch up with him. As it was, they phoned just before half past eight. A body had been washed up at Drumbreddan Bay, they said, the body of an internee who had escaped from the Isle of Man. It was thought that the dead man had had an accomplice, and that if he too wasn’t dead he would be on the loose. Had Captain Collyer or any of his workers seen any suspicious figures? Not at all, Superintendent, Richard lied with much aplomb. What does this fellow look like, what name does he answer to? The policeman said that he wasn’t at liberty to divulge his name, but he could help with the former, which he proceeded to do, supplying Richard with an exact description of his friend. If you see him, he added, phone PC Stewart at Drummore first, and then ring us immediately up at Stranraer. Before he put the phone down, the policeman assured Richard that his family would be perfectly safe, as the escaper would doubtless be caught at one of the many roadblocks they had set up. Pamela noticed Richard’s face visibly draining of its usual hearty colour as he clumsily replaced the receiver.
He was driving through heavy woodland now. According to the map, he would reach the main road in less than five minutes, come on to it just after a village called Whitecrook. This was an idyllic part of the country, he thought – he would come up here again, when all this was over. He would come back and remember Craven, he resolved, build a memorial to him.
Armstrong approached a T-junction, and slowed down gradually. This was the main road, the road that would see him through to Carlisle. He had many more hurdles to cross, but the fact that he had made it this far made him feel good, that he had achieved something.
As soon as he saw it, he swore out loud.
‘Shit.’
A large police Wolseley and two Triumph motorcycles were straddling both carriageways, and there must have been at least half a dozen policemen on duty. Parked on the verge on the left was an unmarked black Vauxhall, the car that Armstrong knew to be favoured by the secret police. He thought he could make out the shadowy forms of two figures seated inside.
He was about a hundred yards away, and there was no chance of turning round – it would look too suspicious. Besides, those cars were far too powerful for the Austin 7 to be able to outrun them, not to mention the motorcycles. His car could only manage forty – perhaps fifty – miles per hour; they would catch up within two minutes. He would just have to act the innocent, bluff his way through. He knew that the roadblock was here because of him – they would have guessed that he and Craven might have made their way to this part of the mainland, and no doubt there would be similar obstacles placed around Ulster and the L
ake District.
Armstrong slowed gradually, changing down through the gears smoothly. They would also have a description of him, and presumably a photograph. His English accent too would give him away. He automatically gripped the steering wheel tightly, his heart starting to race. He had come all this way, had lost Craven, and now he was driving helplessly straight into the enemy’s arms. Now was not the time for a seizure, he told himself, stay calm, stay in control. Remember, you have the revolver, and with it the element of surprise.
He felt for the gun in his pocket. He still had some qualms about shooting a policeman, but if that policeman stood between Armstrong and freedom, then he would not hesitate. Although he knew that the police were merely lackeys, carrying out their orders, and that it was the secret police who were the out-and-out fascists, he still had to be ruthless.
However, there was not a chance of his killing all of them, as the occupants of the Vauxhall would certainly be armed. It was hopeless. And if he was caught, what would they do to him? Execute him as they had done Alec? It was unlikely that he would simply be sent back to Peel with a slap on the wrist. And if he killed a policeman too – well then, that would certainly mean the gallows, as it had done even before the days of the Leader.
One of the policemen signalled for Armstrong to stop and wind down his window. He did as he was told, but kept the car in gear, his left foot pressed down lightly on the clutch pedal.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the constable, his Scottish accent broad.
‘Good morning,’ Armstrong replied, doing his best to appear calm. But his gut was churning, a feeling reminiscent of that terrible period before going over the top of the trenches. He feared an attack, dreaded seeing that explosion again, but so far it hadn’t come.