The Leader

by Guy Walters

  ‘Look at this,’ said Nick, nearly shouting. ‘It’s evil, pure EVIL And it’s going to start in a couple of weeks! And you know what’ll happen when they get all of us into these camps? They’ll work us to death, that’s what they’ll do! And what of the old, what of the sick? All it says here is . . . where is it?’

  Nick thumbed roughly through the file.

  ‘Here – “Those who are too old, young or infirm to work will be quartered in special sub-camps where they will be provided for at a minimum level of subsistence.” That means starvation! They’ll be given a slice of bread and an aspirin and left to die. Godammit, man, we can’t just sit here!’

  ‘I’m aware of what the file says,’ said Armstrong quietly. It was becoming hard for him to hold his tongue – a few months ago it would have been inconceivable for him to be lectured by some unshaven Communist ten years his junior. He knew those days had gone, but he found it hard to abandon his former role.

  ‘And you don’t want to do a thing about it?’ said Nick. ‘You lot have never cared about the Jews, have you? You just want to let three hundred and fifty thousand of your fellow British citizens be locked up in concentration camps? Because let’s face it, that’s what these camps are.’

  Armstrong was about to speak but Lucy beat him to it.

  ‘That’s not fair, Nick,’ she said, her voice firm, assertive. ‘I don’t think Captain Armstrong said that. He just wants to go straight to the heart of the problem and get rid of Mosley. If he didn’t like the Jews then I doubt he’d be sitting here with us.’

  Nick glowered at her. It looked for a moment as if he was about to explode, but Lucy held his gaze.

  ‘Thank you, Lucy,’ said Armstrong. ‘Although I don’t mind if you call me James, by the way.’

  He turned to Nick.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I can see why you’re so frustrated, I really can. But we can’t stop these resettlement camps—’

  ‘Concentration camps,’ snapped Nick.

  ‘Concentration camps,’ said Armstrong. ‘We can’t stop these concentration camps without stopping Mosley himself. And the only way to do that – I suggest – is to kill him.’

  Nick chewed it over.

  ‘But by the time you mean to kill him,’ he said, ‘God knows how many will have already died.’

  ‘It’s not that long,’ said Armstrong. ‘Just eight or nine weeks.’

  ‘Sounds long enough.’

  Armstrong noticed that Lucy was looking through the file.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

  ‘A compromise,’ she said, continuing to turn the pages. ‘A way that will keep both of you happy.’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Go on,’ said Nick, his tone suggesting deep pessimism.

  Lucy didn’t reply immediately.

  ‘Well?’ said Nick.

  ‘This is thinking out loud,’ said Lucy. ‘I think Captain . . . sorry, James, is right. We can’t actually stop all this. But I’m sure we could do something to delay it. It occurs to me that whoever is organising this must be doing it from somewhere, there must be an office or a building where it’s all put together . . . Aha!’

  ‘What?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Lucy, a tone of triumph in her voice. ‘This looks like it. “The Department of Labour Reassignment, 5 Smith Street, London SW1.”’

  ‘I think I can guess what you’re thinking,’ said Armstrong, grinning slightly. ‘Get rid of the building, and you’d delay the camps.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Lucy. ‘We could petrol-bomb it.’

  ‘We could do better than that,’ said Armstrong. ‘We could blow it up.’

  ‘Blow it up?’ asked Nick. ‘How?’

  ‘Let me take care of that,’ said Armstrong. ‘But first I’d like to suggest a deal. I’ll help you destroy this building, and you get to work setting up these cells.’

  Nick looked uncertain.

  ‘I’ll need to ask Martin,’ he said.

  ‘You do that,’ said Armstrong.

  As Armstrong had suspected, Martin readily agreed to the deal, though Nick was still doubtful about how Armstrong was going to destroy the building. However, Armstrong’s solution had come to him when he recalled sitting on the terrace of the Palace of Westminster in happier days, watching the procession of traffic on the Thames, especially the large barges.

  ‘A barge,’ he said to Ted, Lucy and Nick one afternoon.

  ‘What?’ asked Ted.

  ‘A barge,’ he said. ‘There are countless barges carrying explosives up and down the river. We could get our hands on one of those. All we need to do is pack a car with enough explosive, park it outside the Department and – voilà!’

  ‘Do you think the barges are still running?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘I don’t see why not – things haven’t come to a complete standstill. There are plenty of industries up and down the country that need explosives. Barges are much safer than the railways, even if they are somewhat slow.’

  ‘But how the hell do we get hold of a barge?’

  * * *

  Gordon pours out two large mugs of greasy tea from the samovar. The customers never complain that the tea always tastes slightly of yesterday’s soup – perhaps they actually like it that way, Eve once suggested. Anyway, the two fellows he is bringing the tea over to now never seem to notice – they are usually so wrapped up in their conversation that he could serve them cold dishwater and still they wouldn’t twig. They are a funny couple, Gordon thinks, the stocky little foreign-looking one and the tall English one. God knows what they are talking about, but they always look as though they have the weight of the world on their shoulders.

  Of course, Gordon is not far wrong. This morning, Otto and Tony are talking about how the defection of one renegade Soviet major-general may result in the termination of their network, and with it any chance of being able to topple the fascists.

  ‘So you have heard nothing?’ asks Otto as soon as Gordon walks away.

  ‘The Americans are saying nothing,’ says Tony. ‘I’ve spoken to Hoover, as well as Bingham – they deny that there’s even been a defector.’

  ‘Perhaps the Americans want our plan to succeed.’

  ‘That’s always possible – but I would have thought that if they were given the choice between Mosley and Moscow, they would go for Mosley any time.’

  A pause.

  ‘Or perhaps they know that the man asking them the questions,’ says Otto, ‘is the man who is really working for Moscow.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that,’ says Tony. ‘But how could this general have known my identity?’

  ‘Anything is possible,’ Otto replies with a shrug. ‘But I think we can assume that if the Americans have told someone else in the regime, then you would already be hanging from a gibbet.’

  Tony’s face pales slightly.

  ‘So what do you suggest we do?’ he asks.

  ‘I think we should take Dog out of his kennel,’ says Otto. ‘Set him to work as planned. It’s about time the brave captain was given a helping hand. There! Almost a rhyming couplet! Let’s see if I can’t make it scan better.’

  * * *

  A few nights later, Lucy found herself walking past the entrance to a wharf in Bermondsey. It was just under an hour before the curfew, but that was not the reason why she was feeling uncomfortable. She had taken on the role of bait reluctantly, but the others had insisted that she would come to no harm, because they would be looking out for her. She found that hard to believe, especially as she was about to enter a pub wearing little more than a tight black satin cocktail dress and a somewhat tatty fur stole. Her scarlet lipstick completed a picture of availability, albeit one that came at a price, a price well within reach of the barge captain Armstrong and the others had staked out for the past two nights. He was a fat sot, they told her, but a fat sot who had a deckful of dynamite.

  At least Armstrong and Nick would be in the pub, she though
t. They had reassured her that if matters got out of hand they would step in. All that was required of her, said Armstrong, was to get her man back to his barge, and then he, Nick and Martin would take over. Martin was presently hiding in a nearby alleyway, ready to follow Nick and Armstrong when they emerged from the pub.

  Lucy could feel her heart thumping as she approached the pub. The sound of laughter from its smoky orange interior grew louder, and she steeled herself for the reaction of the drinkers. Just remember why you’re doing this, she told herself: think of Dad, think of Alan, think of David, think of Mum; Mum who would be put in a camp soon, unless she, Lucy, went through with this. Think of all of them, she told herself, and think of your beliefs. Think of your people.

  With a shaking hand, Lucy pushed open the pub door.

  ‘Hello there.’

  ‘Now how about that.’

  ‘Oi! Dennis! What’s your missus doing here?’

  ‘Give us a kiss!’

  She looked straight ahead at the bar, avoiding the fifty or so pairs of eyes that were scrutinising her body, ignoring the predictable pinch she received on her backside. Armstrong had told her to look relaxed and approachable and above all to smile. She was meant to be a tart, he said, and tarts smiled. She found it almost impossible, but she did her best when she caught sight of Nick and Armstrong sitting to one side of the bar, both baring their teeth at her like subjects who had posed too long for the camera. The sight of them made her giggle nervously, which in turn made her smile.

  ‘Hello, hello, what can I get you then, madam?’

  ‘Er . . . a gin and tonic?’

  The barman started laughing.

  ‘Hear that, boys? Lady thinks she’s at the Savoy! Sorry, love, no gin and tonic here.’

  She watched Armstrong briefly put a hand up to his face as the pub erupted into laughter. She felt herself starting to lose control, found herself wanting to turn and run straight out of the door and on to Jamaica Road. Come on, she urged herself, pull yourself together.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ she said, coquettishly leaning on the bar. ‘In that case I had better leave. Or can you offer me something other than beer?’

  The barman leaned forward with a lecherous grin.

  ‘How about a nice cherry brandy?’

  ‘Or a nice cherry!’ came a voice to her left, causing another peal of drunken laughter.

  Lucy smiled and turned to the voice. It was owned by a fifty-year-old man wearing a blue woollen hat and a black oilskin coat. He held a pint of stout up to his mouth and gave her a wink.

  ‘I’d watch your lip, young man,’ said Lucy.

  ‘I’d rather watch yours!’ he replied.

  Lucy smiled back, inwardly hoping that this wasn’t the barge captain.

  ‘Your cherry brandy, milady,’ said the barman.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lucy, taking the drink. As she did so, she caught sight of Armstrong giving her a subtle thumbs-up signal just above the level of the bar. His eyes were motioning towards the stout drinker. Oh God. Just her luck. He really was the sot they had described.

  ‘Allow me,’ said the barge captain, reaching into his pocket for some change.

  Cheers and catcalls erupted from the few men standing nearby, and Lucy gathered that the captain’s name was Harry. She held her glass up to him and took a swig. It was syrupy and disgustingly sweet, but she did her best to force it down. Perhaps it would be better if she was half cut anyway. Harry was no looker – a fat nose and blubbery lips complemented a round face that bore the ruddy signs of either a life outdoors or a surfeit of alcohol, or – likelier still – both.

  ‘So tell me, Harry,’ said Lucy, sidling up to him as provocatively as possible, ‘do you like paying for ladies’ . . . drinks?’

  ‘Only ones as charming as you, my dear,’ the captain replied. He was clearly five or six pints down.

  Lucy smiled back. He stank, a vile mixture of stale sweat, tobacco and alcohol.

  ‘And isn’t there a Mrs Harry?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘Not tonight there ain’t!’ the captain replied, addressing his neighbouring drinkers.

  Lucy finished her cherry brandy.

  ‘Do you know what, Harry,’ she said, ‘I think I’d like a nice big . . . beer.’

  Harry laughed into his stout, sending some flecks of foam flying over her.

  ‘Harry!’ she admonished him. ‘Look what you’ve gone and done!’

  Lucy took a handkerchief from her handbag and proceeded to slowly wipe the foam off her dress. It occurred to her that she might be overacting, but then she thought of the girls she had seen on the streets of the East End. They laid it on thicker than this, she thought, much thicker. Besides, with the curfew, girls were having to work a lot more quickly these days, which called for a corresponding diminution in subtlety.

  Harry ordered her half a pint of mild, the taste of which Lucy found surprisingly agreeable.

  ‘Thank you, Harry,’ she said. ‘You’re a real gentleman, did you know that?’

  ‘That’s the first time anybody’s told me!’ followed by another laugh to the gallery.

  ‘I bet you know a lot of ladies, don’t you, Harry?’

  ‘I can’t deny I’ve known a few,’ he said. ‘I like to get around!’

  More laughter, most of it from Harry, who clearly considered himself a comedian.

  ‘And where do you get around?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘All over the place, my love, wherever my barge takes me!’

  ‘Your barge, eh?’

  ‘The MB Blackwater,’ said Harry, ‘the finest barge on the whole bloody Thames.’

  ‘I’d love to look at your barge, Harry.’

  ‘Now there are not many ladies who say that!’

  ‘Well I would. Where is it?’

  Harry smiled, and bent close to Lucy.

  ‘Right outside, my love,’ he whispered, spraying her ear with saliva. ‘You can have a look round now if you fancy.’

  Lucy was aware that Harry was excitedly rubbing his thigh as she whispered back.

  ‘I’d like that, Harry, I’d like that very much. But don’t you have a crew, or some men? I would like to keep things . . . intimate, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Don’t worry, my love, it’ll be just me and you and the starry sky. They’ve all got the night off.’

  Lucy walked out of the bar on Harry’s arm, accompanied by even more catcalls than when she had walked in. As soon as they stepped outside, Harry made a lunge, roughly forcing his face towards hers.

  ‘Harry!’ she hissed in mock anger. ‘Let’s wait till we get on your boat.’

  They stumbled across the road, and on to the pavement. After a few yards they turned left on to a gangway that led down to a series of duckboards, around which at least thirty or forty boats were moored. She prayed that the others were following.

  ‘This is very romantic, Harry.’

  Harry made another lunge, this time even less subtle. Lucy slapped his hand away from her breast.

  ‘Harry! All in good time!’

  She turned round, hoping to see some sign of the others. There was none, which caused a sense of dread to seep through her. The thought that she might end up having to sleep with this man was too revolting to contemplate.

  ‘What are you looking for, my love?’ the captain asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Lucy replied. ‘Just thought I heard something.’

  ‘A rat, most like. But you won’t find any rats on my barge, oh no.’

  They were now walking alongside a long black barge, which Lucy noticed was a lot dirtier than many of the other craft.

  ‘Is this it?’ she asked.

  ‘It is indeed,’ said Harry proudly. ‘Won’t you come aboard?’

  He stepped on to the barge and held out his hand with an exaggerated flourish of gentlemanliness. Lucy took it, and found herself being roughly pulled on to the deck.

  ‘So what do you keep on your barge, Harry?’

  ‘All sorts – thin
gs that go bang mostly!’

  ‘Things that go bang?’

  ‘Now don’t you worry your head about it – I want you to see what I keep in here!’

  Harry pointed to his crotch. Lucy forced a smile that fully tested whatever abilities she might have had as an actress.

  ‘So where’s the captain’s cabin?’ she asked.

  ‘Follow me. Careful down these steps! We wouldn’t want you to trip over, would we?’

  Lucy edged her way down a steep ladder that led into the stinking bowels of the barge. As she stepped down, she snatched an opportunity to look round. Thank God. Three figures that she recognised were walking down the gangway.

  She followed the captain down into the hold. It reeked of sweat and fuel oil, an odour that had accumulated over many years and had engrained itself into the fabric of the barge. On either side of her were stacked case upon case of wooden boxes marked ‘Danger! High Explosive! Handle with Care!’

  The captain unlocked a small wooden door at the end of the hold. So this was it, the place where she would have to surrender herself to his odious clutches. Harry paused by the door and ushered Lucy in.

  ‘In you go, my love,’ he cackled.

  Lucy nearly fell into the cabin, forgetting that the doorway was raised.

  ‘Whoops-a-daisy!’ said Harry. ‘I can see you’re a bit of a landlubber!’

  The cabin was tiny and smelt worse than the rest of the barge. To her left was a small cot, which consisted of little more than a heavily stained brown and cream mattress. She could barely see the deck, as it was covered by nautical paraphernalia such as ropes, buoys and pieces of driftwood, as well as a heap of stinking clothes. There was a washbasin to the right, cracked and filthy, and clearly not a source of hygiene. Lucy was speechless.

  ‘Make yourself at home then.’

  Lucy took that to be an invitation to sit down on the mattress, which she did. Harry then shut the door and locked it.

  ‘Why are you locking the door, Harry?’ asked Lucy, trying to avoid sounding as panicky as she felt.