The Leader

by Guy Walters

  Chapter Nine

  Evening Out

  September 1937

  THE AIR ON the heath hung heavy with smoke and the acrid smell of explosives. It was a struggle to make out the troops through their field-glasses, but as far as the assembled bevy of staff officers could tell, the exercise was going well. General Sir Edward Galwey had insisted that live ammunition be used, and therefore he had seen fit to wear a helmet, a precaution aped by his fellow officers.

  ‘Looks like Merriman’s men are going to take the ridge,’ said Galwey to the officer on his left, a brigadier-general by the name of Acheson. Galwey didn’t care much for Acheson, thought him a dreadful fascist toady, but he knew better than to openly insult him. Men like Acheson were on the rise, a rise that Galwey hoped to check.

  ‘It looks like it, sir,’ Acheson replied. ‘He’s a good man, Merriman, although . . .’

  He paused.

  ‘Although what, Acheson?’ asked Galwey, scanning the ridge for any further signs of activity.

  ‘Although he’s a little suspect in some ways, sir, not very loyal to the Government.’

  Galwey momentarily took the field-glasses away from his eyes, and then continued to study the field.

  ‘You think he’s a traitor, do you?’ he said.

  ‘Not exactly, sir . . .’

  ‘Think he wouldn’t fight if we were invaded?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, sir, it’s just that he’s rather outspoken about the Leader, thinks he meddles too much in army business.’

  ‘He’s entitled to his opinions, Acheson.’

  Acheson didn’t reply.

  ‘Well? He is, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course, sir.’

  ‘Well there we go, then. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a damn fine soldier.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Galwey looked up at the ridge.

  ‘He certainly seems to be giving your man Landale a good hiding up there.’

  Once more Acheson didn’t reply, causing Galwey to smile gently to himself. Acheson was not to know it, but Lieutenant-Colonel Huw Merriman was a key figure in the plot against, Mosley – one of ‘Armstrong’s Army Boys’, as they secretly styled themselves. Galwey made a mental note to tell Merriman to go easy on airing his opinions about the regime. It wouldn’t do any good for him to get himself into trouble, not at this stage of Armstrong and Galwey’s well-laid plans.

  ‘Sir?’ came a voice from his right.

  Galwey turned to face an old friend – Major-General Charles Clifford.

  ‘Charles,’ said Galwey. ‘This is a pleasant surprise – didn’t think you signals chaps liked it out here in the mud and filth.’

  ‘Well,’ said Clifford, ‘even us radio men need a bit of fresh air from time to time.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Galwey, ‘before I forget – how is that dear old aunt of yours? Last I’d heard, she was on the mend. Still in the pink, feeling bonny, that sort of thing?’

  ‘It’s kind of you to ask, sir,’ Clifford replied. ‘She’s very well, blossoming in fact. I even received a telegram yesterday saying that she was going to make her own birthday party this year.’

  ‘Plucky one, your aunt.’

  ‘Very much so, sir.’

  ‘Good, good – now take a look at this man Merriman over on the ridge. We’re just waiting for him to send up a flare to say that he’s taken it . . . Ah! Speak of the devil! Acheson – I’d say that’s one-love to me.’

  Acheson forced a smile. He was sick of men like Galwey and Clifford – in his eyes, they were all aristocratic bluff, the type of men who were holding Britain back. For heaven’s sake, he thought, they even rabbited on about their fucking aunts.

  * * *

  ‘But what am I going to say to Bridget?’

  ‘Just tell her that it was stolen,’ Armstrong replied. ‘After all, cars get stolen all the time.’

  ‘But we’ll never be able to afford a new one,’ said Ted. ‘There aren’t all that many vacancies for former newspaper editors.’

  Armstrong had little time for this.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Then I will just have to steal one, with all the attendant risk that involves. I thought you might be willing to make a sacrifice, but it seems as though I was wrong.’

  Ted sighed and lit a cigarette.

  ‘All right, all right – you win. But you’d better make damn certain that the number plates are removed, and the chassis number is filed off.’

  ‘That’s not a problem,’ said Armstrong. ‘Although when it goes off, I doubt there will be very much left.’

  ‘Yes, but just in case . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry – I’ll make sure.’

  The next day, Ted brought his car round to the disused warehouse in which he and Armstrong had been questioned by Nick and Martin.

  ‘That’s a nice motor,’ said Nick. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a Hillman Wizard,’ said Ted ruefully. ‘It cost me two hundred and eighty quid a few years back. It’s never gone wrong once.’

  ‘It had better not have a change of heart,’ said Armstrong. ‘I don’t fancy breaking down halfway along the Embankment with a boot full of explosives.’

  ‘“The Car of the Moderns”,’ said Martin out of nowhere.

  ‘What?’ asked Nick.

  ‘“The Car of the Moderns”,’ Martin repeated, gliding his open hand in the air as if to indicate a name up in lights. ‘I remember the ad campaign for it. Pretty stylish stuff, with a couple of posh folks standing next to it.’

  ‘Since when did they not have posh folks in those ads?’

  ‘Well, they didn’t for the Austin 7 . . .’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Armstrong. ‘We’ve got work to do. Ted – do you want to help?’

  ‘No way,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It would break my heart.’

  They packed the dynamite in every conceivable hiding place – inside the spare wheel, in a couple of suitcases in the boot, under the wheel arches, in the glove compartment, under the seats. Armstrong also decided to place a knapsack full of explosive on the back seat. This would contain the fuse, which he would set for three minutes – plenty of time to enable the driver to make good his escape.

  ‘When this goes off,’ said Armstrong, ‘half the street will disappear. I have no doubt that the so-called Department of Labour Reassignment will be obliterated.’

  Nick and Martin grinned broadly. The only person who didn’t was Lucy.

  ‘Isn’t this taking a sledgehammer to crack a nut?’ she asked. ‘I mean, if this explosion is going to be that big, we could end up killing people.’

  ‘Not if we do it at night,’ said Armstrong, ‘just before the curfew starts. Most of the buildings on Smith Street contain civil servants, who like to leave their desks just before half past five I seem to remember.’

  ‘Anybody who works in that place deserves to die,’ said Nick.

  ‘You sound as barbaric as them,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Take that back!’

  ‘No,’ snapped Lucy. ‘I’m not fighting to replace one type of barbarism with another.’

  ‘Oh very fine words indeed,’ said Nick. ‘Aren’t we the politician now?’

  ‘Please,’ said Armstrong, his voice raised, ‘let’s not argue. All that does is help them. But I do think Lucy is right. If we blow up a load of civil servants, that will give Mosley plenty of useful propaganda to use against us. He’s a master at that, as you know from when he started marching his men through the East End. You Communists attacked him with such ferocity that it made him look like the victim and you like the aggressors. Please don’t forget that I’d rather not go through with this bombing, but we made a deal, and I’m going to keep my side of it, unless you just want to spend your time blowing up buildings and killing policemen.’

  Armstrong drew breath before continuing. He was lecturing Nick, he knew it, but the man needed it.

  ‘Decapitation – that’s what it’s about,
Nick. I don’t want to get bogged down in street fighting and missile-throwing. That will only strengthen them, convince the public that Mosley really is right, that he is trying to protect the country from the enemy within. Why else do you think I spent all those weeks trying to put a network together? Why do you think that I’ve asked you to set up all those cells? After we’ve killed Mosley, I want order and democracy to be restored as soon as possible. But the longer democracy is absent, the harder it will be to put it back in place. Your way, Nick, will keep Mosley in power for years, decades. I’ll blow up your building – and yes, I think it’s probably the right thing to do – but I won’t do any more. After that, it’s Mosley or bust.’

  Nick stuffed his hands in his pocket – the surly schoolboy, thought Armstrong.

  ‘He’s right, Nick,’ said Lucy. ‘For each person we kill, we ratchet up Mosley’s strength another fraction.’

  Martin said nothing, merely nodded. He and Nick were old friends, but it was clear that the pressure was getting to Nick, and his edginess was wearing them all down.

  ‘One question,’ said Nick, pointing to the Hillman. ‘Who’s going to drive this car over to Westminster?’

  ‘I will,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘That’s just as well,’ said Nick, ‘as neither Martin nor I can drive.’

  Armstrong paused before opening his mouth. It didn’t particularly surprise him that the two men couldn’t drive – after all, most people didn’t – but he had expected that they might have tried to learn.

  ‘Perhaps I should give you some lessons,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘What, in that?’ said Nick.

  ‘Well, it would certainly encourage you to drive carefully.’

  ‘The Hillman Wizard,’ said Martin. ‘It goes with a bang.’

  Lucy insisted on coming with Armstrong. He had refused at first, but she had convinced him by pointing out that a man and a woman in a car looked less suspicious than a man on his own. What could be more natural, she said, than a couple parking a car in a smart Westminster street in time to get home before the curfew?

  A couple. The phrase resonated strongly with Armstrong. How long was it since he had been part of a couple? He missed Mary very deeply, and had accordingly sublimated any desires he had started to feel for others. He had told himself that the love he felt for Philip was enough, but he knew that there was still a void, that paternal love was just one sort of love. Most men married again, his friends had told him, but he hadn’t. He had never stopped to ask why that was so – it was just the way it had happened. And now he was going to pretend to be part of a couple, and it felt as alien to him as exploding a car bomb in the heart of London.

  Armstrong did his best to dismiss such thoughts as he started the car. Still bearded, he was wearing a suit he had borrowed from Ted, the tightness of a tie round his neck feeling unusual after weeks spent without one. He looked down at his left lapel to study the metal lightning flash badge stuck through the buttonhole – a nice touch by Ted, as such badges were becoming the norm rather than the exception.

  The passenger door opened and Lucy got in. She was wearing a lightweight woollen coat with a fur collar, and a hat with an elegantly sweeping brim. Armstrong turned to look at her. She was wearing make-up – not the heavy paint of the night in the pub, but a subtler application that made her appear far more sophisticated. Armstrong felt obliged to say something.

  ‘You look . . .’ he began, and then faltered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You look good, look the part.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lucy said, peering at him under the brim of her hat. ‘I thought I should make an effort if I’m going to meet my maker this evening.’

  Armstrong smiled and started the car.

  At a quarter to eight, Armstrong turned right off Millbank and drove slowly along Smith Street.

  ‘Where will number five be?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘This end,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because all street numbering in London starts from the end of the road nearest the river.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘It’s absolutely true,’ said Armstrong, as he concentrated on looking for their target.

  With only a few minutes to go until the curfew, the street was nearly empty, save for a few Blackshirts.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Armstrong.

  They drew up alongside a tall Georgian building, its bricks blackened by the London air. Armstrong squinted at a shining brass plaque next to the large green door – The Department of Labour Reassignment. So innocuous, so innocent – just another Whitehall department doing its job, the plaque and the architecture of the building exuding an atmosphere of governmental legitimacy. The light coming from two windows on the second floor betrayed the presence of those working late.

  ‘There are people in there,’ said Armstrong.

  Lucy frowned.

  ‘I thought you said there wouldn’t be.’

  ‘I did – but it would appear that reassigning labour is a task that requires long hours.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t see any reason why we should call it off.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Nick is right – partly. Whoever is working there now is obviously a fanatic.’

  ‘But surely we could wait?’

  ‘No,’ said Armstrong, ‘we can’t. Anyway, you yourself are willing to kill policemen, so why are you objecting to blowing up those who are persecuting your people?’

  Lucy stared hard at him.

  ‘I just feel uneasy . . .’

  ‘So do I,’ said Armstrong, casting his mind back to India, to the war, to that roadblock in Scotland – all the places where he had taken life. He had been given medals for killing and leading men to kill, and now he was about to kill again, but this time he would not receive any reward, at least not immediately. In a way, everybody he had killed had been innocent – they had all thought they were doing right, especially the Abor tribesmen. It was the tribesmen who bothered him the most.

  Armstrong returned Lucy’s stare.

  ‘I’ve killed people I haven’t wanted to kill,’ he said. ‘But the men in there are doing a terrible thing. It’s not just those in fascist and policemen’s uniforms who are the enemy; it’s also those who are listening to them, obeying them. You heard what I said to Nick, about how I don’t want to go round committing indiscriminate killings, how that would bolster Mosley’s support. But I’m not going to call this off just because there are a handful of civil servants up there who are cold-bloodedly working out how to enslave hundreds of thousands of their fellow countrymen. I’d rather they were brought to justice, but with the absence of justice, there is no other way. And if this is the way that enables me to get closer to getting Mosley, then I’m not going to flinch because of whoever’s up there.’

  Armstrong waited, tapping the steering wheel, as Lucy looked over her shoulder at the back seat. He admired her principles, but there was not enough time to have this discussion. If necessary, he would force the issue by simply setting the fuse.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  Lucy looked through the windscreen. Armstrong’s remark about not just fighting those in uniforms had touched a nerve – he was right, but she still felt uncomfortable killing civilians. Maybe the lights were on because there were innocent cleaning ladies in there, or maybe— She stopped herself. There were too many ifs. Alan would not have thought like this, and neither would her father. Armstrong was like them, she thought; he was one of those men who made things happen, who refused to be stopped. It was strange how circumstances had thrown them together – the Tory army officer and the East End Communist. On paper, she hated him – he probably hated her too – but it was clear that there was a mutual respect.

  She turned to face him.

  ‘How long do we have to get away?’ she asked.

  ‘Three minutes,’ said Armstrong.

&nb
sp; ‘Let’s do it,’ she said.

  Without another word, Armstrong turned and set the timed fuse which had been placed at the top of the knapsack. Lucy watched him, her left hand poised on the door handle.

  ‘Right,’ said Armstrong, ‘it’s set. Let’s go, but let’s not run.’

  They opened their doors simultaneously and stepped out into the evening air. Lucy walked round to the pavement and slipped her right hand through Armstrong’s left arm. She clutched it tightly, drawing herself close to him. They strolled down the street in silence, away from Millbank and towards Victoria Street.

  ‘How long has it been?’ asked Lucy after no more than half a minute.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Armstrong firmly, his attention distracted by a green Bentley which was approaching them slowly. As it passed them, Armstrong noticed that the windscreen bore a triangular red permit next to its tax disc. The permit indicated that the car was allowed to be driven during the curfew, which could only mean that the driver was a senior Party member.

  ‘Don’t look at the car,’ said Armstrong through clenched teeth.

  He heard the Bentley come to a halt a few yards behind them.

  ‘Keep walking,’ said Armstrong. ‘Don’t turn round.’

  Lucy did as he requested, although Armstrong could sense that she was desperately keen to see what was happening.

  ‘But whoever it is may be going into the building,’ she said.

  ‘Too bad,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘We can’t just let someone walk in . . .’

  ‘We have to,’ Armstrong hissed.

  Before he had a chance to stop her, Lucy had wriggled free and headed back down the street. Furious, Armstrong watched her run up to the Bentley, out of which was stepping a smartly dressed, slightly portly man in his early forties. What the hell was she playing at? She was about to get herself killed. He wanted to shout, but there was no point – she was as stubborn as her father. She was a fool, he thought, an impetuous bloody fool.

  Armstrong looked at his watch. There were two minutes to go. He knew he should keep walking, but he couldn’t abandon Lucy. Try to defuse the bomb? It was certainly possible, but the driver of the Bentley would see him. There was only one thing to do.