by Guy Walters
‘Friends? I don’t have any friends.’
Mosley let out a false-sounding guffaw.
‘In ordinary circumstances,’ he said, ‘I might believe you, but I’m afraid even someone like you must have some friends.’
Armstrong stayed silent. Ted must have betrayed the others, so why was Mosley asking him about them?
‘Who are they, Armstrong? Tories? Well, I’ve locked most of them up, so I doubt it’s them. Perhaps it’s Jews? Now how about that! What a thought, eh? You and a load of scum like that! But somehow I doubt it – surely a man as thoroughly decent as the good Captain Armstrong wouldn’t consort with the Israelites. No – I think it’s the army. I think you’ve got some rogue officers under your wing.’ Mosley’s eyes bulged wildly.
‘I’ve got nothing to tell you, Mosley. Apart from, of course, that I’d like to see you dead and gone.’
Mosley let out an uneasy snigger.
‘Obviously the feeling is mutual, Armstrong, although I fear I am in a better position than you to carry out my wishes.’
‘Let’s just make this clear – you are going to kill me, yes?’
‘No, no, no, no,’ Mosley drawled. ‘Well, at least not yet. You will obviously have to go on trial for the murders of Henry Allen and the American diplomat.’
‘You know perfectly well that I didn’t kill them,’ said Armstrong. ‘That was clearly the work of your imaginative policeman here.’
Armstrong noticed Ousby shifting a little on his feet – a sure sign of guilt if ever there was one.
Mosley let out a deep sigh.
‘Sir Roger is most insistent that you did do it – two of his men even caught you in the act! Come, come, there is no point in protesting your innocence. It would be far more helpful all round if you simply told us why you did it.’
‘Why I did it? For God’s sake, I did not do it! What’s the point in asking me why I did something you know I didn’t do?’
Mosley turned to Sir Roger and smiled.
‘Just as you said, Sir Roger – he seems most plausible.’
Armstrong felt something stir deep inside him, something that told him Mosley really did believe that he was the killer.
‘Ousby is lying to you,’ he said. ‘It was his men who killed Allen and Parsons, not me.’
Mosley raised his eyes skywards in resignation before stepping closer.
‘Now why would my chief of secret police wish to behead an MP and an American diplomat?’
‘Perhaps you could ask him yourself,’ said Armstrong.
Ousby remained impassively still, his face inscrutable.
‘This is tedious, Armstrong, deeply tedious. I will not be fed cock-and-bull stories by a man as vile as you. It’s funny how things have worked out, isn’t it? You are a symbol, Armstrong, a symbol of the weakness of a democracy that had become corrupt and stale. I remember you in the House, all decent and ambitious, climbing your way up to the giddy height of chief whip. And you used to be so proud of your constituency, such a good little MP, and no matter how high you rose, so loyal and charming to the people who had elected you.
‘And yet, Armstrong, you were deceived, like so many other lazy minds in that decaying institution. Could you not see that you were letting this great country go to the dogs? Did none of you actually realise that the Jews were taking over? Was it not plain? Could you not see how the Empire, so long our lifeline, was beginning to be treacherously regarded as nothing more than a burden? It was you who was letting this land down, you and your pathetic ilk who were turning this society into a feeble and lazy mass of spongers and lepers, when instead we should be a race of men keen for action and keen for change, a race of supermen rather than craven cowards like you. For men like you are traitors, only too willing to sell off this proud land to the sweaty hands of the Jew and the Bolshevik. You disgust me, Armstrong, and so long as you represent a threat to what I have built, you shall receive no mercy.’
Mosley paused. His voice had got steadily louder until it had filled the cell with its shriekingly pompous tones. Armstrong spoke gently.
‘I’d rather live in a land in which the government doesn’t lock up its own people for being Jewish.’
Mosley stepped forward and slapped Armstrong across the face with the back of his hand. It didn’t hurt – nothing could hurt him any more. Then the Leader turned on his heel and led Sir Roger out of the room. As soon as they had gone, their footsteps clacking down the corridor, the guard added his fist to where Mosley had just slapped. Armstrong fell on to the mattress, his face throbbing with a dull pain, a pain that seemed so very small compared with the confusion that was currently reigning in his head. Why had the others not been arrested? That could only mean one thing: that Sir Roger was allowing them to remain free. For what purpose? And why indeed had Sir Roger wanted to kill Allen and Parsons?
Top Hat and Dog. The code names came back to him, echoing around the cell. Top Hat was very high up . . . Dog was a more recent recruit. It couldn’t be possible, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised that it had to be.
* * *
‘We must rescue him,’ said Lucy. ‘We can’t just sit back and let him hang.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Ted. ‘But how do you propose we do it? Knock on the door of the Tower? Bribe a Yeoman?’
Lucy stared hard at Ted. Why did he always have to react so negatively? He was constantly creating obstacles, almost as if he was unwilling to help, a seemingly reluctant participant in their efforts.
‘You could be a little more constructive, Mr Frost.’
‘All I’m saying, young lady, is that–’
‘Don’t you “young lady” me!’
‘Lucy!’
It was Nick.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘let’s not bicker. You’re both right – we should do something, but it’s next to impossible. What I do know is that arguing isn’t going to help him. We need to at least come up with some sort of plan, even if we think it may be hopeless.’
‘You’re right,’ said Ted. ‘It’s tough for all of us.’
He smashed his fist into his palm.
‘I should never have let him go to Claridge’s on his own.’
‘He did what he thought was right,’ said Nick.
Lucy sat in an angry silence. She felt excluded, as if this was all some game for the boys. Well, she had an idea, an idea that would make them sit up and listen to her. It was something she had suddenly remembered from school.
‘Have either of you ever heard of a man called John Gerard?’
‘Who?’ asked Ted.
‘John Gerard – I’m sure that was his name. I think he was some sort of Catholic priest.’
‘What of him?’
‘Well, wasn’t he the man who escaped from the Tower of London?’
Ted peered at Lucy.
‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ he asked.
‘What I’m suggesting is that we find out how he did it.’
‘What? And then copy it?’
‘Perhaps. It’s got to be worth a try.’
Ted smiled.
‘I’m sorry I called you “young lady”. It was wrong of me. I think that’s a brilliant idea.’
Lucy allowed herself a smile, although it came out rather more sarcastically than she had intended.
* * *
The corridor echoed with the sound of heavy footsteps. Two weeks had passed, although Armstrong would not have been surprised if he’d been told that he had been incarcerated for a month. He was becoming accustomed to the noise of footsteps, which signalled the arrival of either yet more torture or a pathetic bowlful of kitchen scraps. But these sounded different – they were slower, and were accompanied by a dragging sound.
‘You could at least fucking help us and walk!’
So they had a prisoner, thought Armstrong. Who was it? If it was one of the group, it would be either Nick or Martin. If Lucy had been captured, she would no doubt be receiving some
‘special treatment’ somewhere else. He tried standing up, but he felt so weak that he had to collapse back on to his mattress. Part of him desperately wanted some company, but not at the expense of someone else’s freedom. But just to be able to talk to someone, and not have to lie here alone in the stinking dark, his thoughts infected by the pain of his injuries – that would feel like a great mercy.
The footsteps came to a halt outside his door. A key turned clumsily in the lock.
‘Visitor for you!’
The heavy door was pushed open with such force that it smashed noisily against the cell wall. Armstrong squinted at the three silhouettes in the doorway. Two Blackshirt guards were supporting a limp figure dressed in rags. He could not see the face of the prisoner, only the outline. Who was it?
The guards threw the man violently forward, causing him to fall across the stone floor. He let out a small grunt of pain, an almost measured grunt that indicated that he was used to such treatment.
‘An old friend of yours to see you!’
One of the guards stepped into the room and reached for the door handle. As he closed the door, he took the opportunity to land a brutal kick in the man’s ribs. The grunt was louder and longer now, the sound of it revealing to Armstrong the man’s identity. The door closed with a force equal to that which had opened it, the noise filling the cell like a small explosion.
For a few seconds the man lay on the floor, panting heavily. With great difficulty, Armstrong pushed himself up from his mattress and crawled over to him.
‘You’re alive!’ Armstrong croaked. ‘You’re alive!’
As they got used to the near darkness, Armstrong’s eyes confirmed the findings of his ears. He started shaking the man, pawing at him, almost hugging him.
‘Can you hear me? It’s me – James!’
The man lifted his head up from the floor. His face was puffy with countless bruises and cuts. His mouth opened. It took a while for any sound to issue, but when it did, Armstrong was overjoyed.
‘Hello, old chap,’ the man whispered. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’
It was Alec.
Chapter Eleven
Blacker Still
October 1937
IT WAS RAINING when they came. Until that morning, the weather had been fine, and Manchester and the whole of the North-West had been enjoying an unusually extended summer. The rain was so bad that it had even woken them up during the night, and David had had to get up and put a bucket on the landing, under where the roof leaked. Their neighbour had been promising to repair the hole for weeks now, but there were so many vandalised shops and homes to deal with that it was hard for him to find the time. David had said that he would go up there and repair it himself, but Betty implored him not to, saying that at his age he was far too old for such acrobatics.
They had just gone back to sleep when they were awoken by the noise of lorry engines, doors being loudly knocked on, and shouts, brutal, guttural shouts.
‘Out! Come on, Jews! Out!’
Betty slowly eased her legs out of their small bed and walked stiffly to the window. The grey morning light seeped into the room through their flimsy curtains, whose opening revealed a morning so dim and wet that the room scarcely brightened. Not that Betty noticed the weather, for in the middle of the road she could see a large army lorry, out of which soldiers wearing helmets and dark-green oilskin capes were pouring.
‘You have TWO minutes to leave your homes,’ said a voice somewhere down the street through a loud hailer. ‘Do NOT stop to pack your belongings. You are being taken into custody for your own protection. Your homes will be protected in your absence. You have TWO minutes to leave . . .’
Betty put her hand over her mouth and gasped. She shook her head – this had to be a dream. There, across the street at number 46, Mr and Mrs Morris were being manhandled out of their home by a couple of venomous-looking soldiers. Mrs Morris was in tears, Mr Morris was wearing an expression of resignation that Betty had never seen before.
She rushed back to the bed where David was sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
‘What the hell is that noise?’ he asked.
She shook him.
‘David, David – please get up! They’ve come!’
‘Who have?’
‘The army – they’ve come to take us away. Listen!’
Out in the street, the noises got louder. Women and children were screaming. A window was smashed. The voice with the loud hailer continued.
‘Please leave your homes immediately! Do not attempt to resist. You are being taken into custody for your own protection. I repeat – this measure is being taken for your own safety.’
‘David, get up! You heard, we’ve got to go!’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Betty. I’m staying here in my own bloody home!’
‘But . . .’
‘No! That goes for you as well! We’re not leaving, do you hear?’
Betty went back to the window, tears in her eyes. The Morrises’ door had been left wide open. Two soldiers were urinating into their house, laughing to each other as they did so.
‘David! This is terrible. They’re . . .’
‘What?’
‘They’re spending a penny in Doreen and Leonard’s hall. The soldiers! All over their front door and their hallway!’
David got out of bed and joined Betty at the window. She clutched his nightshirt so tightly that her entire upper body shivered, her knuckles turning white. David’s nostrils flared in anger.
‘Gottenyu,’ he murmured under his breath.
One of the soldiers finished urinating and turned round. David twitched the curtain shut, hoping that the soldier hadn’t seen him.
‘Quick,’ he said. ‘We must hide!’
‘Where?’ said Betty. ‘There’s nowhere.’
David looked round the room and pointed at the wardrobe.
‘You go in there,’ he said. ‘I’ll go under the bed.’
‘But they’ll find us,’ said Betty.
‘Ssh! They might not! The one thing I’m not doing is just walking out of here willingly, like a lamb to the slaughter.’
David bundled Betty into the wardrobe, giving her a kiss before shutting the door.
‘We’ll be all right, love,’ he said. ‘Just you see. No one’s taking us anywhere. This is our home.’
‘I love you,’ Betty said.
‘Love you too,’ replied David, and then he gently closed the door.
Outside, the commotion was getting louder.
‘Move it! Come on, you fucking Yid!’
The voice with the loud hailer droned on.
‘This is for your own safety! All Jews are to leave their houses immediately. You will be taken to secure camps where all your needs will be provided for.’
David slid under the bed, his arthritic limbs not best suited for the purpose. It was dusty under there, and he sneezed a couple of times.
‘David?’ came Betty’s muffled voice. ‘David? All you all right?’
‘Sssh!’
For a minute, David and Betty lay in their hiding places, listening to the chaos outside. Doors were being kicked in, cars and lorries drove past, and the screaming of women and children intensified. David knew that their door would soon be knocked on, that somewhere outside there would be a soldier with a list that told him that a Mr and Mrs David Duchinsky lived at 43 Sowerby Road.
The knocking came another minute later, causing their small house to shake.
* * *
‘I can’t believe you’re alive either,’ said Alec. ‘I thought they would have done you in for sure.’
‘Not yet,’ Armstrong replied. ‘I’m still hanging in.’
He and Alec were lying on the floor of the cell, Armstrong’s hand gripping Alec’s right shoulder. Within a few seconds of recognising each other, both had burst into a mixture of tears and laughter, an outbreak that had lasted for the best part of five minutes. With the exception of Philip, there was no one Armstrong w
ould rather have seen than his oldest friend and comrade, good old, dear old, bloody old Alec.
‘They showed me a picture of your head in a noose,’ said Armstrong. ‘I was sure that you were dead.’
‘My head was in a noose,’ said Alec. ‘And damn tight it was too. They had a gun pointing at my head. They told me that if I didn’t do as they ordered, I would get a bullet for my troubles.’
‘They tried to break me with that,’ said Armstrong, ‘but it didn’t work.’
‘I would love to see the picture.’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you – it wasn’t your best side.’
More laughter. Such gallows humour reminded Armstrong of the war.
‘So what did they ask you?’
‘Everything,’ Alec replied. ‘Bloody everything.’
‘And . . .’
‘I know what you’re going to say. Nothing, nothing is the answer. I told them nothing.’
Armstrong rested his forehead on the cold stone. He had been confident that Alec could not have broken, but it was reassuring to hear it coming from the man himself.
‘I came close, though,’ Alec continued. ‘I nearly told them about—’
‘Alec!’
‘What?’
Armstrong edged closer to his friend so that he could whisper in his ear.
‘They’re probably listening, got a microphone. That’s presumably why they’ve put us together, to find out what we’ve been up to.’
He felt Alec nod his head.
‘Sorry, old man,’ he whispered back. ‘Good thinking. Should be all right if we whisper, though?’
‘Only as quietly as possible,’ said Armstrong. Having been on his own, he had not thought of looking for a microphone.
‘I didn’t tell them a thing, James,’ said Alec. ‘Not a thing. I’m proud of that, you know, very proud.’
Armstrong could tell that Alec was near to tears again. Whatever he had been through must have been horrific.
‘What did they do to you?’
Alec didn’t reply, just sobbed quietly.
‘All right,’ said Armstrong. ‘All right. I can’t say that I’ve had a lot of fun myself.’