by Andy Conway
They put Henry on a stretcher and covered his face with a blanket and heaved him into the back of the ambulance like a pallet of meat for delivery.
Charlie asked if they could come along in the ambulance.
“Not much point, fellah,” said the smoking driver.
The schoolboy constable asked them to come to the station to make a statement.
They walked down to the high street, a crowd following. She saw that Charlie’s face had the look of a bomb blast survivor: dazed and livid. She knew her own must look the same.
The small crowd walked them to the police station door and stood outside. It was a quaint little building where you couldn’t imagine murder ever being discussed.
They were invited to sit in the waiting room. They waited for a long time. She slipped her hand into Charlie’s and squeezed his fingers, then noticed both their hands were red with Henry’s blood. His trousers and her skirt were both stained wine red too.
It made her feel like a murderer caught in the act.
For a long time they waited and nothing happened but the occasional drunk being frogmarched in and processed to the cells.
Eventually, the schoolboy constable came back and took them to an office and took a statement, his fountain pen poised over a sheet of pristine white paper.
He took Charlie’s name and address. Rachel said she was an American citizen visiting on vacation. He didn’t ask to see her passport. She didn’t care. If he wanted her papers she would have to say she would return with them and just disappear back to her own time.
It didn’t matter.
Charlie insisted that he had seen a group of Blackshirts running from the scene of the crime.
“Running along Poplar Road, sir?”
“No. They ran across us at the bottom of Valentine Road. Into the park.”
The schoolboy constable frowned. “So you didn’t see them on Poplar Road?”
“No, but that was where they were running from.”
“You didn’t see them within the vicinity of the deceased?”
“Look, they were in the cinema. They saw us leave. They followed Henry up Poplar Road, murdered him, and ran on, circling round and down Valentine Road.”
“But you didn’t see them on Poplar Road?”
“No.”
Rachel butted in. “Henry was attacked by the same group last Sunday. At New Street Station.”
“Oh really?” The schoolboy constable frowned but he didn’t write it down.
“He came to my flat straight afterwards,” said Charlie. “He still had the boot print on his coat.”
“And did he report this attack to the police?”
Charlie sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. He laughed it off.”
“So in your words, he was attacked and kicked, but he didn’t take it seriously?”
“That’s not what I said. He just wasn’t the sort to let it worry him. And now he’s dead.”
The schoolboy policeman stared, wanting more, fountain pen poised.
“Henry got into a fight with the same group on Wednesday evening,” said Rachel. “The police have a report on that.”
“So these Blackshirts attacked him on Wednesday evening too?”
“That’s correct,” said Charlie.
“And they were arrested?”
“No. Henry and I were arrested.”
The schoolboy constable put his pen down.
Rachel could see Charlie visibly deflate, the hope leaking from him. It was all useless. Nothing would be done about it.
When they had finished making the statement, he informed them that he would be calling on them again to make further enquiries.
They emerged from the station at two in the morning. Charlie lit a cigarette and blew angry smoke at the indifferent night air.
“We’ll have to cancel the concert,” he said. “I’ll telephone Benny Orphan’s agent first thing in the morning. And Lester Johnson’s. We can’t go ahead with it now.”
“But Charlie—”
“There’s no point,” he said. “It’s over.”
He walked off, heading for Moseley and didn’t seem bothered if she followed or not.
— 35 —
FOR A FEW MOMENTS RACHEL felt the excitement she’d imagined she would feel that morning, with the delicious anticipation of the concert ahead of them.
Then it all flooded back — Henry lying in his own blood — and doused the feeling, leaving a frail wisp of smoke and the acrid taste of despair.
One by one all the plans she’d had in her mind died quietly: going to the Prince to see the men off for their last morning of leafleting; arranging the drivers to collect Benny Orphan and Lester Johnson’s band and take them to their separate hotels; heading to the Institute to dress up the hall; making sure Manny Singer’s security team arrived; hooking up with Mrs Hudson, Mitch and Kath; preventing time from being altered.
She pushed herself out of bed and strip-washed in cold water in the cramped bathroom, shivering, reluctant.
Charlie was sitting in the armchair staring into space, the gramophone crooning It’s All Forgotten Now. She put a hand to his shoulder and he seemed to wake up. Had he been sitting there like that all night? He tried to smile. She stroked his hair.
“You know, I’ve always found Benny Orphan a bit too sad and sentimental for me. Always preferred happier tunes. But right now he really is hitting exactly the right note. When you really listen to him, there’s such an ocean of loss behind every line, isn’t there?” He snorted a half laugh, bitter. “I wonder if you have to experience the death of someone close to you to hear it.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“In a way, it’s a pity he won’t be coming today to sing to us.”
The record finished. He got up, searched through his giant stack of 78s for another, put it on. Be Still, My Heart.
She knew all these records, had listened to them alone in her flat in 2012, and had never guessed they would be linked to a morning as awful as this.
“I have to go to the hospital. I’m not sure why. There’s nothing to see. I suppose I’d better ring the agents first though.”
He went to get his coat and hat.
She had failed. How could she face Mrs Hudson? How could she tell her that the concert would never happen now? Mrs Hudson would accuse Danny of meddling, but surely Danny had had nothing to do with this? Surely even he wouldn’t sink that low?
She had almost forgotten the Kingsway incident. What was it Henry had called him? Szélkirály. The Wind God. Whatever it was Danny had done last night, it was nothing to do with getting the concert cancelled; nothing to do with Henry being murdered.
And yet the concert was cancelled. And Henry was dead.
Charlie was out in the hallway, opening the front door.
She rushed out and stopped him. “Charlie. No.”
He looked at her hand on his and when he lifted his face to her, there were tears in his eyes.
“Charlie. It’s what they want. It’s what they’ve been trying to achieve. We can’t let them win. We have to go ahead and put the concert on. We have to. For Henry.”
“It’s no use,” he said. “I can’t face it.”
“What would Henry have done?”
“He’d do what I’m doing.”
“You know he wouldn’t. You know he’d say stuff them. He’d go right ahead and stage that concert. With bells on.”
Charlie couldn’t stop a smile breaking through his face. He sniffed, wiped his nose, tried to find a handkerchief. He took his hand from the latch, nodding, blowing his nose.
“Yes, with bells on,” he said. He looked at Rachel:”And more security.”
— 36 —
RACHEL SQUEEZED INTO the red phone booth on Victoria Parade with Charlie. It was the first time they’d pressed this close to each other since they’d danced to the Wayne Shorter tune playing on the Dansette in the Lickey Hills, the day England won the World Cup.
&n
bsp; No, he’d taken her in his arms in 1959. A brief respite from her nightmare on the station at the end of time.
All of that was to come for him. All of that was over for her.
He got through to Manny Singer’s number at the social club above the fish and chip shop on Hurst Street and told him the news.
There seemed no time for emotion. So many facts to impart — how it had happened, the Blackshirts, the police dismissing everything, how to inform his family — but she couldn’t hear how Manny was taking it.
“I wanted to cancel the concert,” said Charlie. “But—”
Whatever it was Manny said, and she could only hear the light squeak of a voice, she knew he was saying no: the show must go on.
She smiled.
Charlie was about to hang up.
“Give me the phone.” She grabbed the receiver from him. “Manny? It’s Rachel.”
“Hello girl. What terrible news.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said. “I just had an idea. The friend you mentioned, who works in the factory with Harold?”
“Jimmy Connor, yes.”
“Could you get a message to him this morning? Could he find out what they plan to do today? The fascists?”
Silence on the line. She wondered if he’d broken down in tears. But his voice came back firm, determined.
“That’s a good idea, Rachel. He’ll be at work. I’ll drive over there right away.”
Of course, she thought. Everyone still worked on Saturdays.
She explained her idea to Manny and he chuckled.
“And we’re going to need a lot more than ten men on the door,” she said.
“Don’t you worry,” said Manny. “I’ll round up the biggest gang of commie Jew agitators they’ve ever seen. And this is for free.”
When she hung up, Charlie was looking at her like she was a different person.
“I’d no idea you could be so ruthless,” he said.
“Trust me, Charlie. You can’t reason or negotiate with Nazis. If you do, they will ride right over your skull and crush it like a tank.”
He considered her sudden vehemence. “It was something I might have laughed off only yesterday,” he said. “But that was before I had to wash my best friend’s blood off my hands. I guess you’re right. The storm has arrived.”
They made a few more calls, putting various allies into action, and walked to the Prince.
Mr Hollis was surprised to see them so early but knew something was wrong by the grim expressions. Charlie explained everything and the old man slumped into a chair.
“Oh dear. Oh my Lord. I’m so sorry. What a terrible tragedy.”
They explained all the things they’d have to do today and he suggested they use the upstairs parlour and its telephone so they could communicate with Manny’s base.
“Give this number to everyone involved today. This is your command centre.”
Rachel hugged him and smiled and rushed off to tell Mrs Hollis, who was preparing soup for the men.
Before they arrived, Rachel told Mr Hollis they’d decided to keep Henry’s death a secret from the performers. It was best they didn’t know the concert was being threatened. They would deal with the threat quietly and well away from the performers, who would be protected by bodyguards at every stage.
Once the men had eaten and been given their last batch of handbills, Rachel suggested she leave Charlie here and go to town to meet the performers as they arrived.
He protested that he couldn’t possibly let her out of his sight today, with so much danger. She laughed and said”Charlie. You forget I’ve met you in the future. If anything terrible happened to me today, I’m sure you’d have told me about it.”
He frowned and didn’t seem convinced, but gave in, exasperated. “I suppose I might have,” he said.
She kissed him and he stepped back with surprise, and she was gone, stepping onto the first tram into town. It was a calm, sunny day and you would only guess it was January because of the chill in the air. Please let the sun be the omen, she thought, and not the chill.
— 37 —
SHE THRILLED AS SHE came to New Street Station and found a giant glass-vaulted Victorian pod of a building. It was black and dirty but its glass ceiling looked magnificent arching over the city. She realized the Selfridges building was not the first to do this.
She found a way in and down to platform 2 where the train from London was arriving. She pushed through crowds to reach the end of the platform where she presumed the first class carriages would alight, and marvelled at the clouds of steam hissing from the engines.
She found a chap holding a cardboard sign with the name MR SINGER scrawled on it and recognized him as one of the card players at Manny’s social club. Henry had suggested days ago that holding up a sign in New Street Station announcing the arrival of Benny Orphan might cause a riot, but only now did it seem much more necessary to keep it all clandestine.
“Hello there,” she said. “I’m Rachel. Concert organiser.”
The man tipped his cap. “Hello, miss. I’m Abe.”
He crooked his thumb behind him to indicate a cluster of young men smoking at the edge of the platform. They looked nonchalant and you might pass them without a second thought, and only if you stopped and took a second look would you notice that they were being very attentive to every person on the platform.
“Don’t you worry,” said Abe. “Our guest is in safe hands. Benacre Street Boxing Club.”
There was also a small cluster of girls nearby, talking excitedly.
“Henry said to bring them along,” said Ben. “They’ve been told to stay quiet.”
The doors opened and passengers stepped through the great clouds of steam. A man in a blue suit, white shoes and an overcoat over his shoulders stepped down. He was one of the only men on the platform not wearing a hat of some sort.
Abe held the sign high. The Benacre Street Boxing Club had already moved in to crowd around the guest. It was impossible for anyone to reach him.
Benny Orphan stepped towards the sign, smiling brightly. Rachel could sense the sheen of fame on him. It was something indefinable, it seemed like a little man inside of him was burning a bright light that sort of shone through his translucent skin.
“Hello, Mr Orphan,” said Rachel, stepping forward to hold out a hand. “Welcome to Birmingham.”
“Well hello there, dearie,” he said, planting a kiss on the back of her hand. “What a sight you are for sore eyes after a long journey.”
“We’ll be taking you to your hotel, where you can relax for a few hours before the concert tonight. It’s very close.”
“That’s a relief, my dear,” he beamed. “Well, this is quite a welcoming committee, I must say.”
All the boys of the Benacre Street Boxing Club were smiling the sort of smiles people smiled when meeting someone very famous. The girls were giggling to themselves and whispering.
“We’ll have plenty of time for introductions later,” said Rachel. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“Hold on,” said Benny Orphan. “Here’s my faithful sidekick.”
A man struggled off the train with a large suitcase, his face red with the effort. He straightened his hat and eyed the group with suspicion.
“Hey, Arthur, they’ve provided me with an entourage. Maybe I don’t need you after all?”
Arthur walked forward and raised his hat. “Who’s in charge here?”
“I am,” said Rachel.
Arthur looked surprised. “Oh,” he stammered. “You’re a girl.”
“Yes,” said Rachel. “Very observant.”
Benny Orphan cackled and slapped Arthur on the back.
“Now, please let’s move on,” she said. “This way.”
“Follow her, Arthur,” said Benny Orphan with a cackle. “She’s in charge.”
They bustled off the platform, the boys forming a protective circle around Benny Orphan, Rachel and Abe as they marched through the
station, the girls behind. No one really noticed. They were just a part of the crowd.
They emerged at the foot of what she recognized as Navigation Hill and went straight to a coach that was parked up, Keller’s Coaches painted on the side. They all piled on, Benny Orphan in the middle, and the driver set off.
Two minutes later they pulled up outside the Grand Hotel on Colmore Row and the gang crowded into the foyer.
The concierge seemed surprised to see so many people.
Rachel greeted him warmly, turning her American accent up a notch, and informed him that Mr Orphan had arrived, was booked as Mr Singer for safety’s sake, and would be taking his room for the afternoon with his entourage who would be providing security.
The concierge nodded and bowed, telling her he’d received instructions already from Mr Curtis and had informed only the most senior of his staff members and warned them that the strictest secrecy must be maintained.
The assistant manager was ready to show Mr Orphan straight to his suite. He led him to the lift, and three of the Benacre boxers squeezed in with them. The rest began to tramp up the plush carpeted stairs.
Arthur viewed them with despair. “Now, miss, I’d better tell you about arrangements for the raffle,” he said.
“Oh yes, the big prize.”
“I’ll be running it. So I’ll need a table at the entrance where I can personally hand every lady a ticket.”
“Can’t we just get the box office person to hand them out.”
“Certainly not,” he said. “We’ve done this at concert halls up and down the land and I don’t see why this place will be any exception.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll sort it.”
He looked puzzled, or annoyed. She couldn’t work out which.
He was too out of breath to complain by the time they had climbed to the suite. Two of the men were already guarding the door, and inside they found Benny Orphan in cheerful mood, calling for extra glasses so everyone could share the champagne with him. The girls had already formed a now openly adulatory circle around him.