Armistice

by Nick Stafford

  “Grabbing you,” said Jonathan, “but I thought …”

  “It’s all right,” she said.

  “Are you okay? I thought for a moment that—”

  “How could I be un-okay?” she said, using that new American word clumsily. “You only grabbed my arm.”

  “I grabbed your arm because I thought you were feeling—”

  “Feeling what?” she demanded. Relenting, she remarked, “We’re all feeling all the time, aren’t we?”

  “I thought you were about to go—”

  “If I did you wouldn’t be able to stop me,” she said. “And I’d go out of the front, not the back like some.”

  Then she regretted saying all that, because it sounded too harsh and spiky, not like her, and he looked wounded. Rather than waiting to allow the ill feeling to pass in its own time she dived straight in to change the mood: “Are you in court tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” replied Jonathan.

  “On what charge?” she said, as deadpan as she could.

  He looked at her, puzzled. Her eyes crinkled and the corners of her mouth curled up and she laughed, which made him smile. He’d not imagined her laughing. It was a sudden enlightenment.

  She has a beautiful, beautiful mouth, and an enviably unselfconscious throw of the head. She’s full of surprises. But you wouldn’t have saddled yourself with a dimwit, would you? And of course, she is striking. Not pretty-pretty, or beautiful, but very attractive.

  The atmosphere between them completely changed. As the waitress put Philomena’s plate down Jonathan saw that she gave her a “going well, then?” look, which Philomena either didn’t notice or ignored. But the waitress, as she went about her business, kept looking over, perhaps drawn, like Jonathan, by the sparks now glinting in Philomena’s bright green eyes.

  They tucked into their food in companionable silence. Between mouthfuls Philomena rummaged in her bag with one hand and slid out a clutch of envelopes.

  “There’s a couple of letters here that mention you.”

  “Really?” Jonathan exclaimed, delighted.

  Philomena continued to rummage one-handed. “You know; Jonathan did this, Jonathan did that.” Her hand found the envelope she sought. “He had another friend,” she said. “Anthony Dore.”

  Even though she wasn’t looking directly at Jonathan she couldn’t fail to register the impact that this name made.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, wondering if some awful tragedy had befallen Anthony Dore.

  “The matter about what?” snapped Jonathan. Mistake. Relax jaw. Unclench teeth. “Anthony Dore. Yes.”

  “He was another friend of Dan’s,” said Philomena.

  “Dan said that?” asked Jonathan, too casually.

  From this moment Philomena knew that her quest, her fate, had led her here. She knew that she was meant to travel to London, to meet Major James, then Jonathan, and now the challenge was to discover exactly what was being concealed from her. There was a purpose; there was a future to which she was attached.

  “You had quite a strong reaction to Anthony Dore’s name,” she said.

  “Just eat your food.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she retorted.

  “I meant eat it before it gets cold,” said Jonathan, unconvincingly. “Who else?”

  “What do you mean, who else?” asked Philomena, being deliberately obtuse.

  “Which other friends did Dan mention?”

  “All the other friends were killed,” she replied. “He’d write to me mentioning a friend he’d made. Later he’d mention that they’d been killed.”

  She could tell that Jonathan’s mind was working furiously, turning something over and over. He set to eating, chewing fast. He filled his mouth and chewed and swallowed, filled his mouth again while also trying to speak.

  “Look, it’s best if I tell you—”

  “Tell me what?”

  Infuriatingly, Jonathan loaded his fork again and almost added another mouthful, but when he saw her scowl he paused.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. What did the army say?”

  “About what?”

  “About Dan?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  Jonathan looked at her, mouth open, panting slightly. He appeared hounded—shrunken one second, full of something the next; clearly struggling.

  “You want to tell me something,” she said, gently.

  Was he going to tell her? What was he going to tell her? And how? And when? Where to begin? It was too much: “I thought you said you were a seamstress, not the fucking Inquisition,” snapped Jonathan, in his most native accent yet.

  Refusing to be put off, Philomena allowed a pause before asking in deliberately level tones, “Tell me about Anthony Dore’s friendship with Dan.”

  And when Jonathan didn’t reply: “Treat me with respect, please. Respect me.”

  “In what way am I not respecting you?” asked Jonathan.

  She looked deep into his eyes, trying to increase the pressure on him. Her brilliant green boring into his smoky brown.

  “What sort of thing do you want to know?” he asked.

  “That’s a trick question,” she replied, “because I don’t know what I don’t know. I don’t know what I need to ask about.”

  Jonathan was gazing back at her. She was someone he’d never imagined existing before. Although terrified of Philomena and what he might tell her, he also felt lifted, exhilarated even. He tried to relieve the pressure with a joke.

  “Are you sure you’re not a barrister?” which was pretty weak, because being a woman she couldn’t be one, of course.

  But she wasn’t having it anyway. “I’m not sure about anything,” she replied, tartly, which with her stern look made sure he understood that she wasn’t going to let him off. Jonathan chewed the food in his mouth. He swigged some wine, and became thoughtful. He grew unable or unwilling to look Philomena directly in the eye and she guessed he was preparing himself. Choosing his words with minute care, he said: “Anthony Dore is a captain. He was there when Dan died.” He stopped.

  “They knew each other,” said Philomena, prompting him.

  Again Jonathan meticulously weighed his words before saying: “Dan died after I’d got to him. It wasn’t instantaneous, but it was pretty quick.”

  He looked at Philomena as if that were all he had to say.

  Go on, she thought, more than interested as to why Jonathan had strayed off the subject of Anthony Dore. You can’t begin to say something, and in that way, then just stop. For pity’s sake!

  “Go on,” she invited calmly, and watched his face crumple and line and he looked away.

  “There was a feeling …”

  “What did you say?”

  “There was a feeling,” repeated Jonathan, turning back so she could hear his lowered voice.

  “What feeling?” she asked, her hand going to her breastbone as she scented he was about to divulge something momentous.

  “A sense,” said Jonathan, clearly wavering on some brink.

  “A sense of what?” she almost cried, tears filling her eyes.

  “You’re going to try and speak to Anthony Dore?” whispered Jonathan, glancing around furtively.

  “No. I don’t know. Maybe. Yes.”

  “I have to be very careful what I say,” said Jonathan, infuriating her. “There was a fuss …” He appeared to lose his nerve. His hands flapped: “Look, I can’t—”

  He rose from the table and reached in his pocket.

  “Please!” she implored.

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. Please leave me alone.”

  “Leave you alone? What do you mean, leave you—”

  But Jonathan exited by the front door and was swiftly enveloped in the darkness. What on earth?!

  Philomena realized that she was half out of her seat as if to go after Jonathan, and that the whole cafe was silent—everyone was watching her. She shuddered, or shook herself, sat down fully on her
seat, deliberately picked up her cutlery and resumed eating, trying not to look upset. The waitress appeared at her shoulder.

  “Are you all right, luv?” she asked, quietly.

  Philomena nodded several times, but was unable to look her in the eye.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Once her solitary meal was over, in an attempt to work off her disquiet Philomena decided to try to walk back to her hotel. She kept to the main, well-lit thoroughfares, aloof to any looks she was getting. At the Aldwych she changed her mind. Instead of turning toward her hotel, she headed in pursuit of a particular landmark. After a while she knew from her map that she should be nearing St. Paul’s Cathedral but its foot—massive as it was—actually took some finding, it was so hemmed in by inferior buildings. Even though she hadn’t been to church in ages she felt awe as the dome rose higher and higher, until it was as a mountain peaking above her, darker than the sky around it. None of the other people she saw about were behaving like her, like a tourist—they were all en route in that incredibly busy way everyone seemed to have in London. How much time had to pass before a person new to London EC4 became complacent about the fact that they were passing St. Paul’s Cathedral? People can get used to anything: beauty, grandeur, grief.

  She climbed the deep stone steps leading up to the front doors. They were too big, too thick, too heavy, to be called doors, surely? They must have a special name. The wood was cold when she touched it. How could both these and the little thing on the front of her cottage be called by the same name? She looked guiltily about herself before trying a tentative knock. The wood was so dense it swallowed it up. Her knuckles were puny against it. What was Jonathan so … scared wasn’t the word, was it? What was he so agitated about?

  She took out her envelopes, locating the official letter from Major James. In the flare of a succession of matches she read it again, searching for any hints, finding none. The wording was completely unambiguous. So to what had Jonathan been referring when he said there was a “sense,” a “feeling” and a “fuss”? She was going to have to talk to him again. And to Major James. And what about this other man, Anthony Dore? Philomena could think of numerous possible explanations for Jonathan’s strong reaction to Anthony Dore’s name but it was all speculation. She found the envelope that contained all she knew of Anthony Dore—the one she’d had her hand on, that she was about to show Jonathan when he’d gone funny. Reading its contents with new intent she was unable to detect anything untoward. She put the letter away, pressed her hands flat against the doors to St. Paul’s, pressed her cheek to them, and felt vibrations; far-off, deep, like when, out in the hills above the village, she couldn’t decide for certain if she’d heard thunder from behind a high ridge or felt a tremor underground. Was the wood of these vast doors, being so very dense, still alive somewhere near its middle? Feelings rose up from inside her and again threatened to overwhelm. She leaned against the wood, focusing inside her chest. It was as if a terrible battle had broken out inside her, and all she could do was hang on and await the outcome.

  Jonathan nodded to the man on the door and made his way up the familiar stairs of the dimly lit nightclub, swaying slightly from the effects of all the alcohol he’d consumed. He’d handled the situation with Philomena about as badly as it was possible to have done, and was cursing himself for it. He had hoped he’d managed to put some daylight between himself and his emotions but tonight they’d come rushing back, and in fact what he’d revealed to Philomena was only a tiny fraction of what he felt. What was he going to do about “it”? He went over some of the old arguments in his head. His feelings swiftly came into play and the arguments disintegrated; fragments shot off in all directions and he was left with one predominant emotion, anger, and a burning sense of injustice. There were traces of other emotions, too: sorrow, love, and guilt—that bastard guilt nagged away. Should he be acting? Well, he had, as far as he was able, as far as he reasonably could. Was this excusing himself? Was his “as far as he was able” actually an excuse? Was he really a coward? No one had ever told him so, and he’d never believed that something he’d done or not done was cowardly. He’d felt fear, of course, and had, on occasions, acknowledged that fear prevented him from acting as he might. But also, fear had sometimes saved him. No, fear wasn’t the problem here. Nor cowardliness. Not his, anyway.

  Had he done absolutely everything he could have? Yes and no. But the sense of injustice was always burning within him; it never died down except for the brief periods when he was totally intoxicated. It burned mostly on a low flame, but the times it flared up were maddening to an intolerable degree because they were a reminder that he knew in his heart of hearts that someone was still getting away with about the worst thing that they could get away with. And he didn’t know how to rest because of it.

  He turned left at the top of the stairs in the nightclub and entered a medium-sized room suggestively lit by chandeliers of red bulbs. In the nearly colorless, airless room cigarette smoke curled down from the ceiling, deepening the sense of being slightly underground rather than three floors up. He’d been oblivious on the stairs to the normal goings-on but now he saw what he expected to see: men and women in various states of intoxication having a damned good time even if it killed them. More women than men, of course. More young women than young men, anyway. And a few of the young men had visible disfigurements. The post-war euphoria had worn off to be replaced by quiet desperation as it became progressively more unclear exactly what it had all been for.

  He nodded to a middle-aged woman, dressed for the night in a slick gown and gauze veil, sitting on a bar stool smoking a cigarette in a long black holder. Didn’t know her name. Didn’t want to. She nodded back and, with an incline of her head activated a grizzled hulk of a man, unlikely in evening-wear, to come to Jonathan’s side. He barely paused as Jonathan slipped money into his paw. While waiting for the return part of the transaction Jonathan’s hand went to his scalp, to his scar. He absentmindedly ran his fingers along it, while trying to imagine how and when Philomena would discover what the “fuss” was about. Could he trust her, if he told her, to not let on it was him she had learned it from? Obviously he took the threat of libel seriously. But if she heard it first from someone else what version would she be given? No, not what version; whose version? And what would she think of him? He watched the woman at the bar accept his money and give her simian emissary a tiny packet in return. Was this subterfuge really necessary? Now the stuff had been deemed illegal, then yes, he supposed it was. The grizzled man neared. Jonathan got his prickly feeling at the back of his neck. This sensation had saved his life on more than one occasion so he paid it due attention. Stepping sideways, he gave a discreet hand signal to the deliveryman, who changed course, looking slightly puzzled. Jonathan maneuvered himself so that he was able to see what was behind him. His heart skipped a beat and the blood roared in his ears. What had triggered his sixth sense was Anthony Dore, around the corner of the bar, taking a seat. The human being he loathed above all others was calmly sitting down alone, oblivious to being glared at.

  Shocked to find his enemy in one of his own haunts Jonathan slipped directly behind Anthony Dore as he settled. Jonathan studied the crown of his foe’s head as he sipped his drink, and not for the first time, but never before in such proximity, contemplated smashing it in some way. The various times he had followed Dore about the streets he had fantasized about hurting him, and now as Dore held his glass to his lips Jonathan imagined reaching over to ram it hard into his face, breaking glass against skull, changing grip, screwing glass into tissue, gouging, tearing and severing.

  Why couldn’t anyone else know what Jonathan knew? Or did they know but didn’t care, had no stomach for the fight? What fight? The fighting had stopped, hadn’t it? The arguments in his mind spiraled and spun. He had to get away. And he wasn’t just running away from what he wanted to do to Anthony Dore, he was running toward Philomena. He had to tell her before someone else did. She had to hear his version firs
t. He had to go to his chambers, find the address of her hotel, and go there. But first, to make the world seem a much better place than he knew it to be, he must snort some dope. He smiled at the grizzled man, who now advanced and slipped his purchase into his hand.

  A while later the night porter at The Daphne was being distinctly uncooperative. He was able to confirm that the young northern lady was in her room, or at least the key wasn’t on its hook, but he couldn’t contact the room because they didn’t have that sort of thing—an internal communications system—not even strings and bells, and he couldn’t go up and knock on the door for Jonathan or deliver a note because he couldn’t leave his post, such as it was. He was able to put a note in the pigeonhole for the room but he couldn’t guarantee that the young northern lady would get it first thing. Much exasperated, Jonathan tried to appear as if he agreed that the night porter’s concerns were legitimate and paramount, while figuring a way to be allowed to pass. But what logic could sway a pedant as rigid as the scrawny wretch who stood in his way? No logic. He’d have to use the authority of his personality. He banged his fist down on the counter, making the droning porter jump.

  “Look. If she doesn’t get it, I might never see her again, so you are just going to have to let me up there,” Jonathan declared. “Turn your back if you want, pretend you never saw me. But don’t dare try to stop me.”

  The Daphne’s night porter, finding the gentleman quite tall and fierce, did turn his back, pretended to busy himself, humming under his breath.

  Philomena was in her nightclothes when the gentle tap came on her door. She had just been sweeping the bed. Her earlier appraisal that the room was the cleanest she’d seen at the price she could pay had had to be abandoned once she’d slipped between the sheets and the fleas had awoken. At the door she called, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Jonathan,” came the reply. “I’m sorry to come up here unannounced and I’m sorry about earlier, but it’s desperately important that I speak with you.”

  He’d had a change of heart, of mind? She mustn’t let him go off again, but nor could he see her this undressed. She grabbed her coat from the rickety wardrobe and threw it around her shoulders, calling, “I’ll come out. You can’t come in.”