by Ben Elton
‘Good point. Do you know, I hadn’t even thought of that, and me a secret agent! I am an ass, ain’t I? We were going to set up your new identity tomorrow. Who’s your favourite author?’
‘Shakespeare.’
‘Too showy. How about Marlowe?’
‘I think that will be fine.’
Kingsley signed himself Christopher Marlowe and took his pound.
‘You do know that Christopher Marlowe was a spy, don’t you?’ said Shannon as they parted.
‘He was also a poet,’ Kingsley replied, ‘and I’m not that either.’
‘I’ve told you, everybody’s a poet these days.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
A free afternoon
Having checked on the times of trains to London, Kingsley began his afternoon by asking the way to the public library. It felt wonderful to be his own master once more, walking through the quiet streets of an English port. Of course the guilt he felt over his estranged and deluded family did not go away, but nonetheless a lunchtime stroll was an unexpected and luxurious respite from the hellish turmoil into which his life had of late descended.
He found the library, a decent old pile, testimony to the late Victorian zeal for public education, and entered its hushed environs. It was very full: everywhere men and women sat in reverential silence, hunched over books or the day’s newspapers, each of which was mounted on a tall, unwieldy stick. Kingsley was surprised at how well the place was patronized, reflecting that perhaps in these terrible and crazy times people sought comfort in the wisdom of the past. Certainly there were plenty of black veils and armbands to be seen. Kingsley was particularly touched and saddened to note that children, some as young as eight or nine, were there also, sitting about quietly reading, the mark of mourning on their arms. One little girl had a copy of the Rainbow comic and by rights ‘The Jolly Adventures of the Bruin Boys’, a popular cartoon about a boarding school for animals, should have made her laugh, or smile at least, but as he passed her, sitting on her little child’s stool, he could see that she was crying. The girl’s mother sat beside her upon another child’s stool. She had black crêpe trim on her threadbare dress and there was a magazine upon her lap but she wasn’t reading it; she was staring into the distance while she gently stroked her little girl’s hair. Kingsley wondered whether Agnes wore black that day and what, if anything, she had said to George.
He found an empty writing desk and sat down. It had been his intention to write a letter to Agnes, a letter which he would ask to be sent to her in the event of his death. But try as he might, he could think of nothing to say. He had no idea what was to become of him and so could give her no information on why she had been so cruelly deceived. And as far as commenting on the past was concerned, everything that could be said had already been said. She had dismissed him from her life and there was an end to it. She had not even attended his funeral.
Kingsley fell to considering the sad death of Viscount Abercrombie. A man whose murder the authorities wished him to investigate. A man whose death had, temporarily at least, saved Kingsley’s life.
He looked up the reports of Abercrombie’s death in what newspapers were available. The library did not keep an archive of the national papers, holding them only for a day or two, but they had all the past editions of the local journal. This had reported the hero’s death in some detail, although not with any accuracy, for as far as the newspaper was concerned Abercrombie had died in action:
HERO DEAD
It is with great sadness that we must report the death of Viscount Alan Abercrombie, DSO, aged 25, only son of Lord Abercrombie, Conservative Chief Whip in the House of Lords. The young viscount’s fame eclipsed even that of his distinguished father by dint of his illustrious war record and the highly popular patriotic poems that he wrote. Whilst he was still at Oxford, his verse cycle Country Lane and Village was much admired. The best-known part of it, ‘Cricket on the Green and Tea’, has been compared to Brooke’s famous ‘Grantchester’ for its evocation of the England for which we are all fighting. Abercrombie enlisted in 1915 (a bout of pleurisy had kept him out of the first year of the war) and first saw action at Loos, where he led his men in an heroic charge against the machine guns. He won his DSO on the Somme a year later, by which time he had been promoted captain. He was decorated for his actions in rescuing a wounded comrade under heavy fire. Viscount Abercrombie published two volumes of patriotic verse that have brought much comfort to soldiers and civilians alike and which, before the advent of conscription, were a feature of many recruiting concerts. He will perhaps be best remembered for his poem ‘Forever England’, which was inspired by the late Rupert Brooke’s ‘The Soldier’. ‘Forever England’ has, of course, been set to music by Mr Ivor Novello and has proved a rival even to the success of Novello’s ‘Keep The Home Fires Burning’. Captain Abercrombie was killed in action, dying as he lived, a hero and a leader of men. We reproduce Viscount Abercrombie’s best-known work below:
Forever England. Home and hearth.
Valley, dale and country path.
Lonely cottage. Village green.
Cricket, hunt and church serene.
Forever England. When I die
I pray beneath your turf I’ll lie.
But if instead, I die abroad
Cut down by bullet, bomb or sword
To mark the sacrifice I gave
Put ‘Forever England’ on my grave.
Try as he might, Kingsley, who beneath his brusque exterior was not an unemotional man, could not bring himself to see this appalling verse as anything other than juvenile drivel. He felt sorry for the young man and his family and admired his bravery, but to his mind England had not lost a poet.
Kingsley found his thoughts turning to Captain Shannon. Why were the SIS involved in this case? He doubted that their part in it really was as simple as Shannon claimed.
Thinking of Shannon caused Kingsley to reflect on the man s plans for his afternoon and evening. Kingsley felt sorry for the girls who crossed his path; Shannon was not the sort of man whom anyone would wish their daughter to associate with. Kingsley thought of Violet, the little skivvy from the Hotel Majestic, who hadn’t looked more than seventeen. Suddenly he felt a chill of fear. He recalled the cruelty with which Shannon had handled the old man on the pier. He remembered the words Shannon had used when asked if he was sure of his prospective conquests: ‘And if they won’t come across, I just have to find a way to persuade them, eh? Believe me, if I wish to bed a girl, I do bed her.’
At the time Kingsley had not read much into this, but now he wondered. Looking at the wristwatch which he had been given along with his clothes, he noted that it was nearly three o’clock. He got up and hurried from the library.
TWENTY-EIGHT
A soldier demands his comfort
After a pleasant interlude at a guest house with the willowy Pierrette, who did indeed know the score, Shannon proceeded back to the seafront and along it towards the Hotel Majestic. His blood was up now, his stride less jaunty but his pace just as fast and his stance aggressive. He pushed his way through the afternoon strollers without apology. His easy smile had become a cross between a leer and a snarl. He was on the hunt.
Violet was waiting for him outside the hotel. Instantly Shannon’s style changed once more, back to its old easy nonchalance.
‘Well, well, Violet! You came. How splendidly kind of you,’ he said, taking her arm.
‘Well, you were very sweet, weren’t you, Captain,’ the girl replied. ‘You never should have left a tip like that! The other girls were green!’
Violet was clearly delighted to be in the company of such a handsome and dashing officer. She glanced through the windows of the hotel dining room as they passed, thrilled that all her colleagues could see her in the company of such a gorgeous catch.
‘Let’s take a bus along the front,’ Shannon suggested, and together they sat on the open top of an omnibus with the wind blowing in Violet’s hair and making her cheeks red
and Shannon showering her with witty compliments and making her giggle and reddening her cheeks all the more.
They took the bus right to the very end of its journey on the edge of the town and then Shannon led her down on to the beach.
‘Why’ve we come here?’ Violet enquired.
‘Oh, you know, I do hate crowds,’ Shannon said with a boyish smile. ‘What with all the noise and horror of life at the front it’s nice for me to get a little quiet, particularly in such charming company. Not many lovely girls where I’ve been, you see, or any peace.’
Thus charmed, Violet allowed herself to be led further along the empty beach before Shannon found a little fishing jetty and suggested that they shelter beyond it as the wind was picking up.
‘I have to be back by six, you know,’ Violet reminded Shannon.
‘Oh, I shan’t need to keep you that long,’ Shannon replied.
If Violet thought this a strange thing to say she did not show it, and together they sat down in the shelter of the jetty.
‘Well now, isn’t this nice?’ Shannon declared.
‘Lovely. Really lovely,’ Violet agreed. ‘Here, I say! Do you know what, Captain, I don’t even know your name yet.’
‘I’m the fellow who’s going to show you a bit about life, dear, ‘he said and put his arm around her. For a moment she didn’t resist, even briefly laying her head on his shoulder, but when he pulled her down on to the sand and began to kiss her on the lips she protested loudly.
‘No! No, Captain!’
He took his mouth from hers as she pushed at his shoulders.
‘What? What do you mean, no?’
‘I mean no! Gosh, you’re fast! None of that now. I only met you a minute ago! You can hold my hand if you like but no more kisses. Not kisses like that, anyway!’
‘Hold your hand,’ Shannon repeated. ‘Hold your hand? Do you really think I’ve brought you all the way out of town to hold your damn hand?’
Suddenly the girl was scared. Shannon did not look at all like the man he had been only moments before.
‘I’m only sixteen,’ Violet protested, ‘and I’m a good girl. I told you…I told you.’
‘I don’t care how old you are or what you think of yourself, dear. I’m going to fuck you.’
Violet was instantly terrified: she had scarcely even heard the word before, let alone been threatened with it.
‘No!’
‘Yes! Now lie down quiet and let’s get on with it.’
‘Please, Captain, no! I don’t want to, I never have…please.’
‘Well, if you’ve been saving it up, then who better to give it to than a soldier of the King? Eh? EH? Or ain’t I good enough for you? Who do you think you are, you little slut? Too good for a British soldier, is that it? Come on, answer me, you hussy!’
‘No. I never said…!’
‘All the young men are dying and little tarts like you are back home saving it! Saving it for what? Some big rich American? Is that it? Is little missy hoping to whore herself a Yankee?’
‘No!’
‘You ungrateful little tart. Your countrymen are dying for you. Do you understand? If you had any decency at all you’d offer your skinny little body to every single serviceman you met! You’d whore for them at the dockside! Fuck a platoon a day and think yourself honoured! Lord Kitchener wants your cunt!’
Shannon’s face was contorted with spite and venom. The girl was weeping, shaking with fear and distress, snot running from her nose. Shannon grabbed her wrists and forced her back down on to the sand.
‘I am a British soldier,’ Shannon shouted into Violet’s sobbing, sopping face, ‘and I want my comfort! You are a British whore and you shall damn well give it to me!’
Shannon began to pull up the girl’s skirts. She shrieked in fear but, too terrified and confused to offer more resistance, she did not struggle further.
‘Please…’ The snot turned into bubbles at her mouth as she tried to utter the word ‘don’t’.
The brief struggle was over. Shannon had subdued her with his brutality. Now he forced one of her arms across her face to wipe the tears and mucus on to her sleeve, and then once more he pushed his mouth down on to hers whilst pulling up her skirts and tugging at her underwear.
Just then Kingsley emerged from behind the jetty.
‘Unhand that girl this instant,’ he commanded.
‘What the devil…!’ Shannon exclaimed, looking up from the girl, his hand still pulling at her clothing.
‘I said take your hands off her, Captain, or I shall take them off for you.’
Kingsley’s tone was forceful; he was a man used to giving commands. So, of course, was Shannon and for a moment there was a stand-off. Then Shannon smiled and, letting go of Violet’s dress, he raised himself from her.
Kingsley leaned forward and, offering the girl his hand, he pulled her to her feet.
‘Are you all right, miss?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, sir,’ Violet sniffled, still shaking with fear and shock. ‘I think so.’
‘Did you follow me, Inspector?’ Shannon asked, brushing the sand from his clothes.
‘Yes, I did, Captain Shannon. I don’t know what moved me to but I suddenly thought that I would. It’s being a policeman, I suppose. You come to smell wickedness.’
Shannon smiled and then suddenly jabbed out a blow towards Kingsley, a nasty, powerful rabbit punch that might easily have broken his nose. Kingsley, however, was as fast as Shannon, faster even, and deflected the blow. Violet screamed and cowered by the jetty.
‘Shall we fight then?’ Kingsley enquired. ‘Understand that I’m ready for you.’
‘No, better not,’ Shannon replied, as instantly easy and languid as he had been instantly ferocious. ‘I’m supposed to deliver you in one piece and ready for service.’
‘What makes you think that I wouldn’t be in one piece after fighting you?’ Kingsley asked.
‘Touché, old boy. Tou-ruddy-ché.’
Kingsley had spoken with a confidence he did not entirely feel. He knew that Shannon was a killing gentleman and he himself had never been that type. He turned back to Violet.
‘Will you be all right to make your way home?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, sir, I think so…I have to go back to the hotel.’
‘Do you have your bus fare?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘Well then, dry your eyes, pull yourself together and go back to the town. Have a cup of tea and try not to dwell on what has happened. You’ve had a very nasty experience but it has turned out all right, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Goodbye then.’
‘Goodbye, sir.’
Violet turned to leave.
‘And Violet, not all men are like this one. Remember that.’
‘Goodbye, dearie,’ Shannon sneered. ‘Perhaps I shall come looking for you some other night.’
The girl ran away as fast as she could manage.
After she had gone the two men stood facing each other on the sand.
‘Do you intend to follow me around all day in order to protect the virgins of southern England?’ Shannon asked.
‘I just had a feeling about that one. She seemed…vulnerable.’
‘Mmmm. Well, don’t worry, I don’t normally bother with kids. I like a bint who knows what she’s doing. I just set about that one because she was pretty and well…because she was there. Can’t let them pass. Feel I owe it to myself.’
‘And you have a taste for violence.’
‘Do you know, I rather think I do. Awful thing really. For a gentleman. But there is something bracing about taking a helpless little bird and breaking its wings, don’t ye know. Shall we return to the bus stop?’
‘I think we’ll give it a few minutes if that’s all right by you. I think it would be a shame to terrorize that girl further.’
‘You are such a prig, Kingsley.’
TWENTY-NINE
Gothas
Havin
g finally caught a bus back into town, Shannon and Kingsley parted.
‘See you in the morning, old chap,’ Shannon said. ‘I shan’t forget you ruined my sport.’
‘Believe me, it’s not an incident I’ll forget either, Captain.
Something tells me that some day you and I shall have a reckoning.’
‘Can’t wait, Inspector.’
Kingsley’s train for London did not depart for another two and a half hours, so he decided to make his way back to the library and perhaps find an hour’s solace in books.
As he retraced his steps through the town, an unfamiliar sound began to fill the air. Quietly, almost imperceptibly at first, a droning had begun.
Kingsley had never before heard this sound and yet he knew it instantly. He could have guessed it just by looking at the faces of the people in the streets.
Gothas. German heavy bombers, each carrying nine bombs and far more deadly than the Zeppelins that had preceded them. Folkestone had been hit before, in May. Twenty-three Gothas headed for London had lost their way in cloud and some bombs had landed by the sea. Now it seemed that Folkestone was to be hit again and this time deliberately.
The droning grew louder and soon the planes appeared, nine of them in the sky above. Nine little crosses amongst the clouds. Everyone was staring upwards; there was nowhere to run to for nobody knew where the bombs would fall. Then down they came, a long whistle followed by a terrible bang. Eight bombs hit the town and each was followed by a cacophony of shouts and screaming.
One landed quite close to the library, blasting bricks and glass about in a shower of flying clubs and knives. Kingsley rushed forward to see if he could help. The street was littered with civilians, some lying still and others crying out in pain and shock at the slashes that had appeared suddenly in their flesh.
Kingsley saw a sight that he would have given anything except the life of his own son not to see. The little girl whom he had seen in the library, weeping over her comic, lay bleeding in her mother’s arms, blood pumping from the severed artery in her neck. Someone with a Red Cross armband was trying to help but Kingsley knew that no pressure could staunch such a ghastly wound. In minutes she would join her father as a victim of the Great War, and her mother would have to face the future with nothing left at all.