There Is No Going Home

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘Good night, Ena. I’m glad you and Shaun made up before he left. He’s not a bad chap.’

  ‘Of course he isn’t. It was the wine. I’m not used to drinking so much. Night, night.’

  Ena watched Helen go upstairs and when she was out of sight, went into her room. From the gap under the door, she saw the hall light go out.

  Suddenly frightened, Ena went to lock the bedroom door. There was no key. She leaned against it. Her legs were shaking. Artie must have told the obnoxious Shaun O’Shaughnessy, if that was his name, about Collins. She’d lay money on it. Thank God she hadn’t told Artie that Collins was Sid’s dictionary. It was bad enough that he, and now O’Shaughnessy, assumed it was a man who had killed Sid.

  Ena crept out of the bedroom and into the hall. She turned the front doorknob. It was locked. She told herself she was stupid to think O’Shaughnessy had anything to do with the people who were after her and went to bed. By the morning she had tossed and turned most of the night unable to sleep, so she got up and packed her bags.

  After breakfast she telephoned Henry. It felt like an eternity before he answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Ena. I’m coming home.’ There was silence. ‘Are you there, Henry?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to hear you say those words. I’ve missed you so much.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too. I can’t wait to see you. What time will you be home from work?’

  ‘Six at the latest.’

  ‘That’ll be seven then?’

  Henry laughed. ‘Oh blast! I’d forgotten. There’s a meeting at six, but it should be finished by seven. I’ll be home at eight.’

  ‘Dinner at eight o’clock, then. I love you, Henry.’

  ’I love you too. I have never loved anyone but you, Ena.’

  She put the phone down and went into the kitchen. ‘I’m going home, Helen.’

  Helen looked surprised. ‘Are you leaving because of Shaun?’

  ‘No,’ Ena assured her friend, ‘I’m going because I miss Henry. I know we have a lot of stuff to sort out - and we will - but being away from him these last few days has made me realise how much I love him. I’ve enjoyed my time with you, and hope I’ll be welcome to come down again in the future.’

  ‘You will,’ Helen said, ‘and you can bring Henry next time.’

  Ena laughed. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ Helen laughed too. ‘And I promise not to invite Shaun.’

  Ena put her arms around her friend and thanked her. ‘And when you’re next at Leconfield House, come and have dinner with us.’

  The train was in when Ena and Helen arrived at the station. The two friends hugged again, and said they would see each other soon.

  ‘Helen? I promised Shaun I wouldn’t say anything to you, but he told me he knew a chap called Collins was involved in Sid Parfitt’s death. The thing is, that piece of information hasn’t been released to anyone, not even to MI5 and MI6.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ena. I damn well knew he’d said something to upset you.’

  ‘I’m not as upset as I am worried. I’m worried that because I stayed with you, you could now be in danger. I mean, who is Shaun O’Shaughnessy? You haven’t seen him for years and he turns up out of the blue when I’m staying with you. Please be careful.’

  ‘I will,’ Helen said thoughtfully, as she walked with Ena to the train. ‘And you’re right, Shaun turning up was a bit of a coincidence.’

  When she had boarded the train, Ena closed the door and pulled down the window. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences, she called, as the train began its journey.

  ‘Nor do I,’ Helen shouted before she was consumed by steam and smoke.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘Henry?’ Ena ran into the hall, unlocked the door and flung it open. ‘Frieda!’

  ‘Hello, Ena.’

  The nerves on the top of Ena’s stomach tightened and her heart began to thud.

  ‘Where are your manners? Aren’t you going to ask me in?’

  Ena stepped to the side of the door to allow Frieda to enter. She scanned the street. There was nothing out of the ordinary to the left or right. Closing the door slowly she focussed on the shadows in the shop doorway opposite, and then scrutinised the narrow unlit alleyway further down the road. There was no one. Frieda hadn’t brought anyone with her, nor had she been followed. ‘Can I take your coat?’

  ‘No. I won’t be staying.’

  Ena led the way into the sitting room. The two women stood and stared at each other for some time. It was Ena who spoke first. ‘How did you know where I lived?’

  ‘I saw you in Selfridges in the summer. If I’d seen you, chances were you’d seen me. I knew if you had you’d go straight to MI5 and tell Henry. So I took a cab to Curzon Street and got there before you. I watched you from the coffee house opposite the café where you and Henry had lunch. It wasn’t difficult to find out where you worked. I followed you home from Mercer Street several times. You take the same route too often, Ena. You should know better.’

  Frieda was right, she should have known better but she wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Why wouldn’t I take the same route home? I work in the administrative office of a non-sensitive government department. The work I do is of no interest to anyone.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so!’ Ena was annoyed with herself for being careless. One of the basic rules, if you worked in any department of the Home Office, was vary your journey to and from work daily. Trying to keep her voice calm, she said, ‘What do you want, Frieda?’

  ‘To tell you to stop looking for me. Stop meddling in things you know nothing about. If you don’t stop, the people I work for will stop you.’ Frieda suddenly looked terrified. She reached forward, gripped the edge of the table and lowered herself onto a chair. She took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her handbag. ‘They are bad people, Ena. They would think nothing of killing you.’

  ‘Good God, Frieda, who are these people?’

  Frieda took a cigarette from the packet and lit it. She offered the pack to Ena. Ena shook her head. Placing the cigarettes and lighter on the table, Frieda said, ‘I shouldn’t tell you. It’s too dangerous. If they knew I’d come here tonight they would–’ She took a drag of her cigarette and inhaled deeply. Exhaling a stream of thick smoke she cast her eyes down as if she was ashamed of what she was about to say.

  ‘What is it, Frieda?’

  ‘I work for the Russians.’

  Ena had suspected as much. She dropped onto the seat of the dining chair opposite her old friend.

  Frieda lifted her head and looked searchingly into Ena’s face. With a shuddering breath, she said, ‘When I was caught in forty-four MI5 gave me an ultimatum. Or, as Five put it, a chance to avoid the hangman’s noose.’ Frieda gave a short cynical laugh. ‘They were right of course. As an enemy agent, if convicted, I’d have been given the death penalty.’

  ‘Was Henry your handler?’

  ‘No. Henry was supposedly on the run with my brother Walter,’ Frieda said, her voice cold and brittle. ‘Henry wasn’t on the run with Walter, he was using him to find out if he was part of a spy ring. More importantly, he wanted to know who we had reported to in the war.’ A cynical smile played on Frieda’s lips.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Walter didn’t know. All correspondence with Germany came in and went out through me. When your husband worked that out, he gave Walter up to the authorities and they put him in jail. Shortly afterwards, McKenzie Robinson came to see me. “Hang, or work for us. The choice is yours.” Some choice! Eventually I said I’d work for the British as a double-agent if they took the death penalty off the table for Walter - and Robinson agreed. So I sold my soul to the British government and became their puppet. My job was to feed the Russians false information, which I was happy to do. The arrangement worked well for several years, and then the Russians found out.’

  ‘How?’

  �
��I don’t know. I was very careful. I took no risks. Someone must have told them.’

  ‘What? You mean, someone at MI5 informed on you to the Russians?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but I’ve had cause to wonder more than once if there’s a mole at MI5; someone who works at Leconfield House, who passes information to the Russians. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’ Frieda raised and dropped her shoulders. ‘So, then the Russians gave me an ultimatum - work for them or they would have Walter killed.’

  ‘But Walter was in prison.’

  Frieda laughed. ‘The Russians have a long reach. There is nowhere to hide from them, not even if you’re locked up in a British prison.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ena said.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes. Couldn’t Henry have helped you?’

  ‘What, lock me up in a safe house? Hide me away in some damp old building in a backwater somewhere never to be seen again?’

  ‘Better than being on the run, or dead, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Would it?’ Frieda said, her voice thick with cynicism.

  ‘What about McKenzie Robinson. Why didn’t you go back to him?’

  Frieda looked into the mid-distance, as if she was unsure how much to tell Ena.

  ‘Frieda?’

  ‘Because the first time the Russians questioned me about my loyalties was after a meeting I’d had with McKenzie Robinson. I didn’t trust him not to sell me out to the Soviets.’

  Suddenly it all fell into place. ‘Frieda, did you kill Mac Robinson?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘But you went to see him when he was in hospital.’

  ‘Yes, to tell him there was a mole in his department. And, I was scared. I was out of options and I asked him if he would help me to get out of the country.’

  ‘And what did Mac say?’

  ‘He said he would help me as soon as he came out of hospital. But he didn’t come out, did he?’ Frieda shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter now, anyway. Robinson’s dead and I no longer care what happens to me. What do I have to live for? My brother is dead, my country has been defeated, and I am the enemy. Ena, I am a–’

  ‘Spy,’ Ena said.

  Frieda shook her head vehemently. ‘A traitor.’ Her voice was hardly audible. ‘I’m paid in roubles by the enemy of my homeland. Paid by a government who not much more than a decade ago ordered hundreds of thousands of my countrymen to be killed.’

  Ena got up and went to the sideboard. She took a bottle of brandy and two glasses from the cupboard. After pouring a double measure into each glass she passed one to Frieda.

  ‘Thank you.’ Frieda picked up her glass, took a substantial drink and closed her eyes. ‘That’s good.’ She took another drink, a sip this time, and savoured it for a second before swallowing. She looked into the copper-coloured liquid. ‘I’m tired, Ena. So very, very tired.’

  Ena’s natural instinct was to get up and go to her; her gut feeling was to stay in her seat.

  ‘They would have killed me if I hadn’t worked for them. I wanted to live, but now…’ Tears rolled down Frieda’s face. Ena wanted to say to the woman she had worked with in the war, who she had socialised with in the local pubs and dances - and who she had called her friend - that everything would be all right. But she knew as Frieda did that it would never be all right again. Frieda was a spy and according to Henry, a killer.

  Ena refreshed their glasses. She needed to stay alert and poured more brandy into Frieda’s glass than she did her own. She wanted to know what the Russians were up to - and hoped that because Frieda seemed happy to talk she would tell her.

  Aware that Frieda was watching her, Ena took a sip of her drink. Frieda looked curiously at Ena’s glass and a smile, more akin to a smirk, crossed her lips. Had she noticed Ena had given herself less brandy? Fearing she had, Ena took the bottle and topped up her glass. She didn’t drink. Frieda said she had come to warn Ena that the Russians would kill her if she didn’t drop the investigation. Frieda had tried to kill her once before; Ena couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t try to kill her again, now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Frieda said. Ena’s heart began to beat faster. It felt heavy and sounded so loud in her chest that she felt sure Frieda would hear it. Frieda drained her drink and put down her glass. With her elbows on the table, her hands clasped together, Frieda leaned forward and looked into Ena’s eyes.

  Ena shifted uneasily in her seat.

  ‘I’ve been ordered to kill you, Ena.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The adrenaline that until now had kept Ena alert drained from her body. She felt weak with fear, her stomach lurched and she swallowed to stop herself from being sick. ‘So,’ she said, doing her utmost to keep her voice calm, ‘that’s the real reason you came here tonight is it, to kill me?’

  ‘I came to warn you, to tell you to stop looking for me, stop asking about me. Forget about me and the Russians. The Russians think because I blame MI5 for Walter’s death that I work exclusively for them now. They are satisfied that the information I pass to British Intelligence about the hydrogen bomb is only what they tell me to pass and nothing more.’

  ‘But it isn’t?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t. I am an engineer, I know how much hydrogen fuel they have, how much uranium and how many bombs they have stockpiled. There has been a race between the United States of America and the Soviet Union to see who can build the biggest, the most powerful atomic bombs since 1946.’

  Stunned, Ena sat and listened to what Frieda had to say.

  ‘After Stalin’s death in 1953 one of the four top brass who took over from him has been assassinated and two have resigned. Jumped or pushed, who knows - who cares - but their demise left Nikita Khrushchev as the Soviet Union’s sole leader. Khrushchev now has what he has wanted all along: a new policy for dealing with the west and a free pass to kick the Americans out of Europe. If he has his way, there’ll be another war. If there is, Western Europe - including the British Isles - will be obliterated. The arms race is on. The Americans have developed missiles that can be dropped from aeroplanes. God knows what the Russians have, but you can be sure it’s something many times bigger than the one dropped on Hiroshima. The next war will be nuclear - and quite possibly the end of civilisation as we know it in the west.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why the Russians think I’m a threat.’

  ‘Your meddling has got them worried. They’re beginning to wonder whether my job, passing on false information to British intelligence, is worth the risk they’re taking.’ Frieda picked up her cigarettes and lighter, took a cigarette from the pack and lit it. ‘Sorry, would you like one?’ She put the packet back on the table, placed the small lighter on top of it and moved both nearer to Ena.

  Ena took a cigarette and lit it. She rarely smoked and found the cigarette too strong. ‘So,’ she said, wishing she hadn’t bothered, ‘what happens now?’

  ‘Forget about me. I am dead as far as you’re concerned. Or I should be. You went to my funeral, remember?’

  ‘I remember.’ Ena took a drag of her cigarette and said, ‘Who was buried in your place?’

  ‘What? No one! My coffin was empty. There might have been a bag or two of sand in it, so it felt as if there was a body inside, but I assure you the only person buried on that day was my brother Walter.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  Frieda glared at Ena, her expression at first was anger, and then pain. ‘I love my brother. I tell him every day.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean thank God your brother was dead. I meant I’m glad MI5 didn’t bury some poor person in your place.’

  ‘Most of the spooks at MI5 would bury their grandmothers if it served their purpose,’ Frieda spat, ‘so would the Russians.’ The two women finished their cigarettes in silence. When she had stubbed hers out, Frieda said, ‘Talking of Russians, if you don’t stop asking questions they really will kill you, and then they will kill me - and we’ll both end up b
eneath the slabs of a Russian diplomat’s townhouse in Holland Park and British Intelligence will be out in the cold as far as the Atomic Bomb programme is concerned.’

  Ena didn’t believe for a second the Russian government were interested in her. Frieda was trying to put the wind up her. No matter. Talking was buying her time. Henry said he would be home at eight. She glanced at the clock, it was ten past. She needed to keep Frieda talking. ‘I don’t know anything about the atomic bomb or any other kind of bomb, and I don’t want to know.’

  ‘No?’ Frieda lit another cigarette. ‘Sidney didn’t tell you, then?’

  ‘If you mean my late work colleague, Sidney Parfitt - who I had a lot of respect for - why would he know anything about bombs and Russians?’

  Frieda burst into laughter. ‘Ena, you are such a bad liar.’

  ‘And you are such a good liar, Frieda. You always were.’ Silence fell for the second time. It was Ena who broke it. ‘Did you have anything to do with Sid’s death?’

  ‘Suicide,’ Frieda said.

  ‘Murder!’ Ena corrected.

  ‘The official line was suicide.’

  ‘But we both know it wasn’t suicide,’ Ena said. Frieda shrugged. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘No, I did not have anything to do with Sidney’s death. What makes you think I did?’

  ‘A woman telephoned his mother on the night he was killed. She said she was me. At least that’s what Sid’s mother told the police the following day when they went to tell her Sid’s body had been found. His mother said I had telephoned Sid at ten o’clock and asked him to meet me at the office.’

  ‘And you didn’t?’

  ‘No! Why would I ask you if you’d telephoned him if I had?’

  ‘I did not telephone anyone, Ena. But then I am not the only woman on the Bloc, if you’ll excuse the pun. I’m afraid you will have to look elsewhere,’ Frieda said smirking.