The officer grinned. ‘Sorry—but I’m afraid they come under the heading of supplies. You can have your hamper back when it’s empty if you like.’
‘No, you can keep the damned thing,’ Kenyon said angrily as he climbed back into his seat. ‘How are things further South—down in the Old Kent Road, I mean?’
‘Might be worse—they were making a bonfire of a big Rolls just past the Elephant and Castle half an hour ago, but they are more playful than vicious—only took the gold watch off the old boy that owned it and let him go. He’s back here in the Bridge House now.’
‘That doesn’t seem too good.’
‘No, I should take the side turnings if I were you—down Tooley Street and then strike into the main road further along.’
Veronica leant out. Her smile was seraphic—enchanting. ‘You don’t think really that we shall all be murdered, do you?’
The officer smiled. ‘I—er—sincerely trust not!’
‘But it is rather shattering isn’t it—for a woman I mean—if only we had you with us I should feel absolutely safe.’
‘I’d love to see you through.’ The young man’s chest broadened perceptibly under Veronica’s gaze, ‘but I can’t possibly leave my job—be here all night I expect!’
Veronica had noticed the long line of cars parked outside the Bridge House. She glanced towards them now. ‘Haven’t you someone you could leave in charge?’ she wheedled, ‘just for ten minutes, while you took us through the worst part by the docks?’
‘Well,’ he hesitated. ‘I couldn’t go myself, of course, but I’ve got dozens more men than I actually need and I could send a car-load to convoy you as far as Greenwich Park—that would get you through the most troublesome area anyhow.’
‘Oh, how perfectly splendid!’ she loosed again the battery of her seductive smile.
With sudden embarrassment, cursing the presence of Kenyon and Ann, both interested spectators, he turned away and blew his whistle. The Greyshirts came tumbling out of the hotel, and he hurried over to them.
‘How clever of you,’ murmured Ann.
‘Easy dearie!’ chuckled Veronica. ‘The conceit of women is nothing compared with that of men!’
The officer was calling for volunteers and there was no lack of them. Ten minutes later a dozen Greyshirts had clambered into an open car and Veronica’s new friend returned with another officer.
‘This is Mr. Harker,’ he said, by way of introduction.
‘Silas Gonderport Harker,’ corrected the lieutenant of Greyshirts with the faintest intonation that declared an American origin.
Ann gazed at him almost in awe. He was a good head taller than his senior, broad of shoulder, and magnificent in girth. Yet on that vast body he displayed no trace of superfluous fat. His face was round, flat-nosed and cheerful. There was an undeniable hint of humour about Mr. Harker’s tight-shut mouth and twinkling eyes. ‘If you’ll stick as close as you can behind my car,’ he said slowly, ‘I’ll see you through.’
‘Thank you—thank you a thousand times. And you!’ Veronica momentarily dazzled the Captain again with her bewitching smile.
Harker squeezed his elephantine bulk into the Greyshirts’ car and it moved off into the darkness with Kenyon following.
‘All the luck!’ shouted the slim Captain, and the last they saw of him was a saluting figure silhouetted against the light which streamed from the open door of the Bridge House Hotel.
Tooley Street was a cavern of silent blackness. They raced down it and into the gloom beyond. At the crossing by Tower Bridge they met the first sign of trouble; it was a still warm night, and a hundred and fifty people were standing out in the open road in front of a public-house. Immediately they saw the Greyshirts an angry murmur ran through the throng and one man hurled an empty beer bottle. The leading car tore on and hurtled round the bend into Dockland, the young Grey-shirts cheering derisively at the mob.
‘Good thing I’ve got you an escort, lovie!’ said Veronica quietly.
‘I’m not so certain,’ Kenyon muttered. ‘The people down here hate these Greyshirts like hell. I’ve a good mind to catch them up and send them back—we’d probably be safer on our own.’
Ann shook her head. ‘It’s too late now. If you try and overtake them at the speed they’re going you will probably knock someone down.’
‘That’s the devil of it,’ Kenyon agreed.
Through ill-lit Dockland the cars roared on, past more public-houses, then swerving sharply entered Parker’s Row. Every hundred yards or so a fresh crowd surged out into the roadway, yelling abuse and throwing missiles. A rotten tomato thumped and spluttered on the windscreen of Kenyon’s car. He thanked his gods that the glass was shatterproof, the next bull’s-eye might be with half a brick.
In Jamaica Road the crowd grew thicker, even the Greyshirts were afraid to rush it, and pulling up, signalled to Kenyon to turn back.
As he reversed his car up a turning they passed him again and sped down a side street lined with small, grim, poverty-stricken houses. A moment later he was after them. The headlights of the cars threw the women and children huddled in the doorways into sharp relief. One harridan shrieked foul epithets as they rushed past—another hurled a flower-pot. Ann shuddered, realising suddenly that if the car stopped for a moment she would be at the mercy of these harpies.
The Greyshirts’ car turned again and Kenyon followed through another narrow dark canon of decaying dwellings, where squalid garbage littered the gutters, and another contingent of frail, half-starved, wolfish humanity lifted shrill voices against the flagrant opulence suggested by the powerful private car. Another turn, and they were back in the main street once more, but forced to slow down by the stream of people who overlapped the narrow pavements. Ahead, in the uncertain light which flickered from a public-house, the crush was denser, and in an open space before it they caught a glimpse of serried rows of people. Perched on a barrow above their head, a short squat bare-headed man was gesticulating violently; they could not catch a word he said, but as he struck his open palm with his clenched fist a moan went up from the crowd. The Greyshirts had been forced to halt again; a black-haired boy perched on the back of their car was making violent signals to Kenyon, who stopped and put his car into reverse.
‘Hi! Where yer goin’—blast yer!’ came angry cries from the pavement. An empty egg box hurtled into the body of the car. It caught Ann on the head, but it was light and fortunately did no serious damage. With admirable presence of mind she turned, made a wry grimace in the direction whence it had come, and smiled. The man who had thrown it saw her, and the result was electric. He looked astonished—crestfallen—then all at once he grinned.
‘Sorry lidy—I didn’t mean to ’urt yer.’ He was a big burly chap, and forcing his way to the front of the crowd he pushed the onlookers right and left from in front of the bonnet.
‘Come on, mates,’ he shouted. ‘Aht of the way fer the Duchess o’ York—she ain’t done no ’arm, and lor blimey, ain’t she a daisy?’
The people good-humouredly gave way and for a moment Ann had saved the situation, but as Kenyon glanced over his shoulder he saw that the Greyshirts were in trouble. They were only a few yards behind him, but in turning they had knocked down a man; a threatening mob surged round their car. The black-haired boy was being dragged off the back, the others were using their long heavy sticks freely upon their assailants.
Ann’s new-found friend was swept away from them in a sudden eddy of the crowd. A red, angry, drink-sodden face was thrust over the side of the car, its owner glared at Kenyon.
‘Bleedin’ torf,’ yelled a voice from the rear. ‘Look at ’im wiv ’is ruddy chorus girls.’
‘Chorus girls? Tarts, yer mean!’ screamed a shrill-voiced woman; ‘an’ honest people withart food in their stomachs—I’d learn ’em if I was a man!’
Kenyon glanced round desperately. How was he to get Ann and Veronica out of this? The crush was ten deep on every side. Above their heads he caught
a glimpse of the Greyshirts; the black-haired boy had been hauled back into their car, but blood was streaming from his face, his eyes were flashing, and his mouth drawn down into a cruel vindictive snarl. With sudden venom he jerked a gun from his hip-pocket, and blazed off with it into the crowd.
For a second there was absolute silence, then a howl of fury went up from the maddened mob. An irresistible wave like the surging of a stormy sea almost submerged the Greyshirts’ car. Kenyon caught a glimpse of Ann’s face, white now and terrified. Veronica sat, sneering almost, her eyes angry and flashing, but her hand trembled upon his knee—and he knew then that in the next few moments he must fight—fight for his life unless they were to be torn limb from limb and trampled under foot in the blind, vicious fury of a starvation-maddened mob.
9
‘Burn Them! Burn Them!’
‘Quick!’ cried Kenyon to the girls, ‘out you get—no good staying here!’
Veronica slipped on to the pavement and Ann after her. It was only a matter of seconds, but before Kenyon could join them a little rat of a man had snatched at Veronica’s necklace. It snapped, she grabbed at it, and the thread parted again, leaving a string of twenty knotted pearls between her fingers; someone jogged her elbow and they were jerked from her hand into the gutter. A wild scramble to secure the spoil ensued, and Kenyon seized the opportunity to hustle the girls nearer to the Greyshirts. They, too, had abandoned their car and were fighting—a small compact group—on the pavement ten yards away.
Howling obscenities, a lean hag seized Ann by the hair and tried to pull her down. Kenyon abandoned all ideas of chivalry and hit the woman a smashing blow in the face. Her grip relaxed and she sank from sight with a little moan. The crowd surged over her, trampling her down into the gutter.
Veronica was struggling desperately with a sinewy lascar. He had her round the body, but years of outdoor exercise had given her slim form far more strength than might have been supposed. She beat her small, clenched fists furiously against his face, and after a moment he staggered back, half-blinded by her blows.
Kenyon had turned to help her, but before he had a chance another woman had kicked him on the shin. Her boot was man’s size and the pain excruciating. A fellow wearing a red sweater rushed in and began to hammer him with his fists, but Kenyon had been a boxing blue. A left to the jaw and the red sweater disappeared from view.
A few yards away the lights of a cheap eating-house caught Kenyon’s eye. It was of the type usually run by Italians; polonies and tarts covered with coarse coco-nut decked the window beside a water-bottle with a lemon stuck in the top. If they could reach its shelter they would be safe for the moment. The Greyshirts evidently had the same idea; they were fighting their way towards it in wedge formation, the gigantic Mr. Silas Gonderport Harker at their head. Kenyon pushed Veronica in their direction and dragged Ann after him.
The lascar rushed in again, but Kenyon put out his foot and the man crashed to the ground; another dashed in—ducked as Kenyon lashed out—and grabbed him round the middle. They swayed together, locked in each other’s arms up and down the pavement. Kenyon gave his assailant a quick jab behind the ear, the man grunted and staggered back, but as Kenyon thrust his way towards the lighted window of the little restaurant, he suddenly missed Ann—she had disappeared.
A second later he saw her, still on her feet but out in the roadway, separated from him by half a dozen people. Her dress had been ripped away at the neck, showing the bare flesh of her shoulders, but she had snatched a short, thick umbrella from a woman in the crowd, and was beating wildly with it at the faces of the people who surrounded her. Kenyon dashed back into the road striking out right and left, irrespective as to whether his opponents were men or women, and the mob shrank away from the menace of his powerful blows. Ann had slipped to her knees by the time he reached her, but he used his long arms like flails and, clearing a space, lugged her to her feet again; yet it seemed that it could only be a matter of seconds before they were both dragged down, for his back was unprotected now and the mob closing in again, snarling and angry.
Suddenly there was a resounding crash. A group of people had fastened on Kenyon’s car with senseless fury, and tilting it, had thrown it over on its side. In the brief silence that followed Ann glanced wildly round. A mad animal blood-lust glared from the mean faces that ringed them in. Hundreds of cruel merciless eyes seemed to devour her in anticipation, and a multitude of clawlike hands reached out to rip her shrinking body, but momentarily they had drawn back, and Kenyon seized her by the waist, half carrying, half dragging her towards the lighted doorway.
They were nearly there. The Greyshirts were already clustered in the entrance, and the big American was thrusting Veronica behind him when a well aimed brick caught Kenyon on the head. He staggered and fell.
The mob rushed in again, but Ann stood over him. She remembered having heard somewhere that to lunge at people’s faces with the point of an umbrella was far more effective than to beat them about the head. As in some ghastly nightmare she prodded fiercely at the head of an aged crone who was bearing down on them. The point caught the beldame on the mouth, and her stream of hideous blasphemies ceased in a sudden whine. A chimney-sweep, his face still begrimed with soot, his red-rimmed eyes gruesome in the flickering light, dived at her from the other side; she jabbed at him and he clutched his eye with a scream of pain.
‘Well done, Ann—well done!’ It was Kenyon who had stumbled to his feet, blood streaming down his face, but grasping in his hand a short length of wood which he had found on the pavement. It was a Communist weapon and had two ugly nails driven through the heavy end.
He gripped Ann round the shoulders with his left arm and began to savage the people nearest to them with the bludgeon. A moment later they were hauled into the cook-shop by the Greyshirts.
Ann sank fainting and exhausted to the floor, but Kenyon picked her up and barged his way towards Veronica, who stood half-way up a narrow flight of stairs at the back of the restaurant. The whole place was a struggling mêlée of people. The Greyshirts were endeavouring to throw the customers and occupants out into the street.
Veronica pulled Ann beside her and Kenyon jumped back into the rough and tumble. It was short and sharp, only one big man who looked like a professional bruiser was giving serious trouble, but a china mug caught him on the side of the head, the Greyshirts closed in on him, and he was flung out in a heap on to the pavement.
A bottle filled with stones hurled through the window, shivering the glass in all directions, and a slab of stone came whizzing through the open door. It caught the foreign-looking youth who had started all the trouble on the foot, and flushing with pain and rage he whipped out his automatic again.
There was a sudden crash of shots as he poured its contents deliberately into the nearest of the crowd. The carnage at such short range was terrible, some of the bullets penetrating two or more people apiece in the close-packed mass. Kenyon saw them fall right and left, gripping their wounds, vomiting blood, and howling with agony while the unwounded turned on their companions, fighting desperately to get out of range of the murderous weapon.
A temporary lull ensued while the Greyshirts stood, gasping and panting, dabbing at their wounds and trying to staunch the flow of blood.
‘Don’t waste time!’ bawled Harker. ‘Get that door shut and make a barricade.’ He knew that they had only secured a most doubtful sanctuary. The mob still swayed—angry, threatening, dangerous—outside.
The door was slammed and a couple of marble-topped tables piled against it.
‘Let’s use the counter, that looks solid,’ suggested Kenyon.
‘Can’t,’ said the youth with the gun. ‘It’s nailed down.’
‘Oh, pull the damned thing up!’ Kenyon seized one end of it in his strong arms. The American grabbed the other end. ‘Come on now!—all together—heave!’
The counter came away with a loud splintering of wood. The coffee urn fell to the floor with a ringing thu
d. Plates, glasses and cakestand crashed and jangled. Pushing and panting they slewed the mighty piece of wood across the window and the door, pulled out the tables and piled them on the top, then the chairs and stools. In an incredibly short space of time they had formed a solid barricade which it would not be easy for the mob to force.
‘Wonder if there’s a back way out,’ gasped Kenyon to the American.
‘Good for you! I wish you’d look,’ was the terse reply.
Kenyon ran to the rear of the shop, through a door and into a small kitchen. One narrow window looked out on to a dark well, enclosed on three sides by sheer blank walls. No hope in that direction!
He dashed back and up the stairs to the first floor. In the front room overlooking the street he found Veronica quietly making up her face in the central mirror of an ornate overmantel, and Ann dialling away at a telephone.
‘What’s the idea?’ he asked.
‘Trying to get help, of course.’
‘No good, my dear. The Inspector told us that only official calls were allowed.’
‘Well,’ she protested, ‘the police are official aren’t they?’
‘Yes, but I shouldn’t think there’s a policeman within a hundred miles of here.’
‘Why not?’ asked Veronica, carefully darkening her eyelashes.
‘Because they have to concentrate in the West End; what good could they do scattered in twos and threes all over London at a time like this?’
‘How too shattering!’ Veronica inspected her handiwork with care.
‘Hadn’t you better cut that out?’ Kenyon suggested. ‘It only angers the crowd to see you painted up like Jezebel!’
‘Darling, I’m sorry, but if we’re going to meet God face to face in the next hour I must look decent. Besides it gives me moral support, like boiled shirts to Englishmen in the tropics. Tell me! If there is no chance of help what do we do now?’
‘Get out—if we possibly can. I’m trying to find a way now; if we can’t—God knows! Anyhow, keep away from that window both of you or they’ll start throwing things in here.’ Kenyon slammed the door behind him.
Black August Page 12