by Tom Hourie
I had been waiting alone for about ten minutes when the door opened and a man carrying a large tripod-mounted camera entered. He positioned his apparatus at the other side of the room with its bellows-mounted lens pointing towards me. After making some final adjustments he asked me to ‘look this way please.’ There was an acrid burning smell followed by a flash of light that left me momentarily blinded. The man was gone by the time my sight had returned.
A few minutes later the door re-opened to admit a thin-lipped man whose bloodless, clean-shaven face was framed by bushy, ginger-colored sideburns.
“I am Mister Fox,” he said, “and you will now tell me everything you know about the British League of Fascists.”
“The what?”
“Don’t play the fool with me, my American friend. The British League of Fascists,” Fox said.
“Just the graffiti I’ve seen on the walls.”
“What is graffiti?”
I began to explain the history of street art starting with the Lascaux cave paintings, but he cut me short and started on a new tangent. “Tell me what connection you share with the man Schrödinger,” he said.
“If you mean the guy from the shop, I don’t know anything about him.”
Fox seemed dissatisfied with my answer and opened the door to admit my paddy wagon friend who had discarded his bowler hat to reveal an almost-bald scalp embroidered with a fine tracery of old scars. “Perhaps some time with Mister Flowers will refresh your memory,” Fox said, leaving the room.
‘Some time with Mister Flowers’ turned out to be the equivalent of a couple of rounds in the UFC Octagon. By the time he was finished, everything between my neck and my ankles was throbbing. I don’t know why he spared my face. Wanted to leave me able to talk would be my guess.
Fox reappeared and renewed his interrogation, pausing from time to time to dab at his face with a monogrammed handkerchief. His enquiries were fruitless since I had nothing to tell him and after a while he seemed to lose interest. Finally, he reached into a nearby filing cabinet and retrieved two documents which he handed to me. One was a hard bound book labeled United States of America Passport, the other was a one-way ticket on something called the USS Pride of Norfolk.
“Mister Liddel, you have greatly inconvenienced Her Majesty’s Intelligence Service, and your presence in this country is no longer welcome,” Fox said. “The Pride of Norfolk debarks at six this evening. You will be on it.”
“Do I at least get a ride to the boat?”
“Her Majesty’s government is not in the carriage for hire business, old boy. You have three hours, more than enough time to walk to the American docks. Mister Flowers will show you to the door.”
Chapter XII:
Shank’s Pony – A Welcome Offer – The Pride of Norfolk
Once outside, I found myself on a busy street facing the Thames. That was the good news; all I had to do was follow the water and I would come to the docks eventually. The bad news was that it was getting near lunch time and I was hungry. I considered stealing an apple from one of the many costermongers along the embankment, but the bowler-hatted Mister Flowers was still shadowing me and the last thing I wanted was a rematch with him.
In any case, it was a beautiful day and I was almost enjoying myself as I made my way toward the docks. The air was clear for once, and I could see Tower Bridge in the distance. The slow-moving river was crowded with everything from rowboats to paddle-wheeled steamers whose splashing formed a kind of counterpoint to the overhead screech of seagulls.
I had been walking for about ten minutes when I became aware of a chuffing sound behind me. I turned to see a steam-powered three-wheeled cab driven by a sallow-faced man in a flat cap.
“Wherever can you be going,” a voice asked from the vehicle’s passenger seat. I recognized my reluctant hostess, Sarah St. John. “You had better get in,” she said, after I had explained my predicament. “You say this man’s name was Fox?” she continued, once we were underway. “You didn’t perhaps learn his first name? Was it Alistair?”
“Now that you mention it, his handkerchief was monogrammed with the letter A.”
“Whatever can the fool be playing at?” Sarah said, as much to herself as to me.
It didn’t take us long to get to the docks, twenty-five minutes at most, but we had to wait almost a half hour to get through the gates where helmeted policeman had set up temporary barriers and were questioning everyone who entered. A group of sullen looking men in cloth caps watched the proceedings from the opposite side of the road and they in turn were being watched by mounted policemen. At one point, a khaki-colored armored car came clanking down the street, its riveted machine gun turret traversing from left to right as though looking for likely targets.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“It’s the dockworkers,” Sarah St. John said. “They’ve been threatening to strike. It’s so very tiresome.”
We were greeted by a scene of near chaos once we got inside. Not one, but two American ships had just arrived and the quay was a scene of antlike turmoil. Sweating porters jostled and argued about who would be first in the customs line. Well-fed men in top hats helped women in furs down the gangplank while keeping watch for pickpockets.
“Of course I do not have more than half a pint of spirits,” protested a Wagnerian matron at a customs table.
“Perfumes are spirits, madam,” said the mustachioed customs officer. “You would appear to have a full pint here.”
“What rot! I can assure you I have no intention of drinking it.”
The Pride of Norfolk turned out to be square-rigged steam clipper flying a flag with red and white stripes were surmounted by a coiled rattlesnake underscored with the words ‘don’t tread on me.’
I climbed down from the cabriolet and was about to offer my hand to Sarah St. John but the exasperated look on her face changed my mind. “Here,” she said, reaching for her purse. “You’d better have some money. You cannot possibly cross the sea without funds.”
I showed my ticket to a merchant seaman standing on the dock and a moment later I was walking up the canvas covered planks of the ship’s gangway.
Chapter XIII:
A Free Newspaper – A Warning – A Skeptical Reception
“It will be a while before we get underway sir,” the steward said, after he had shown me to my cabin. “Perhaps you would care for something to read? The Evening Herald perhaps?”
“But it isn’t evening yet.”
“The Herald is kind enough to make copies available to us on condition that none leave the ship.” He showed no outward disappointment when I apologized for being unable to tip him, contenting himself with “a good day to you sir,” uttered through pursed lips.
The cabin was small, little more than a washroom with an attached bunk, but how much space did I need? I wasn’t like I was overburdened with luggage.
The day was less than half over and I already felt worn out. I sat down and tried to collect my thoughts. Now what? I was going back to America, but what kind of America? What if they still had prohibition or maybe Hulk Hogan was President?
More to the point, the farther I got from this bizarro version of England, the less my chances of ever finding my way home. Did that even matter? Let’s be honest, it wasn’t as though my life at USW was all that great. But then whose fault was that? Mine. I resolved that things were going to change if I did ever get back to my ‘real’ life. No more eating shit from Ross Percival, no more getting jerked around by Hope Buchan. The world would see a decisive Bob Liddel, a disciplined Bob Liddel, a dynamic Bob Liddel.
I needed a break from this alliterative overload so I spread the newspaper on the bed beside me. The main article was about government attempts to prevent a strike by coal miners. Wasn’t that one of the crises during the Thatcher regime? Plus ça change.
And then my eye fell on a headline in the lower right hand corner that read “Peer’s daughter alleged to be fascist Sympathizer.” The accom
panying story stated that Sarah St. John was believed to be an associate of Dr. Franz Schrödinger, a known Fascist agent. As a result her father, Lord Newford, had been forced to step down from his Home Office position in favor of his second in command, Alistair Fox, pending the result of government enquiries.
My first instinct was to leave Sarah to her fate. She hadn’t exactly thrown out the welcome mat for me, had she? On the other hand, I didn’t like the idea of leaving her at the mercy of Alistair Fox and his henchman Flowers. Finally, I got up and went to the door. What the hell? If I really was lying comatose back in the ‘real’ world I might as well have some laughs while I waited to wake up.
The first thing I saw when I left the cabin was the steward talking to someone at the base of the companionway leading to the deck. As I got closer, I could see my nemesis Mr. Flowers pressing a gold coin into the steward’s hand. There was something furtive about the way the steward pocketed the coin that made me glad I hadn’t tipped him.
Fortunately, neither person appeared to have seen me so I took a side turning and followed a porter pushing a wooden trolley loaded with soiled bedding. We ended up at the ship’s laundry where the porter looked at me curiously before emptying his cart and going back for another load. I stepped through the laundry door as soon as he had gone and found myself in a small, windowless space whose low ceilings were made even more claustrophobic by a hissing network of overhead pipes. The place was unoccupied so I walked quickly past steaming cauldrons of wet linen and wood-framed mangle irons to a small door at the far end of the room which opened to another companionway. I soon found myself on the ship’s rear deck where a turbaned lascar was coiling a thick hemp rope around a steel bollard. Ignoring his protests, I ran down the gangway to the quay.
By now most of the passengers had cleared customs and a long column of vehicles snaked toward the exit gates. I could just make out Sarah’s carriage near the head of the queue.
I ran forward and nearly caught up but her driver suddenly turned his cabriolet onto the main thoroughfare ahead of a red, steam-powered omnibus. I hopped onto the rear platform of the bus and clung to its brass handrail until a stout conductress told me to either “pay up or get the blazes off.”
Fortunately, Sarah’s vehicle had stopped at the next intersection and I was able to grab its door handle and pull myself onto the footplate.
Sarah’s look was less than welcoming when I squeezed in beside her, red-faced and panting. “Must you continue to torment me like a mythological harpy?” she asked.
I explained about the article in the Evening Herald but she was skeptical. I could sense her doubts hardening into outright disbelief when I confessed that I had forgotten the newspaper back in my cabin.
“I have no doubt your tale is a complete fabrication,” she said, when I had finished. “In any case, I was present at Schrödinger’s squalid shop only because my father had asked me to act as his unofficial representative and monitor the comings and goings there. Driver,” she called out the window. “Please take us to the Home Office.”
Chapter XIV:
Legal Proceedings – Clapped in Irons
“If, as you say, you were acting on behalf of Her Majesty’s Intelligence Services all charges will, of course, be dropped Lady Sarah,” said the bewigged judge from behind the elevated bench. “Whether or not that was indeed the case should not be difficult to ascertain. Do you plan to enlighten us on this matter Mister Caxton?”
“Indeed I do My Lord,” said another bewigged man in a black robe. “The Crown wishes to call Mister Alistair Fox as a witness.”
“Why are they calling Fox?” whispered Sarah to the solicitor Cruikshank seated across from us at the table. “It was my father who asked me to spy on Schrödinger.”
“Mister Fox is the senior representative of HMIS while your father is on administrative leave,” Cruikshank said. “In any case, any comment you father might make would be suspect owing to your relationship.”
It was the day after my ill-advised attempt at saving Lady Sarah’s aristocratic butt and a night in Her Majesty’s holding cells had caused me to forswear any further attempts at gallantry. I was sore, unshaven and tired.
Sarah, on the other hand, looked like she had come from a day at the spa. She had somehow managed to acquire a change of clothing and her hair was done up in a modest bun. Her whole demeanor was that of someone faced with a minor inconvenience, but her attitude was about to change.
Alistair Fox’s face was even more pallid than I remembered as I watched the crown attorney lead him through the specifics of his authority to speak on behalf of Her Majesty’s Intelligence Service. With these formalities out of the way, the black-robed prosecutor got down to business.
“Mister Fox, was Her Majesty’s Intelligence Service concerned about a business known as Schrödinger’s Esoterica?”
“Yes it was.”
“And what was the nature of that concern?”
“The establishment was suspected of being the headquarters of a clandestine organization known as the British League of Fascists.”
“An organization known to be hostile to Her Majesty’s Government?”
“Yes.”
“I must object, your Lordship,” Cruikshank said, rising from the table. “The British League of Fascists is not on trial in this courtroom. Its objectives are of no concern here.”
“I will re-phrase my question,” the crown prosecutor said, nodding toward him. “Mister Fox, was Her Majesty’s Intelligence Service conducting a surveillance of the establishment known as Schrödinger’s Esoterica?”
“Yes it was.”
“And who was in charge of that surveillance?”
“A senior employee of Her Majesty’s Intelligence Service named Arthur Flowers.”
“To your knowledge, was Sarah St. John ever asked to take part in the surveillance in any capacity, official or otherwise?”
“No, I am certain she was not.”
So that was that. Sarah and I were held over for trial at a date to be set later. Sarah was fit to be tied and I am not being metaphorical. A corpulent bailiff had insisted on handcuffing us together before letting us speak with Cruikshank in the corridor outside the courtroom.
“For god’s sake, do something,” Sarah hissed at Cruikshank as soon as were alone.
“Lady Sarah, I am but a humble solicitor. I have no magical powers,” Cruickshank said.
For the first time, Sarah seemed to lose her composure. Ever the lady, she did not resort to coarse language but made her displeasure felt nonetheless. I was momentarily distracted from her entertaining tirade when a young couple asked me to move so they could pass through a frosted-glass paneled door behind me. When I returned to the action Sarah was threatening the hapless Cruickshank with everything from disbarment to disembowelment.
“The best we can do at this point is to apply for an early trial date in order to minimize your period of incarceration,” Cruickshank said soothingly. He seemed about to continue when his attention caught by a balding man in a black pinstriped suit who was gesturing to him from the other end of the corridor. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” he said. “I need a very quick word with that gentleman over there.” He walked quickly away leaving us momentarily alone.
“Throw your cloak over these handcuffs and follow me,” I said to Sarah.
“Whatever can you be talking about?”
“Oh for God’s sake! For once in your life stop being Miss Bossy Boots and just go with the flow,” I said, dragging her through the glass-paneled door.
Chapter XV:
A Nervous Couple - Filling Forms – Five Pounds
We found ourselves in a non-descript room furnished with a hard-backed bench on which the two people I had seen earlier were carrying on a whispered conversation.
“We don’t have no choice,” the young man said, reaching down to retie one of his black, lace-up boots.
“But what if my da won’t let us stay on?” the girl said.
“Where will we go?”
Their conversation was interrupted when a gray-faced man in an equally gray waistcoat positioned himself at a marble-topped counter at the rear of the room and asked “Who is next?”
“You lot go on ahead,” said the young man looking up from his boot.
“Come on,” I muttered to Sarah. “The last thing we want is a scene.”
We approached the counter on which the gray man had placed two black government-issue fountain pens along with two sheets of paper headed ‘Personal Particulars,’ one for each of us.
“What is this?” whispered Sarah, looking at her form.
“Who cares?” I hissed back. “Just fill it in.”
We completed the documents which asked all the usual questions about date of birth, address and so forth, along with some less-than-usual ones such as hereditary diseases and history of insanity. Sarah had the easier time of it since her right hand was free. I had to curl my left hand around the form and work upward from the bottom so as not to smudge the ink.
The gray man took the forms away when we were finished and vanished into an office cubicle from which we soon heard the distinctive ‘clack clack’ of a manual typewriter.
“That will be five pounds,” the man said, when he reappeared.