by Sam Bourne
He tried to be disciplined, even — when he got off at Bletchley and found a seat on a platform bench — pulling out a notebook and pen, writing out his thoughts methodically. But constantly his mind would wander back to the more important enigma. If his wife had left him because he had become impossible, why tell him she loved him, not once but twice? And if she did love him, why run away from him? The Crewe train arrived on time and he got on board. As it headed north past Rugby, he tortured himself that Florence and Harry had been kidnapped, taken hostage by some maniac. Had she smuggled out these postcards or perhaps written them under duress, the abnormal brevity of the message a kind of code for her situation? If so, how obtuse he had been not to have seen it earlier. Perhaps he was meant to realize that his wife would never sign off with a mere three-word farewell and that he had been a fool not to have read the signal.
But then he remembered the suitcase taken from under the bed, the clothes removed from the cupboard, even Snowy missing from under Harry’s covers. Also, when he had gone to look for cash, he had seen that some had been taken already. If all the money had been gone, that might have been further evidence of a kidnap, one compounded by theft. Taking just some, leaving the rest for him, suggested a degree of deliberation, surely impossible with a kidnapper’s knife at her throat. He shuddered at the thought, as if the movement might physically shake the image loose from his head. Instead he saw something worse: a blade pressing against little Harry’s skin. He coughed and opened his eyes wide, hoping the view of the busy platform opposite would expel the thought he had just conjured.
Harry. He had meant the name as a tribute to his dead friend, one of the most vital men he had ever known. It was not supposed to be a morbid gesture, quite the opposite. It was a way of keeping Harry Knox alive and in the present, rather than sentencing him to an eternity in some non-existent next world. He would be in the here and now, not the hereafter. James was not a religious man — he had emphatically rejected his parents’ creed by taking up arms in Spain — and if anyone had put the idea to him out loud he would have laughed it off as superstitious nonsense; but privately he had also hoped that his old comrade’s strength and energy might somehow be passed onto his son, via their shared name.
Yet now James was gripped by the fear that he might have placed on his son’s infant shoulders a curse, that it had been arrogant to name a little boy after a man who had died such a violent death — that he had offered the fates too great a temptation.
He trod over this same ground, forward and back, as he travelled north through Staffordshire and as he waited for a desperately frustrating two hours under leaden skies at Crewe, midday turning to afternoon and then evening. And throughout, even when he was trying to sift through the possibilities with all the logical power a first class degree in philosophy had given him, a larger subject lurked, like a vast, grey whale shifting through the water. It had been there all this time, only occasionally breaking the surface. When it showed itself, it was as a question: had Rosemary Hyde, describing a violent, dangerous man possessed by demons, spoken the truth?
His brain had been scrambled just as surely as those poor boys back from Ypres and the Somme mentioned in the journal article Florence had been reading in the Bodleian. He had spent only a short time in the trenches on Madrid’s north-western outskirts, but he had seen his best friend’s head explode like a watermelon smashed by cricket bat.
He had always believed he had coped admirably. He had never blubbed for Harry; he had followed the doctors’ instructions for the rehabilitation of his shattered shoulder. He had been a faithful husband and, barely two months after he was shot, a devoted father. Yes, he had usually been furious when he woke up and furious when he went to bed, raging against an injury that had prevented him avenging Harry’s murder. It had thwarted him first by forcing him out of the Spanish Civil War, sending him back to England the instant he was discharged from hospital. And it had thwarted him a second time when he was branded unfit to join the battle against Hitler and the Axis powers. What man would not be boiling with rage? But he had kept it to himself and got on with his work, hadn’t he? Why had that not been good enough?
And finally, in the fading summer light, the train crept into Liverpool, wheezing its last gasps as it stuttered to a halt. James edged his way through the soldiers on board, some looking weary from war, others nervous at returning to it. He ignored the tut-tutting at a civilian failing to defer to men in uniform. But there was not a moment to waste. The instant his feet touched the platform, every step he took thereafter would take him closer to Florence and Harry. And he had so little time.
Chapter Nine
Perhaps it was because of the dark, with the station lights dimmed in deference to the blackout, but this city looked grimier than almost any he had seen, the sides of every building stained with soot. The trams were dusky with dirt and so, it seemed to him, were the faces of the people, or at least those hanging around the railway station at this late hour.
He hurried past them all, determined to reach the docks. He knew it was unlikely that any ferries would be sailing so late, but it was wartime: none of the usual rules seemed to apply. Perhaps Harry and Florence had been booked on an afternoon crossing and it had been delayed. He did not care so long as he got there in time.
He turned down Hanover Street and onto Liver Street, fairly marching down the pavement. With his head down, and in the dark, he saw the policeman standing by a doorway only after he had barged into him. It was James’s left shoulder that had caught the man and the impact sent a rocket of pain shooting down his arm.
‘Watch yourself, lad,’ the special said, brushing the sleeve of his uniform to signal that he had been struck, his torch throwing jagged shadows with each movement.
‘Sorry about that,’ James replied, resuming his near-run. He had gone no more than two paces when the policeman took hold of him. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry? Don’t answer. I want to deal with this so-and-so first.’
James sighed and waited, a picture of impatience, as the constable aimed his torch at the door to the shop. A blind was covering it, save for a gap cut into the middle to reveal the single word ‘open’. The word was picked out by a blued lamp just behind, which revealed that this was not a shop but a cafe. Standing to one side was a man who had remained hidden until now; James guessed he was the proprietor. Suddenly all three of them were in pitch darkness, as the policeman switched off his flashlight.
‘See,’ he said in an accent thick with the Mersey. ‘It’s too bright, in’t it? You’re showing too much light.’
‘Yes, yes. I’m a-sorry. I thought it not so bright.’
‘Are you Italian or what?’
‘I live here thirty-five years, constable.’
‘Yeah, but it’s different now, in’t it? Let’s have a look at your documents and that.’
James closed his eyes in despair. ‘Officer, I really do have to be going. My-’
The policeman turned round, shining the beam directly into his face. ‘I told you. I’ll get to you when I’m good and ready.’
‘It’s just that my wife and child may be leaving on a ferry to Ireland any moment now. I need to-’
‘Ireland, eh? We got all sorts here, in’t we?’
‘Please, officer. I need to get there as soon as I can. I’m sorry I bumped into you.’
The special looked him up and down, taking in the flannels and satchel, then shining the torch back at the proprietor. ‘All right,’ he said to James eventually. ‘Scarper.’
James all but ran now, trying to shake off the after-image of the torch beam that still lingered. Soon he was enveloped in complete darkness. He could see no movement ahead of him or behind. The only sound came from his own feet, and he could barely even see them. Then, passing a row of steel-shuttered shops, there was a glint of light — the beam of a human eye — accompanied a second later by a voice. ‘How are you, darling? Don’t you think I look like Betty Grable?’
To his left in a shop doorway was the painted face of a woman in a low-cut dress. ‘Just two bob and I’ll make you happy, you’ll see.’ As she smiled, James saw the missing teeth and deep lines that suggested she was old enough to be his mother.
That was one of the unforeseen consequences of the blackout, an epidemic of prostitution. The dark offered anonymity to women who would never have considered such a thing before. Wives whose husbands were at war, who needed to make a few extra shillings, could offer themselves from the shadows, knowing their secret would remain hidden. Shame, it seemed, could not flourish in the pitch black. Oxford had not been immune from this new outbreak. The proctors had warned the undergraduates that they would be expected to maintain the highest moral standards, no matter what offers came their way from the darkness of Holywell Street.
Eventually he reached the port, the thin crescent moon leaking speckles of light onto the water. The harbour was packed, with both troop ships and container vessels bringing supplies from across the Atlantic. But the dockside was silent: no one was around. What he took to be the harbourmaster’s office was bolted and padlocked. He was too late.
He had played out the scene in his mind so fully that the realization that it was a delusion came as a shock. There would be no last-minute boarding of a ferry about to set sail for Ireland, no sprint up the gangplank, no cry of joyous surprise from Harry.
He checked his watch: it was past eleven. Life on the sea probably began at dawn; this place would be awake in just a few hours. In the meantime, he would get some sleep. No point finding a room. He would bed down here, in the port, so that he would hear the first stirrings of activity in the morning.
In the gloom he saw what looked to be an unloading area, under a wooden roof. He was walking towards it when he saw the briefest glimpse of light, in front of him and at waist level. A reflex, learned not instinctive, told him it was a knife and he looked up to see the hooded, sad eyes of the man holding it. The man said nothing but his eyes angled pointedly towards the satchel over James’s shoulder, the whites illuminated in the darkness.
In Spain he had been trained to know that if you needed to disable a man’s arm, you stepped forward and isolated it from the shoulder. Apply pressure in the armpit and the blade will eventually drop, Jorge had said and, James discovered now, Jorge was right. But it was not the training that told him to twist the man’s arm behind his back until he was screaming in pain. Nor was it the training that forced the man to his knees and began to kick him hard in his guts repeatedly, with a final precise blow to the chin, leaving him moaning and writhing on the ground.
As he walked away, James felt his system flood with a mixture of relief, adrenalin and swaggering pride. What do you say about that, eh, men of the Medical Examination Board? Not bad for a D1. Too unfit to fight? If I can do that with my bare hands, imagine what I could do with a gun.
But soon the bounce went out of his step. He had none of the soldier’s discipline. He was out of control, in the grip of furies he barely understood. What he had done just now was the behaviour of a brute. He appalled himself.
He had been walking in circles, ending up almost where he had started, close to the harbourmaster’s office. He would not bother with — he thought he barely deserved — a shelter. Instead he found a spot between two crates, retrieved a pullover from his bag, put it on and used the satchel as a pillow as he curled into the narrow space. But sleep would not come. He was picturing the man he had beaten so hard, he had left him lying semi-conscious on the ground.
Finally, James dug into his pocket to look again at the postcard. He wanted to think about something else, but also to reassure himself that the card was real, that he had not imagined it, that his wife had been here, in Liverpool, the previous day. The sight of those three words, inked in that curved, gorgeous script of hers — amused, amusing, confident, flirtatious, just like her — warmed him: I love you. And somehow, in the cold of the night, alone in an empty dockyard, surrounded by the stench of oil, grease and working ships, and lying on hard, rough ground, he fell into deep, exhausted sleep.
‘Oi. Up. Let’s be having you.’
He opened his eyes, trying to make sense of the confusion of sudden consciousness.
‘I said up. Now.’
‘Where am I?’
‘ Now.’
In a rush of memory, it came back to him: where he was, why he was here and how he needed to behave. He leapt to his feet, the action of a man embarrassed to have been caught asleep, straightened his jacket, swept a long forelock of hair out of his eyes and attempted a charming smile. But the clerk in front of him — peaked cap, officious expression and in late middle age — was not in a mood to be charmed. ‘Harbourmaster’s office, now.’
James was about to protest but, after a second’s delay, realized there was no need. With luck, he would be taken exactly where he needed to go.
Within a few minutes he was standing before a desk, the walls around him covered in nautical charts, lists and timetables. It reminded him of nothing so much as his multiple childhood appearances in the headmaster’s study. The clerk at his side was explaining to the bespectacled man in a three-piece suit, whom he took to be the harbourmaster, where ‘this gentleman’ had been found and asking whether the police should be summoned. James decided it was time to play the class card.
‘My name is Dr James Zennor of the University of Oxford. You can verify that by contacting the Vice Chancellor, Professor George Stuart Gordon, or the master of my college, Professor Bernard Grey.’ He hesitated, reluctant to mention his subject: he had learned that the less educated sometimes baulked at the mere mention of ‘psychology’, suspecting that only those a bit funny in the head would dabble in such matters. ‘My wife is Florence Walsingham, daughter of Sir George and Lady Walsingham, and I believe she may have set sail from this port in the last day or two. A ferry for Ireland seems most likely. I would like to check the manifests for all the passenger vessels that have left Liverpool in the last two days.’ He paused. ‘Please.’
The harbourmaster produced a pipe and set about the business of stuffing it, tamping it and lighting it — happy for the task to take as much time as it needed if not a little longer. He then used the end of the process to gesture the clerk towards the door, leaving him to size up the newcomer on his own.
Finally, he spoke. ‘Zennor, you say.’ He sucked the pipe, turning the compacted weed bright orange. The sudden smoke, fragrant, wooded and warm, transported James in an instant back to his childhood, to the parlour of that small house in Bournemouth, his father puffing on his pipe as he worked his way through a pile of small, neatly-lined children’s exercise books. That triggered another memory: his father’s face the first time they saw each other after James’s return from Spain. His expression had been pained, though whether by the anguish of seeing his son so badly wounded or the hurt that James had rejected his parents’ most sacred creed by fighting at all, James never knew.
Another suck on the pipe. ‘ Zennor.’ The accent was Scottish. ‘Is that foreign?’
‘Cornish, actually.’
‘Not German, then?’
‘No.’
‘Because we’re on the look-out for enemy aliens, you know. There’s a camp not far from here. Huyton. You sure you didn’t escape from there?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘Not planning to stow away? It’s just I don’t really see an Oxford man — a professor, if you please — kipping like a dosser out here on the docks. Doesn’t quite add up.’
‘I didn’t say I was a professor. I’m Dr James Zennor, in the Department of Experimental Psychology of Oxford University.’ Damn.
‘Psychology, you say. Isn’t that a bit German?’
‘Look, I’m not bloody German. Here’s my passport.’
Another suck on the pipe, then an adjustment of the spectacles as the harbourmaster turned the pages, studying each one carefully. ‘I see you spent a lot of time in Spain, Dr Zennor.’
&nb
sp; ‘I fought with the International Brigades. Against the Fascists. I was wounded.’ James nodded toward his shoulder: ‘That’s the only reason I’m not in the army now.’
The harbourmaster sat back in his chair and relit his pipe. The passport remained on his desk. ‘What do you know of the Arandora Star, Dr-’ he looked again at the document before giving an exaggerated pronunciation of the last name, as if determined to make it sound like that of a Viennese shrink, ‘ Zennor.’
James’s mind whirred. Arandora Star. Almost certainly a ship. Could that be the ship Florence and Harry were on? Did this man know something? Would it be better for James to appear ignorant or informed? With no better plan, he opted to tell the truth: ‘It sounds like a ship, but I’ve never heard of it.’
‘You sure of that, Doctor?’
‘I’m sure. Do you have reason to believe my wife and son might be on that ship, Mr-’
‘It’s Harbourmaster Hunter and no, I don’t. That ship sailed from here just over a week ago. Mostly krauts and wops on board. Internees. You sure you don’t know about it?’
‘For heaven’s sake, I’ve told-’
‘Because that ship was hit by a German torpedo and sunk, Dr Zennor. Loss of more than eight hundred lives.’
‘Good God.’
‘It’s not been in the papers, not yet anyway. But I should expect word has reached Huyton. The camp, I mean. Relatives and what have you. There’ll be a lot of angry people, I expect. Well, I don’t need to tell you, you’re the psychology expert.’ His tone was softening, but his eye remained sceptical.
‘Oh, I see,’ said James, with a bitter smile. ‘You think the “krauts and wops” might be planning some kind of revenge. You think I’m a saboteur who came here to plant a bomb!’
‘There’s nothing funny about it, Dr Zennor. It does happen, you know. And after Arandora Star, the police have told us to be especially vigilant. And there you are, sleeping rough on the dockside. Now why would a gentleman like you do that? Doesn’t make sense. Put yourself in my shoes.’