by C. J. Sansom
‘Shut up, you silly bastard! There’s nothing in the food! If you don’t want your dinner, you can damn well do without. Come on, back to the ward.’ The attendant hauled the man away, who was wailing like a child now.
Frank sat opposite Patrick, a fat little man in his thirties with a dirty black beard. He was one of those who hardly spoke, spending most of his time in the day room staring at the television. The senior attendant said Grace, gabbling quick thanks to God for the food He had provided. It was one of the hospital rules. The patients picked up their knives and forks; the knife blades were kept so blunt, and the forks had such short tines, that Frank had found them hard to use at first. He forced himself to pick at the watery mess on his plate. He thought, surely David couldn’t be working with the Germans. But he was a civil servant, he worked for the government.
‘People are getting the wind up,’ Patrick said suddenly. ‘This new Act of Parliament.’
Frank looked at him in surprise. Patrick’s eyes were clear and alert. It sometimes happened like that, someone who spent weeks shuffling around in silence would suddenly say something sensible and you realized there was a real person hidden in there.
‘Poor old Jack,’ Patrick continued. ‘He’s got the wind up about the sterilizations. Got put in here when he was seventeen for fiddling about with his sister. Did you know that?’
‘No. He’s been here ever since?’
‘Oh yes.’ And then Patrick abruptly seemed to lose interest, bending to chase a piece of rubbery liver about his plate.
Frank overheard some other patients talking about the Jews being deported from the cities. Apparently there was going to be some announcement on the television and afterwards they went to watch Mosley’s broadcast in the day room. The Fascist leader’s calm explanation of the latest and worst thing they had done only intensified Frank’s growing sense of fear. Afterwards people sat talking listlessly about the deportations, some saying it was overdue, others that it was cruel, many not seeming really to register it. Frank crept back to the quiet room. He paced up and down. He felt worse than ever, as though ants were crawling over his skin. He thought of taking his pill after all but he didn’t. He had to be able to think. He breathed fast, on the edge of panic, his mind whirling. Was that policeman a German? Were he and Ben and David in league? If so, what were they planning to do?
That night, on the ward, he was, like all the patients, given the usual double dose of Largactil to get him to sleep. Nonetheless he woke up in the small hours: sleeping patients all around him, the night attendant reading at his lamplit desk. Frank thought again of suicide. If he was dead there was no way for his secret to come out, he would not be responsible for the terrible things that might follow. He thought, I’d have defeated them, all this pain and fear will be over, I’ve no future anyway apart from existing in a place like this. And if the Germans got hold of me . . .
Another day began: getting out of bed, dressing, being taken to breakfast. Sam was on duty again. After breakfast the patients went back to the day room for their pills. Frank took his from Sam and again only pretended to swallow them. Sam said to him, ‘Dr Wilson wants to see you at ten, Muncaster. You’re to stay on the ward.’
In his panic Frank nearly swallowed the pill. He managed to mumble, ‘What about?’
‘Don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.’
The patients clustered round the television in the day room; there was a keep-fit programme on at nine, people in the world outside were crazy about keep-fit these days. Frank had heard the patients talking about it in anticipation; there had been a preview, it was about the Butlins holiday camps’ exercise classes, there would be half-bare women stretching and bending. The men, many of whom had barely seen a woman in years, smiled with anticipation as they sat down.
Frank went back into the quiet room. He pushed the door almost shut. The weather was foggy again, only grey misty shapes visible outside the windows. What did Wilson want? Was it to begin the electric shocks? Was it to tell him the police would be taking him away? He stood looking at the big picture on the opposite wall, ‘The Stag at Bay’. Out of desperation an idea came to him. With trembling steps he walked over to it. It was very heavy and with the limited power in his right hand it was difficult to unhook the picture, even standing on a hard chair which he dragged across, but he managed it. His arms trembling with the effort, he carefully lowered it to the floor. He was bathed in sweat. He glanced nervously at the door to the day room, heard a cheerful female announcer’s voice from the television. He saw that behind the picture, driven deep into the brickwork, was a large metal hook.
Frank stared at it. Again he thought, I don’t want to die. But he wouldn’t be doing it for himself, it would be to make sure he took his terrible secret with him. He reached up and grasped the hook with both hands, letting his full weight rest on it. It didn’t move. He walked away, looked out of the window again. He took long, deep breaths, wondering once more if he could have been mistaken about yesterday’s events. He thought, David and Geoff never liked the Nazis any more than I did. But he hadn’t seen David for over ten years. In that time everything had changed. He thought, they and the policemen could be working together, trying to grind him down. And if they put real pressure on him he knew he would crack. He thought of the things they said the Germans did to make people talk. He squeezed his eyes shut. He thought suddenly of his father, his death in action. If he did this it would be a heroic act like his. Outside, he heard ribald laughter. He walked back to the hook. Blood thundered in his ears. There wasn’t much time before they came and took him to Dr Wilson. Quickly he took off his jacket, then his crumpled shirt. He wound the shirt into a long strip of thick cloth. It was difficult but he made a clumsy noose. He stood on the chair in his vest and tied one end of the shirt tightly around the hook. He was completely determined now, like a soldier going over the top in the trenches. He stood on the chair and put the home-made noose round his neck. He bent his legs so it drew tight, taking all his weight. It held. Then he jumped.
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE FOLLOWING DAY DAVID LEFT for work as usual. The weather was still cold, the sky a leaden grey; fog was forecast for later. It felt strange, after all that had happened since Friday, to be walking to the station, catching the Monday morning tube with the other commuters.
On Sunday night, after the broadcast about the Jews, David and Sarah had sat in the lounge in dismal, heavy silence. Sarah had had an urge to telephone Mrs Templeman’s husband, but knew she mustn’t – she wasn’t even supposed to know her friend was dead. They both started when the telephone rang; it was Irene again, phoning to ask how Uncle Ted was and asking about family arrangements for Christmas. Sarah sat on the hard chair by the telephone table, looking exhausted by the effort of trying to sound normal, lighting one cigarette from the butt of another. They had both been smoking like chimneys since the broadcast; the air reeked. From her end of the conversation David gathered Irene had started talking about the Jews. Sarah began to sound impatient. ‘How can you possibly say they’ll be kept comfortable – hauled out of their homes and marched off under guard, they’ll be terrified . . .’ Eventually Sarah said wearily, ‘I don’t think there’s any point discussing it further, Irene.’ She banged the receiver back on the hook. ‘If she wants reassurance over that one, she’s come to the wrong bloody shop!’
‘Careful what you say. Remember Steve’s Blackshirt chums.’
‘Oh, to hell with the lot of them,’ she snapped. In a way David was glad she had become angry; her strength of character was reasserting itself even if she obviously thought he was being cold, overcautious. She came over to the settee again and they both sat staring at the blank television screen, chain-smoking, fearing the telephone ringing again, or worse, a knock at the door.
Next day they were both red-eyed from sleeplessness, but they got up wearily and started the morning routine as usual. Over breakfast David asked Sarah if she was all right to be left alone. She was in
her dressing gown, pale and washed-out.
‘I’m supposed to phone round the toyshops this morning. I’ll find an excuse to phone Friends House as well, see if anything’s being said about poor Jane.’
‘Watch what you say.’
‘Of course I will.’
‘I’ll phone you from a call-box at lunchtime, see how you are.’
‘Why can’t you ring from the office?’
‘I’m just being careful.’
‘If you use that word again, I’ll scream.’
Travelling in on the crowded tube, strap-hanging, the previous day’s events kept crowding into David’s mind. Natalia had guessed his secret, the only person who ever had. She had said she wouldn’t tell anyone but her loyalties were to the Resistance, not him. And what would happen now with Frank? And Sarah, he was placing her in more and more danger.
People were reading the newspapers with unusual concentration. An elderly couple was talking in fierce undertones as they read. ‘Bastards. It’s wicked, evil. Makes you ashamed to be British.’ They didn’t seem to care about being overheard. One or two people frowned at them, but most buried themselves deeper in their papers. The train went into a tunnel and David caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. He looked ravaged, exhausted. He must try and pull himself together.
For the first time, entering the Office, he didn’t feel it was a place of refuge. He had known for years that the service supported an evil government, had been irreparably contaminated by it, but it was the first time he had actually felt it, deep in his bones.
In the lift two of his colleagues were discussing the effect the deportations would have on Dominion relations in the cool, detached Civil Service way, as though it were a more abstract problem.
‘Of course our counter-argument will be that they’ve all closed doors to further Jewish immigration themselves, apart from New Zealand. They feel they’ve taken enough.’
‘Yes. The pot calling the kettle black argument.’
‘Quite.’
‘They may raise the Palestine option again.’
‘Not going to happen, old boy. There’s just too many imponderables.’
‘Did you see there’s a new Resistance leaflet?’
‘No.’
‘Someone had scattered them on the floor of the tube on my line. Usual Churchill stuff – destroying our liberties, dividing the British people, who will be next? Plastered with “V”s and “R”s. I thought, can you call the Jews British people?’
‘Well indeed? There you do have an interesting question of definition.’
‘I suppose there’ll be more strikes and riots with this one.’
‘It just gets worse all the time. I know Mosley wants reprisals, taking captured Resistance people’s families hostage, shooting one for every soldier and policeman killed.’
‘The German way, eh? That’s going a bit far.’
‘Perhaps.’
David stared fixedly ahead as the lift clanked upwards. He wanted to punch them, break their faces.
That morning it was hard to concentrate; fortunately there was only routine deskwork to attend to. He thought of Natalia, her almond-shaped eyes looking at him from the car. You should tell them.
Outside, fog settled slowly over the city. Towards noon David got up and put the light on. At lunchtime he went out for a swim, but first he phoned Sarah. She answered at once, her voice level, normal.
‘It’s me, darling,’ he said. ‘Any news?’
There was a tired, ragged edge to her voice. ‘Yes, they told me at Friends House that Mr Templeman had phoned to say his wife had died of a heart attack. I rang him, to give my condolences. Poor man, he was trying to be brave but you could hear his voice was about to break.’
‘A heart attack?’ David repeated incredulously.
‘Yes. The police called round to say she’d dropped dead outside the station at Wembley. They told him it was a heart attack. He said there’ll be a post-mortem. They’ll fake the result, won’t they? I saw the blood . . .’ Sarah’s own voice was close to breaking now.
‘It’ll be a Home Office pathologist, it won’t be the first time they’ve faked something.’
‘Mr Templeman said the funeral’s next week. I want to go.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Would you like me to come too?’ he asked.
‘Why? You never met her. To make sure I don’t say anything stupid?’
David closed his eyes. ‘No. To support you.’
Sarah sighed. ‘I’m sorry; I just – yes, please come.’
‘Listen, this means they’re going to cover it up, but they’ll still be looking into what happened. We have to go on taking care.’
‘I know. When will you be home?’
‘I’ll try to get away a bit early.’
‘Do.’ She paused, then said, ‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Yes, it’s hard.’
He walked back to the office, huddled in his coat. Carol was in the lift, along with other people returning from lunch, the tip of her thin nose red with cold. She smiled brightly, ‘Hello, David. Putrid weather, isn’t it?’
It was hard to speak cheerily, conversationally. ‘Dreadful. Hope this fog doesn’t last.’
‘They say it won’t.’
They got out on the second floor. Carol looked at him with concern. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Bit of a cold, I think.’
She smiled. ‘You look a bit peaky, if you don’t mind me saying.’
He wondered what Carol thought about the deportations. She was a kind woman, but you never knew; perfectly decent people could turn out to condone terrible things.
‘I hope you’re better in time for Friday,’ she said.
‘Friday?’
‘The concert. Bartok, at St Mary’s.’
‘Ah, yes, of course, I’m sure I’ll be better by then.’ He had forgotten.
‘There’s one at the Queen’s Hall, on the ninth of December. Beethoven’s Fifth. I know it’s a bit of a trek over there, but if we asked for an extra half-hour at lunchtime . . .’
‘I’ll see.’ He turned away, aware of her hurt look at his curtness.
A little after three there was a peremptory knock on his door, and Hubbold came in. He sat down, took out his little silver snuff box. ‘I’ve just been with the Permanent Secretary,’ he said abruptly. ‘This business with the Jews will put the cat among the pigeons. The Canadians and Aussies will be up in arms at this week’s High Commissioners’ meeting. Our line will be that this is for their own protection as well as ours. Handle the issue with kid gloves, that’s the word from on high. Thank God the agenda’s gone out, they’ll have to bring it up under Any Other Business.’ He stared at David, the eyes behind those thick lenses impossible to read as usual, but there was a note of challenge in his voice, as though to emphasize this was just a piece of business like any other.
‘Yes, sir. I see.’ David kept his voice neutral.
‘Thanks for fixing up that meeting between the SS and the South Africans, by the way.’
‘I think the South Africans are going across to Senate House on Wednesday.’
Hubbold nodded. ‘Good. I expect they’ll tell the Germans their problem is that they were never able to disarm the Russians. They never let the blacks anywhere near a gun.’
‘Yes,’ David agreed. ‘It’s all about who has the guns.’
Hubbold nodded slowly. All at once he looked uneasy, embarrassed. David wondered whether he, too, had been shocked by yesterday’s events, was going to say something unplanned. But instead he said, ‘There’s a problem with one of our files. One of the secret files I’m cleared for. The Canadian one. I found a document that didn’t belong there, to do with South African military assistance to Kenya. It was in the wrong file.’
David thought, I put it there, the Sunday before last, when Hubbold came down to Registry. He stared at his superior. Hubbold said, ‘You had that file for last week’s meeting. Did you notice wh
ether the Kenya paper was there?’
‘No. It wasn’t one I needed to consult.’ He managed to speak steadily. ‘I remember it though, it’s a few weeks old, isn’t it?’ To his relief, Hubbold just nodded his white head thoughtfully.
‘Yes, it would have passed through a number of hands. I’m checking with the people in this department who had it. But I haven’t come up with anything. Ten to one that girl of Dabb’s misfiled it.’ He frowned. ‘But I don’t see how the Kenya file would have got into her possession. It’s restricted, but not top secret. You’re friendly with her, aren’t you?’ he added.
‘Quite friendly.’ David’s heart thudded in his chest so hard he feared Hubbold might hear it.
‘D’you think she’s up to the job? You know how scatty women can be.’
‘I’ve no reason to think not.’
Hubbold seemed to slump a little in his chair. ‘I’ll have to tell the Permanent Secretary. There’ll be an investigation. He’ll keep it internal, he won’t want those MI5 clowns clumping around in here.’ He shook his head. David thought, he’s frightened this will be a black mark before he retires. Hubbold stood up, smiled ruefully. ‘Well, thank you. Obviously, keep this between ourselves.’ He went out.
David sat staring at the door for a moment, then reached for a cigarette. This could get serious. For the first time he had been careless. He felt danger closing all around. And Carol, what about Carol? Was he going to end up taking her to the bottom, too?
He got an interdepartmental messenger to take a note to Geoff. Could he meet him after work for a drink, outside the office at five? A reply came back, yes, certainly.
When he left the building the fog was quite thick, cars and buses moving at a crawl, the office workers crowding out of their buildings, then quickly disappearing into the murk. He waited on the steps of the Dominions Office, and after a minute Geoff appeared, pipe in mouth, dressed like David in dark coat and bowler hat, looking tired and, as he always did, somehow rumpled. ‘Let’s take a turn around Trafalgar Square,’ David said. ‘I’ve got some news.’