by Joe Thomas
And Challenor smiles, winks and turns, turns on his heel, and is off, off towards Old Compton Street and Lucky Luke's trattoria as he seriously fancies a spot of Italian grub for lunch, and outside Mamma's farmhouse down Popoli way, down in Italia itself, he can’t think of a better place than old Lucky Luke's.
*
Execution —
What you hear though is:
Prisoner-of-war camp —
Which means:
Company.
A few of your own lads.
A laugh or two, perhaps. A drink, even, maybe. Or two.
What you hear is a bloody blessed relief, really, that's what it is, a bloody blessed relief, it really is.
Copper
My grandad was Old Bill.
‘Your old grandad,’ Tanky tells me, ‘was a butcher's boy, then a plod, then a soldier, then ended up Superintendent of the Bournemouth police force. You should be proud, son.’
I was. I am.
‘Here, have a look at this,’ Tanky says.
He goes out into the hallway and comes back with a framed photo he's lifted from the wall.
It's my grandad and four other coppers, before the war, in full uniform, helmets included, treading water in the sea by the pier.
‘The bobbing bobbies of Bournemouth!’ Tanky says, delighted. ‘That was the headline in the local paper, something like that, anyway. Bit different to my beat, I reckon, don’t you, Bob?’
‘Just a bit, yeah.’
Bob, I remember, was my grandad's nickname. God knows why.
‘Bob the bobby!’ Tanky says, laughing.
‘Yeah, good one, Tanky,’ my grandad says.
And my grandad knew it was very different, Tanky's beat.
In Bournemouth they had a system, the police and thieves, apparently. The cops and the robbers. My grandad and his lot would find cases of whisky, boxes of steaks and seafood tucked away behind certain bushes on certain roads. It was all fairly gentle. Equally though, my old grandad had no qualms about nudging a crook to jail with a bit of manipulated evidence, if the villain had crossed a line, of course. His point: we know they’re guilty of something, so what's the harm of putting them inside for something else? The villains understood it, knew it was a fait accompli, and accepted the system.
Very different to Soho.
Six
‘I’ve given you a chance. I could have found these in your pocket.’
It's now April, the 24th, and Challenor has moved on from the betting shops - they seemed to sort themselves out without too much bother; Challenor simply blocked all attempts to reopen them — but he has not forgotten about Lionel ‘Curly’ King and he is not happy about what he considers to be some serious face, some real cheek in King's avoiding him.
At least he assumes King has been avoiding him -
No one's seen the lad for months. Hiding out east, is the word, now he's not got a job in a Soho bookies. King likely reckons now it's all taken care of he can show his perm about town again. Word is, King's been buying records and been out in a few jazz clubs with his friend David Silver. One of Challenor's lookouts spotted them twenty minutes ago, having a coffee and a natter in some cafe or other at the end of Frith Street.
So Challenor has got hold of Police Constable Peter Warwick Jay and Detective Sergeant Kenneth Etheridge, and they’ve piled into a squad car, and they’re now watching as King and Silver get into their own car on Old Compton and do a left onto Charing Cross Road.
There is not much going on. It is, Challenor thinks, helpfully quiet.
It's four in the morning, after all, he thinks, smiling.
King and Silver are not driving quickly.
‘Pull up alongside him at the lights,’ Challenor tells Police Constable Peter Warwick Jay.
‘Right you are, guv.’
Challenor rubs his palms together - gleeful. Here we bloody go, he thinks.
Dish best served cold and all that. Young Lionel is not going to be too thrilled by the outcome of this evening's roistering.
Both cars stop at the lights. Challenor winds his window down and leans out. He raps his knuckles on the driver's window. ‘Morning, Lionel. All right?’
King winds his window down. He's had a few, Challenor can see that. His face is a shade flushed, his eyes a touch bloodshot, they’ve narrowed a touch, his eyes.
Challenor points up ahead. ‘Pull into Goslett Yard, and stop. And keep your hands on the wheel, son.’
King nods.
All five of them sit in the two cars and wait for the lights. King is giving his head quick little shakes, perhaps to focus, to think, perhaps to try and sober up. Silver, in the passenger seat, is twitchy, his eyes darting about; he seems, Challenor thinks, to be trying to check something on the back seat, but subtle like, not drawing attention to himself. Which, of course, Challenor realises, is exactly why he is drawing attention to himself. Jay is looking dead ahead, both hands on the steering wheel himself, nasty face on, serious. He knows the drill, Challenor thinks. Etheridge is cool, indifferent, slouched in the passenger seat, elbow resting on the door, right hand scratching at the side of his head -
He's here purely for numbers, and he knows it.
And Challenor? Challenor's grinning.
The lights change.
King turns left onto Goslett Yard.
Good boy.
*
You’re put in a dormitory with a good lot of other lads, some of yours, some Italians, a few other sorts, Commonwealth, you know —
It is not palatial accommodation. There is not much space. And you don’t have much time.
One thing you are certainly lacking is time.
Time. Time to work out how to check out, you think.
The dormitory is on the first floor. Officers are being kept below. At the back there is a small exercise yard. It is entirely surrounded by a double barricade of barbed wire fences and lookout towers, sentries. Facing your quarters is the prisoners cookhouse, which serves black bread and watery cabbage soup through a hatch. This hatch is not big. It looks pretty well impenetrable.
You notice one other thing:
Italian women seem to come and go without ever being stopped or questioned.
What are they? Washerwomen?
There ain’t too much time to figure it out.
*
Goslett Yard stinks of piss.
This is not a huge surprise given the time of night and the position of Goslett Yard. Perfect spot for a surreptitious slash, on an evening's tear-up, unable to hold your bladder's worth of brown ale. Perfect spot. Dark, no shops, empty doorways -
Challenor wrinkles his nose and grins. Bloody love it, he thinks, four in the morning and here we are down a piss-stinking alley about to reacquaint ourselves with an old chum who's about to reacquaint himself with what it means to be in trouble with the law, and, more specifically, the long arm of the law, the right fist of the law, the, quite possibly, fucking forehead of the law.
Challenor nods at Jay and Etheridge who move down the alley to King's car and open the doors and invite both Lionel King and David Silver to vacate the vehicle.
Challenor hangs back a touch, waits -
He can hear Jay telling the two lads to stand separate and to relax. He can hear Silver saying that he doesn’t want to be searched in King's car. Etheridge looks over at Challenor. Challenor nods. Etheridge brings Silver over to the patrol car and opens the back door for him. Silver gets in. Etheridge follows and conducts a simple search of his person, then notes down Silver's account of the evening. The car window's open and Challenor hears Silver say, ‘I must want my head examined, getting myself mixed up in all this.’
Challenor saunters over to Lionel ‘Curly’ King's car. He strolls over. He shimmies. He winks at Jay. He says to King, ‘Now then, Lionel, you’re going to let young Police Constable Peter Warwick Jay search your person, while I am going to search your car. I’d ask for your permission to do so, but I’m sure that knowing our relationshi
p, our last meeting, our previous, as it were, you would happily grant it, so that to ask for it would constitute something of a waste of time.’ Challenor pauses. ‘Yours and mine. You in agreement, Lionel? Of course you are.’
King says nothing. King grimaces and raises his hands. King sways, touched a little by the old drink, he is, Challenor sees. It's late, after all.
Challenor leans into King's car. He pokes around for a little while. There is a cigarette case; there is a bag of LPs, jazz, by the look of them; there is a map; there is a jacket on the back seat; there is some miscellaneous detritus, food wrappers and so on; and there is a pillow, a cushion, under the front seat, the driver's seat.
Challenor ducks back out into Goslett Yard holding the cushion. He waves it at King. He thrusts it towards him. He brandishes it.
‘Well, well, young man. Let's have a look in here,’ Challenor says.
Challenor's hand snakes into his inside jacket pocket. He pulls out a fisherman's knife. He unclasps the blade. He plunges the blade into the cushion. He pulls down hard on the handle of the knife, yanking in a zigzag pattern. Feathers - white, small, frayed - float to the ground.
Challenor's satisfied with the hole he has dug into this now desiccated cushion, this pillaged pillow, and the thought of that makes him laugh, quietly, to himself. Pillaged pillow. And what with the feathers all about the place it looks like an Italian chicken coop after he's been in to find some supper, it does, down here in old piss-stinking Goslett Yard.
Challenor pokes his hand into the cushion. He rummages a little. He stops. He raises his eyebrows and smiles. He rummages a little more, for theatrical effect this time.
He has what he's looking for in his hand.
‘Well, well,’ he says.
He pauses. He pulls his hand from the cushion — triumphant.
And with a triumphant grin on his face.
He produces two detonators and shows them to King as a doctor might present a baby to a new mother.
King snaps into life, his drunkenness steadies itself. He says, ‘Don’t look any further, detective. There's no jelly here. You could score all this down to aggravation. We’re unlucky, that's all. That's someone else's gear.’
Challenor shakes his head, still grinning. He says, ‘I’ve two detonators here, my old darling. You’re in the frame for those bookies. You’re nicked.’ He pauses. He steps over to Lionel ‘Curly’ King. He nods at Police Constable Peter Warwick Jay, who steps away. Challenor speaks fast, sinister, right into Lionel ‘Curly’ King's scared little face. He says, ‘I’ve given you a chance, lad. I could have found these in your pockets.’
*
‘You are having a fucking laugh, old son!’
And there are peals of laughter. There are hoots of laughter. The whole dormitory is roaring, now, with laughter.
And you’re laughing too.
‘So, what you’re telling, us, young man, what you’re fucking trying to tell us, is that you, SAS, a thing we’ve never really heard of, you know, officially, that you, you’re SAS, whatever the fuck it is, you are going to escape this prisoner-of war camp, or you’ll get fucking executed, you’re going to escape this place, this relatively comfortable place to spend the fucking war, you’re going to escape it by walking out — ’
The laughter is echoing. The laughter is ringing out —
‘— by walking out, walking out in broad fucking daylight, walking out dressed as a fucking washerwoman!’
By this time, the laughter is possibly attracting some attention —
You, grinning, trying not to, trying to shush your lads, who aren’t half taking the bloody piss —
‘A fucking washerwoman! Mate, you are a genius. A madman, oh absolutely, but quite possibly a bona fide genius.’
This lad raises a finger and everyone else shuts up.
He smiles, very broadly. ‘How can we bloody well help?’
*
While Lionel ‘Curly King is in custody his home address is searched, and Challenor is pleased that the young constables conducting the search have come across a forged driving licence.
Challenor's got Lionel ‘Curly King in his office now and is quite enjoying sharing the news of this discovery
Radio's on.
The news ends and a song begins to play and Challenor's ears prick up and his mouth twitches in pleasure.
And the opening of ‘He's So Fine’ by The Chiffons kicks in, with its doo-lang, doo-lang backing vocal and Challenor cackles with laughter.
‘Oh, I like this one,’ he says. ‘I love a doo-wop, soul combo. Love a girl group that swings and sways like these. Have a listen, son. It's rather an apt 45, lyrics wise.’
King scowls. King crosses his arms. King seems, actively, to be trying to not listen, if that's at all possible, Challenor thinks.
If he were a kid, he’d have his hands over his ears.
Challenor leans across the desk and mouth the words of the song at young Lionel as it plays. There are a couple of quite pertinent lyrics, Challenor thinks, grinning, all about a handsome boy and his wavy hair, how she wishes he were hers.
Challenor leans back in his chair and doesn’t half laugh. ‘Wavy hair, eh? Handsome man, wavy hair and all that. Good lyrics, aren’t they, Lionel? Remind you of anyone?’
The song plays on and switches key. The backing vocal chimes, the rhythm swings and sways.
‘We’ll just enjoy the rest of it, shall we?’ Challenor says.
They sit and say nothing. The song lasts a minute or so more.
Challenor's lips are pursed, he's smiling, humming, nodding his head, tapping his foot.
‘Yeah, it's a cracker this one,’ he says, as the song ends.
King is stony-faced.
‘Now then, Lionel, about this moody driving licence. I can’t see it helping you, old son. Any thoughts?’
King nods. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘And it's Irish, I swear, God's honest. OK?’
Challenor raises an eyebrow.
King continues: ‘It was for someone else. This nutter was going to blast a certain speiler, right. He was going to use a nicked car with a dummy licence in case he got a pull. All I had to do was supply the necessary The funny part about it all is that I didn’t even get the dets. I was just born unlucky.’ King breathes out, really sighs. ‘And that's straight up, Harry I swear.’
Challenor nods. He looks at King for a few moments. King does not enjoy these few moments, Challenor can see that. This is a little web, Challenor thinks, and wonders quite what King will admit to, to, you know, free himself of some greater charge.
Challenor considers this and considers what to say next. He thinks of The Chiffons and the handsome man with the wavy hair.
Challenor smiles — wide.
‘Well,’ he says.
And then, breaking into song, Challenor sings from the second verse, adding the doo-lang, doo-langs himself. She don’t know how she's going to do it, Challenor's singing, but she will certainly make this handsome man hers.
*
Here's how they can help:
A long old pair of black woollen socks. Rags and cloth, blankets and sheets. You nod—
‘Good lads,’ you tell them.
Then everyone in the dormitory is scratching around for any needles and thread, and there are a surprising number of them. And then, the more skilful of the lads help you to sew up one of the lice-ridden blankets into a rather nice-looking skirt.
Your first lad says, roaring, ‘Eh, lads, nice bit of skirt!’
And there is more laughter. You had no idea what devilry you were going to stir up in this prisoner-of-war, awaiting-execution camp you’d been plonked into.
Then you’re sat on the edge of a bed, and a couple of the even more skilful lads give you a shave with the sharpest blade they can find.
It feels fucking fantastic!
But it might not be quite enough, so a couple of the less skilful lads rub some of the white plaster from the walls all over your face, all over
your grinning mug, your handsome, grinning mug, transformed into a fairly ugly-looking Italian peasant woman, at least that's the bloody plan —
You lie down to get a little rest, try to sleep.
You are pretty fucking far from confident. You have travelled hundreds of miles. You have been lucky beyond your wildest imagination. You have blown apart trains in the name of your country, in a fight against an evil empire. You realise how that sounds, but it is simply true. You have trained and trained and trained to become a brutal killing machine, a man of stealth and wit and imagination. You have been captured and tortured, beaten, starved and tortured, beaten, starved and tortured because of your training, because of what you have done in the name of your country in this fight against this evil empire, and because of this, you are to be put to death, put down like a dog, executed. Executed. What a fucking word, eh? Executed.
And how are you going to use your training and your stealth and your wit and your imagination to avoid this fate?
You’re going to crawl through a serving hatch, hitching up your bloody lice-ridden skirt as you do it, and then walk calmly past guards and sentries dressed as a woman with white plaster on her face.
What a wally you are.
There's no fucking way.
You don’t sleep. This is so hare-brained as to be a fucking joke —
And that's when you smile.
What else can it be? This is a game, all right, my old son.
He who has nothing has no fear of death.
*
20th June 1963 -
Challenor is sitting in his office when he gets the news.
The charges:
Receiving stolen detonators, possessing detonators with intent to cause malicious damage to a building by explosion, and conspiracy to cause malicious damage to a building -
Convicted and sent down:
Silver for six months.
King? A two stretch for young Lionel. Two solid years.