James Benn: Rag and Bone

“This ain’t right,” Charlie said, holding his ground. “You all stop where you are.”

“Billy, hold this,” Big Mike said, handing me the shotgun. He put up his fists, and Charlie did the same, despite the fact that Big Mike stood a foot taller than he did. Big Mike pulled back his right fist, and Charlie moved his arms to block the punch, but Big Mike jabbed him in the stomach with his left, a quick punch that sent Charlie to his knees, gasping. I handed Big Mike the shotgun, and we all stepped around Charlie, who’d done his duty and lost only his wind.

“Topper Chapman!” I said again, and heard the scamper of feet as more residents of the shelter fled the scene. “Time to serve king and country.”

“What’s this then?” Clive said, open mouthed, as he peered out at us from behind the makeshift wall. Stanley pushed Clive forward, his hand in his jacket pocket. He took it out slowly, and empty, as he watched Big Mike’s shotgun aimed straight at his chest.

“Down! Down on the floor!” The Royal Marine sergeant shouted, and with the snouts of several Sten guns to guide them, Stanley and Clivewere spread-eagled in ten seconds. Two more marines pulled down the hanging blankets, and Archie Chapman was revealed, sitting in his chair, reading a book, Poems from the Trenches. He carefully placed a bookmark between the pages, then calmly watched the proceedings. Topper sat in a hard-backed chair, his legs crossed nonchalantly, a drink in his hand. The Chapmans were a couple of cool customers.

“Come in, Peaches,” Archie said. “I’ve been hoping to see you.”

“I came to see Topper. To give him this,” I said, holding up the piece of paper. “His enlistment has been reinstated. Turns out your Dr. Carlisle has lost his medical license, which invalidates his diagnosis of whatever phony condition he cooked up for you.”

“Bollocks!” Archie cried, throwing his book down. “You can’t do this, Yank.”

“I’m just the messenger,” I said, handing Archie the paperwork. “These gentlemen are here to carry out the lawful order of your own government.”

“You can’t be serious,” Topper said, but he knew I was. It was just something to say. He drained his drink, stood, and nodded to his father.

“Come, Mr. Chapman,” the Royal Marine sergeant said, addressing Topper. “Everything’s in order. Let’s get to the barracks and get you kitted out.” He took Topper by the arm and as they left, I thought I saw a glimpse of what-excitement? — on Topper’s face. Joy, maybe. The Royal Marines had to be an improvement over life with Archie.

The place cleared out quickly. Two marines remained at the entrance to the shelter to keep the denizens out. Big Mike took a few steps back and cradled the shotgun in his arms. I took Topper’s chair, pulled it close to Archie, and sat.

“No poem for the occasion?” I asked. Archie frowned, a bitter, deep frown that pulled down the corners of his mouth as if he were caught on a fishhook. He looked at the paper, the stamp of the Crown, and the legalisms that had taken his son away.

“You want praise for this maneuver of yours, Peaches? I think one of your own, an Irishman, put it best.”

You say, as I have often given tongue In praise of what another’s said or sung, ‘Twere politic to do the like by these; But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?

“That’s Yeats, but I doubt you know it. This maneuver is a fleabite. I’ll have Topper back in the time it takes to buy a politician, which is to say by dawn. What do you want with him? Have you taken him as a bargaining chip?”

“I’d like some insurance against taking a bayonet over that business with the Russian gold,” I said.

“So that was your doing? I thought perhaps. What a surprise that was. Armored cars, machine guns, not what we expected. A great fortune lost. And such a loss does build resentment, so you’re wise to have Topper at hand, at least for as long as you’re down here.”

“Think carefully, Archie. Think about what it takes to get a doctor’s license revoked. Think about what pull it takes to get Topper into the service, without a question asked about his record. They weren’t picky, right after Dunkirk. But now, criminal associations should keep a guy like Topper out. But there it is, in black and white. The Royal Marines, no less. Maybe a commando unit. Think about that.”

He did. His mouth went slack for a moment, then he clamped it shut. He reached for a bottle of gin, a couple of glasses, and poured. He downed his before I got mine to my lips.

“Pass me that book,” he said, pointing to the volume he’d thrown to the floor. I did. “You won’t believe what I was reading when you burst in here. Isaac Rosenberg. Jewish lad, died at the Somme. Would have been a great poet, perhaps, had he lived. I was in the middle of ‘On Receiving News of the War.’ Listen.” In all men’s hearts it is. Some spirit old Hath turned with malign kiss Our lives to mould.

Red fangs have torn His face. God’s blood is shed. He mourns from His lone place His children dead.

“What do you think of that, Peaches?”

“I think you did everything a father could do,” I said. “I know my dad did, but I’m still here. Fate has a hand to play as well.”

“You could be right,” Archie said, letting the book drop to the floor. “So what do you want? It must be more than safe passage through Shoreditch should you come visiting.”

“I want everything you know about Kiril Sidorov and Sheila Carlson.”His eyebrows rose, a sign of admiration.

“So you’ve put those two together, have you? Regular lovebirds.”

“I didn’t know if it was love or money,” I said.

“The course of true love runs a lot more smoothly cushioned by cash. Still, they seem to be dedicated to each other. I’m giving no evidence here, understand. We’re just having a chat.”

“About two people we both know,” I said, gulping gin.

“And this chat will give the good doctor his medical license back? And Topper back to me?”

“Yes,” I said, “if I’m satisfied.” I wanted to tell him to let Topper go, but I was a military detective, not a social worker.

“I don’t know, Peaches,” Archie said, staring into his empty glass. “I can get another sawbones anytime. And maybe Topper should serve. He told me the other day how it might be hard for him to hold his head up high after the war. That some in the neighborhood might think badly of him.”

“Really?” I cursed myself for giving Topper that line to get him steamed.

“Really. If he’s thinking that way, then he’s weak and needs toughening. Once you start caring what others think of you, then you start living by their rules. Might as well get a proper job.”

“I know some fellows in Boston who’d agree with you. They’d also agree that you should make that decision, not have it made for you.”

“You’re leavin’ me with only bad choices, Peaches. I don’t like selling out a client. It isn’t good for business.”

“Listen, Archie. Once we pick these two up, there’s going to be no public trial, no testimony. This is wartime, and they’re spies, pure and simple. If they’re not hung they’ll be thrown in a deep, dark hole far away from here. MI5 is backing me on this, and they’ll back you, too, if you want.”

“You’re an interesting one, Peaches. A mere lieutenant who haunts the streets and tunnels of London, but who also can have Shoreditchdeclared off-limits, bring a squad of Royal Marines along as your own muscle, ruin my doctor’s practice, and at the same time cavort with the likes of MI5. They’ve shed their share of Irish blood, haven’t they? Don’t you feel hatred for them? Who are you really, Peaches?”