James Herbert - ‘48

It’d leapt into the air, then dropped stone dead, without a twitch, without a murmur, and the rest of the pack had vanished into the void, running like hell from the thunderclap. I knew they’d return, and soon, because now they had a warm meal waiting for them, one of their own kind.

My own ears were ringing with the gun blasts and although I saw Cissie’s mouth working I couldn’t hear a word she was saying. Suddenly I was lit up by the full blaze of the warden’s powerful flashlight, so not only was I unable to hear, but I was blind too.

Shielding my eyes with a raised hand I told him to get the light off me.

If he was deafened too he must have got the idea from my angry expression. The light blinked off and we were left in the softer glow of the paraffin lamp again. By the time I reached Muriel the ringing had toned down and I could hear voices once more.

‘Surely those dogs wouldn’t have attacked us,’ she said in her very correct manner.

‘Things have changed,’ I told them all, not just her. ‘You can’t trust the animals any more. Most of them are half-wild, the rest all-wild. And they’re pretty hungry.’

Cissie was pulling at her ear lobes. ‘You could’ve warned us you were going to shoot.’

‘Yeah. Sorry. I’ll make a formal announcement next time.’

I brushed past her and, taking the flashlight from the warden’s hand, kept going, switching on the light again to play the beam along the road ahead. I didn’t care if they followed or not, I just wanted to be out of that place and breathing fresh air.

The tunnel swept round in a long gentle curve and soon we came upon many other kinds of vehicles, cars and trucks, cabs, bicycles, even a wheelchair (we didn’t examine the slumped bundle inside it too closely), their drivers and riders mistakenly thinking they’d be safe underground, just like the people who’d fled into the Tube stations. Well, they’d been wrong. We’d all been wrong. Every son-of-a-bitch who thought Good always conquers Evil and who’d gone to war to prove the point had been wrong. I couldn’t help wondering – then and many times before – how that squared with a so-called ‘benevolent’ God.

I trudged on, limping badly by now, exhaustion, mental and physical, exaggerating the effects of my injuries and bruises; I remained oblivious to whether or not the others were keeping up with me, just set on reaching daylight before my legs gave out. And gradually I closed my mind down, shutting out all thoughts that had nothing to do with getting to the end of the tunnel.

Save one, that is. I couldn’t stop thinking of when and how I’d kill the German.

WE CAME UP on the approach road to Waterloo Bridge, battered, bruised, and shielding our startled eyes against the harsh sunlight We were all filthy, black from head to toe, even Potter, and although the ramp leading out of the tunnel was gentle enough, our lead-weight legs found the going tough. Our breathing was laboured and old Potter was wheezing badly by the time we reached the surface road.

The girls sank to the ground at the top of the incline, faces turned up towards the sky, like sun-worshippers after a long, hard winter, while the warden took off his helmet and mopped his brow with his crumpled red spotted handkerchief. He muttered something under his breath, complaining about ‘lumbago’, I think, and he rubbed the small of his back so’s we’d get the message. Stern stood aloof from the others, taking in deep, purging breaths, getting rid of the rank, sooty air he’d swallowed back there in the tunnels. I left them to it, going over to the corner of the ramp and peering round the railings back towards the big intersection where the Strand met the Aldwych. The tram tunnel had been built to avoid the traffic congestion at that point, beginning its descent in the middle of the broad bridge road and curving round below ground before straightening again to emerge in Kingsway. Everything looked peaceful enough at the intersection, with only the jumble of motor vehicles we’d weaved through earlier creating its own silent chaos. I sagged then, going down on one knee, shoulder resting against the railing’s end post, my face, like the girls’, turned up towards the clear sky.

My eyes closed for a second or two, and when I opened them again I saw a solitary seagull sail across the blue, heading downriver, its haunted call as lonely as its image. With a weary grunt I pulled myself up again and crossed the road to the bridge’s parapet. Although small craft and floating debris littered the wide River Thames below, its waters sparkled in a way they never had during the war, the old river had cleansed itself and from where I stood I could see shoals of silver fish, swimming free of human effluent and, so it seemed, untouched by the great disease. The breeze was cool here, and somehow placating, soothing the dread that had travelled with me these past hours; only the sagging barrage balloons hanging lazily above reminded me that all really was not well with the world. I went back to the others.

‘Listen up,’ I said to them. ‘We need to get off the streets for a while, at least ‘til the Blackshirts have given up on us. The place I’ve been holing up in isn’t far from here, so you’re welcome to join me there for a while. When the heat dies down – say, in a day or two – you can do what you like.’ I meant that for the girls and Potter; Wilhelm Stern I wasn’t gonna let out of my sight.

Muriel’s face broke into a tired but almost radiant smile. ‘You mean the Savoy, don’t you? That’s the hotel you’ve been using, isn’t it?’ She brought her hands together as if delighted by the surprise, and even dishevelled she looked a princess.

I frowned though, because even if I had decided to let the German go – which wasn’t likely – mention of the hotel’s name had sealed his fate. He and the Blackshirts were of the same mould, brothers-in-arms, comrades-in-creed, and if I allowed him to wander off, chances were he’d find his British allies and lead them back to me. My fingertips played along the teeth of my zipper, close to the shoulder-holster inside my jacket.

Almost as if he could read my mind, Stern said quickly: ‘I would be happy to go with you to this place. I think we all need to rest and perhaps make some plans.’

His expression was serious, stiff even, the good volunteer. His eyes might have flicked towards the hand still lingering close to the gun butt just out of sight under my jacket, but if so it was too fast for me to catch. I knew he’d noticed though.

‘It would be so lovely to return to the Savoy,’ Muriel was saying, unaware of the tension between myself and the German. ‘Even during the war it was a wonderfully exciting place to wine and dine. Do you remember the Lord Woolton Pie?’ She had swung round towards Cissie, the brightness in her grey-blue eyes hinting at the sparkle that must have been there in better times. ‘You remember, Cissie – potatoes, carrots, mushrooms, leeks. The Savoy ’s chef created it specially for the Ministry of Food when rationing was so severe.’

‘Oh sure,’ her friend replied drily. ‘I used to hobnob there all the time. You know, with Clark Gable when he was in town, or Douglas Fairbanks Junior. Even good old Tyrone Power used to lie to his wife Annabella just so’s he could spend an evening with me dancing to Carroll Gibbons and his band. Now let me see, what were they called…? They were on the radio all the time.’

‘The Orpheans.’ Muriel hadn’t caught the weary sarcasm. ‘Carroll Gibbons and the Savoy Orpheans.’ There was something edgy about her delight, as if it might break at any moment, leaving only bitterness to take its place.

‘For God’s sake, Muriel,’ Cissie snapped. ‘You know where I’m from. You know I would never have dared set foot in a swanky place like the Savoy, even if I could afford to!’