James Herbert - ‘48

‘Help yourself,’ I said to Potter as his roving gaze took in all that was on offer. ‘I’ll get you a clean glass.’

‘No need, son, no need.’ He gave a satisfied grunt and reached for the Grouse. ‘Plannin to drink an’ smoke yerself to death, was yer?’

He didn’t wait for a reply, nor did I bother with one. His plump fist closed over the neck of the bottle and he gave the top a twist

‘Yer know, I was always scared to come inta the Savoy after those last V2s dropped.’ He paused to hold the bottle up and examined the golden liquid before he drank, the loose cap in the palm of his other hand. ‘Even though I’d seen you comin and goin a few times, I was still frightened of what I might find in ‘ere. I coulda raided the American Bar easy enough if I’d had the spunk to come inside, but nah, somehow it wasn’t in me.’

He took his first swallow, the whisky glugging into his throat.

‘You weren’t afraid of entering the Civil Defence shelter,’ I reminded him.

‘That was different. I knew most of them people. I wasn’t as funny about it. But this lot in here – toffs, rich people, even some of our own leaders, members of the War Office an’ that – well, I didn’t feel it was my place to intrude.’ He took another, longer, swig from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and eyed me again. ‘If yer know what I mean.’

I didn’t think I did, but I was in no mood to think about it. I faced the others. ‘You can have your own separate rooms along this hallway, but don’t go any further. All the suites on this side of the third floor interconnect, though the doors are locked right now.’

‘You are a cautious man, Hoke.’ Stern had remained by the window and the light shining through the nets revealed how spoilt his tweed jacket and pants, so neat and clean when we’d first met, had become. A sleeve and a pocket were torn, his shirt collar crumpled; yet as he drew on the cigarette, his arm across his chest, hand holding his other raised elbow, he still had that air of superiority about him, that icy arrogance we’d come to expect from the Master Race. Movies and propaganda had told us this was how they were, how it was part of their Aryan nature, and I’d never doubted it for one moment.

‘A cautious man…’ he went on, and I wondered if it was mockery I saw again in those colourless eyes ‘…yet today you were almost caught by those Blackshirts, as you call them.’

‘Sometimes it happens,’ I said by way of explanation. Going to the coffee table, I picked up a Johnnie Walker, one-quarter full, its cap missing. ‘But it won’t happen again,’ I added before taking a long, long drink.

That evening, using two of my three portable gas cookers, I made them all a meal. It was only Spam, tinned peas and boiled potatoes, followed by peaches and custard, but they made ecstatic sounds as they wolfed it down.

Earlier I’d shown them other rooms they could use as their own sleeping quarters, the two girls moving in to a suite next door to mine, Potter and Stern in separate rooms further down the corridor, the old warden at the end of the line. I kept all the interconnecting doors locked. They were surprised to find that these rooms were used as store rooms as well, although none of them was as cluttered as my own suite, but there were no complaints. Not that I cared one way or the other. I left them to settle in and went back to my rooms where I threw off my filthy, ripped clothes and showered – the reduced water pressure still allowed a Niagara Falls soaking under those big Savoy shower heads. Although goosebump cold, the water freshened me up a whole lot. A fast shave was followed by some attention to my injuries. The wound where the bullet had passed through the shoulder of my leather jacket was only skin deep and iodine (Christ, that hurt ) with padding held in place by sticky plaster took care of it My ankle was puffy and soft, but I knew no bones were broken, so the swelling would go down within a day or so if I bandaged it tight. The bruising on the same leg was just beginning to show through and was already looking ugly; it stretched from calf to mid-thigh and the muscles underneath were stiff and painful. For a while walking would be a problem, but no big deal. Cuts and grazes were soon dealt with and the rest of the bruises could take care of themselves. My hair was singed – the front looked like scorched corn – and the skin on my face and the backs of my hands was puckered and flaky; likewise, though, no serious damage. Oh yeah, and the knuckles of my right hand were scraped raw. All things considered, I’d been lucky that day – more lucky than I deserved – and I’d also been taught a lesson. Lately I’d become complacent, figured myself too smart to be nailed by the crazies. Well, I’d been wrong. Stupid and wrong. And the booze was taking over. Like I’d told the German, it wouldn’t happen again.

Before I pulled on chinos and T-type shirt (Lord knows why, but I’d stuck with military underwear, and this undershirt with short sleeves had been washed a hundred or more times) I checked all the guns in the room, making sure they were oiled and loaded, even though they were always kept that way. Still shaky after nearly being caught out that morning, I guess.

Taking the.45 from its jacket holster and tucking it into my waistband, I left the suite and limped barefoot through the third-floor corridors and hallways, checking stairwells and windows all round the building. Because the Savoy was really in two parts, I couldn’t look over the main drag outside, the Strand, without going down and up again, but that didn’t bother me. I was certain the hotel was secure, otherwise there’d have been a reception committee waiting for us when we returned. I scouted the place pretty well though, and didn’t go back to my rooms until I was satisfied there was no hostile incursion. Ankle throbbing like hell along with other parts of me – the bruise over my chest felt like a thick sheet of lead had been bolted there – I poured myself a whisky, using a glass this time, but still taking it raw. It did me fine.

Still tired, but feeling a little better, I washed some glasses and the accumulation of plates and dishes I’d collected over time in the bathroom sink, then began to prepare chow for myself and my unwelcome guests. I think I would have slept twenty-four hours solid if I’d closed my eyes, so I didn’t allow it I kept going because that was the only thing to do, and besides, I was so hungry a horse would’ve only made first course.

The German showed up first, politely rapping on the door and waiting for me to open it. He’d found fresh duds from somewhere – white shirt, dark slacks, but the same brogues he’d been wearing that morning – and if they looked a little snug on him, it didn’t matter, he still wore them well. He’d shaved too, and his hair was slicked back with water so that it looked shiny, kind of sleek. Although he looked nothing like the German actor Conrad Veidt, the image kept coming back to me; maybe it was his manner, stiff, watchful, arrogant, and yeah, even charming in a snake-like way. I wasn’t gonna admit it to myself then, but all that propaganda had worked on me as it had on most people on our side of the conflict, and I didn’t want to be persuaded otherwise. Hatred has its own fodder, and I was a pig for it

Inviting him in, I told him to help himself to a drink. He opened a bottle of wine.

We hardly spoke a word to each other, but I felt his eyes on me as I got on with cooking and he sipped the wine. Albert Potter appeared next, shuffling in without announcement, still in his blue overalls, helmet tucked under his arm. Making straight for the coffee table, he poured himself the same brand of hooch as before. The conversation didn’t exactly flow even then, mainly because of the tension between myself and the German.