James Herbert - ‘48

‘It was a mistake. The German bomber was off course. They hadn’t meant to bomb civilians. And our own government knew that when they ordered the raid on Berlin. Hitler’s answer was the Blitz on London.’

‘Stern told you this?’

‘He was dying, he wouldn’t have lied. I never believed all the propaganda our government put out anyway, just most of it. Like everybody else, I suppose.’

My eyelids were beginning to feel heavy once more. Cissie had a point, but I didn’t have the energy to agree or disagree. Either way would’ve meant more debate and I was just too beat for that.

‘Hoke?’ She thought I’d fallen asleep.

I murmured something, or maybe I just groaned.

‘The last thing Wilhelm wanted you to know was that he didn’t mean any of those things he said at dinner. He was just tired of your goading, he wanted to strike back and he regretted it. He despised the Blackshirts too. He said they aligned themselves with the worst of his countrymen, the bigots, the Fascist bullyboys. That’s why he didn’t join them last night. In fact, he said if he could live he would help you in your fight against them.’

‘I’m not fighting the Blackshirts, Cissie. I’ve always run away from them.’

‘Then why d’you stay here, Hoke? Why didn’t you leave the city years ago?’

My mind was drifting and I found it very pleasant. ‘Too much to do,’ I mumbled, giving in to the creeping lethargy. The mattress beneath us may have been musty and full of lumps, but I seemed to be sinking into an overwhelming softness. Something was shaking my shoulder and I turned away from it. The voice persisted though.

‘What, Hoke? Tell me what you have to do? Tell me…’

I was gone and soon, so was the voice. Mercifully, my sleep was dreamless.

I think it was the warmth on my face, the blaze against my eyelids, that woke me. My eyes opened and I turned away from the sun’s rays, disturbing Cissie, whose arm had been curled around my waist. Our faces close, she blinked at me for a few moments; she didn’t move away.

Everything came at me in a rush and I was suddenly alert, leaning on one elbow to check the open bedroom door, then turning towards the dirt-smeared window, squinting my eyes against the sunlight forcing its way through.

‘What is it?’ My reaction had frightened her.

I listened for a full minute before replying. ‘It’s okay. We’re safe.’ I couldn’t really be sure of that until I’d taken a look outside, back and front of the house, but I didn’t sense any danger right then and my instinct had always been reliable. I lay back on the thin pillow and realized I was aching in a hundred different places and hurting in a few more.

There was dried blood on my arm where they’d tried to bleed me last night, and the incision still throbbed a little. My shoulder was stiff, the dressing that had covered the bullet graze now missing, and various cuts and bruises reminded me of the hell I’d been through these past few days; even breathing too deeply caused a dull pain, but I could tell my ribs were only bruised, not cracked, otherwise that pain would’ve been a whole lot sharper. My ankle felt okay, although a mite sore, and I rotated it one way, then the other, just to test it it complained sure enough – a sudden twinge, was all – but there was no swelling any more, so Iknew I could get around okay. Anything else – cuts, gashes, sores and contusions – didn’t matter. there was nothing to cause me serious problems.

The back of Cissie’s hand brushed against my cheek. ‘What’s the diagnosis? You going to live, Hoke?’

‘I reckon.’

Lifting my head from the pillow, I inspected the room, checking all was as I’d left it from my previous visit some months before. I hadn’t had the chance before we’d fallen asleep in the early hours, and the room had been dim anyway; now I saw it was the same as always, the kids’ clothes on the armchair, the fireplace full of cold ashes, the door to the corner cupboard that was stuffed with more clothes and only a few toys and comic-books still slightly ajar.

‘How’re you feeling?’ I asked when I was satisfied nothing had been disturbed.

‘My legs feel like they’ve run a couple of hundred miles and my arm’s still sore from the grip one of those Blackshirts had on me, but otherwise, ‘cept for some bumps and bruises, I’m fine. I think.’

As she followed me in scanning the room I studied her profile. Her jaw was good and firm, her nose neither dainty nor dominant, kind of just right, the thin scar across its bridge white against the dirt on her face. There was dust and glass in her singed hair and the evening dress was mussed up, torn in places, but like me, she’d suffered no serious damage.

‘Who lived here before?’ she asked, unaware I was watching her. ‘Were there bodies…?’

I shook my head. ‘No, the place was empty when I moved in. But my guess is that a woman lived here with three young sons.’

‘No husband?’

‘Mothballed suits in the wardrobe downstairs. And no shaving brush and mug by the sink.’

‘P’raps he had a beard.’

‘No men’s underwear or socks either. The husband was either serving in the Forces, or the woman was a widow. I think when the final rockets fell she took her kids to the Underground station in the high street That’s probably where they died.’

Cissie gave a little shiver. Even after all this time and so much tragedy, the deaths of one poor woman and her deprived kids still caused her grief. How much more difficult then, when the victim was someone you knew and loved. Oh yeah, that could lead to your own disintegration.

‘Look,’ I said, sitting up on the bed, ‘I’m gonna make coffee, tea if you’d prefer. You rest up and I’ll bring it to you. Then we’ll think about…’ I shot a glance out the window, judging the sun’s position ‘…we’ll think about some lunch.’

She rose too. ‘No, let me do it. You must still be all in.’

I pushed her down again. ‘I know where everything is. And I’d rather be moving around than letting my muscles stiffen up. So what’s it to be – tea or coffee?’

‘Tea.’

I swung my legs off the bed, but she caught my hand before I could move off.

‘Hoke, those people outside the hotel last night…Who were they, where did they come from? Were they part of Hubble’s organization?’

‘You saw the surprise on their faces, and you saw how the Blackshirts reacted when they ran into ‘em.’

‘Then who…?’

‘Refugees, like us. Refugees from the Blood Death. At least nearly all of them were – they seemed to be taking care of the odd one or two who didn’t look so good. I think they were a little whacky after so many years of hiding away and the Savoy being lit up like that, like some Christmas tree in a black limbo, well, I guess it drew them out, lured them away from their hiding places all over the city. The lights probably gave ‘em some hope, made ‘em think a part of the old life was returning, and they had to see it for themselves. They made a bad mistake.’

‘What will Hubble do with them?’

‘You already know.’

She lowered her head and as I watched, a single tear dropped into her lap.

I touched her shoulder. ‘It takes some of the heat off us, Cissie.’

I left her there on the bed, staring after me, my meaning slowly dawning on her. Maybe it was a selfish remark, but there was truth in it: Hubble had all the decent blood he needed for now, so he didn’t have to come looking for us. Okay, I was thinking only of our own skin, but selfish as the notion might have been, it gave me some passing comfort. Unfortunately I’d underestimated Hubble’s hatred of me – or was it his obsession with me – after all this time. Yeah, I’d underestimated it badly.