James Herbert - ‘48

Cissie had sunk to her knees in the dim hallway we found ourselves in, but I didn’t allow her to stay there. Just a tug did it, and she was in my arms, leaning against me, her breasts brushing my chest as she gasped for breath.

‘We can’t stay here,’ I told her between my own harsh breaths. ‘We gotta find someplace else to hide before they start searching all the houses along here.’

She drew away a couple of inches so I could see her nod in agreement. There was blood on her shaded face, a cut in her forehead probably caused by our fall through the iron roof or by the stumble in the big yard. She opened her mouth, about to ask a question, but I pressed my fingers to her lips. For a long moment we looked into each other’s eyes, hers wide and frightened, the whites grey in the gloom, my own probably the same, even though I was more used to the chase than her. I hoped she couldn’t see how scared I was.

Without another word I led her along the hallway to the front door. Controlling my breath as if the wrong ears might pick up the sound, I undid the latch and peeked out. To the left, further down the road, was the lamppost that stood near the entrance to the alleyway leading into Tyne Street, beyond this and on the other side of the road, the Austin Tourer outside the wash-house. To try and reach it would be too risky – it would mean going past the alley – so I decided the opposite direction was the only way. We’d have to move fast though. Beckoning Cissie to follow, I slid out into the sunshine.

We heard more shouting and an occasional burst of gunfire – the goons shooting at shadows among the rubbish or just in frustration? – beyond the row of terraced houses as we stole along the street, keeping close to the windows and walls, Cissie limping worse than me. At the corner I brought her to a halt.

The side street here could be crossed in four long strides it was so narrow; but it led directly to the yard gates fifty yards or so along, and so it was a vulnerable point. Even though I knew those gates were locked, I was also aware that a hefty kick would open them easily enough. More voices, pretty damn close – near the other side of the gates, I guessed. They sounded kind of angry.

I had no idea how many Blackshirts had come after us, but their noise told me there was quite a crowd; soon they’d be spilling out into that little side street.

‘You got enough juice left to go full lick?’ I whispered to Cissie.

She set her jaw and nodded. ‘Just watch me.’

‘Okay. No clatter.’ We both looked down at her bare, bleeding feet and I shrugged.

Then we sprinted.

We’d lost ourselves in the maze of market streets once known as Petticoat Lane, stopping to catch our breath only when we were sure we weren’t being followed, or could hear no distant calls and crack of gunfire, moving on as soon as we’d got our wind back, searching for a safe haven. There were plenty to choose from, but only when we’d passed through an archway and found ourselves inside a courtyard overlooked by ornamental iron balconies did we pick a flat at random on the second floor. Its flaky door was unlocked and once inside we’d bolted it, only then collapsing onto its hallway floor.

After a while Cissie had roused herself and, without a word, crawled into my arms. I’d held her there, my back against the wall, legs spread across the hallway and touching the opposite side, my chin nestled into the singed curls of her matted hair. And she’d felt good to hold on to, good to keep close, and when eventually her hand reached up to my neck, her fingers curling round to caress me, well, that felt good too.

But, as time wore on and my strength returned, my anger began to burn.

CISSIE HAD PLEADED with me long into the night, insisted it was insane. But I hadn’t listened. I knew what I was going to do.

‘You’re only one man,’ she’d argued.

‘Yeah, but they’re dying. Nothing slows you down more’n that.’

‘Hoke, please…let’s just get away from here, out of the city, me and you…’

‘I’ve done enough running. It’s time to quit, time to bring it to an end.’

I’d struck a match and lit the Woodbine I’d taken from a pack lying on the kitchen table.

‘Besides, others are involved now. Maybe I can save ‘em if it’s not too late.’

‘But where will you find them? They could be anywhere in the city.’

‘He told us, don’t you remember?’

She’d looked at me curiously, slowly shaking her head.

‘When they had us in the Savoy, me trussed up like a turkey, ready for some bloodletting. Hubble said something like, while I had my palace, he had his castle.’

I’d exhaled smoke, creating a cloud between us.

‘S’far as I know,’ I’d continued, ‘there’s only one castle in London, right?’

I’d watched her steadily.

‘Right?’ I’d said again.

I TOOK A FINAL DRAG on the last Woodbine and dropped the butt onto the ground, for some reason – old habits? – grinding it into the concrete with the heel of my boot. It’d been a long morning. And it was only just beginning.

From where I stood near the top of the hill I could take in the whole north-west spread of the ancient fort and the great towered bridge looming beyond it. Wrinkled blimps, some lower than others, hung listlessly over the dockland wharves along the river’s edges, while the jagged ironwork of tall cranes reached into the pale skyline like broken church spires. The bridge was raised, each side vertical, so that they almost scraped the two high walkways joining the twin towers: the tall ship they’d once opened for (it must have been something spectacular for the bridge to be fully raised like that) had long since drifted onwards to berth alongside some distant wharfside, its crew and passengers all dead, its cargo no longer needed, leaving the guardian of this stretch of the river frozen open behind it, the hands that had worked the bridge’s machinery by now shrivelled to bone and gristle. A lone gull flew between the towers, then wheeled around in a swooping arc as if changing its mind, sensing this necropolis was no place to be; it headed back downstream, its white wings catching the early sun.

Squinting my eyes, I studied the castle, searching for signs of life. There were none.

Its centre keep – the White Tower, it was called – rose over the ramparts, a dishevelled flag drooping from the flagpole on its roof, its walls and corner turrets washed grey by centuries of city dirt and weather grime, as were the bastions of its outer walls. Even so, speckles of white showed through like chalk on a cliff face as if to reveal the real glory beneath the dulled façade; and buttresses, relieving arches and tops of battlements were like bleached bones, as if someone had scrubbed them clean; but it was no more than the nature of the stone itself, this effect, and had nothing to do with care and attention. Part of the northern bastion had been demolished by a lucky strike from a Luftwaffe raiding party, and the surrounding walls and railings were nicked and scarred by near misses. Otherwise, the Tower of London stood proud and impregnable as it had throughout centuries of English history. On this summer’s day though, in the year 1948, it had only a single invader, one who wasn’t expected. And that would make all the difference.

I crouched to look inside the canvas bag at my feet, checking its contents, pulling its strap over my neck and shoulder as I straightened up again. Flipping open the button holster at my waist, I drew the Browning P-35 high power automatic and jacked a shell into the chamber. The double click as the slide came back, then returned, was a good sound, a satisfying sound. I’d chosen the P-35 because it was one of the best 9mm automatics around, if not the best, accurate and carrying thirteen rounds in its magazine (I had an extra mag in my left pocket and another in the bag). When the Krauts had occupied Belgium, they’d taken over the factory that manufactured these guns, which soon became a substitute service firearm for them; but what they soon discovered was that many were being sabotaged in production and were as likely to blow their hand off as stop an enemy. Fortunately, the one I had came from Canada, so I knew it was okay. I slipped it back into the holster. Leaning against the low parapet wall in front of me were three more weapons. I’d left it ‘til now to make my final decision on which one I’d be using that day.