Sarah Waters - The Night Watch

She'd never thought of that before-about all the secrets that the war must have swallowed up, left buried in dust and darkness and silence. She had only ever thought of the raids as tearing things open, making things hard… She kept glancing up at the sky as she and Betty walked to John Adam House, telling herself that she wanted to see the searchlights go up; that she wanted the planes to come, the guns to start, all hell to break loose…

But when the first of the guns began to pound, up in north London somewhere, she grew tense, and made Betty walk faster-afraid of the bombing, even in her wretchedness; afraid of getting hurt; not wanting to die, after all.

' Hey, Jerry! ' Giggs was calling out of his window, two hours later. ' Hey, Fritz! This way! This fucking way! '

' Shut up, Giggs, you gobshite! ' called someone else.

' This way, Jerry! Over here! '

Giggs had heard of a prison being bombed, and all the men with less than six months left to serve in it being released; he only had four and a half still to do, and so, every time a raid started up, he'd drag his table across his cell, climb up on to it, and call to the German pilots out of his window. If the raid was a bad one, Duncan found, the shouts could really unsettle you: you began to picture Giggs as something like a great big magnet, sucking bullets and bombs and areoplanes out of the sky… Tonight, however, the raid seemed distant, and no-one was much bothered by it. The thuds and flashes were occasional, and soft; the darkness thickened and thinned slightly, that was all, as searchlights swept over the sky. Other men had got up on to their tables and were calling to each other, about ordinary things, across Giggs's shouts.

' Woolly! Woolly, you owe me half a dollar, you git! '

' Mick! Hey, Mick! What are you doing? '

There wasn't an officer to make them be silent. The officers went straight down into their shelter as soon as a raid started up.

' You owe me-! '

' Mick! Hey, Mick! '

The men had to shout themselves almost hoarse, in order to be heard; someone might call from a window at one end of the hall, and be answered by a man fifty cells away. Lying in bed and hearing them yell was like going through the wireless, finding stations in the dark. Duncan almost liked it; he found, at least, that he could filter the voices out when they began to get on his nerves. Fraser, on the other hand, was driven mad by them, every time. Now, for example, he was moving restlessly about, grumbling and cursing. He raised himself up, and punched out the lumps of horsehair in his mattress. He plucked at the bits of uniform he'd laid on his blanket for extra warmth. Duncan couldn't see him, because the cell was too dark; but he could feel the movement of him through the frame of the bunks. When he lay heavily back down, the bunks rocked from side to side, and creaked and squealed slightly, like bunks in a ship. We might be sailors , Duncan thought.

' You owe me half a dollar, you cunt! '

'God!' said Fraser, raising himself again and punching the mattress more violently. 'Why can't they be quiet? Shut up! ' he shouted, slapping the wall.

'It's no good,' said Duncan, yawning. 'They won't be able to hear you… Now they're after Stella, listen.'

For someone had begun calling out: ' Ste-lla! Ste-lla! ' Duncan thought it was a boy named Pacey, down on the Twos. ' Ste-lla! I've got something to tell you … I saw your twat, in the bath-house! I saw your twat! It was black as my hat! '

Another man whistled and laughed. ' You're a fucking poet, Pacey! '

' It looked like a fucking black rat with its throat cut! It looked like your old man's beard, with your old girl's fat fucking lips in the middle! Ste-lla! Why don't you answer? '

' She can't answer ,' came another voice. ' She's got her gob on Mr Chase! '

' She's got her gob round Chase ,' said someone else, ' and Browning is slipping her a length from the back . She's got her fucking hands full, boys! '

' Shut up, you naughty things! ' cried a new voice. It was Monica, on the Threes.

Pacey started on her, then. ' Moni-ca! Moni-ca! '

' Shut up, you beasts! Can't a girl get her beauty sleep? '

This was followed by the crump! of a distant explosion and, ' Jerry! ' Giggs called again. ' Fritz! Adolf! This way! '

Fraser groaned and turned his pillow. Then, 'Hell!' he said. 'That's all we need!'

For on top of everything else, somebody had started singing.

' Little girl in blue, I've been dreaming of you … Little girl in blue …'

It was a man called Miller. He was in for running some sort of racket from a nightclub. He sang all the time, with horrible sincerity-as if crooning into a microphone at the front of a band. At the sound of his voice now, men up and down the hall began to complain.

' Turn it off! '

' Miller, you bastard! '

Duncan 's neighbour, Quigley, began to beat with something-his salt-pot, probably-on the floor of his cell. ' Shut up ,' he roared, as he did it, ' you fucking slags! Miller, you cunt! '

' I've been dreaming of you …'

Miller sang on, through all the complaints, through all the distant roar of the raid; and the worst of it was, the song was tuneful. One by one, the men fell silent, as if they were listening. Even Quigley, after a while, threw down his salt-pot and stopped roaring.

Fraser, too, had grown still. He'd lifted his head, the better to hear. 'Hell, Pearce,' he said now. 'I think I danced to this tune once. I'm sure I did.' He lay back down. 'I probably laughed at the bloody thing, then. Now- Now it seems stinkingly apt, doesn't it? Christ! Trust Miller and a popular song to be so honest about longing.'

Duncan said nothing. The song went on.

Though we're apart, I can't forget you .

I bless the hour that I first met you-

Abruptly, another voice broke across it. This one was deep, tuneless, lusty.

Give me a girl with eyes of blue,

Who likes it if you don't but prefers it if you do!

Someone cheered. Fraser said, in a tone of disbelief, 'Who the hell is that, now?'

Duncan tilted his head, to listen. 'I don't know. Maybe Atkin?'

Atkin, like Giggs, was a deserter. The song sounded like something a serviceman would sing.

Give me a girl with eyes of black,

Who likes it on her belly but prefers it on her back!

'Cause I'll be seeing you again, when you -

Miller was still going. For almost a minute the two songs ran bizarrely together; then Miller gave in. His voice trailed away. ' You wanker! ' he yelled. There were more cheers. Atkin's voice-or whoever's it was-grew louder, lustier. He must have been cupping his hands around his mouth and bellowing like a bull.

But then the 'Raiders Past' siren started up. Atkin turned his song into a whoop. Men on every landing joined in, drumming with their fists on their walls, their window-frames, their beds. Only Giggs was disappointed.

' Come back, you gobshites! ' he called, hoarsely. ' Come back, you German cunts! You forgot D Hall! You forgot D Hall! '