Noose

  ‘I blame you for this,’ Mr Charteris said.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Have you ever experienced anything like this before?’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Mrs Charteris said.

  ‘Knocking first with the knocker, then on the glass. He doesn’t care which,’ Ian’s father said. ‘I’ve observed his behaviour.’

  ‘Why don’t you answer?’ Mrs Charteris said.

  ‘Which will be just what he wants,’ Ian’s father said.

  ‘Well, that’s obvious,’ Mrs Charteris said, ‘or he wouldn’t be knocking the door.’

  ‘I won’t play his game,’ Ian’s father replied, ‘not at my time of life. In the past, maybe, when I was younger, but no longer.’

  The man drew back from the glass and gave a small wave with his right hand, inviting them to come forward and open the door.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Ian’s father said.

  ‘What?’ Mrs Charteris said.

  ‘Like a signal – an order. The way you would call a waiter. I can’t believe the neck of it. Most likely he was snapping his damn fingers, but we couldn’t hear.’

  ‘He won’t be able to understand why we’re standing here,’ Mrs Charteris said. ‘He can probably tell there are three of us, four if Graham comes in from the back garden.’

  ‘Of course he can tell there are three of us,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘That’s why I said “cheek”. He thinks he can order us about in our own house – three or thirty-three, he doesn’t care; he thinks he’s entitled.’

  The man bent forward again and this time he spoke through the letter box. ‘Hello. Sorry to disturb. Is there an Ian Charteris here? Could I have a word with an Ian Charteris?’

  ‘Ah! Didn’t I tell you?’ Mr Charteris said.

  ‘What?’ she replied.

  ‘This is to do with that shelter, although I’d spoken often to you about the kitchen table,’ he said.

  ‘I’m from the Echo,’ the man said.

  ‘This is disgraceful,’ Mr Charteris said.

  ‘What?’ his wife said.

  ‘Hunting us down in our own property,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘This is barging in, the way the Press always does.’

  ‘I thought you liked the Press,’ Mrs Charteris replied. ‘Your scrap book. The cuttings.’

  ‘This isn’t to do with that,’ Ian’s father replied.

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ Mrs Charteris said. She pushed past her husband and opened the door. ‘Yes, Ian Charteris is here. What’s it to do with, please?’ She spoke with her special, refined voice again, so as not to seem pig-ig, even though they hadn’t opened the door at once.

  ‘Well, with a murder,’ the man said.

  ‘I knew it, I knew it,’ Mr Charteris said. He punched the hall dado rail with his fist three times quickly. Ian’s mother hated fist work against walls or furniture. She considered it as showing too much excitement, like foreigners, especially in hot countries where people got so steamed they forgot control. She went to the spot on the dado rail and brushed it with her hand, as though to give it comfort or make sure her husband hadn’t contaminated it by getting his skin broken open in the blow and leaving blood. ‘First, down the police station in the middle of the night, and now this,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘They want to know everything and spread it. Don’t tell me they won’t spread it. Why are they called “reporters” if they’re not going to spread it? They’re going to spread it to people who buy the Echo.’

  ‘Spread what, Dad?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, spread it,’ his father replied.

  ‘Yes, I heard Ian went to the police station so late. That’s why I’m here, really,’ the man said.

  ‘We’re not at all inclined to take this matter further, thank you,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘We’re certainly grateful for the interest shown by you and your paper, but we have decided not to proceed. I believe I’ve heard of a right to silence, and that’s what we wish to apply now.’

  ‘We can’t write very much about it, because someone has been charged and it’s a matter for the courts,’ the man replied.

  ‘Well, that’s that then,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘But I heard about the police station and going for help in Larch Street,’ the reporter said. ‘We can describe that. You’ve got a boy who’s a hero. A child braving the blitzkrieg in the best British tradition. It would be nice to have that presented in the paper and kept for all time as a cutting, don’t you think? Someone said he was wearing a helmet. Have you got that somewhere? It would make a great picture to illustrate bravery even at a young age, and defiance of the Nazis. The paper likes to help with morale of the citizens.’

  Ian knew his father would hate to hear someone else in this family, not himself, described as a hero, and he would dislike mention of the cuttings because that proved there was a scrapbook. Most probably he’d think Ian might want to use those empty pages at the end of the book to stick cuttings about him, Ian, this meaning people would not be able to concentrate fully on the King Arthur incident.

  ‘You’re Ian, are you?’ the reporter said. ‘Aged eleven?’

  ‘Certain matters are definitely suitable for the Press,’ Mr Charteris said, ‘but other matters are not. That stands to reason.’

  ‘My name’s Cyril Buck. I’m Local News for the paper. Of course, we reported a lot about you, Mr Charteris, some years ago, concerning the rescue. You are a family that seems to give us first-class stories!’

  ‘Yes, those events got some attention in the newspapers, on a national, as well as a local level,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘Many folk still refer to the events of that time.’

  ‘Your son obviously takes after you. I mean for bravery and determination,’ Buck said.

  ‘I don’t think of what I did as bravery,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘I don’t care for the word “hero”, though it was, I admit, much used. What I did was necessary, that’s all.’

  ‘And perhaps, also, what Ian did,’ Buck said.

  ‘It was an unfortunate matter,’ Ian’s father said.

  ‘In which way?’ Buck said.

  ‘They wouldn’t normally have been in that shelter at all. We have private provision, perfectly sufficient.’

  ‘The Anderson?’ Buck said. ‘Often they flood if the floor isn’t concreted.’

  ‘I don’t say public shelters are unnecessary,’ Mr Charteris replied. ‘Obviously, people from outside the area might get caught in the street by a raid, and they should have somewhere to take refuge.’

  ‘That’s what the man with the knife had done,’ Ian said. ‘Off the tram. The trams could not keep going. Too dangerous. So this one pulled up near the shelter and the man and perhaps some of the other passengers and the driver and conductor went into the shelter.’ Ian tried to keep this bit of talk going so his father couldn’t have all the conversation to himself, as he loved. Although his body seemed stiff and twisted because of anger the words came out non-stop and smooth. Ian said: ‘The man was going to see a lady, but the raid prevented this. Or made him postpone it. But, then, a sudden shock: who’s in the shelter but his brother? They didn’t seem to know that verse from the Bible, “Let brotherly love continue.” I don’t even know whether it ever started. Or perhaps they were OK with each other when boys, but then comes this squabble over their mother’s money.’

  ‘You’d better come in. It’s extremely cold out here,’ Mrs Charteris said. The ‘extremely’ she did very refined – in fact, Ian thought, you could say extremely refined. There was a lot of work on the em part of extremely when she said it, like extreeemmmly. She might have heard someone do it like that in a play on the radio about rich people, or even royalty. Such people would say, ‘Extreeemmmly glad to make your acquaintance.’

  Cyril Buck took off his hat and stepped into the hall. He was tall and skinny, more than fifty, not young enough for the army, with a big nose that would take up too much space in a submarine. He looked all right for Local News. He had a noteboo
k with the pages held at the top by circles of bright wire. Ian’s father didn’t get out of the way for him at once, as though he thought it was a mistake to let him into the house – someone who’d been knuckle-thumping the door glass and now talking too much about Ian and not enough about Mr Charteris himself. But then he did shift and they went into the living room. Mrs Charteris made tea. Cyril Buck unbuttoned his overcoat but didn’t take it off. A red and blue woollen scarf was around his neck. He sat down.

  Buck said: ‘The walk through the lane to Larch Street, Ian – that must have been dangerous.’

  ‘I had the helmet,’ Ian said.

  ‘If I’d been here, things would have been completely different,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘I was absent on certain war work and delayed. Pardon me, but we are not allowed to tell of the nature of that work. As the posters say, “Be like Dad, keep Mum” and “Walls have ears”, meaning spies.’

  ‘It would have been hard to get five under the table,’ Ian said.

  ‘Which table?’ Buck said.

  ‘People can panic at stressful times,’ Mr Charteris replied. ‘A rush out to a public shelter, for instance. It’s understandable, I suppose, but to be avoided if possible.’

  ‘We can’t write about the actual stabbing,’ Buck said, ‘because that would be like saying he was guilty, and it’s for the court to decide this, although he obviously is. But maybe Ian could just describe all the rest of the evening. This will really interest people. What colour was the helmet?’

  ‘Greyish.’

  Buck made a note. ‘Did it have “WARDEN” written on it?’

  ‘It was Mr Chip Shop’s.’

  Buck laughed and wrote this down.

  ‘It’s a nickname given by the children, you understand, owing to him having a fish and chip parlour at the end of the street, which you may have observed,’ Mrs Charteris said. ‘His real name is Mr Bell.’ She had a small chuckle, nothing too loud or violent.

  ‘People like Mr and Mrs Bell are all right in a public shelter as local residents, but you can’t tell who else might be there, as these events certainly prove. I know there’s a war on and things can be rather different from the normal, but just the same,’ Mr Charteris said.

  ‘Can you write about the mother who had shelves and volumes?’ Ian said. ‘Is that not allowed, either?’

  ‘Books are all very well,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘There’s The Mill on the Floss or A Tale of Two Cities. They’re not the be-all and end-all, though, are they? I’m definitely in favour of books and turning pages in succession to one another. They are just a single aspect of matters, however.’

  ‘What were you feeling as you walked through the lane to Larch Street wearing the greyish helmet?’ Buck asked.

  ‘Cold,’ Ian said.

  ‘But in an emotional sense,’ Buck said.

  ‘The smell of burning,’ Ian said. ‘And sad to see the mansion.’

  ‘Serves him right for building such a big ugly place there,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘They never mixed.’

  ‘Who?’ Buck said.

  ‘The people from the mansion – not with the rest of us around here. And a big wall at the back, like a palace. Snooty. Well, I heard the wall’s down now and half the back of the mansion.’

  ‘We have quite a clippings file on the Charteris family in the office,’ Buck replied. ‘The young woman you saved was from Cardiff, too, wasn’t she?’ He turned back a couple of pages in his notebook. ‘Emily Bass of Marlborough Road, in those days. And there are pictures. Do you ever hear anything of her, I wonder?’

  ‘You wonder, do you?’ Mrs Charteris said.

  ‘But most probably she married and has moved away. She was a pretty woman, wasn’t she?’

  ‘It depends what you mean by pretty,’ Mrs Charteris said.

  Ian thought the reporter suddenly seemed to feel he shouldn’t have started on talk about the rescue and the young woman. He looked sort of worried and his long face and uncheerful nose made it worse. Ian was sorry for him. Mrs Charteris had become rather snarly, although Ian didn’t understand why. There were times when she could become more snarly than refined. He thought it must be a strain for her being married to Mr Charteris, and this was bound to show itself now and then.

  Someone else knocked at the door. ‘This is really getting beyond a joke,’ Mr Charteris said.

  ‘What is?’ Mrs Charteris said.

  ‘The upshot,’ Mr Charteris said.

  ‘Of what?’ Buck asked.

  ‘This is the upshot – all this,’ Mr Charteris said, ‘people hammering on the door, including the glass part.’

  ‘It’ll be Gordon, our pictures man,’ Buck said.

  ‘Pictures man?’ Mr Charteris said.

  ‘They’ll want a photo of Ian for the paper,’ Mrs Charteris said.

  ‘I don’t think that’s at all necessary,’ Mr Charteris said.

  ‘Straighten your tie and smooth your hair down, Ian,’ Mrs Charteris said. ‘People will be interested in him, Laurence.’

  ‘I don’t want them interested in him,’ Mr Charteris said.

  ‘Are you jealous, or something?’ Mrs Charteris said.

  ‘I won’t smile, because it’s a serious matter,’ Ian said.

  Mrs Charteris let the photographer in. The reporter told him a short version of Ian’s story. ‘Where’s the helmet?’ the photographer said. He was nearly as old as the reporter.

  ‘Yes?’ Buck said.

  ‘Now do you see what I mean about the shelter?’ Mr Charteris said.

  ‘What?’ Mrs Charteris said.

  ‘This is, as I said, the upshot,’ Mr Charteris said.

  ‘What is?’ Mrs Charteris replied.

  ‘This helmet,’ Ian’s father said. ‘They want a picture of him in the helmet for the paper. And you said you were not involved with all that disgusting stuff in the shelter. Do you still think so? If you’re not involved why would they want a picture of Ian for the paper? They don’t go about taking pictures of people who are not involved. The Press concentrates on those who are involved.’

  ‘It won’t do any harm,’ Mrs Charteris said.

  ‘It will tell the story of his courage,’ the photographer replied. ‘You’ve heard that saying, “one picture is worth a thousand words”. This picture will illustrate his brave role, despite his age.’

  ‘I’ll go over and ask Mr Chip Shop for the steel titfer,’ Buck said.

  Next evening the Echo had a long account of Ian’s actions in fetching the constable and going to the police station with him on the night of the raid. A large photograph of Ian wearing the helmet appeared in the middle of the type. Underneath this picture were the words ‘11-year-old raid hero of Barton Street’.

  Two mornings afterwards came the first postcard. It had one word on the back in capital letters – ‘SQUEALER’ – and no signature. Mr Charteris brought it into the kitchen where Ian, Graham, and Mrs Charteris were sitting at breakfast. Ian’s father put the card in front of his wife with that side of it up. She looked at it, then turned it over. It was addressed, also in capital letters, to ‘IAN CHARTERIS, POLICE SNEAK, BARTON STREET, GRANGETOWN, CARDIFF’.

  ‘No house number,’ Ian’s mother said.

  ‘Not needed,’ his father said. ‘The postman knows who he is and where, because of the damn Echo.’

  ‘The paper didn’t give the house number, did it?’ she said. ‘That’s why it’s not on the card.’

  ‘Not needed,’ Ian’s father said. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘What?’ his wife said.

  ‘Going to the public shelter. There was bound to be an upshot. This postcard is the upshot.’

  Ian decided he hated upshots, if this was one.

  ‘It’s evil,’ she said.

  ‘Brought on ourselves,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘Brought on yourself. It wasn’t necessary for these things to happen.’

  ‘Oh, tell Hitler it wasn’t necessary,’ Mrs Charteris said. ‘Did I ask him to come bombing? Did I ask him to ge
t those two men into the shelter so one could kill the other?’ She turned the card back over with the stamp and Ian’s address in view. ‘The franking says posted locally,’ she said.

  ‘Of course it was posted locally,’ Ian’s father said. ‘This is from somebody who knows the situation.’

  ‘Which situation?’ she said.

  ‘Our son with the police.’

  ‘What else could he do?’ she said.

  ‘What else could I have done, Dad?’ Ian said. ‘Someone had to fetch the policeman and then go to the station, because of being a witness.’

  ‘That’s it, exactly,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘What else could you do? But you shouldn’t have been there at all, and then that question would not be required. There wouldn’t have been an else for you to do; just sitting quietly under the kitchen table.’

  ‘These capital letters – it’s like a ransom note in kidnap films in the cinema,’ Mrs Charteris replied. ‘It’s so tracing is impossible. We can’t even tell whether it’s from a man or a woman. But we should give it to the police.’

  ‘No more police,’ Mr Charteris said.

  ‘Why not?’ Mrs Charteris asked.

  ‘We’re tangled up in all that enough already. Think of that postman. He can read the card. It’s not private like a letter. He talks to his friends about it. The tale spreads everywhere.’

  ‘He’ll know it’s unjust,’ his wife said. ‘And so will everyone else.’

  ‘Talk,’ Mr Charteris said. ‘What do they care whether it’s just or unjust. They can gossip about us.’

  Over the next week there were three more identical cards, and then another three after Ian gave evidence in the trial. Another three came following the hanging. These were not the same as the earlier ones, though. They said: ‘SQUEALER. PROUD OF YOURSELF NOW?’

  FIVE

  So, these were some of the foundations of Ian’s life. A lot rested on them as he grew up. And, of course, there’d be other foundations before he reached his Mirror days, his Daphne West and the gas days, and nights, his Suez days. In their turn, his Mirror days and the Daphne West and the gas days and nights and the Suez days would themselves become foundations for what followed.