''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.

  22

  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.

  23

  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.

  My first choice would’ve been the Bren gun, one of the best light machine guns of all time: reliable, pretty fair accuracy, steadiness in firing, and with a reasonably low rate of fire, which allowed a better aim without too much ammunition wastage. Also, it had only three kinds of stoppage factors (certain similar weapons had twenty-three, for Chrissake!) and I knew how to fix all three, and smartly at that. But now I nixed it, because even with its bipod folded forward the gun was awkward to carry if you intended to be moving fast – and before the hour was out I intended to be moving very fast.

  So I turned to the Thompson, nicknamed the Tommy gun, lifting it and feeling its weight It handled well and could be switched to single-shot if required; but this one, the military version, carried a twenty-round box that took only two seconds of automatic fire to empty (with the fifty-round magazine cartridges would rattle around like nuts and bolts in a tin box, which could be a mite embarrassing if you were sneaking up on an enemy position). It also had a ‘spray’ effect, which was fine for trench warfare, but not so hot if the good guys were mixed up with the bad guys. I needed more control.

  Laying down the Thompson, I picked up the Sten gun that had been standing next to it This would have to be the one. Its main advantages were that it was easy to carry, especially using a fitted sling, and it was simply built, so there were fewer things to go wrong. Another advantage was that the magazine fitted into the gun’s left side so that it could lie across my forearm for additional stability and wouldn’t interfere if I had to hit dirt and fire from the ground. It also had a thirty-round capacity which, with two spare mags inside the bag, should be more than enough for my purposes. Before I’d brought this particular model along I’d been faced with another choice. During the war, commandos and raiding parties understandably had favoured silenced weapons, so a variation Sten gun had been produced with its own inbuilt silencer and canvas heat-resistant cover, and these particular versions were among the collection I was able to pick from. After a few seconds’ deliberation, I’d elected the unsilenced MKY, a quality 1944 model with wooden stock, pistol grip and rifle foresight, deciding that today I’d want plenty of noise.

  Removing the magazine, I shook it against my ear just to hear the slight but reassuring shift of cartridges, then slapped it back in. It entered smoothly, no fuss at all.

  Satisfied with the ‘artillery’, I reached under the back of my sweatshirt and slid out the double-edged commando knife from the sheath attached to my belt. The thin, ridged handle was wrapped in leather and the tapering blade with its wickedly sharp point was coated in non-reflective black. It looked vicious and I hoped to God I wouldn’t have to use it – I didn’t want to be that close to the enemy. I put the knife away again, but left the handle protruding outside the sweatshirt for easy access.

  I’d been lucky that in the early hours of the morning I hadn’t needed to travel too far to find other items I’d be using that day, because when the Luftwaffe had turned its attention towards the Soviet Union back in ‘41, giving London’s East End a breather from their bombing raids, quite a number of factories and firms in these parts had converted to war production, manufacturing anything from demolition charges to safety fuses, from dynamite to shells fitted with explosives; just across the river at Woolwich was one of the country’s biggest armouries. For the hand weapons I’d paid a visit to a deep shelter transit depot I knew of only a couple of miles from where I now stood, a place where troops waiting to be shipped overseas had been billeted, equipment and all, until time to go. Unfortunately, the last lot hadn’t gone anywhere – the Blood Death had seen to that – leaving the depot well stocked with all kinds of weaponry and tackle. It wasn’t pleasant searching the stores down there, and only a deep seething rage that overwhelmed all else got me through it.

  Oddly, I was no longer trembling. It’d been a bad night, I’d hardly slept thinking of what I had to do, and laying there in the dark, my hands had started to shake and my throat had tightened up so that it was difficult to breathe. My mouth had dried too, and there was a dread in my gut that felt like a physical lump. It was a relief to leave the bed while it was still black outside and set things rolling. And now, after a lot of hard work and some travelling, my hands were steady and my mouth wasn’t at all dry. There was a grim determination in me, a kind of dark coldness that had taken over from the rage to stifle any other emotion. Sure, I was scared, but for the first time in three years I felt I was in control.

  With one last sweeping inspection of the old castle and its battlements, I moved out.

  24

  AS I WALKED DOWN the cobbled hill towards the castle’s main gates I remembered the first time I’d visited the Tower of London. It was in ‘43 and, because this tourist attraction was closed to the public for the duration, I went along without Sally. The British government encouraged US and other Allied Forces to visit its country’s historic places and monuments – it was a great exercise in public relations – and I was just one of thousands of American servicemen stationed over here to drop in on the Tower. I was among a small group of flyers, about half-a-dozen if I remember right, two of ‘em English, and we had a guide – one of those scarlet-tunicked Beefeater guys – all to ourselves. He was thorough, enjoying his own country’s history and traditions, but I’d forgotten most of what he told us, although I still retained a fair idea of the layout of the place and had a vague notion of its past glories (and infamies). Last night I’d been puzzled as to why Hubble and his not-so-merry band of blood thieves should choose the castle as headquarters when they had the choice, like me, of London’s finest mansions or hotels – those still left undamaged by the Blitz and unchecked fires, leakages and gas explosions, that is – but I eventually came to the conclusion that the Tower of London, with all its historical associations and grandeur, suited Hubble’s own vision of himself. His crazed mind considered himself the new overlord of civilization, the baron of rebirth, if you like, military master of the New Order – why else the martial uniforms and his sham, jackbooted army? – so what better centre of command than the fortress of England’s most famous conqueror, William? Hubble had an acute sense of destiny. Besides, there were comfortable enough living quarters within the walls and I was willing to bet old Sir Max had claimed the best for himself. And that was where I hoped to find him this morning.

  Carcasses and a few abandoned vehicles, some of them military, littered the road and broad pavements of Tower Hill, and halfway down I passed the remains of a carthorse still attached to its wagon’s shafts, the body almost picked clean, the bones yellowed by the sun. The cart, laden with boxes, had its rear against one of the many short iron posts (small French cannon captured in the Napoleonic Wars, like the one at the end of the alleyway in Tyne Street, set upright in concrete and painted black) and I remembered being informed by that fancy-decked guide on my previous visit how the carters from Billingsgate fish market (just down the road and not far from where I’d moored the motor launch two nights ago) would back their wagon’s tailboard against a post whenever their horse got too weary hauling its load up the hill. Of the driver there was no sign – had he been one of the lucky ones, or just a Slow-Dier? – but the fish boxes on the cart had obviously been attacked for their contents at some time in the past – the marks and scratches on the wood were aged – although they remained unbroken. Still walking, my gaze went back to what was left of the horse and I suddenly understood what had happened here: unable to get at the fish packed inside the sealed boxes, the birds – had to be birds, judging by those marks on the wood – had eaten the horse. But what kind of bird could strip an animal that size of all its flesh? I thought of the lone seagull that had flown through the bridge minutes earlier and wondered, but it was a distraction that disappeared when I drew nearer to the tall, bomb-scarred gates at the bottom o
f the hill.

  I waited a few seconds before entering, looking around first, listening, searching for the slightest sign of life. Ahead of me was the stunted, twin-towered gatehouse, the royal crest cut in stone above its archway: this was the entrance to the Tower itself and I almost expected to find a sentry on guard there, ready to challenge me. I heard and saw no one. But then, who would Hubble expect to invade his fortress?

  The Sten gun had been hanging by its sling over my shoulder, and now I took it off, holding it before me, muzzle pointing directly ahead. I went on, feeling exposed, vulnerable, passing through the gatehouse and wondering if anyone had a weapon trained on me behind those arrow slits in its walls.

  The air was cooler inside the archway, but it scarcely chilled the sweat on my brow as I studied the stone causeway over the moat. The sturdy wooden gates of the larger, inner gateway towers across the causeway were wide open, but there was nothing inviting about them. I took a look over the low side wall at the dried-out moat below and frowned. During the war, this wide, grassed-over defence ditch had been full of allotments, Tower staff and soldiers digging for victory and supplementing their plain rations with their own fresh vegetables; those same vegetable patches were now unkempt and overgrown, parched by the hot summer. It occurred to me that if the Blackshirts really had taken up residence here, then why hadn’t they maintained the allotments? They might be sick, but they still needed to eat. Suddenly I was doubting my own assumption. Had I got it wrong? When Hubble had referred to his ‘castle’ had he meant something else, using the word as some kind of metaphor for his own grandiose view of himself? So far there’d been no sign of life, no sounds to interrupt that awesome, dead-city silence, so had I made a big mistake?