'48

  ‘They’re not in here,’ someone said.

  ‘How d’you know?’ came a hushed reply. ‘It’s too dark to see.’

  ‘They’d have gone up the stairs. There’s a way out up there.’

  ‘They didn’t have time, we’d have seen ‘em. They’ve ducked in here, or one of those doors opposite.’

  Another voice joined in, quiet like the others, as if afraid of disturbing the dead. ‘What’s behind all them curtains?’ it said.

  ‘Looks like some kind of bunker in there. Probably the hotel’s own Blitz shelter.’

  Shuffling footsteps as they entered.

  ‘Fucking hell, it’s creepy.’

  So they felt it too. Enough to make them change their minds about searching the place? Somewhere far off there was a muffled crash or explosion, I couldn’t tell which.

  ‘This whole place is gonna come down.’

  ‘Sodding Germans.’

  ‘Well let’s get out before it does.’

  ‘No, we gotta check. If Hubble found out we hadn’t, he’d have our guts for garters.’

  ‘Shit, I had a better time in the army.’

  ‘He pulled us together, didn’t he? Gave us all a chance. It’d be every man for hisself without Sir Max.’

  ‘Okay, okay, let’s get on with it.’

  I swore under my breath. They were moving further into the room. I shifted my weight, got an elbow beneath me, and Stern gave a soft moan.

  ‘D’you hear that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There was a noise, sounded like someone moaning.’

  ‘I never heard it.’

  ‘It came from over there.’

  I parted the curtain at its centre, just enough for me to peek through. There were three of them, as the voices had indicated, their figures vague and shadowy in the poor light from the hallway. I was surprised, assuming more had chased us down here; then I realized the main group had probably gone straight past the stairway so they could search the private function rooms along the upper hallway, while these three had broken off to investigate the basement. I let go of the curtain and pulled back as the three men drew near.

  ‘It came from behind one of these.’

  Through the material of the curtains I could see the lights outside were fluttering again.

  ‘Here, I don’t want to be in this bleedin place if the lights go again.’

  ‘All right, let’s make it quick then.’

  The swish of curtains being drawn back came to us. They’d started at the beginning of the row of bunks we were hiding among and were working their way along.

  ‘Why don’t I just put a burst through the lot of ‘em?’ came one of the voices.

  ‘What, and kill the people we’re looking for? We need ‘em to survive, you bloody fool.’

  ‘So Hubble says.’

  ‘Yeah, well he’s right. You saw the American and his friends – they all look healthy enough, none of ‘em’s touched by the disease. They’ve got the good blood and we need it. It don’t take a genius to work that out.’

  Another curtain was drawn aside, this one over the next bunk down. I heard Cissie gasp in a sharp breath.

  The material in front of me ruffled, then dim light accompanied by a long-bladed knife (the same one that had slit Albert Potter’s throat?) came through the parting. There seemed no point in waiting to be discovered.

  I pulled back the curtain so smartly that the man on the other side shrieked in surprise. My other hand gripped the fist around the knife and pushed it upwards and back so that its point sank into the startled Blackshirt’s throat. His shriek became a choking gurgle and rising air forced splatters of blood from the throat wound and his mouth. I felt its warmness as it sprinkled my face and shoulder, and I leapt out of the bunk, shoving the choking man away from me into the Blackshirt behind him. This second one’s pistol went off as he staggered backwards and I ducked instinctively. The bullet hit the ceiling and the man fell to the floor with the weight of his knife-struck pal on top of him.

  The thing of it is, and as I keep saying, these poor saps were not the men they used to be. The Slow Death had weakened their muscles and slowed their reactions, otherwise they’d have cornered and captured me way back. I was no superman, no Übermensch, as Hitler had liked to call his élite, but I was still pretty fit – working on the allotments and lifting bodies on a near-daily basis had taken care of that – and living with constant danger had kept my wits sharp enough, so I had the edge on these characters. And knowing I was no good to them dead had always encouraged me to take risks, which was why I’d taken the fight to them at that moment and almost shocked them rigid.

  The third man was still gawping at me as I started towards him. His weapon, a Thompson submachine gun, whose round magazine made him look like a hoodlum from one of those gangster movies that were all the rage before the war, was frozen in his hands. No Jimmy Cagney or Edward G. this guy, though, because I was already diving for his legs before he remembered to pull the trigger.

  I was under the Thompson’s stubby barrel so the bullets only ruined the floor as I struck his knees, unbalancing him and bringing him down on top of me. I kept rolling and came up behind him. Reaching over his hunched shoulders, I grabbed the submachine gun’s warm barrel with one hand and its butt with the other, jerking the weapon upwards so that it cracked against his lower jaw, knocking what little sense he had from him. He clung to the gun though, but his grip was slack. I pulled it back against his windpipe, squeezing hard and, I guess, crushing or breaking something inside, because he suddenly went limp, all life gone from him.

  I heard a scuffle and looked up to see Cissie’s shadowy figure hurl itself at the second Blackshirt, whose pistol was aimed in my direction as he sprawled on the floor. He dismissed her with a backward slap of his hand and pointed the gun at me again. But this time it was Stern he had to contend with.

  The German aimed a kick at the gun hand, but missed and struck the Blackshirt’s wrist instead, spoiling the shot. I was already scrambling across the floor on all fours and before he got a second chance, I’d smashed my fist into his nose (never fails). The back of his head hit the floor with a sickening smash, but just to make sure he wouldn’t be a nuisance any more, I snatched the pistol from his sluggish grip and brought the butt down hard on his forehead. His head slowly lolled to one side as Stern sank down beside him. Aware that the gunfire would have attracted the attention of other Blackshirts who were hunting us, I was on my feet in an instant.

  ‘Stern, you okay? Can you get up?’

  He swayed on his knees, head lowered, eyes downcast. ‘With your help,’ he managed to murmur.

  A stain that could only have been blood was darkening his shirt collar and when I touched his shoulder I felt the slick wetness soaking through his jacket. Pistol in one hand, I reached beneath his arms and hauled him up, then held him there while I quickly looked towards the open doorway. Cissie pushed herself off the floor and skirted round the man with the knife in his throat, his hands still on the handle, his body quivering as his sick blood drained from him. She joined us and took Stern by one of his arms to help me support him.

  ‘He’s badly hurt, we’ve got to do something about his wound,’ she said urgently.

  ‘No time,’ I told her as I ripped open his shirt collar, then pulled the fancy silk handkerchief from his suit’s breast pocket. I tucked it under the shirt collar, feeling for the wound. ‘Okay, hold it there, try to stem the flow as best you can.’

  She pressed the already blood-soaked silk against his neck, both of us aware that Stern’s wound needed a proper dressing and that he shouldn’t be moving about

  ‘Hoke.’ Stern had raised his head and was trying to see me in the gloom. ‘Leave me the other weapon, the Thompson. I can hold them off for you, or at least take up some of their time.’

  Don’t think it wasn’t tempting. But I said: ‘We’re getting out together, Wilhelm.’ No V for the W, just a straight ‘Wilhelm’. Despite h
is pain, he managed to clap a hand on my shoulder. In the light from the doorway I noticed he’d even managed a faint smile.

  ‘I was a spy, you know,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I replied. ‘But it doesn’t matter any more. Now, let’s get going before the rest of ‘em find us.’

  Tucking the pistol into the waistband of my pants, I guided Stern towards the light, stooping to pick up the Thompson as we went. I took a quick peek out into the hallway while Cissie held the injured German steady.

  ‘All clear,’ I told them. ‘The river entrance is up those stairs and it’s the easiest and quickest way out.’

  One of Cissie’s arms was stretched across Stern’s chest as she kept the makeshift pad tight against the bullet wound, and her other hand was wrapped around his upper arm.

  ‘Can we really make it, Hoke?’ she asked, her wide eyes studying my face for the truth. ‘Won’t they realize we’ll try and get out that way?’

  ‘Depends. I’m hoping those bombs have caused too much confusion for Hubble and his people to think straight. We got other choices – it’s a warren of rooms and passages down here – but I don’t think our friend would make it. The sooner we break out, the sooner we can fix him up.’

  If I’d been on my own, or even just with the girl, it would’ve been a cinch. I’d taken time during my stays at the Savoy to locate all the trade and staff exits, every outlet from the basement area, as well as the quickest way to them; but now I had an obligation. Stern had saved my life – twice – and I wasn’t about to let him down. Sure, he’d riled me with his arrogance earlier that evening, but he’d just been hitting back, mocking my expectations of him as a German. And it was Muriel who’d joined up with the Blackshirts, not Stern; he’d helped me fight them.

  We were halfway up the stairs to the riverside entrance hall when we heard the trampling of many feet from somewhere over our heads. Stern was making a fair effort of getting himself up those stairs without relying entirely on me and the girl, but it was slow progress and I wondered how long his strength would hold out. Concentrating on each step, he seemed oblivious to the noise from above, but Cissie looked across him at me, her panic not far from the surface.

  ‘Keep him coming,’ I said to her, letting go of Stern and racing up to the entrance hall above.

  I’d just reached the top when I saw the first of the Blackshirts beginning to descend the stairway from the first-floor foyer and I lifted the Thompson just as they set eyes on me. With cries of alarm they backed up, a couple of them turning to run, and I sent a hail of bullets after them. The Thompson submachine gun never was an accurate weapon, but it had a good effect, enough to hold the goons off ‘til Cissie and Stern were stumbling past me towards the glass exit by the side of the revolving door. Another burst to give the Blackshirts something more to think about, then I was rushing through the exit behind them.

  Glass shattered around us as the goons returned fire, sprinkling our hair, peppering my naked skin, and I turned in one last effort to keep them back, the muzzle of the Thompson already spitting flames. One of the bolder Blackshirts was halfway down the stairs when my gunfire raked his chest, knocking him over, his arms outstretched, rifle flying into the air. He started to slither the rest of the way down, but I didn’t stay to watch: I was out in the open, running along the alleyway created by the zigzag barrier, quickly catching up with Cissie and Stern. I kicked away the plank across the entrance to the alley and then we were out into the night.

  We stopped dead at what confronted us.

  Lights still shone dimly from the Savoy’s shattered windows, some of those lights a flickering orange, the glow of fires inside, and their reflections were thrown across the narrow roadway and park opposite. The moon lent its own illumination. All of it revealing the people gathered outside the hotel, their numbers scattered, some in small groups, others solitary.

  They watched the burning building, upturned faces shimmering in its glow, and there was a strange emptiness in their staring eyes. Without counting, I guessed there were a couple of dozen of them, maybe a few more than that, some of them, obviously sick with the Slow Death, supported by healthier companions, most dressed in fine clothes, a few – mainly the single people – in tattered rags. There were children among them – a little girl, no more’n five or six, clinging to a woman I assumed was her mother (or maybe her adoptive mother); two boys, twins by the look of them, about seven years old, holding hands and standing close to a man and woman; a toddler, around two years, clutching a dolly and in the arms of a bearded man – and, unlike the adults, these children had a look of wonder on their faces as they gazed up at the lights and flames. Then they began to notice us, and soon all of them were looking in our direction.

  Several backed away, as if in fear, but going only as far as the park railings. Others watched us with surprised curiosity, and maybe with hope.

  ‘Hoke,’ Cissie said breathlessly, ‘who are these people?’

  ‘Beats me,’ was all I could reply.

  Stern, leaning heavily against Cissie, looked at us both. ‘Like moths attracted to a flame,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘In this case, to the lights, don’t you see? Hoke, you must warn them.’

  A noise from behind, a scuffling of hard leather on concrete, made me wheel around before I could say any more. The Blackshirts were filing along the alleyway, trying to move quietly now that they saw we were no longer running. I fired from the hip, taking out the first two, sending the others scuttling back. But that last burst had used up all that was left of the ammo and the Thompson was lifeless in my hands. I cursed as I threw it away – there should’ve been fifty rounds in the drum magazine, but much of the ammo must have been used up earlier by the Blackshirt I’d taken it from – and drew the pistol from my waistband.

  ‘Hoke!’

  I turned at Cissie’s cry and saw more dark figures rounding the corner from a side street further along, Blackshirts who’d found other exits out of the blazing building. They came to an abrupt halt when they saw the silent strangers standing in the roadway and on the opposite pavement A shout went up when they spotted us next

  ‘Oh God, we’re trapped.’ Cissie had spoken to me as if I didn’t appreciate the seriousness of the situation.

  ‘No we’re not. We can get through the park.’ I pointed the pistol in the other direction where there was a small gate in the iron railings.

  ‘But these people – we’ve got to help them.’

  I took Stern from her, pulling his arm over my shoulder once more, keeping my gun hand free. ‘There’s nothing we can do for ‘em, they’ll have to take care of themselves!’

  I moved off, slowed down by Stern, using the brick barricade as a screen between us and the Blackshirts who were outside the riverside entrance.

  ‘Keep up with us!’ I yelled back at Cissie as she hesitated.

  ‘Run!’ I heard her shout at the waiting people. ‘Don’t stay here! Don’t let them take you!’

  When I looked over my shoulder they were still standing there, confused, probably afraid, not knowing what the hell was going on. I fired a couple of shots over their heads to put some life into them, but although one or two started to run away, the rest cowered or sank to the ground.

  ‘Cissie, come on!’

  Reluctantly she began to follow and when shots were fired from the goons near the corner, she caught up fast. There were more figures loitering in this stretch of road and we tried to convince them that it was in their best interest to get away, but, like the others, they seemed too bewildered to move. Maybe they thought we were the villains, that those uniformed people were the only law the city had left; or maybe they thought they’d be shot if they did try to escape. I didn’t know, and right then I couldn’t help ‘em: I was too busy saving my own and Stern’s skin, and I guessed that Cissie was now of the same mind – she’d caught up with us and was taking some of the injured German’s weight. We couldn’t help them if they didn’t want to be helped; we could only
offer some hurried advice. And we did. Even with bullets whistling over our heads, we yelled and tugged at those closest to us as we made our way to the park gate; but it was no good, they just crouched low to the ground to avoid being hit. Of course, it was really the strangers who were helping us, because not only were the Blackshirts afraid of harming any part of this precious new consignment of healthy blood, but our rarity value had depreciated considerably.

  Dodging through the space between two kerbside cars, we were soon at the park’s entrance and I took one last look at the scene behind us. Blackshirts were already rounding up the onlookers, with only three of them chasing after us. Still supporting Stern with one shoulder, I took careful aim and brought down two as they ran. They both screamed, the first dropping to his knees, clutching at his chest, the second spinning across the hood of a car and slowly sliding to the ground. It was enough to discourage the third. He skidded to a halt, the metal toecaps of his boots scraping sparks off the roadway, and shouted something after us. He remained where he was though, neither retreating nor advancing, just loitering there, shaking a fist and cursing. I took a bead on him, but Stern placed an unsteady hand on my arm.