Dominion (64 page)

The back door was half open, Ben peering round it, gun in hand. He waved to the others to stand back. Frank braced himself for another rush of blue uniforms from the backyard. But there was
nothing, just the fog. Ben took a deep breath and stepped outside, gun raised in both hands. David and Natalia followed, then Geoff hauled Frank out, too, slamming the back door shut to cut off the
light. He had taken the key from the side of the door and turned it, locking it.

They were out in the yard, in the dark and fog. There was a flash of light from somewhere and a bang. Beside Frank, Geoff gave a cry and toppled over, letting go of Frank’s hand. He lay
still on the ground, blood spreading across his chest. He twitched violently once and then was still. Ben and Natalia both fired blindly back into the murk, and Frank heard the sound of someone
falling, cursing and swearing. There must have been only one policeman round the back. Then Ben had Frank’s hand, pulling him through the fog, across the yard. Frank cried out,
‘Geoff!’

‘He’s dead!’ Ben said. He hauled Frank across the little yard; a brick wall loomed up. There was a big metal dustbin beside it. David helped Natalia onto it. She climbed over
the wall. David followed. Behind them, they heard crashes at the back door.

‘Come on!’ Ben shouted at Frank. He climbed onto the wall, then reached down, took Frank under the arms and lifted him up. Frank grasped the wall, bracing himself to feel a bullet in
his back, half hoping for it, but it didn’t come. From the top of the wall Ben fired back towards the house.

‘Fucking come on!’ Ben screamed in Frank’s ear. Then Frank was hauled bodily over the wall. He fell on wet cobbles with a crash that winded him. Ben and David pulled him up and
half carried him down an alley, into a street that was just a choking yellow-grey mass of fog. More shots sounded, flashes in the gloom ahead. More police had been waiting in the street. Frank
collided with the wall of the alley, grazing his arm. Ben had taken a grip on Frank’s other arm but it loosened as he fired again into the street. Everyone was just firing blindly, nobody
could see. Frank heard a sound from behind him; more policemen and Syme, no doubt, climbing over the O’Sheas’ wall in hot pursuit.

Frank pulled away from Ben’s grasp. He was gripped by utter panic – the gunshots, the images of Sean and Geoff falling, Eileen’s body convulsing. They couldn’t save him,
they were going to be captured as he had known they would be. He turned and ran away, blindly, into the fog.

A
LL
F
RANK COULD HOLD IN
his mind was to get away, disappear in the fog. He ran blindly, arms out in front of him. He felt a jolt
up his spine; he had stepped from the kerb into the roadway without seeing it. Behind him he heard more shots, a police whistle. He half turned but already it was impossible to make out who was
firing at whom; he saw vague moving shapes but a second later they disappeared. He reached the pavement on the other side, nearly tripping on the kerb, and stepped up, groping in front of him. He
touched a wall, stumbled along, keeping his hand on walls and damp hedges so he didn’t wander back into the road. A police whistle sounded again a little further off. He reached a corner and
turned, walking on until a bout of coughing brought him to a halt. The air stank. He leaned against a privet hedge, trying to get his breathing under control. More shots sounded, but further away
now.

The house had been raided; the little boy from the neighbouring house must have betrayed them. The others were gone, probably dead – if they hadn’t been shot they would have taken
their cyanide pills. At the thought a choking sob rose up in Frank’s throat.

He must keep walking, all night if he had to. If only he could see. When it got light visibility would be a bit better, though that meant it would be easier for them to find him. Thank God he
hadn’t had his bedtime pills; at least his mind wasn’t dulled by them, he wasn’t sleepy. They would be hunting him all over London. He thought, there are road bridges across
railway lines. All he needed to do was find one, jump off, and end it. The thought calmed him; he had his goal again. He had known they wouldn’t escape, he had been stupid even to imagine
they might. He remembered Geoff falling, the blood, and almost sobbed again.

There was nobody else in the street. He could make out, very dimly, the little circles of light from the nearest streetlamps – how the fog seemed to swirl and eddy about them. People
weren’t coming out in this weather and the shots would have been heard, which would keep people indoors. He shivered; he was clad only in one of Colonel Brock’s cardigans and a thin
shirt and trousers, and was very cold. He thought of David and Natalia, running down the stairs half-dressed. He was glad now they had had their chance together before the end.

He heard a sound in the distance, growing closer: the shrill electric bell of a Black Maria. Quickly, he felt his way along the privet hedge beside him. He came to a garden gate; dripping wet
from the fog, it felt like it was covered with thick, cold sweat. He pulled the gate open, slipped into the tiny front garden and crouched down on the inner side of the hedge, long grass soaking
his trousers. He must be quiet, there was a thin pencil of hazy light a few feet away where the curtains of the front window didn’t quite meet. He heard the sound of an approaching car,
moving very slowly. Frank thought, they won’t find me, not in this. It passed on down the street. He huddled down, shivering. After a few minutes he crept out of the gate again, carefully,
crouching. His shoes and the bottom of his trousers were soaking wet. He shivered and coughed, then stood up and walked slowly on.

He reached a corner. A little way ahead he saw Belisha beacons, two orange globes flashing on and off, for some reason their light penetrating the fog better than the faint glow from the
streetlamps. It was extraordinarily quiet, as though Frank was somewhere in the countryside rather than London. Carefully, he crossed the road. It was wider; this must be a main road. On the other
side his outstretched hands made contact with a high brick wall. He felt over it. There was a window sill, high up. It seemed like a big building, maybe a warehouse or office block; perhaps he
could break in and hide. He groped his way along the wall. Then, from further up the street, he heard a hollow echoing shout through the fog. ‘Go on to the end of the road, to the
roadblock!’

‘There’s no fucking point in this, Sarge! They could be anywhere!’

‘
They.
’ He was sure he’d heard them say ‘they’. His heart pounded, he tried to steady his breathing. Some of the others at least must be alive. Dimly, ahead,
he saw moving points of light approaching. Torches, powerful ones, fog whirling in their beams. He felt his way along the wall, away from them. He came to a corner, rounded it, and saw a tall iron
gate. Peering through the gloom he made out a flight of stone steps. He heard another shout, closer now: ‘Fuck this! Dunno how I’m even going to find my way home, never mind find these
bastards!’

Frank thought, there’s a roadblock, I have to find somewhere to hide. He opened the gate – mercifully it didn’t creak – and climbed the steps. At the top was a heavy
wooden door. He dreaded he’d find it locked, but it opened under the pressure of his hand. He slipped inside, pushing it to behind him.

He saw he was inside an enormous Victorian Gothic church with high, stained-glass windows and an arched roof. It was empty. There was dim electric lighting along the walls. Long rows of pews
stretched away to a railed-off altar where a red candle burned inside an ornate golden container. Paintings of Christ on the way to the cross lined the walls. It was as cold in here as outside,
chill and dank, but though the smell of the fog was in the air the filthy muck itself seemed not to have penetrated the cavernous building.

Frank looked back at the main door. There was a big iron latch; very slowly and quietly he slid it across. Then he looked round the church again. There were several more doors along the walls.
He thought, if one led to a flight of stairs, perhaps to a belfry, he could get up there and jump off. His promise to David to stay alive hardly counted now. His heart was beating wildly. His only
experience of church had been the chapel at school; cold, with whitewashed walls, a lectern with a ferocious eagle carved on the front. Mrs Baker had forbidden her acolytes from going to what she
called the false temples of the old religions.

He walked slowly to the nearest door, careful to make as little noise as possible on the stone flags. Next to it was a plaster statue of Christ, white body hanging from the cross, desperate
agony on the thin bearded face. According to his mother, Mrs Baker said Christ was always waiting in a white robe, smiling in a garden, to welcome those who passed into spirit, but this figure was
quite different: an agony of suffering.

Stealthily, Frank opened the door. It gave onto a long corridor. At the end was a closed pair of double doors; behind them he could hear voices. For a second he stood rooted to the spot,
terrified they had found him and were gathered there, waiting to pounce. He stepped backwards, suppressing a cry, as one of the doors opened. A tall young man came out, wearing a shabby apron over
a black shirt with a white clerical collar. He had a shock of untidy brown hair and a round, tired, good-natured face. The smell of cooking drifted from the room. The man saw Frank and smiled.

‘Hello,’ he said cheerfully, in a loud upper-class voice. ‘Come for some grub?’

Frank stared at him; he had no idea what he was talking about. He half turned, about to run, but the man said, gently, ‘Wait! It’s all right. You look as though you could do with
some food.’ With an encouraging nod, he stepped back and opened the door wide. Frank saw a room filled with wooden trestle tables, where ragged-looking men and women sat eating bowls of soup.
Two women stood by an enormous tureen on a table, passing out bowls and plates of bread. Frank realized it must be a soup kitchen. He knew there were more and more of them these days with all the
unemployment but he had never seen one himself before. He wasn’t hungry but he was desperately cold and there was a gust of warmth from a big coal fire. He stayed where he was as the man came
up to him.

‘Hello. I’m the vicar here. Call me Terry.’

Frank knew some churches supported Beaverbrook and Mosley and others were against. He hesitated, but then walked slowly towards the warmth of the big room. Inside, it smelt of unwashed bodies
and damp, fusty clothes. Most of the people at the tables were beggars, such as you saw on street corners, with matted hair and beards, tattered coats tied with string, lined, dirty worn-out faces.
One or two, though, wore stained shiny suits in attempts to keep a former respectability. There were ragged women, too, one holding a tiny baby.

‘What’s your name, friend?’ the vicar asked.

Frank hesitated. ‘David.’

Terry looked at him curiously. He said quietly, ‘Never been somewhere like this before, eh? Where did you hear about us?’

‘I – I forget.’

‘Well, lots of people are down on their luck these days, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Come on, get some food. It’s not a night to be out. This filthy smog, I’ve never
seen anything like it. You haven’t got a coat, you must be freezing.’ The vicar looked at him again, more closely, and then his eyes widened. Frank followed his gaze and saw, on the
front of his grey cardigan, a dark splash of blood. He drew in a horrified breath, thinking he had been hit after all, then realized it must be Geoff’s blood.

‘You’re hurt,’ Terry said, quietly.

‘It’s nothing, I cut myself—’

‘Let me have a look.’

Frank whispered, ‘It’s not my blood.’ He swallowed. ‘It’s my friend’s. He’s dead.’

Terry hesitated, then leaned close. ‘Please, come with me.’

Frank looked into the vicar’s tired face. Something in his voice and manner made him allow the man to lead him to a side room. It was a little office, with a steel filing cabinet and a
table with a telephone on it, a black jacket slung over a chair. White surplices hung from a row of pegs. The vicar shut the door. He said, ‘A couple of people who’ve just come in said
they heard shots nearby, police cars. They thought it was the local Jive Boy gangs. Was it something to do with you? Don’t worry,’ he added quickly, ‘I won’t give you
away.’

Frank leaned against the table. He didn’t answer but a desperate sigh escaped him. Terry looked at him. He said, ‘I know there’s something going on today, there have been raids
all over town in spite of the fog. Are you Resistance?’ Frank didn’t answer. ‘I can help you but you have to trust me. I’m taking a risk even telling you I’ll
help.’ He took a deep breath and Frank saw that Terry, too, was afraid. Everything in the vicar’s face told Frank he was sincere, but if Ben and Natalia and David hadn’t been able
to save him, how could this man? Telling him anything was a desperate risk.

The vicar stepped over to a door in the wall and opened it. A wave of cold stinking air and tendrils of yellow fog came into the room. He left the door open and went and stood by the other door,
the one that led to the soup kitchen. ‘See,’ he said. ‘If you want to leave, you can. You might be able to get away in the fog, but you might not. I’ll help you but you have
to tell me what happened.’

‘I was with some friends,’ Frank said. ‘They’re from the Resistance, we’re trying to get out of the country. We were at a house a couple of streets away. There was
a raid. Some of my friends were killed. I ran away to stop them getting me. The Resistance don’t want the Germans to take me alive. I’m important; I wish I wasn’t but I am. Please
– please, shut the door. Someone might see, and it’s so cold.’

Terry closed the door. He took the jacket from the chair behind the desk. ‘Sit down, go on, you look done in.’ Frank sat, and Terry put the jacket round his shoulders. He looked at
Frank’s bad hand. ‘How did you get that? The Germans?’

Frank shook his head. ‘No. Some other people, when I was a boy. I’m not with the Resistance, I’m just – someone who needs to be got out of the country.’