"‘48" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert James)7WE CAME UP on the approach road to Waterloo Bridge, battered, bruised, and shielding our startled eyes against the harsh sunlight We were all filthy, black from head to toe, even Potter, and although the ramp leading out of the tunnel was gentle enough, our lead-weight legs found the going tough. Our breathing was laboured and old Potter was wheezing badly by the time we reached the surface road. The girls sank to the ground at the top of the incline, faces turned up towards the sky, like sun-worshippers after a long, hard winter, while the warden took off his helmet and mopped his brow with his crumpled red spotted handkerchief. He muttered something under his breath, complaining about ‘lumbago’, I think, and he rubbed the small of his back so’s we’d get the message. Stern stood aloof from the others, taking in deep, purging breaths, getting rid of the rank, sooty air he’d swallowed back there in the tunnels. I left them to it, going over to the corner of the ramp and peering round the railings back towards the big intersection where the Strand met the Aldwych. The tram tunnel had been built to avoid the traffic congestion at that point, beginning its descent in the middle of the broad bridge road and curving round below ground before straightening again to emerge in Kingsway. Everything looked peaceful enough at the intersection, with only the jumble of motor vehicles we’d weaved through earlier creating its own silent chaos. I sagged then, going down on one knee, shoulder resting against the railing’s end post, my face, like the girls’, turned up towards the clear sky. My eyes closed for a second or two, and when I opened them again I saw a solitary seagull sail across the blue, heading downriver, its haunted call as lonely as its image. With a weary grunt I pulled myself up again and crossed the road to the bridge’s parapet. Although small craft and floating debris littered the wide River Thames below, its waters sparkled in a way they never had during the war, the old river had cleansed itself and from where I stood I could see shoals of silver fish, swimming free of human effluent and, so it seemed, untouched by the great disease. The breeze was cool here, and somehow placating, soothing the dread that had travelled with me these past hours; only the sagging barrage balloons hanging lazily above reminded me that all really was not well with the world. I went back to the others. ‘Listen up,’ I said to them. ‘We need to get off the streets for a while, at least ‘til the Blackshirts have given up on us. The place I’ve been holing up in isn’t far from here, so you’re welcome to join me there for a while. When the heat dies down – say, in a day or two – you can do what you like.’ I meant that for the girls and Potter; Wilhelm Stern I wasn’t gonna let out of my sight. Muriel’s face broke into a tired but almost radiant smile. ‘You mean the Savoy, don’t you? That’s the hotel you’ve been using, isn’t it?’ She brought her hands together as if delighted by the surprise, and even dishevelled she looked a princess. I frowned though, because even if I had decided to let the German go – which wasn’t likely – mention of the hotel’s name had sealed his fate. He and the Blackshirts were of the same mould, brothers-in-arms, comrades-in-creed, and if I allowed him to wander off, chances were he’d find his British allies and lead them back to me. My fingertips played along the teeth of my zipper, close to the shoulder-holster inside my jacket. Almost as if he could read my mind, Stern said quickly: ‘I would be happy to go with you to this place. I think we all need to rest and perhaps make some plans.’ His expression was serious, stiff even, the good volunteer. His eyes might have flicked towards the hand still lingering close to the gun butt just out of sight under my jacket, but if so it was too fast for me to catch. I knew he’d noticed though. ‘It would be so lovely to return to the Savoy,’ Muriel was saying, unaware of the tension between myself and the German. ‘Even during the war it was a wonderfully exciting place to wine and dine. Do you remember the Lord Woolton Pie?’ She had swung round towards Cissie, the brightness in her grey-blue eyes hinting at the sparkle that must have been there in better times. ‘You remember, Cissie – potatoes, carrots, mushrooms, leeks. The Savoy ’s chef created it specially for the Ministry of Food when rationing was so severe.’ ‘Oh sure,’ her friend replied drily. ‘I used to hobnob there all the time. You know, with Clark Gable when he was in town, or Douglas Fairbanks Junior. Even good old Tyrone Power used to lie to his wife Annabella just so’s he could spend an evening with me dancing to Carroll Gibbons and his band. Now let me see, what were they called…? They were on the radio all the time.’ ‘The Orpheans.’ Muriel hadn’t caught the weary sarcasm. ‘Carroll Gibbons and the Savoy Orpheans.’ There was something edgy about her delight, as if it might break at any moment, leaving only bitterness to take its place. ‘For God’s sake, Muriel,’ Cissie snapped. ‘You know where I’m from. You know I would never have dared set foot in a swanky place like the Savoy, even if I could afford to!’ ‘I only meant…The recipe was used by housewives all over the country.’ ‘Oh yes, what a wonderful example you toffs set for us commonfolk. My-oh-my, if you lot could survive on Spam and powdered eggs quaffed down with only the scummiest vintage wine, then the rest of us peasants could easily get by on good old Lord Woolton’s bloody pie. God bless you, ma’am, if I had a cap, I’d doff it.’ The shine in Muriel’s eyes dimmed. She looked down at her knees, her weariness returned. In a softer voice she said, ‘My father used to take me to the River Room for lunch whenever he could find the time. We used to toast Mother’s memory with a glass of champagne before we even looked at the menu…’ Her words trailed off, but she remained in that position, head bowed, distracted, as if memories were continuing inside her head; and then Cissie was kneeling beside her, telling her quietly that she was sorry, hadn’t meant to be a cow, her arm sliding around her friend’s shoulder as she apologized. I was impatient to get moving again. ‘The water’s still running,’ I told them, and Cissie raised her head, scowling at me, wondering what the hell I was talking about. ‘The hotel,’ I said. ‘There’s plenty of water. And the tubs are big enough for hippos.’ The thought of a bath, cold or not, soon changed Cissie’s mood. She examined her filthy hands and arms for a moment, took a token swipe at the dust on her slacks, then beamed a pure white grin from her sooty face. ‘Now you’re talking,’ she said, straightening up and bringing Muriel with her. ‘Come on, Mu, snap out of it. I’ll let you scrub my back if you promise not to go all ritzy on me again.’ She hugged her companion, then looked at me expectantly. ‘Tell me there’s tons of food, and not just Woolton Pie. I’m starving.’ ‘If you don’t mind tinned stuff.’ ‘So what are we waiting for? My tummy’s already screeching at me.’ I glanced across at Potter, who was still pulling in short, gasping breaths and looking unreasonably hot in his dark blue overalls. ‘You coming with us?’ I asked, and he returned my look with some sourness in those broad, sweaty features. ‘You mean I don’t have to? I can go on me own way if I want?’ ‘Sure. It’s every man for himself.’ ‘Oh, is it? That’s good to know, son. I’ll remind you of that next time yer stick a gun in me belly.’ He mopped the inside rim of his helmet with his red rag, then, with some dignity, placed it back on his head, tucking the strap under one of his plump chins. ‘Well, since my little hideaway has gorn up in smoke, I think I’ll indulge in a bit of luxury meself. The hotel was on my watch durin the Blitz, so I know a bit about the place. I was quite pally with a few of the staff in there too, ‘specially the volunteer ARPs and Red Cross nurses. Even had mugs a tea on the rooftop with the fire spotters. They were quite a bunch, I can tell yer. Heroes, the lot of ‘em. Old William Lawes from the Works Department use’ta ponce about in a two-hundred-guinea raccoon coat to keep out the chill when he was patrolling the roof. Left behind by an American guest in the Twenties who couldn’t pay his bill, so I was told.’ He gave a short nostalgic chortle, then became serious again. “Course, we can duck down the basement to the Lincoln Room when the mad bomber comes over next’ Before I could say anything more, Cissie cut in. ‘What are you talking about? What mad bomber?’ ‘Eh? You know who I mean.’ Potter looked at her, perplexed. ‘They’ve been out of London for a while,’ I explained quickly, anxious to be on our way. Nostalgia and sunshine was okay at the right time, but this wasn’t it we were still in danger. But Potter had become rattled. ‘D’yer think I’m in uniform for the fun of it?’ Both Cissie and I stared at him. Behind Potter I could see Stern was also taking an interest ‘I’ll carry on me duty until it’s all over,’ Potter went on. ‘Nobody’s stood me down yet, and until they do I’ll keep on with the job I was given. We old ‘uns have got our uses, y’know. We can serve King and Country as well as anyone.’ Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised – this old boy had been living in an underground bunker for the past three years, getting rid of the dead bodies that filled the place to make room for himself, when he could have chosen to live anywhere in the city. He could even have followed other survivors and fled to the hills around London, or beyond, away from the worst of the holocaust and constant reminders of what we had done to ourselves. This guy had gone crazy all right, but only mildly so; he seemed harmless enough – so far – and anyway, I hadn’t forgotten he’d saved our lives. ‘Okay, let’s get going,’ I said, unwilling to waste any more time. Cissie was more than ready and Muriel seemed to have taken a hold on herself. ‘You’ll stay with us?’ she asked Stern, who still stood apart from the rest of us. His pale eyes took us all in. ‘Of course. That is, if no one objects.’ Potter shuffled round to regard the German. ‘This feller’s foreign, ain’t he?’ he said suspiciously. ‘Forget it,’ I snapped. There was no time for a new debate. I did my best to sound neighbourly. ‘Okay, Willy, you stick with us’ – (like he had a choice) – ‘for now.’ Then to all of them: ‘There’s a stairway opposite that’ll take us down to the Embankment The hotel’s one block away.’ Our footsteps sounded hollow inside the covered stairway and I think none of us liked being in the gloom again. But it wasn’t for long and at the bottom I brought them to a halt. ‘What is it?’ whispered Cissie, her eyes wide and searching the road outside over my shoulder. A finger to my lips quietened her. I stuck my head out and did a swift recce of the way ahead. Warm air shimmered above the metal roofs of the scant traffic stuck there in the broad thoroughfare that ran alongside the Thames, but that was the only thing that moved. No noise, only our own breathing. Everything was abnormally normal. I stepped out, gesturing to the others to keep close. We could see the modest riverside entrance to the Savoy a few hundred yards away, the narrow street it was located in rising gently, a small overgrown garden park opposite; a zigzag wall built during the Blitz to protect the hotel’s rear access and river restaurant windows ran along the frontage. Several of the vehicles in the street had been parked there by me, their tanks full, keys in ignitions, batteries fully charged. The MG two-seater was for speed, the black Austin taxi for manoeuvrability, the Bentley for comfort (never used so far), and the flatbed truck, a Foden diesel which took up most of the street’s width further down – well, that was for other purposes. As far as I could tell, nothing had changed since my last visit three days ago – there were no new vehicles in sight and the single board I’d left leaning across the opening to the trench between the barricade and the hotel wall was still in place. But that didn’t mean the enemy wouldn’t be lurking inside the building itself, waiting for me to return. Until this morning the Blackshirts had never discovered any of my havens, so now I was extra wary. Hubble was stepping up his search, no doubt about that, and you didn’t have to be an Einstein to figure out why: I’ve said it before – time was running out for him and his bunch of blood scavengers. Today, of course, he had even more reason to intensify the hunt: he’d discovered there were three more possible walking blood banks in town. The sun’s heat seemed raw after we’d spent so much time underground and soon the back of my shirt was sweat-soaked. I felt exposed and scared out there in the open, which may have added to the perspiration, but it didn’t take long to reach the cover of the barricade. Lifting the plank of wood aside, I indicated to the others to go through, and with one last look around, I followed. The revolving door into the entrance hall was stiff with disuse and while Cissie struggled with it I let myself in by the glass side door. The others crowded in behind me, nervously looking around the compact, low-ceilinged entrance hall, Muriel walking straight to the short flight of stairs leading to the floor above and peering up them. Cissie finally emerged from the revolving door, her glare telling me I should have advised her. From the relief on the faces of the others I guessed they were pleased to find there were no shrivelled corpses cluttering up the place, and I wasn’t about to tell them otherwise, at least, not right there and then. Sure, there were plenty of guests still in residence, all of them dead, but I’d tucked them away out of sight along with members of staff as far as the rooms, stairways and corridors I used were concerned. Like the warden, I preferred them out of sight and out of mind. I had to give these people some warning though, because certain areas I’d left untouched. ‘Stay with me and don’t go poking your noses into any closed rooms,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t like what you’d find. And hey…’ I paused, making sure I had their full attention. ‘There are some parts we have to go through that are gonna upset you. Unfortunately there’s no other way…’ Muriel shuddered and turned from the stairs. Cissie held her own upper arms as if a chill breeze had followed her through from the street ‘I thought the hotel would be empty,’ murmured Muriel. ‘I didn’t realize…’ Her voice sharpened and there was enough daylight inside the entrance hall to see the astonished curiosity in her eyes. ‘Why would you choose to live in a…in a… I brushed past her to reach the stairs. ‘This is just one of a few safe places, lady, and one I was already familiar with.’ ‘I don’t understand.’ On the third step, I turned to look down at her. ‘Did you ever hear of the 1st American Eagle Squadron?’ She nodded slowly, but it was Potter who spoke up. ‘Yanks and Canadians who couldn’t wait for their own countries to come off the fence.’ ‘We joined in your war early, fought with the RAF when you needed all the pilots you could get,’ I said, too weary to explain fully, but ready to satisfy this girl’s curiosity if it would get her moving again. ‘We made our unofficial HQ in this hotel. Suite 618 – 619. We drank, we caroused, we played poker, we did anything to take our minds off killing and being killed for a coupla hours. The American Bar became our watering hole, though I don’t remember any of us ever paying for a drink. Hell, we even got into Tich’s Bar with the war correspondents.’ I didn’t tell them about Sally, how I’d courted her here, my turn to impress her after she’d shown me all the good things in her town, bomb damage or not, how I’d loved her, and yeah, one year before the last V2s had landed, had married her here in the Savoy Chapel. 318-319 was our honeymoon suite, but the hotel had only charged us room rate and had thrown in champagne and flowers as a wedding gift. I didn’t explain because there wasn’t time and there was no point. Besides, these people meant nothing to me – I didn’t owe them a thing. ‘Cept maybe the German. Yeah, he had something coming, and that was why I wanted them ‘So why are we hanging around?’ Cissie said, looking from me to the others, then back to me again. ‘You mentioned the water’s still running, didn’t you? And I bet the bar’s open all hours, isn’t it? So what are we waiting for?’ She joined me on the stairs and when I failed to budge because my thoughts were still otherwise engaged, she prompted me with: ‘Mine’s a large gin and tonic, easy on the tonic, heavy on the gin. Hey, Mr Fighter Pilot, did you hear me? A girl could die a thirst aroun’ here.’ Her attempt at Mae West was pretty cruddy – maybe it was the hint of hysteria that spoilt it – but it changed my mood. For a short while, anyway. I took them up to the next level, through an art deco foyer with dusty chandelier and fountain-etched mirror, then up more stairs into twilight corridors, past doors with fancy names – Iolanthe, Mikado, Sorcerer, Gondoliers – and over thick carpets that smelled of mildew. The further we ventured, the gloomier it became, until after a sharp turn the way ahead radiated a palish grey again. Soon we’d entered that grey. ‘Oh dear God.’ Muriel’s fingertips covered her lips. ‘How could…?’ Slowly Cissie had turned her eyes on me, away from the spectacle that spread out before us, away from the vast front foyer where the rich and the gracious and the businessmen on expenses had taken late-morning or afternoon tea, or evening cocktails, in elegant easy chairs or sofas set between brown marble columns and exotic potted palms, surrounded by tasteful murals and high mirrors, ormolu clocks and knee-high tables laid with finest chinaware and tiered cake-stands, served by waiters in tails, with reception clerks in morning dress bustling through it all with courteous calm, the war outside an inconvenience but never a hindrance to the Savoy, service as normal even if the building itself had become a little battered and the menus reduced to basic (if stylish) fare; where now rotted figures slumped in those same elegant easy chairs, or sprawled across those knee-high tables amid broken crockery, or lay on carpets thick with dust, the foyer nothing more than a vast emporium of horribly macabre tableaux, each one solidified in death, the plants merely dried stems, the chandeliers grey with dust, and the humans only desiccated husks. And beyond this, through the open doors to the grand restaurant overlooking the park and river, opened only for lunchtime custom in the dark days, the scene was repeated, but rendered even more grotesque by the sun’s brightness through the high, broad, taped windows. Cissie had diverted her eyes from this to look at me with…with what? Not with Muriel’s astonished curiosity when we’d first entered the building. Horror, then? Yeah, horror and something more. Dismay would come closest Her sentence might have finished with, ‘How could you live in a charnel house like this and remain sane?’ Well, lady, I hadn’t claimed to have all my marbles. I didn’t say that, though. I just couldn’t be bothered any more. I ignored those bewildered hazel eyes and her unfinished question. ‘The stairway’s along here,’ I said instead, moving off to the right towards the Savoy’s stately vestibule and entrance hall, sensing their eyes on my back, their disgust I kept walking and knew they’d follow me anyway, like frightened stray sheep in need of a leader. Up a broad set of steps I took them, past a balcony overlooking the vestibule, then down a high-ceilinged hallway towards the stairs next to the defunct elevator. On the way, but without changing pace, I took a quick peek into a half-open doorway, checking on the Velocette Mk II motorbike I’d hidden away in there. It nestled in the shadows like some great black and fabulous insect, tank full, parts greased and free from rust, spark plugs clean, all primed and ready for a swift start, and just a glimpse of it stirred something deep down in my gut It was the sudden urge to get away, I guess, to climb aboard that machine and roar out of the hotel and free myself from these people and the liability that went with knowing them. Involvement was something I neither wanted nor needed, because that kind of burden only brought more grief. My own exhaustion smothered the impulse no sooner than it was roused (besides, I hadn’t forgotten Stern and why I wanted him here) and I kept going, heading towards the staircase beside the elevator. It was a sluggish climb and by the time we reached the third floor our line was strung out. Without waiting for the others I left the stairway to walk down a long gloomy corridor, coming to a halt and waiting for the others to catch up only when I reached the sharp left turn at its end. The German was the last one to reach me and briefly I wondered why. He was much stronger than the others, so had he taken time out to explore possible escape routes while trailing behind, investigating rooms close to the stairway on the landings we passed, looking for doors to the fire escape? What the hell – he had a right. None of it would help him, though, not when the moment came. I turned my back on them and unlocked the door to Suite 318 – 319. |
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