Fires of London (The Francis Bacon Mysteries) (16 page)

“You’ve just got the wind up,” Teck said in a nasty voice.

I felt as if I was suffocating. Underfoot was an assortment of old boxes; cases of empty bottles, a few loose; treacherous bits of glassware; pieces of wood; bales of what appeared to be rags as well as chairs and other household items all jumbled together like a decayed pawnshop. There was barely enough light for me to see my way, but once the office door opened, I would be exposed in more ways than one. Back over the boxes and crackling bits of dry leather—whatever were those?—before the sharp crunch of breaking glass, loud as a gunshot. I lunged for the stair and, half running, half falling, clattered to the bottom as the door opened.

A shout above; I raced down the corridor, slid into that empty, ill-appointed room, and fumbled for the lock. No such luck, just a little slide bolt for privacy, the sort rendered useless with a good kick. Teck and his associate were in the hall; I braced myself against the door, my chest heaving, my breath coming like a bellows. I was on the verge of a full-blown asthma attack, when the Muse who looks out for the wayward and foolish brought inspiration. I groaned loudly. Another great wheeze, followed, despite my Sahara mouth, by a burst of salacious profanity. Another groan, ending in gasps:
yes, yes, yes!
Realistic? You bet. I felt as if my lungs would absolutely collapse.

Footsteps in the hall and muffled curses from the man I believed was George. “Someone up to no good.”

“One of the fucking punters,” was Teck’s opinion. “Up for a free show. Can’t trust them.”

I was panting like a steam engine.

“We’ll have a good look downstairs,” said George. “You’re too damn careless.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Bodies colliding again; Teck was a slow learner. When the sound of their footsteps faded, I slid the bolt, gasping, and glanced into the hall in time to see George’s gorilla back and fine black hair. I closed the door and sat down on the floor, a major error: dust between the old boards, dust lurking in the baseboard, dust, no doubt, between the sheets and under the bed, dust containing—for all I knew—essence of dog, the worst of all possible dusts. I staggered to the small window and thrust it open, forgetting, in my anxiety, that the night air held pulverized London and the smoke of flaming petrol. My vision went black for an instant; when the night returned to focus, I was swaying out of the window like a sailor on a bender. I grabbed the casement and hauled myself back, then sat down on the bed and tried to bring my breath into order.

While I was still gasping, the Muse, my friend and enemy, offered up the realization that Teck and George, having gone downstairs, had left their office empty. I eased the door and hustled for the stair. Simple this time; they’d left the door open and the light on, which meant that they would return shortly. Hurry up, Francis! Inside: desk with whiskey bottle on top. I overcame my dislike of the malt and took a good swig for my straining bronchi. Next, file cabinets with helpful alphabetical labels. What had we here? I went straight to
M
—
M
for Mordren,
M
for my inspector,
M
for a folder with a strip of film and an envelope of black-and-white photos and negatives, very grainy and of execrable composition but revealing, truly revealing. I stuck both in my jacket pocket.

Though I was seriously tempted to explore further, I descended, checked the hallway, and after several deep breaths—thank you, George, for that little stimulant—went down to the club as boldly as I could. I considered whistling but rejected that touch as over the top. Down, down the open stair into the fog of smoke and perfume and male secretions; I swam through the throng, passed the bar, was within a step of the door with my hand on the blackout curtain when George let out his primeval roar. I lunged through the curtain to grab the doorknob. Locked? Was it locked? Dreadful safety arrangements—especially for me. A latch, perhaps? I touched something, turned it, grasped the knob again, thrust with all my weight and practically fell outside. I scrambled to my feet and ran into the darkness. That is, I lifted my feet and put them down, but there was so little air in my lungs that I was barely trotting, never mind running. They caught me before I reached the first alley.

Teck had a light and George brought his fists. When I tried to evade both, we all three wound up in the road.

“Get him out of the street!” shouted Teck. “Take him inside.”

I wasn’t keen on that and struck out wildly, connecting with George at least once. He performed considerably better, and once he had me on the ground, he commenced kicking with his customary enthusiasm while Teck, with some remnant of bourgeois propriety, screamed for a change of venue. I felt blood in my mouth and pain in my kidneys as I struggled to protect my head and trip George. I was doing poorly at both when a siren shrieked in the night. I saw the shielded lights of an oncoming ambulance and heard the shouts of the driver. Teck and George dove for the sidewalk and, terrified, I flattened myself against the tarmac. The high vehicle passed over me with a roar, then skidded to a stop, brakes squealing. Purely on instinct, I got to my feet. In the momentary confusion of the shouting ambulance men and the raucous replies of my tormentors, I plunged into the rubble field and scrambled, wheezing and half conscious, over fallen walls and beams, toilets and washstands, bits of pipe, shattered casements, and broken doors. Bricks slipped away underfoot and rattled into unseen voids and caverns. They would be right behind me, and my only thought was to find a hiding place until I could breathe enough to run.

Fear carried me almost across the lot before the siren howled again and the angry voices resumed outside of the club. Teck had a light, and both he and George knew the area. The conviction that they’d know where I had gone sent me floundering forward. Almost at once the ground shifted under my feet and sent me sliding willy-nilly. I clawed at the rubble, tearing my hands on sharp bits of metal and collecting splinters everywhere but to no avail; my footing was lost, I began a terrible downward acceleration and landed with a splash in utter darkness.

Complete panic. Splashing, flailing, water up my nose, down my throat, lungs in rebellion, death a near certainty. I’d have shouted for George if my voice had been more than a croak. Struggling to keep my head above water, I flapped my arms and kicked my feet until I felt a sharp pain in my left hand. Automatically, I thrust my arm above water and stood up. I was in hip-deep liquid, cold, undoubtedly filthy, but shallow. I was saved. Now a revulsion for the muddy water, for mysterious objects soft and sharp, for the crater, overcame me. My first thought was to risk everything and climb out. My second was for the photos. Patting my jacket, I found the film and the envelope, damp but intact despite the best efforts of George and the Luftwaffe. This was my real salvation—and Nan’s, too—if I could just get the goods out of Stepney.

Out, that was the thing, but not yet, Francis! And better hope that neither George nor Teck had heard me floundering across the puddle. With a sudden liquid ripple, something moved at the very edge of my vision: a rat, more than one. I couldn’t leave the crater, not yet, but getting out of the water was definitely on the program. I felt around the edge with my uninjured hand, seeking a timber, a bit of a table or a door, a solid chunk of masonry, all the while listening for footsteps and voices among the intermittent sounds of sirens, motors, and planes.

I touched what felt like part of a wall, got a grip on the edge, scraped my knees and knocked my shins, but managed, with a nasty sucking sound, to leave the mud and water of the pit. A rustle down in the porous depths below sent me scrambling higher, only to lose purchase and slide halfway back. In the dark it was hard to judge which handholds in the debris might be trusted and which, loose or crumbling, would shoot me back into the water.

I had clambered a fair way up the steep and treacherous slope when I heard approaching steps—not the scramble and rattle of a passage across the rubble but the steady, respectable tread of the street. I was about to shout for help when a round beam of light touched the top of the crater and ran along the edge. I was squatting beside a slab of lath and plaster, and I squeezed against this frail protection. The light roamed down the slope across from me, pausing at any hollow or projection, then continued on its way. Someone searching, perhaps for me.

“Hopeless,” said a voice. It was Teck, and I was thankful I’d kept quiet.

“Many lives as a bloody cat. He should have been killed by the ambulance.”

“How deep’s the water?”

A few seconds of silence, then a hollow splash below. I hoped it sounded deep enough so that they would not think to explore the near side, where I was hidden in shadow.

“He’ll float by morning,” said George. “See you check.”

“Check yourself.” There was some disagreement about this before their footsteps faded under the drone of the planes and the distant rattle of the guns. My impulse was to get myself over the top and away, but I crouched shivering, teeth chattering for what seemed to be hours, listening to the raids and watching the fire glow from the burning docks. At last, a lull overhead, and half frozen, I attacked the last dozen feet of the slope, slipped and failed once, twice, three times, managed most of the way on the fourth, and, finally, nearly exhausted and covered in bruises and dirt, clawed my way to the top and the protective hurdle at the edge of the road.

I pulled myself upright and staggered off in such a state that I’m not sure I’d have made it home if an ambulance crew returning empty had not spotted me. I was so dirty that they assumed I’d been in a blast, and they kept asking where I lived and when we’d been hit. I feigned concussion, which was not terribly difficult under the circumstances. They took me to a busy Whitechapel dressing station, where a strapping volunteer nurse with a loud voice and a good line of reassuring chatter poured disinfectant on my cuts and stitched up my hand. I fell asleep on the floor, surrounded by sobbing children, moaning adults, and the general chaos of the hurt and newly homeless. At dawn I got directions to the tube station and, disregarding medical advice, my filthy and bedraggled state, and the benefits of my hideout on Holland Park Road, made my way home to Nan.

Even with her short sight, she could see I’d been in the wars. “Dear boy! Whatever’s happened?”

I reassured her as best I could while she busied herself with ridding me of my filthy garments and bundling me up in a dressing gown and blanket. This revealed the extent of my personal damage. Of course, the dressing station’s efforts were not up to her standard, and, in fact, they had missed some nasty splinters in my thigh. Nan got out her big magnifying glass and a needle and went to work while I drank scalding tea with honey and a little whiskey—Nan’s sworn remedy—and recounted my adventures in the bomb crater. She extracted a particularly dirty-looking piece of wood and was daubing the wound with peroxide when I remembered my treasure lying on the floor with my unceremoniously discarded jacket.

Nan ran her glass over the images, shook her head at the ways of the world, then nodded. “You did very well, dear boy. But at what cost!”

“Nothing was planned; it was all was spur of the moment.” I took her magnifying glass and studied the images. No sign of Damien, but any pictures of him in action would surely be long gone. Even reckless George would not have risked that. But that he and Teck were running a blackmail operation was beyond doubt. Indeed, blackmail might have been the real raison d’être for the Brighton Arms and its present incarnation. I guessed that Damien, discovering their venture, had attempted to turn it to his own account. Maybe he’d pinched some of the evidence; my own experience suggested there would have been opportunities. Had he tried to blackmail the supposedly respectable Teck or one of the other clients and gotten murdered for his pains? Or had George discovered the theft and settled the matter in his own inimitable way? Either way, the material in my hand raised questions about the inspector, who might have limited his investigation or tried to set me up even if he, himself, were innocent of the killing.

“Will someone be looking for these?”

“I doubt they realize I’ve got them, though they might look for me anyway. They don’t know where I live, and I don’t think they know my name, but as you see, they have police connections. I’m hoping they think I’m dead.”

“Don’t rely on hopes,” said Nan. “Let me see if I can dry these, and you return to Bella.”

I didn’t like that idea at all, but Nan was insistent, and I’d have been out of the flat and gone if I hadn’t nearly fallen off the chair, shivering. Nan got another blanket, thinking I was chilled, but when I told her both my head and my hand were throbbing, she looked grave.

“It’s just the stitching,” I said, hopeful.

She inspected the wound with her glass again and had me do the same. “Did it bleed well?”

I said it had.

“That’s good—best way to wash the wound. We’ll need to watch it, though. Anything could have been in that water.”

“Anything was,” I assured her. She brought me another cup of strong tea with half the week’s ration of sugar and another generous tot of whiskey and had me go to bed. I lay there shaking for some time before I fell into dreams of dark, under-scaled rooms where I struggled to stand erect and of vast alleys floored in water like the canals of Venice. It was night when I woke, my mouth dry, my hand only moderately sore, and everything else at least provisionally operational. I had no idea of the time, but before I could put on the light, I realized the sirens were going. A moment later, Nan came in. “You’re awake.”

“I’m a bit better.”

“We should go to the basement. This is the second wave; it looks like a bad night.”

I’d slept through the first lot; how adaptable we are. I got up, shaky from lack of food, and followed her through the flat. We’d lost power, but though I had to feel my way, Nan moved confidently, indifferent to the darkness, not even thinking of a torch: further confirmation that her sight was seriously eroded. As we went through the kitchen and out to the basement steps, I remarked that I didn’t hear the girls from upstairs.