My hands hit gravel and the rest of my anatomy somersaulted afterward, connecting with something hard on the way down but coming to rest no more than three or four feet below the window. And then, for the first time in many hours, luck: the air-raid siren set up a howl. I sprinted away. A few streets over, I clamped my tin hat on my head and, in the smoke and darkness, started directing folk to the shelters.

  In this way, I hid in plain sight most of the night, which, with few clouds and the moon coming to full, was a bad one. Under cover of the raid, I moved through the city, my dusty warden’s uniform acting as my credential. I was on an errand, reporting to HQ; I’d been sent to the wrong post; streets were closed behind me—the Blitz provided plenty of excuses. I reached Soho shortly before dawn. The wet streets were spangled with glass and mucky with earth from bomb craters. The all-clear was sounding when I pounded at the door of the Europa.

  A window opened above. Maribelle bellowed, “We’re closed, cunty. Fuck off.” The voice of an angel!

  “It’s Francis,” I called. “Let me in. I’m in an awful pickle.”

  “Ha,” she said. “When aren’t you?” From the depths of the room, I heard Delia, her Jamaican lover, say, “What that little bum boy want at this hour?” The window slammed shut, but after a few bad moments, there was a rattle behind the door and Maribelle appeared with her noble face and hawk nose, straight and imperious even in a threadbare bathrobe like some exiled empress.

  “I need a place to hide,” I said.

  Maribelle gave me a skeptical and appraising glance. Other pickles had left me in a less flourishing state. “And you’re in bloody uniform. We’ve got a uniform, Delia,” she shouted upstairs.

  “Don’t bring her up unless it’s a Wren.”

  “I’d have thought you’d rather have a FANY,” I called.

  A big laugh from upstairs, but I knew it would take more than that to pacify Delia, a powerful Jamaican who sometimes worked the bar and who was known for her violent and uncertain temper.

  Maribelle gestured toward the stair. Above, we bypassed the empty club, so much smaller and shabbier than when it was full of revelers and three deep at the bar with my friends, rivals, and lovers, to reach a bedroom done in flaming pink satin and red-flocked walls like an elderly bordello. Delia, lanky and graceful with long dark limbs under a short nightdress, was sprawled in bed, looking as fierce and exotic as a panther and not much friendlier.

  Maribelle nodded toward a round padded ottoman covered in wild gold brocade. I sat down and took off my tin hat. “I’m on the run from the police.”

  “Oh, mon, police is bad,” said Delia. “Why you think we want them here?”

  “How bad?” asked Maribelle.

  “Do you remember Damien Hiller, the boy who was murdered?”

  “Of course. They don’t think . . . ?”

  “Not him, no, but that’s when the inspector got his eye on me.”

  “Oh, ho,” said Maribelle.

  “Oh, ho, indeed. And now there’ve been two more bodies, and, Maribelle, here’s the thing. I found one on the street when I was going off duty and the other turned up two nights ago after I’d stopped to help another warden.”

  “That’s awkward, cunty, but it doesn’t sound more than awkward.”

  I explained my difficulties the dreadful night at The Pond.

  “What you drinking for in that hole?” Delia asked. “You drink in a place like The Pond when you could be among friends?”

  “Momentary lapse in judgment,” I admitted. “And tonight. After talking to me this afternoon, the inspector shows up with two coppers.”

  Maribelle and Delia agreed two cops indicated serious intent.

  “So,” said Maribelle, “how is it you’re not tucked up safely at the station?”

  This was my cue. Maribelle’s found me amusing from the first day I set foot in the club. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that I drink there gratis for the pleasure of my company and the custom of my friends, who are many and thirsty. Maribelle likes a laugh, but she is also a businesswoman par excellence. I leaned forward on the ottoman and described our ARP center.

  “Not a real uniform in sight,” Delia grumped.

  “But full of rocks.”

  “Sounds promising,” said Maribelle. “For those of your persuasion.”

  She had joined Delia on their big and very pink bed. They sat together, arms around each other’s shoulders, while I described my race through the storerooms and my frantic search for an unlocked office. I had them both laughing by the time I was stuck half in and half out of the window.

  “Then on to my warden’s duties. I kept moving toward Soho, my promised land and sanctuary.”

  I hoped Maribelle would take the hint, but instead she said, “Bloody night. We had to close after the second air-raid warning. Members aren’t what they used to be.”

  “You can say that,” said Delia and laughed uproariously.

  “I need a place to hole up. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll sleep on the bar.”

  “You’ll sleep in the street cause you’ll bring the coppers, mon,” said Delia, and even Maribelle, more inclined to mercy, was dubious.

  “Best cut a deal with your inspector,” she advised.

  “I don’t trust him. We have a history.” Of course, I described our encounter in the park instead of how I’d embarked on a career as a police snitch. I would have been done for with both ladies if they’d known about that.

  Maribelle’s face clouded.

  “Just until I can get a message to Nan tomorrow,” I pleaded.

  “You crazy, mon. They’ll look for you here first. Everyone knows you drink at the Europa. And you crazy, too, girl, if you let him stay.”

  “What’s his name? Your inspector,” Maribelle asked.

  “Mordren. John.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Delia. Maribelle looked grave and shook her head.

  “What? What is it?”

  “He has a bad reputation in certain quarters.”

  “He likes to beat up boys,” Delia added with a certain relish.

  “This is not news to me,” I said. “He banged my head against a tree.”

  “Not likely to hurt you that way,” said Delia. “He beats little white boys black, I heard. Maybe he thought you were with some razor gang. Thought you might come back and cut his throat.”

  It struck me there might be some truth in that idea.

  “There was talk right here at the bar,” Maribelle said carefully, “after Damien was killed and the boys found out who was investigating. That’s all I’ll say.”

  “Who? Who was talking, Maribelle? I’d better know. I’m going to have to find out.”

  “Hire a fucking detective,” Delia said. “Everything that happens in the Europa is confidential.”

  But Maribelle appeared to be taking the idea under advisement. Her list of club members is a well-guarded secret, but visitors are fair game, and after a moment, she said, “Came as a guest and hasn’t been back lately. George was his name. I think he works as a mechanic, but John, your friend the photographer, will know. He was all over him. I blush to remember.”

  Delia laughed at this. There is no recorded instance of Maribelle blushing for anything, ever, but, all right, I’d start with John; I should have thought of that myself. He went everywhere, drank with everyone, shot anyone interesting who came within camera range. “Thanks,” I said. “And can I stay for now?”

  “Tonight only.”

  Delia set up a loud and coarsely obscene protest, but Maribelle overruled her in the end. “Francis is an artist. He’s going to immortalize me. When we’re all dust and the Europa has passed on, there I’ll be forever. Right?”

  I bowed. I would, indeed, do her portrait, a challenge and a pleasure, if I could keep out of jail.

  She threw me a pillow and told me to be up before nine when the charwoman arrived. “You’ll have to move on then. Best find somewhere no one knows you.”

  I felt that I could rely on Nan for that.

  Chapter Nine

  A rattle, the squeal of old hinges, the scrape of swollen wood. I opened my eyes on a sour, dusty morning-after-the-Blitz light. Sat up and knocked my head against the shelf of the bar. Saw a very pink pillow and a row of bottles, heard footsteps approaching: the day jumped into focus. I was lying behind the bar at the Europa, where I had slept on one of Maribelle’s pink satin pillows. That uneven step was the charwoman, whom I had promised to avoid. I peered over the top of the bar. A stout, gray-haired woman was stumping toward the WC for her pail and mop. I stuffed the pillow onto the shelf and collected my hat and mask. As soon as I heard the door to the WC close, I jumped up, stinking of dust and beer, and hustled out the door and down the stair in my stocking feet to the street. I pulled on my boots and set off into the morning.

  Horns, sirens, detours; dust, smoke, and mist. Workers of all sorts were already picking their way over craters and trenches, trying to avoid gas lines, some broken, and cables, some live. Heavy Rescue Squads were at work on nearly every block, and on one corner firemen sprayed water onto a still-smoldering building—three walls, no windows, roof in the cellar.

  I got tea and a cheap roll at a canteen. “Bad night,” I remarked.

  “I’ve seen worse,” said the tea lady, her face pasty with fatigue, her hair in a kerchief, her sweater stretched and stained: everyone’s wardrobe was beginning to look tired.

  Back on the street, I was nervous for a bit, seeing coppers and arrest in every pedestrian, but I soon realized I had little to fear in the post-raid chaos. The previous night had left my face black with soot, and I believe that I could have passed the inspector and his handsome sergeant without their taking the slightest notice. With this conviction, I stepped out boldly with a reasonable impression of innocence.

  Besides, the eyes of the London public were focused on the newly treacherous ground, the heaved paving stones, the sharp obstacles; we were all busy updating our personal maps in a district where landmarks were routinely altered or erased. There should be a pub on the corner—wasn’t that the one with the fine fish and chips? Where was its old-fashioned hanging sign? Gone with the blast, along with the pretty window boxes and whole upper story. And what’s this? Usually a convenient alley, a quick detour by the antiquarian and used bookstores, now a massive, steaming, Blitz-reeking heap of masonry.

  I took the better part of an hour to reach John’s studio, normally a fifteen-minute walk, but my knock still came too early for him. I pounded the door for a good five minutes before he rolled out, whey-faced with black circles under his eyes and a greenish tinge to his unshaven jowls.

  “Francis?” He rubbed his hand over his eyes as if I might be the ghost of last night’s gin.

  “Yes, it’s Francis. May I come in, John?”

  He looked up at the sky. “I dare say it is still morning, Francis.”

  “It’s around ten. May I come in?”

  “At this hour? Afternoon. See me then. Not too early afternoon either.”

  He made to close the door, but I wedged it open with my foot. “I need your help.”

  He looked at me blankly. John does not function well in the early hours. Nor the late hours either, though there is a period in between when he makes brilliant photographs.

  “I’m being pursued,” I said, knowing he loves gossip and scandal.

  “Oh, to be young and beautiful. Let him catch you, darling. That’s my advice.” He again attempted to close the door, puzzled by what was keeping it open.

  “Not that kind of pursuit.” I glanced over my shoulder for emphasis. “And it won’t be good for you if I’m seen here.” With this, I gave him a shove and slipped inside. “You’re a friend in need,” I said.

  John looked skeptical. “This is really too bad of you, Francis. Now you’re inside and I’ll have to put you out.”

  “I’ll be gone in a minute if you’ll just listen to me.”

  But comprehension was too much to expect so soon. “I need a little refreshment,” he said. “A little wake-me-up. You’re sure it’s ten? I haven’t been up at ten for years.”

  “As close as I can determine.”

  Before I could say more he wandered into the windowless kitchenette and darkroom that serves most of his needs, physical and artistic. He reappeared, bottle in hand, looking slightly rosier. Ignoring my appeals, he went straight to his big portrait camera and swung around to face me.

  “Not today, John. Absolutely no photos today.”

  He put is eye to the lens. “You’re extremely filthy and in uniform, too.” He looked up in an accusatory way. “Why aren’t you at your post?”

  “I had to leave suddenly. That’s what I’m trying to explain.”

  “Absent without leave! Naughty boy.”

  “Very. But John, no photos. And try to remember: I’ve not been here today.”

  “I frequently doubt that people have been here. My loves have a certain airy, indeterminate quality.” His narrow face drooped and threatened melancholy.

  “This time I really haven’t been,” I said. “I need to find someone ever so quick.”

  “Your busy life! Pursued and pursuing.” He took another drink. I hoped that this unseasonably early tippling would not render him completely useless.

  “You met an attractive young fellow at the Europa not too long ago.”

  “I meet so many,” he said glumly, “but few are what I’d call attractive.”

  “This one was. Name of George. I think he works as a mechanic. I need to find him, soonest.”

  “This is bad of you, Francis, to try to turn your appeal on him. If he’s so attractive, you might leave him for me.”

  “I just need to talk to him. Please concentrate for a moment.”

  I found a glass and poured him a proper drink. The disadvantage of liking alcohol is that so many of one’s friends are drunks. Two glasses later, John had finally achieved his normal equilibrium, and I once again broached my need to find George.

  John shook his head. “Don’t remember him. Don’t. The great passion of my life, and it’s gone.” He clapped his hand on his forehead and struck a pose. You never quite know when John is serious and when he is just enjoying an attitude. I felt like taking him by his skinny neck and giving him a good shake, but patience, patience.

  “Might you have taken a photograph of him?”

  A sly smile.

  “Have you some recent proofs? The Europa? A handsome boy who’s been around? Name of George?”

  John said we could but try. I noticed his hands shook as he sorted the various folders, meticulously kept despite the squalor of the studio. “How long ago?”

  “Four weeks. Five at the outside. Pre-Blitz.”

  “You should have said pre-Blitz. All life is divided into pre-Blitz and post-Blitz. Vita est omnis divisa . . . et cetera.” He opened a folder of night images: the high contrast of electric lights in darkness, laughing faces against windows covered by blackout curtains, smoke from a cigarette hanging like a veil; two graceful boys dancing; another, solo, with blond hair and a surly expression, sizing up the crowd. There was also a small photo, barely larger than a snapshot, of Connie with longer, fairer hair than I remembered and his trademark two-inch nails, which I filched while John was refilling his glass. The photo might prove useful and I don’t believe in resisting impulse. The snap was in my pocket before he turned around.

  “These are terrific,” I said. John has a good eye and the gift of instant perception. He freezes the precise moment when the subject reveals himself. What would that look like in paint? And could I achieve it in oils? One of the big questions of my life.

  “George was his name?”

  “Yes, George.”

  He shook his head. I was beginning to think Maribelle had sent me on a wild goose chase, when, half a dozen folders on, he stopped at a shot of drinkers at the bar. I could see he recognized someone. He turned over one more photograph and said, “Oh, that George. Oh, yes! A dainty dish, metaphorically speaking. Physically well put together and all parts in working order.” He tapped a photograph of a husky fellow with thick dark hair, straight brows, and narrow eyes; he was smoking a cigarette and staring insolently at the camera. The background was apparently the Europa, and John had somehow caught his subject’s reflection in the bar mirror undistorted by the flash.

  “Any last name, any address?”

  “Frahm. George Frahm. My good Fleet Street training: ID every photograph. He works in a garage in Stepney. Now, let me think.” John closed his eyes before he triumphantly picked up one of his grease pencils and scribbled an address. “Repairs motors, he says. Mostly stolen, I should think.”

  “This is invaluable, John.”

  He leaned back against the table and gave me a close look. “You’re filthy enough to be conspicuous.”

  I washed up in his kitchenette. When I emerged, drying my face and hands on one of his thin, gray towels, he asked, “So who’s behind you? Cops or robbers?”

  “Some of both.”

  “Darling, I am filled with admiration.” He pushed himself upright, and retrieved a shabby jacket and a rather dirty fedora from the coat rack by the door. “Nothing you’d ever wear, right?”

  He’d read my mind. “And, therefore, ideal. Thanks, John. But I was never here, right? Please remember that.”

  “You cut someone’s throat?” he asked.

  “No, but someone may be out to cut mine.”

  I ventured toward the East End wearing John’s hat and jacket, my trousers pulled down over my gumboots and my ARP gear stowed in a sack. Inconspicuous, in a word; within a few blocks I felt quite invisible. I was strongly tempted to take the tube home and reassure Nan myself. However, despite my general philosophy of life, some impulses are to be resisted. I made my way over the piles of earth and gaping sidewalks and around warning lines to the tube and the train to Stepney: another world, worse in every way. Smoke and dust hanging in the air clawed at my lungs, and every step disturbed soft flakes of ash that rose like phantoms. We’d been hit in the West End, but nothing like this, where block after block had been reduced to rubble or blackened by the fire winds sweeping off the blazing docks. Tenements had been opened like sardine cans to illustrate the caprice of the universe: one flat collapsed, blackened, any living thing crushed; the one next door, with the wallpaper unblemished on the remaining walls and the table still set for a late supper. Here a dolly with no more than a smudge on its painted nose; there a little cart, squashed to splinters with the blood of its owner on the handle. A dead horse, probably a peddler’s, lay amid rags and blood and bits of flesh. On every block, men and women were clawing their way through the rubble seeking anything they might salvage, while small children sat shocked and disconsolate on what had been the stoops of their homes. Curious boys with pale, underfed faces and streetwise eyes explored the enormous bomb craters or ringed the sinister lines and warnings of the UXB, waiting for some excitement.

 

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