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.’
‘Why?’
Frank shook his head firmly. ‘I can’t tell you. The Resistance people know.’
‘Is David your real name?’
Frank should his head. ‘No. He was one of my friends.’ He felt tears pricking at his eyes.
‘Can you tell me your real name? If you can, I can ring for help. I’ve a number.’ Terry nodded at the telephone on the desk.
Frank hesitated, but it was all or nothing now. ‘Muncaster, Frank Muncaster.’
Terry picked up the telephone. He dialled a number. Someone answered and he spoke with unexpected crispness, ‘Reverend Hadley, St Luke’s Church. I’ve a man here, says the police are after him. There’s been a raid nearby. His name is Frank Muncaster, repeat, Muncaster. Medium height, thin, brown hair, injured right hand.’ Then there was silence, the vicar occasionally nodding and saying ‘yes’ briskly. He looked at Frank again and asked quietly, ‘Do you know how many of your people got away?’
‘Sean and Eileen, the people who were sheltering us, they were –’ his voice trembled ‘– I saw them killed. And Geoff, one of my friends, he was killed too, it’s his blood on my cardigan. The other three – I don’t know. Outside, I heard a policeman say they were looking for “them”, so I hope some got away.’
The vicar relayed the information to the person at the other end. At length he said, ‘All right,’ and put the phone down. He looked at Frank. ‘They’ll come to collect you. But it may take a while, the police are putting up roadblocks, closing off the whole district.’
Frank stood up, panic searing through him. ‘They could be searching the streets. What if they come here —’
Terry said, ‘It’s all right, if they do I’ll deal with them, they don’t know I’ve contacts in the Resistance.’ He smiled sadly, making his face look years older. ‘They think I’m just the local do-gooder. Our man told me you were in a mental hospital where you tried to kill yourself,’ he added, more gently.
‘I’d do it now if I could. So they don’t get me.’
Terry shook his head. ‘That’s not what God wants.’
‘Isn’t it? Then why did he make a world where sometimes it’s the only choice you have left?’
Terry closed his eyes. How exhausted he looked. ‘Would you like to pray with me, for your friends?’
‘No.’ Frank’s voice shook with emotion. ‘No.’
They both jumped at the sound of a loud knocking. The vicar said, his tone suddenly one of command, ‘It’s the back door. I’ll go out and see. You stay here. If you hear me coming back with someone else, run outside. But wait for me outside the door, don’t go back on the streets or they’ll get you.’ He looked at Frank. ‘Will you promise? I’m your only chance. Please, do as I say. My wife’s in the soup kitchen,’ he added, his tone suddenly pleading.
Frank nodded wearily. It was like David had said in that field, he had responsibility for other people’s lives now. And all because Edgar had wanted to show him how clever he was, that evening weeks ago in Birmingham.
The vicar went outside. Frank got up and put his ear to the door. He heard voices from the church, echoing in the cavernous space, but couldn’t make out the words. Then footsteps, several of them, in the soup kitchen. He stood by the vestry door, ready to jump outside.
But when he heard footsteps approaching the door there was only one set. Terry came back into the room and sat down on the chair. He let out a long breath, running his finger round the inside of his dog-collar, then produced a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He said, ‘They’ve gone. Did you put the latch on the church door when you came in from outside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank God. I’ve convinced them I did it hours ago, and so no-one could have got in from outside. Otherwise they’d have searched the whole place. The only other way in or out is through that back door, you see, that’s where people come for the soup kitchen. They gave me your description, they said there were two men and a woman as well.’
So David and Ben and Natalia had all got away, at least so far. Terry said, ‘It seems to be it’s you they’re keenest to find.’ He looked at Frank curiously. ‘Are you a Jew? These roundups are unspeakable.’
‘No. No, I’m not a Jew.’
‘Cigarette?’
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘We had quite a few Jews coming to the soup kitchen, till they took them all away. Poor people, not even allowed to work in their professions any more.’ He sighed. ‘And all the others without work and homes – my predecessor started the kitchen back in the thirties, when the Depression and mass unemployment began; it’s been used ever since. It’s gone on for twenty years, apart from when everyone had work in the 1939–40 war. The police know me, they took my word nobody of your description came in. I hate lying, you know, even to them,’ he added.
Frank said, ‘Thank you. Thank you for what you did.’
The vicar smiled. He said awkwardly, ‘Perhaps the Lord is watching over us, eh?’
‘He didn’t watch over my friend Geoff, did he?’ Frank answered bleakly. ‘Or Mr and Mrs O’Shea.’ He looked up at Terry. ‘He doesn’t protect anybody, not really. Don’t you understand that?’
DAVID AND BEN AND NATALIA STOOD, trying to quiet their rapid breathing. In the entrance to the alley they had taken refuge in, they saw two thin, weak beams of light. David thought, if it wasn’t for the fog, we’d all have been caught. But Geoff was gone, both the O’Sheas too, and Frank was lost. They would catch Frank now and it would all have been for nothing.
‘Where the bloody hell are they?’ an angry voice asked from the road.
‘We’ll never find them in this. They’re putting a cordon round these streets. We’re going to have to pen them in, do a house-to-house.’ The policemen’s footsteps faded away. They heard the sirens of Black Marias in the distance.
Suddenly a yard door opened right beside them in the alley. Ben and Natalia instantly turned and covered it with their guns. David saw a shape in the entrance, made out a fat old man in a cap and raincoat, his mouth falling open with shock. There was something white at his feet – a small mongrel dog on the end of a lead.
‘Dinnae move, pal!’ Ben said quietly but fiercely. ‘Dinnae say anything and ye’ll no’ get hurt.’ The dog stared at him, then at his master. It growled softly.
The old man gestured wildly at one ear. ‘Deaf,’ he said.
‘Fuckin’ ’ell!’ Ben leaned in to him. ‘Do you live in that house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
The dog growled again. ‘Quiet, Rags,’ the old man said. ‘Don’t ’urt ’im,’ he whispered pleadingly. ‘’E’s old, ’e won’t hurt you. Please, ‘e’s all I got since my wife died.’
Ben said, ‘We need coats.’ He gestured with his gun. ‘Go on, go back inside.’
‘Who are you?’ the old man asked pathetically. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Never you mind. What you dinnae ken can’t hurt you.’
A note of anger came into the old man’s voice. ‘You’re Resistance, aren’t you? Takin’ advantage of the fog for
