Dominion

grey misty shapes visible outside the windows. What did Wilson want? Was it to begin the electric shocks? Was it to tell him the police would be taking him away? He stood looking at the big picture on the opposite wall, ‘The Stag at Bay’. Out of desperation an idea came to him. With trembling steps he walked over to it. It was very heavy and with the limited power in his right hand it was difficult to unhook the picture, even standing on a hard chair which he dragged across, but he managed it. His arms trembling with the effort, he carefully lowered it to the floor. He was bathed in sweat. He glanced nervously at the door to the day room, heard a cheerful female announcer’s voice from the television. He saw that behind the picture, driven deep into the brickwork, was a large metal hook.

Frank stared at it. Again he thought, I don’t want to die. But he wouldn’t be doing it for himself, it would be to make sure he took his terrible secret with him. He reached up and grasped the hook with both hands, letting his full weight rest on it. It didn’t move. He walked away, looked out of the window again. He took long, deep breaths, wondering once more if he could have been mistaken about yesterday’s events. He thought, David and Geoff never liked the Nazis any more than I did. But he hadn’t seen David for over ten years. In that time everything had changed. He thought, they and the policemen could be working together, trying to grind him down. And if they put real pressure on him he knew he would crack. He thought of the things they said the Germans did to make people talk. He squeezed his eyes shut. He thought suddenly of his father, his death in action. If he did this it would be a heroic act like his. Outside, he heard ribald laughter. He walked back to the hook. Blood thundered in his ears. There wasn’t much time before they came and took him to Dr Wilson. Quickly he took off his jacket, then his crumpled shirt. He wound the shirt into a long strip of thick cloth. It was difficult but he made a clumsy noose. He stood on the chair in his vest and tied one end of the shirt tightly around the hook. He was completely determined now, like a soldier going over the top in the trenches. He stood on the chair and put the home-made noose round his neck. He bent his legs so it drew tight, taking all his weight. It held. Then he jumped.

Chapter Twenty-Four

THE FOLLOWING DAY DAVID LEFT for work as usual. The weather was still cold, the sky a leaden grey; fog was forecast for later. It felt strange, after all that had happened since Friday, to be walking to the station, catching the Monday morning tube with the other commuters.

On Sunday night, after the broadcast about the Jews, David and Sarah had sat in the lounge in dismal, heavy silence. Sarah had had an urge to telephone Mrs Templeman’s husband, but knew she mustn’t – she wasn’t even supposed to know her friend was dead. They both started when the telephone rang; it was Irene again, phoning to ask how Uncle Ted was and asking about family arrangements for Christmas. Sarah sat on the hard chair by the telephone table, looking exhausted by the effort of trying to sound normal, lighting one cigarette from the butt of another. They had both been smoking like chimneys since the broadcast; the air reeked. From her end of the conversation David gathered Irene had started talking about the Jews. Sarah began to sound impatient. ‘How can you possibly say they’ll be kept comfortable – hauled out of their homes and marched off under guard, they’ll be terrified . . .’ Eventually Sarah said wearily, ‘I don’t think there’s any point discussing it further, Irene.’ She banged the receiver back on the hook. ‘If she wants reassurance over that one, she’s come to the wrong bloody shop!’

‘Careful what you say. Remember Steve’s Blackshirt chums.’

‘Oh, to hell with the lot of them,’ she snapped. In a way David was glad she had become angry; her strength of character was reasserting itself even if she obviously thought he was being cold, overcautious. She came over to the settee again and they both sat staring at the blank television screen, chain-smoking, fearing the telephone ringing again, or worse, a knock at the door.

Next day they were both red-eyed from sleeplessness, but they got up wearily and started the morning routine as usual. Over breakfast David asked Sarah if she was all right to be left alone. She was in her dressing gown, pale and washed-out.

‘I’m supposed to phone round the toyshops this morning. I’ll find an excuse to phone Friends House as well, see if anything’s being said about poor Jane.’

‘Watch what you say.’

‘Of course I will.’

‘I’ll phone you from a call-box at lunchtime, see how you are.’

‘Why can’t you ring from the office?’

‘I’m just being careful.’

‘If you use that word again, I’ll scream.’

Travelling in on the crowded tube, strap-hanging, the previous day’s events kept crowding into David’s mind. Natalia had guessed his secret, the only person who ever had. She had said she wouldn’t tell anyone but her loyalties were to the Resistance, not him. And what would happen now with Frank? And Sarah, he was placing her in more and more danger.

People were reading the newspapers with unusual concentration. An elderly couple was talking in fierce undertones as they read. ‘Bastards. It’s wicked, evil. Makes you ashamed to be British.’ They didn’t seem to care about being overheard. One or two people frowned at them, but most buried themselves deeper in their papers. The train went into a tunnel and David caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. He looked ravaged, exhausted. He must try and pull himself together.

For the first time, entering the Office, he didn’t feel it was a place of refuge. He had known for years that the service supported an evil government, had been irreparably contaminated by it, but it was the first time he had actually felt it, deep in his bones.

In the lift two of his colleagues were discussing the effect the deportations would have on Dominion relations in the cool, detached Civil Service way, as though it were a more abstract problem.

‘Of course our counter-argument will be that they’ve all closed doors to further Jewish immigration themselves, apart from New Zealand. They feel they’ve taken enough.’

‘Yes. The pot calling the kettle black argument.’

‘Quite.’

‘They may raise the Palestine option again.’

‘Not going to happen, old boy. There’s just too many imponderables.’

‘Did you see there’s a new Resistance leaflet?’

‘No.’

‘Someone had scattered them on the floor of the tube on my line. Usual Churchill stuff – destroying our liberties, dividing the British people, who will be next? Plastered with “V”s and “R”s. I thought, can you call the Jews British people?’

‘Well indeed? There you do have an interesting question of definition.’

‘I suppose there’ll be more strikes and riots with this one.’

‘It just gets worse all the time. I know Mosley wants reprisals, taking captured Resistance people’s families hostage, shooting one for every soldier and policeman killed.’

‘The German way, eh? That’s going a bit far.’

‘Perhaps.’

David stared fixedly ahead as the lift clanked upwards. He wanted to punch them, break their faces.

That morning it was hard to concentrate; fortunately there was only routine deskwork to attend to. He thought of Natalia, her almond-shaped eyes looking at him from the car. You should tell them.

Outside, fog settled slowly over the city. Towards noon David got up and put the light on. At lunchtime he went out for a swim, but first he phoned Sarah. She answered at once, her voice level, normal.

‘It’s me, darling,’ he said. ‘Any news?’

There was a tired, ragged edge to her voice. ‘Yes, they told me at Friends House that Mr Templeman had phoned to say his wife had died of a heart attack. I rang him, to give my condolences. Poor man, he was trying to be brave but you could hear his voice was about to break.’

‘A heart attack?’ David repeated incredulously.

‘Yes. The police called round to say she’d dropped dead outside the station at Wembley. They told him it was a heart attack. He said there’ll be a post-mortem. They’ll fake the result, won’t they? I saw the blood . . .’ Sarah’s own voice was close to breaking now.