Not Safe After Dark (19 page)

A fighter droned overhead. I watched it dip and spin through the blue air and wished I could be up there. I’d always regretted not being a pilot in the war. A barge full of soldiers
drifted by, and I moved aside on the towpath to let the horse that was pulling it pass by. For my troubles I got a full blast of sweaty horseflesh and a pile of steaming manure at my feet. That had
even Ezekiel Woodruff beat.

Aimlessly I followed the direction Ezekiel had told me Johnny had walked in – towards the city centre. As I walked, Jack Blackwell’s scornful words about my inability to find Johnny
echoed in my mind.
Book learning
. That was exactly the kind of cheap insult you would expect from a moron like Jack Blackwell, but it hurt nonetheless. No sense telling him I’d been
buried in the mud under the bodies of my comrades for two days. No sense telling him about the young German soldier I’d surprised and bayoneted to death, twisting the blade until it snapped
and broke off inside him. Jack Blackwell was too young to have seen action in the last war, but if there was any justice in the world, he’d damn well see it in
this
one.

The canal ran by the back of the train station, where I crossed the narrow bridge and walked through the crowds of evacuees out front to City Square. Mary Critchley’s anguish reverberated
in my mind, too: ‘
Mr Bashcombe! Mr Bashcombe!
’ I heard her call.

Then, all of a sudden, as I looked at the black facade of the post office and the statue of the Black Prince in the centre of City Square, it hit me. I thought I knew what had happened to Johnny
Critchley, but first I had to go back to the street and ask just one important question.

•

It was late morning. The station smelt of damp soot and warm oil. Crowds of children thronged around trying to find out where they were supposed to go. They wore name tags and
carried little cardboard boxes. Adults with clipboards, for the most part temporarily unemployed schoolteachers and local volunteers, directed them to the right queue, and their names were ticked
off as they boarded the carriages.

Despite being neither an evacuated child nor a supervisor, I managed to buy a ticket and ended up sharing a compartment with a rather severe-looking woman in a brown uniform I didn’t
recognize, and a male civilian with a brush moustache and a lot of Brylcreem on his hair. They seemed to be in charge of several young children, also in the compartment, who couldn’t sit
still. I could hardly blame them. They were going to the alien countryside, to live with strangers, far away from their parents, for only God knew how long, and the idea scared them half to
death.

The buttoned cushions were warm and the air in the carriage still and close, despite the open window. When we finally set off, the motion stirred up a breeze, which helped a little. On the wall
opposite me was a poster of the Scarborough seafront, and I spent most of the journey remembering the carefree childhood holidays I had enjoyed there with my parents in the early years of the
century: another world, another time. The rest of the trip I glanced out of the window, beyond the scum-scabbed canal, and saw the urban industrial landscape drift by: back gardens, where some
people had put in Anderson shelters half-covered with earth to grow vegetables on; the dark mass of the town hall clock tower behind the city centre buildings; a factory yard, where several men
were loading heavy crates onto a lorry, flushed and sweating in the heat.

Then we were in the countryside, where the smells of grass, hay and manure displaced the reek of the city. I saw small, squat farms, drystone walls, sheep and cattle grazing. Soon train tracks
and canal diverged. We went through a long noisy tunnel, and the children whimpered. Later, I was surprised to see so many army convoys winding along the narrow roads, and the one big aerodrome we
passed seemed buzzing with activity.

All in all, the journey took a little over two hours. Only about ten or eleven children were shepherded off at the small country station, and I followed as they were met and taken to the village
hall, where the men and women who were to care for them waited. It was more civilized than some of the evacuation systems I’d heard about, which sounded more like the slave markets of old,
where farmers waited on the platforms to pick out the strong lads, and local dignitaries whisked away the nicely dressed boys and girls.

I went up to the volunteer in charge, an attractive young country woman in a simple blue frock with a white lace collar and a belt around her slim waist, and asked her if she had any record of
an evacuee called John, or Johnny, Critchley. She checked her records then shook her head, as I knew she would. If I were right, Johnny wouldn’t be here under his own name. I explained my
problem to the woman, who told me her name was Phyllis Rigby. She had a yellow ribbon in her long wavy hair and smelled of fresh apples. ‘I don’t see how anything like that could have
happened,’ Phyllis said. ‘We’ve been very meticulous. But there again, things
have
been a little chaotic.’ She frowned in thought for a moment, then she delegated her
present duties to another volunteer.

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘I’ll help you go from house to house. There weren’t that many evacuees, you know. Far fewer than we expected.’

I nodded. I’d heard how a lot of parents weren’t bothering to evacuate their children. ‘They can’t see anything happening yet,’ I said. ‘Just you wait. After
the first air raid you’ll have so many you won’t have room for them all.’

Phyllis smiled. ‘The poor things. It must be such an upheaval for them.’

‘Indeed.’

I took deep, welcome breaths of country air as Phyllis and I set out from the village hall to visit the families listed on her clipboard. There were perhaps a couple of hundred houses, and less
than fifty per cent had received evacuees. Even so, we worked up quite a sweat calling at them all. Or I did, rather, as sweating didn’t seem to be in Phyllis’s nature. We chatted as we
went, me telling her about my school teaching, and she telling me about her husband, Thomas, training as a fighter pilot in the RAF. After an hour or so with no luck, we stopped in at her cottage
for a refreshing cup of tea, then we were off again.

At last, late in the afternoon, we struck gold.

•

Mr and Mrs Douglas, who were billeting Johnny Critchley, seemed a very pleasant couple, and they were sad to hear that they could not keep him with them for a while longer. I
explained everything to them and assured them that they would get someone else as soon as we had the whole business sorted out.

‘He’s
not
here,’ Johnny said as we walked with Phyllis to the station. ‘I’ve looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find him.’

I shook my head. ‘Sorry, Johnny. You know your mum’s got a speech impediment. That was why I had to go back and ask her exactly what she said to you before I came here. She said she
told you your father was missing in action, which, the way it came out, sounded like missing in
Acksham
, didn’t it? That’s why you came here, wasn’t it, to look for your
father?’

Young Johnny nodded, tears in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t understand why
she
didn’t come and look for him. She must be really vexed
with me.’

I patted his shoulder. ‘I don’t think so. More like she’ll be glad to see you. How did you manage to sneak in with the real evacuees, by the way?’

Johnny wiped his eyes with his grubby sleeve. ‘At the station. There were so many people standing around, at first I didn’t know . . . Then I saw a boy I knew from playing cricket on
the rec.’

‘Oliver Bradley,’ I said. The boy whose name Johnny was registered under.

‘Yes. He goes to Broad Hill.’

I nodded. Though I had never heard of Oliver Bradley, I knew the school; it was just across the valley from us. ‘Go on.’

‘I asked him where he was going, and he said he was being sent to Acksham. It was perfect.’

‘But how did you get him to change places with you?’

‘He didn’t want to. Not at first.’

‘How did you persuade him?’

Johnny looked down at the road and scraped at some gravel with the scuffed tip of his shoe. ‘It cost me a complete set of “Great Cricketers” cigarette cards. Ones my dad gave
me before he went away.’

I smiled. It would have to be something like that.

‘And I made him promise not to tell anyone, just to go home and say there wasn’t room for him, and he’d have to try again in a few days. I just needed enough time to find Dad .
. . you know.’

‘I know.’

We arrived at the station, where Johnny sat on the bench and Phyllis and I chatted in the late afternoon sunlight, our shadows lengthening across the tracks. In addition to the birds singing in
the trees and hedgerows, I could hear grasshoppers chirruping, a sound you rarely heard in the city. I had often thought how much I would like to live in the country and, perhaps when I retired
from teaching a few years in the future, I would be able to do so.

We didn’t have long to wait for our train. I thanked Phyllis for all her help, told her I wished her husband well, and she waved to us as the old banger chugged out of the station.

•

It was past blackout when I finally walked into our street holding Johnny’s hand. He was tired after his adventure and had spent most of the train journey with his head on
my shoulder. Once or twice, from the depths of a dream, he had called his father’s name.

I could sense that something was wrong as soon as I turned the corner. It was nothing specific, just a sudden chill at the back of my neck. Because of the blackout, I couldn’t see anything
clearly, but I got a strong impression of a knot of shifting shadows, just a little bit darker than the night itself, milling around outside Colin Gor-mond’s house.

I quickened my step, and as I got nearer I heard a whisper pass through the crowd when they saw Johnny. Then the shadows began to disperse, slinking and sidling away, disappearing like smoke
into the air. From somewhere, Mary Critchley lurched forward with a cry and took young Johnny in her arms. I let him go. I could hear her thanking me between sobs, but I couldn’t stop
walking.

The first thing I noticed when I approached Colin’s house was that the window was broken and half the blackout curtain had been ripped away. Next I saw that the door was slightly ajar. I
was worried that Colin might be hurt, but out of courtesy I knocked and called out his name.

Nothing.

I pushed the door open and walked inside. It was pitch dark. I didn’t have a torch with me, and I knew that Colin’s light didn’t work, but I remembered the matches and the
candle on the table. I lit it and held it up before me as I walked forward.

I didn’t have far to look. If I hadn’t had the candle, I might have bumped right into him. First I saw his face, about level with mine. His froth-specked lips had turned blue, and a
trickle of dried blood ran from his left nostril. The blackout cloth was knotted around his neck in a makeshift noose, attached to a hook screwed into the lintel over the kitchen door. As I stood
back and examined the scene further, I saw that his down-turned toes were about three inches from the floor, and there was no sign of an upset chair or stool.

Harmless Colin Gormond, friend to the local children. Dead.

I felt the anger well up in me, along with the guilt. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone dashing off to Acksham like that in search of Johnny, or I should at least have taken Colin
with me. I knew the danger he was in; I had talked to Jack Blackwell before I left. How could I have been so stupid, so careless as to leave Colin to his fate with only a warning he didn’t
understand?

Maybe Colin
had
managed to hang himself somehow, without standing on a stool, though I doubted it. But whether or not Jack Blackwell or the rest had actually laid a finger on him, they
were all guilty of driving him to it in my book. Besides, if Jack or anyone else from the street
had
strung Colin up, there would be evidence – fibres, fingerprints, footprints,
whatever – and even DS bloody Longbottom wouldn’t be able to ignore that.

I stumbled outside and made my way towards the telephone box on the corner. Not a soul stirred now, but as I went I heard one door – Jack Blackwell’s door – close softly this
time, as if he thought that too much noise might wake the dead, and the dead might have a tale or two to tell.

Another shitty gig.
In more ways than one. I can smell the colostomy bags the minute we walk in the front doors. I shudder, as I always do when we enter a place like
this. One day, and it might not be long, I know I won’t be coming out.

The Recreation Director is waiting to greet us, crisp blue suit and Morningside accent. Why do RDs all have Scottish accents, even in Vancouver? A gold name tag just above the swell of her left
breast tells me her name is Emily. Actually, if you look closely, our Emily’s not that bad at all, despite the ill-fitting glasses and lifeless hair.

‘You’ll be the musicians, then?’ Nervously eyeing her wristwatch.

Why does it sound like an insult?

‘We’ll be the musicians,’ I admit. Then I introduce the band: Memory Lane. There are five of us, three of us expat Brits. Kit Stark, a washed-up hippie, is our drummer. Kit
took one too many hits of acid on the Isle of Wight ferry nearly thirty years ago. When they’d fished him out of the Solent and done artificial respiration, he spent the next twenty years in
and out of the nut house hallucinating plankton before washing up on the shores of Nova Scotia. Then there’s Benny Leiberman, our morose, alcoholic bass player from Des Moines. Taffy Lloyd
plays trumpet and trombone, and when he’s not doing that, he’s our vocalist. He looks like Harry Secombe but sounds more like one of the Spice Girls. The Hunchback of Notre Band, Geoff
Carroll, plays piano, guitar and vibes and does most of our arrangements. He’s so short-sighted that he has developed a permanent hunch from leaning over the keyboard to read the music.