Dominion

Chapter Forty-One

AFTER SHOOTING THE POLICEMAN, Meg had led the way rapidly up the road to Kenton Station. Sarah could hardly believe what she had done; she kept seeing the vase shatter against the policeman’s head, the blood and the porcelain shards flying out. But he’d had a gun and would have killed them all.

She stumbled; Meg turned and gave her an angry glare. ‘Come on,’ she snapped. ‘Before that man’s missed and a hundred of them come down on us. Don’t draw attention, try and look normal. But hurry.’ Sarah tried to compose herself. She thought of what it must have been like for Meg, walking up and down her street, waiting for Irene to go, then seeing the policeman enter the house. She seemed quite unaffected by cold-bloodedly shooting a man. Were they all like this in the Resistance, this brutal? Was this what David was like, underneath?

They reached Kenton Station. Meg bought a couple of tickets. A tube came quickly and soon they were clattering down to London. They got off at Piccadilly Circus. ‘This is it,’ Meg said briskly. A queue of excited children and their parents, wrapped against the cold, waited outside a shop where a large poster over the door proclaimed, Santa Claus is here this afternoon! Meg looked at it, disapproval glinting in her eyes behind their steel spectacles. ‘Christmas is supposed to be a time to remember the birth of our Saviour,’ she said.

They crossed the road. The traffic was heavy, it was starting to get dark. Sarah thought of her house, the dead man lying there. Meg led her into a maze of streets full of coffee bars, shops selling exotic foods, run-down pubs and shopfronts with black-painted windows.

‘Godless place,’ Meg muttered angrily.

‘What?’

‘Den of Satan. Nobody cares about morality any more. It’s all because of the Catholics.’

‘What is?’ Sarah began to wonder if Meg was a little mad.

‘The Blackshirts. The Nazis. They’re all tools of the Pope. It all started in Rome with Mussolini, didn’t it? Look at Italy, or Spain, or France. The Catholics are hand in glove with the Fascists. They run everything really.’

‘I know the Catholic Church collaborates, but they’re not in charge—’

‘Undermining Protestant morality, that’s what they’re doing. I used to teach in a secondary school, I’ve seen it, boys swaggering around in Blackshirt uniforms, making obscene comments to teachers and getting away with it, that’s why I left . . .’ She stopped, so suddenly that Sarah almost walked into her, and turned into a dirty alleyway. She rang a bell beside a door with worn green paint, turned to Sarah and smiled grimly. ‘I hope you’re not easily shockable.’

There was the sound of footsteps and a young woman opened the door. She was tall, with striking red hair, wearing a green polo-neck sweater. She looked at Meg, who gave her a prim nod.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ the woman said without enthusiasm.

Meg nodded brusquely towards Sarah. ‘I’ve brought her.’

The woman gave Sarah a friendly smile. ‘Hello. I’m Dilys. Come on in.’

She led them into a tatty hallway, up a flight of stairs and through a door into some sort of waiting room, hard chairs around the walls. A man was sitting on one of the chairs, a big man in his fifties in a dark coat with a velvet collar, a bowler hat and umbrella on the chair beside him. He stood up and extended a hand to Sarah. He smiled but his eyes were cold and hard.

‘I’m Mr Jackson,’ he said. ‘Mrs Fitzgerald?’

‘Yes.’

‘There was trouble,’ Meg said bluntly. ‘She had her sister with her and I had to walk up and down the street for ages. Then a copper came. We had to get rid of him.’ She looked at Sarah. ‘She knocked him on the nut. I shot him.’

Jackson frowned. ‘They won’t like that. One of their own, they’ll be redoubling their efforts.’

‘He could have identified me. And her sister.’

Sarah staggered; suddenly she thought she was going to faint. She said, ‘I’m sorry. I just can’t believe – what I did,’ as Dilys helped her to a seat.

‘This is war, dear, better get used to it,’ Meg said implacably.

Jackson frowned at her. He said over his shoulder to Dilys, ‘Get us a cup of tea, will you, there’s a good girl?’ Dilys, who had been glaring at Meg, went away.

‘What is this place?’ Sarah asked.

‘It’s a brothel,’ Jackson answered, his voice quite matter-of-fact. ‘Meg here doesn’t approve but there we are, it takes all sorts.’ Jackson smiled again, condescendingly, Sarah thought. ‘I expect all this has been a bit of a shock for you.’

‘Please, do you know where my husband is? I’m desperately anxious—’

‘He’s safe. With us. Geoff Drax, too. They’ll rejoin you later.’

‘Please, you must tell me—’

Jackson’s tone hardened. ‘There’s no must about it, Mrs Fitzgerald. We’ve gone out of our way to rescue you, and as Meg said she put herself in no little danger.’

‘How long has David been working for you? Can you tell me that at least?’

‘Quite some time. He’s a good man, your husband. Tenacious, trustworthy. He’s been helping us, getting information from his department. Unfortunately something went wrong and he risked exposure. We’re lucky he got out.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Sarah said. ‘The Germans questioned me. At Senate House. But I had nothing to tell them.’

Jackson and Meg exchanged a sharp look. He leaned forward. ‘They asked you about your husband?’

‘Yes. But I didn’t know anything.’

‘Did they mention the name Frank Muncaster to you?’

‘Frank?’ She frowned. ‘Yes, they did. They didn’t say why, though.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘That I’ve never met him. David gets Christmas cards and the odd letter from him. I just know he was a friend of David’s at Oxford, had problems, mental problems I think. David used to sort of protect him. Is he one of your people, too? They told me Geoff Drax was.’

Jackson looked relieved. He gave her a gentle smile. ‘Drax is, yes. I’m sorry you’ve been caught up in all this. But we take pride in getting our agents’ families to safety. I understand you are a pacifist,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Perhaps you don’t approve of us.’

‘I’ve never believed in violence. But now, everything that’s happening, some of the things I’ve seen . . .’ She shook her head.

‘Well, events are moving our way. Adlai Stevenson’s just made a speech saying the United States is to start trading with Russia. And the new Russian offensive seems to be pushing the Germans back all along the front. They may take a couple of cities this winter.’

‘All this blood,’ Sarah said.

‘It will end one day. Your husband is part of a network of Civil Service people I hope will take over running the country, stop the Reds running wild. And the Catholics, too, eh, Meg?’

Meg bristled. ‘I know you think it’s a joke . . .’

Jackson gave a wintry smile. Sarah didn’t like him. And Meg was some sort of Protestant fanatic.

Dilys returned with a tray. Jackson rubbed his hands together. ‘Ah, tea. No bickies, well, never mind.’ He took a cup and handed it to Sarah. ‘Now, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he said, slowly and seriously. ‘This is the plan. Dilys is going to dye your hair, cut it in a different style. Give you some new clothes. People will be looking for you, you see. Then we’re going to send you down to the south coast.’

‘The south coast? Why?’

‘That’s where your husband will be going, quite soon. We’ll be able to send you tomorrow, I hope, though the trains are a bit erratic this week. We’re shutting up shop here, Dilys is leaving tomorrow. We’ll give you a new identity card, and a cover story – you’re a widow, going to the south coast for a bit of a break. You’ll be staying with some of our people. Now, is all that clear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you reasonably good at memorizing things?’

‘Yes. But when will my husband arrive?’

‘In a few days we hope. Then we have a plan to get you all away. I can’t say more than that for now, Mrs Fitzgerald.’ He smiled again, that patronizing smile. ‘You have to trust us.’

Jackson and Meg left shortly after. Dilys took Sarah into an adjoining room, with peeling wallpaper and a big, dirty unmade bed, and sat her down at a dressing table. Sarah had flinched a little as she realized she was in a prostitute’s bedroom, but Dilys was friendly, a relief after Meg. She put a hairdresser’s cape around Sarah’s shoulders.

‘I’ll cut it short first, then dye it. You’re going to be a redhead, dear.’

Sarah smiled bravely at her in the mirror. ‘Well, my life’s been turned upside down already; I suppose a different hair colour won’t make much difference.’

She sat still as Dilys cut her hair, quickly and efficiently. Sarah wondered if she had been a hairdresser once. ‘I’ve met your husband, you know,’ the woman said. ‘Careful, dear, don’t jerk your head. Mr Jackson used to meet his civil servants in the flat next door. And your husband came yesterday, after he went on the run. He’s a nice chap, isn’t he, good-looking, too. I like dark men. I asked him if he had any Maltese blood.’

‘He’s Irish. I know you wouldn’t think it to hear him talk.’

‘He’s got a nice voice. Like Mr Jackson, but not so pompous.’ They both laughed.

‘So you have to move,’ Sarah said.

‘We have to change houses quickly sometimes. I’ll miss the woman who used to stay at the old flat. East European, very smart. She’s a painter, she was a bit upset at having to leave her pictures behind. I saved a couple, in case I ever saw her again. There’s one over by the wall there. I knew it was her favourite.’

Looking in the mirror Sarah saw the painting, snow and mountains and what seemed to be fallen soldiers in the foreground: grey figures with red splotches of blood.

‘So this woman knew David, too,’ Sarah said. A whole world of people she had had no idea about.

‘Yes.’ Dilys smiled reassuringly. ‘But don’t worry; I could see your husband’s the loyal type.’

Loyal, Sarah thought. And Jackson had called him trustworthy. They didn’t see the irony, though they must all have known that he had lied and lied to her, for years.