his father’s outstretched hand fumbling, in an agonised crawling motion, towards her feet as she crouched, swishing up the mess with brisk strokes of the brush, ignoring his pain. Despite his protests, she’d insisted they get him upstairs and into bed before calling out the doctor. He’d screamed as they hauled him up the stairs, and died a week later, in hospital, having caught pneumonia after the operation.
‘How dreadful.’ Mrs Dacre’s words sounded extra loud in the charged silence. ‘I hope he didn’t suffer too much.’
‘It was very quick.’ As he said it, the excruciating image of his writhing, tormented father came before him so strongly that it took all his self-control not to wince.
‘That’s what the doctor said about James,’ said Mrs Dacre. ‘He wouldn’t have known.’
He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘That’s a blessing.’
‘Yes . . . I can’t bear to think of him in pain. Oh, dear . . .’ Raising her handkerchief once more to her eyes, she stood up. ‘Do excuse me for a moment . . .’ and left the room.
Quickly, he scooped up the papers on the tray and slid them into the inside pocket of his jacket. Gathering up the photographs, he returned them to the wooden box and locked it. Catching sight of his almost untouched slice of cake, he broke it in half and, standing up, stuffed a piece into each trouser pocket, crumbling it with his fingers so that there would be no bulge. Then he drained the last of his tea and went out into the hall in time to see Mrs Dacre, her nose freshly dusted with powder, coming down the stairs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No, please.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘It’s my fault.’
‘I put the things back in the box,’ he said. ‘I locked it. It might be as well not to . . .’
‘You’re right. I’ll put it away. But I do thank you for coming. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, wouldn’t you?’ She tried for a smile. ‘It’s silly, but the war makes it worse. So many mothers losing their sons . . .’
‘Not silly at all,’ he said, heartily, covering her hand with his.
‘You’re very kind,’ she said. ‘And I am glad you came to see me.’
He said goodbye and hurried back to Norbury station, grinning to himself. Really, he thought, Mrs Dacre ought to be pleased that he was putting her son’s identity to such good use. As he waited for the train to arrive, he patted his jacket over his heart, where his new life was folded up, waiting for him.
Now, sitting in his little room, he took stock of his situation. A vacancy, in the shape of Dr Reynolds, had been created, and an identity, in the person of Dr Dacre, secured. Next he needed to engineer a meeting with some of the doctors at the hospital, get himself an ‘in’. He’d work on that and he’d have a little fun in the meantime. He needed an appreciative audience, someone to look up to him and admire him, as well as love him: a girl, but it had to be the right girl. A nurse, that was only right and proper. He’d have to have a look round, select a suitable target. Once he was a doctor, he’d be able to have his pick, wouldn’t he? That, he thought, rubbing his groin in anticipation, was definitely something to think about, but, in the meantime . . . He selected a face and body from the harem in his memory (unobtainable girls, these, never girls he’d had), undid his trouser buttons and settled down to satisfy himself.
Eight
A s he left the police station to look at the body on the bomb-site, Stratton heard the telltale misfiring motorcycle sound and looked up to get his first really decent view of a pilotless plane. So far, he’d seen the damage they could do, but not the machines themselves. He pulled Ballard into a doorway, ducked in beside him, and then, craning his neck, realised that the thing was travelling away from them. A long plume of flame spurted out behind it, vivid scarlet and orange - a
‘How dreadful.’ Mrs Dacre’s words sounded extra loud in the charged silence. ‘I hope he didn’t suffer too much.’
‘It was very quick.’ As he said it, the excruciating image of his writhing, tormented father came before him so strongly that it took all his self-control not to wince.
‘That’s what the doctor said about James,’ said Mrs Dacre. ‘He wouldn’t have known.’
He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘That’s a blessing.’
‘Yes . . . I can’t bear to think of him in pain. Oh, dear . . .’ Raising her handkerchief once more to her eyes, she stood up. ‘Do excuse me for a moment . . .’ and left the room.
Quickly, he scooped up the papers on the tray and slid them into the inside pocket of his jacket. Gathering up the photographs, he returned them to the wooden box and locked it. Catching sight of his almost untouched slice of cake, he broke it in half and, standing up, stuffed a piece into each trouser pocket, crumbling it with his fingers so that there would be no bulge. Then he drained the last of his tea and went out into the hall in time to see Mrs Dacre, her nose freshly dusted with powder, coming down the stairs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No, please.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘It’s my fault.’
‘I put the things back in the box,’ he said. ‘I locked it. It might be as well not to . . .’
‘You’re right. I’ll put it away. But I do thank you for coming. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, wouldn’t you?’ She tried for a smile. ‘It’s silly, but the war makes it worse. So many mothers losing their sons . . .’
‘Not silly at all,’ he said, heartily, covering her hand with his.
‘You’re very kind,’ she said. ‘And I am glad you came to see me.’
He said goodbye and hurried back to Norbury station, grinning to himself. Really, he thought, Mrs Dacre ought to be pleased that he was putting her son’s identity to such good use. As he waited for the train to arrive, he patted his jacket over his heart, where his new life was folded up, waiting for him.
Now, sitting in his little room, he took stock of his situation. A vacancy, in the shape of Dr Reynolds, had been created, and an identity, in the person of Dr Dacre, secured. Next he needed to engineer a meeting with some of the doctors at the hospital, get himself an ‘in’. He’d work on that and he’d have a little fun in the meantime. He needed an appreciative audience, someone to look up to him and admire him, as well as love him: a girl, but it had to be the right girl. A nurse, that was only right and proper. He’d have to have a look round, select a suitable target. Once he was a doctor, he’d be able to have his pick, wouldn’t he? That, he thought, rubbing his groin in anticipation, was definitely something to think about, but, in the meantime . . . He selected a face and body from the harem in his memory (unobtainable girls, these, never girls he’d had), undid his trouser buttons and settled down to satisfy himself.
Eight
A s he left the police station to look at the body on the bomb-site, Stratton heard the telltale misfiring motorcycle sound and looked up to get his first really decent view of a pilotless plane. So far, he’d seen the damage they could do, but not the machines themselves. He pulled Ballard into a doorway, ducked in beside him, and then, craning his neck, realised that the thing was travelling away from them. A long plume of flame spurted out behind it, vivid scarlet and orange - a
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