A Question Of Honour: A Harry Royle Thriller (23 page)

Harry had found a nervous Jenny waiting for him when he got back to the flat. She wasted no time in telling him that she had seen Ruth. Jean had made tea and hung back, respecting their need to deal with the matter in hand. Royle sank down into an armchair. His face white.

"Where, is she alright?"

Jenny Crosby shook her head, her eyes were holding back tears.

"It was on the tube, at Balham station. Stupid really. We just bumped into each other. I'd imagined meeting her in all sorts of ways, but not like that."

He nodded.

"She's marked. That bastard striped her face, Harry, it's awful."

Jean asked in a quiet voice.

"Striped?"

Jenny looked up at her and gestured the action of tracing a line down from just under her right eye down to her chin. Jean shuddered and turned away.

Royle found his voice and asked.

"Is that why she was hiding?"

"That and fear he'd still come after her. I told her he's finished, but she won't come back. She said she will meet you, though, tonight in the same place."

Jean Griffiths went over to the kitchen area and busied herself. Harry felt sick to his stomach. Jenny continued.

"Will you go?"

He nodded.

"I owe her that much."

Harry Royle walked slowly toward the tube station. A sharp wind blew across the city, the raider alarm continued to wail overhead. The German planes had come in quickly and the bombing had already started. He had waited so long to see Ruth again, but things were different now. He wondered what it was she wanted if she really had no intention of coming back.

He felt wretched, with Jean in his life, there really was no place for Ruth. Did she want to simply say goodbye as friends, or did she have other things on her mind? Royle walked on, aware that he would know soon enough.

He was just rounding the corner when it happened. The explosion smashed through the street, buckling the building fronts and throwing out a rainfall of shattered glass. Royle had been thrown off his feet and lay bleeding in the gutter. He sat up and could see billowing black smoke and flames colouring the sky. His wounds were minor cuts, easily ignored and he began to run, as an ambulance screamed past, bells clanging. He heard shouts from Wardens coming from behind him and he picked up the pace.

He could see what was left of the tube station. It had received a direct hit and was now a mass of smoking rubble, splintered wood and twisted steel. Harry Royle stood looking at what had been the main entrance, it now reminded him of a pit cave-in, he'd seen in a newspaper photograph some time before the war. A hand on his shoulder made him turn. It was a grim faced Warden, who shook his head and spat smoke and brick dust onto the ruined pavement.

Hours later found him filling up the fuel tank of one of the Rescue Squad lorries. He wiped a small spill with a dirty rag and screwed the top back on. Putting the can back, he looked up as Jones slipped in through the slightly open wooden doors. Royle managed a weak smile and this was picked up by his friend. Harry knew he would have to tell Devon all he had learned, but later when the words would come out with a clearer voice. He felt too emotional to deal with tea and sympathy.

The truth was that Ruth had been quietly taking a backseat for a long time and he hadn't had time to think of her. Harry felt so conflicted. He was angry with Ruth for staying away and for letting him think the worst, and ashamed for not saving her when she'd needed him the most. Now she really was dead and he knew deep down, that he would never know why she had wanted to meet him. He had decided to tell her about Jean and offer his friendship and he couldn't even offer that.

"What is it mate, what's wrong?"

Harry opened his mouth to speak and could find no words.

They both stood there in silence, until after a moment or two, Harry found his voice, though it was weak.

"It's Ruth."

"What about her?"

Harry looked up at the ceiling.

"She's dead, the raid."

Jones quietly handed him a cigarette and they moved outside. They smoked in silence. The sound of boots told them that their shift was about to start. This was to be the first night of so many, later they would say how they found it hard to remember one night from another. However, that first night would always remain the night Ruth Marker died.

The feeling was one of confused mourning, after thinking her dead for so long, only to discover her alive. And then Ruth killed within hours of meeting Jenny. It had taken a long time before anyone felt comfortable mentioning her name again. Jean had been kind about the whole situation and allowed Harry time and space to grieve. If anything this had strengthened their relationship and had made her well liked by the others, who had known Ruth.

The rescue squad very quickly came into its own and made a very real contribution to the other emergency services already in operation, throughout the capital. The team stuck to Soho first and from there would move out to wherever their services were needed, as Johnny had once remarked.

"We look after our own."

And that's what they tried to do. The other squads were pleased to see them working the area and since word had spread via the local coppers, all was going well. It had taken them trial and error to find the best way of helping, but much of the work was more common sense and having one or two men military and explosive trained, didn't hurt the endeavour. Johnny was kept very happy as the days ran into weeks and these swept on into months. For there was plenty of loot coming home after the night shifts. The men seemed to be leading a charmed life and had met with nothing but success.

It was a wet November evening that had seen the earliest raider alarm since anyone could remember, this was in turn followed by a very early all clear, which saw the two lorries moving quickly in convoy towards the docks. The raiders had been hitting the city badly for over an hour and thick smoke rolled ahead of the vehicles, like a scene from a Hollywood film. As the smoke thinned out, they accelerated towards home. It was then that it happened.

Harry and Devon were in the first truck and without warning found themselves pushed forward, as the lorry behind was hit by the front of a building. The raiders had left for the sea and home but had left mayhem behind them in their wake. The building had been hit by two bombs which had fallen on either side and had neatly carved a slice through the entire front of the facia. The vibration from the first Bedford had loosened this, and as they passed it had fallen in one huge chunk of smouldering masonry engulfing the rear vehicle completely, leaving no trace. Jones jammed the brakes on and they leaped from the truck. The dust was a thick cloud rising above the hidden Bedford beneath. The men crowded around the scene of so much fallen debris. The road was blocked and without heavy lifting gear, which they didn't have, the men knew there was nothing they could do for those buried underneath the mass of bricks and plaster, wood and twisted metal. They stood milling around the death scene for several minutes until Royle spat a mouthful of smoky dust onto the road and spoke to the others.

"Look, lads, they're finished and we can't help the poor buggers, we're light rescue not heavy and besides look at the wheels, they're flat and that means the whole things been smashed, flattened completely. We need to move and sharpish, because when the heavy squad does get to them, there'll be questions asked. Now they're putting names on rolls of honour for ARP and you know what that means, don't you?"

The men looked blank until Devon Jones answered the question.

"Those men, us, we none of us exist and that truck was full of stuff from the jewellers. They'll be on to us before we know it. Lads our time as rescue is done."

Chapter 14

Days passed into weeks and the papers carried no story of the buried Bedford. Not that Harry was surprised, as that kind of news was not exactly conducive to the ‘Blitz Spirit’ being talked about. How could the powers that be explain how these criminals were also doing a good job at the same time. No matter how the story was slanted, it couldn’t help but come out tainted by an association with Robin Hood, and that would never do. Nobody talked about that night and what had happened, it was something which all those concerned seemed to agree to at a subconscious level.

Somehow a mental line had been drawn underneath the incident and that was that, end of story. In theory, this was all well and good. But people are emotional creatures and anyone on the outside if there had been such a person, who had been privy to what had happened, would have noticed a subtle change in those men who had been left behind, a hardening. A more strained attempt at gallows humour and bravado. They all drank and smoked more. Even Johnny Mangusco didn’t suggest any villainy and had decided to keep a low profile for a time.

It was just a few weeks before Christmas that Harry had been drinking with Devon Jones and the conversation had turned to the subject of their days with the Rescue squad, when Devon had made a bold suggestion.

Since they both still had their uniforms, why not turn themselves into Wardens and still help out a bit now and then. This idea appealed to them both. Johnny hadn’t been a fan of the idea, but could understand their need to do their bit and so sorted out their paperwork, even going so far as to bribe a senior warden and police inspector who he’d had in his pocket for several years. So two new wardens roamed the blitz drenched streets.

They always worked as a team and were having a good time, until one night mid-December. It was on that night during a minor raid that things changed, but the change was to be so subtle as to not be understood for several days. The two friends had been passing the time chatting with some passing fire crew, sharing jokes and cups of tea, courtesy of a WVS mobile canteen, when word had come, of several families trapped in an old office block they’d been sheltering in.

By the time they had reached the scene, it was a complete disaster. Fires were blazing and an overturned bus blocked the road, stopping any vehicles from reaching the front line. Without a second thought, Harry sprinted towards the burning front entrance of the main building and disappeared inside. Devon pitched in with the fire crews already at the scene. Inside the entrance Royle paused and pulled on his gas mask, it made his face feel hotter, but at least it felt like it afforded him some level of protection. Dropping to his knees, he moved just below the rolling smoke. Through the twin glass eye-holes of his mask, he could make out outlines of bodies just ahead. A wooden roof beam had crashed down and now made the going even harder. As he crawled slowly beneath it on his stomach, he felt something sharp rip a gash in his leg, as he moved forward. He ignored the painful distraction and kept moving ahead. There was something on fire directly in front of him and he tore at what felt like cardboard, the flames burned his hands, but he managed to pull them aside and move on again, as the remaining flames licked across his overall sleeves. The heat was worse than anything Harry had experienced and his face felt on fire. His hair wet and matted, stuck to his head and sweat ran down his face inside the black rubber mask, stinging his eyes, making him half blind.

He kept moving forward until he at last came in contact with a body. It was a young girl and he could see she was dead and so he ignored her and crawled across to the other human forms surrounding her. Each body was checked and each time, he found no life left. He was about to scramble back the way he came when he caught a movement just ahead of him. He ripped off the mask and dragged a filthy smoldering sleeve across his sweat covered eyes. He could just make out a small figure moving close to the ground in the smoke ahead. Forcing himself up, despite being covered in the continuously falling ceiling plaster and slats. A crash from above caused him to look up in time to see the floor above, giving way. Harry hurled his entire weight toward the small shape ahead and on reaching it, pulled the small body beneath his tall frame. Royle just managed to arch his strong back, as the ceiling from above came crashing down. It was several seconds before the winded Royle was able to move again. Dragging the small body along with his own, back the way he had come.

Outside more than a dozen men and women were working on the scene and a Heavy Rescue Squad had strengthened the front. The NFS crew were engaged in putting out the two side fires, which were now down to small flare-ups. A newsman began to get in the way, much to the general annoyance of those working to rescue the trapped.

The man strolled to and fro and his camera flash exploded in the eyes of those intent on making a difference in this life or death situation. A fireman lashed out at the reporter and threw a curse at him. The newsman sidestepped the aimed kick and turned just as Royle emerged from the still burning side door. Harry was staggering, his dark blue overalls smouldering and torn, filthy with smoke. He held a small child in his arms. A flash blinded Royle as he stumbled towards a waiting policeman, who took the little boy from his arms. Harry fell to his knees and placing both hands on the pavement, began to suck as much breath into his air-hungry lungs as possible. The reporter approached and Devon stopped the man in his tracks.

“No, you don’t chum. He needs rest, not twenty bloody questions”.

The man held up his hand in a surrendering gesture.

“I’ve got to earn a living chum, at least give me his name."