Armistice (7 page)

She climbed the deep stone steps leading up to the front doors. They were too big, too thick, too heavy, to be called
doors, surely? They must have a special name. The wood was cold when she touched it. How could both these and the little thing on the front of her cottage be called by the same name? She looked guiltily about herself before trying a tentative knock. The wood was so dense it swallowed it up. Her knuckles were puny against it. What was Jonathan so … scared wasn't the word, was it? What was he so agitated about?

She took out her envelopes, locating the official letter from Major James. In the flare of a succession of matches she read it again, searching for any hints, finding none. The wording was completely unambiguous. So to what had Jonathan been referring when he said there was a “sense,” a “feeling” and a “fuss”? She was going to have to talk to him again. And to Major James. And what about this other man, Anthony Dore? Philomena could think of numerous possible explanations for Jonathan's strong reaction to Anthony Dore's name but it was all speculation. She found the envelope that contained all she knew of Anthony Dore—the one she'd had her hand on, that she was about to show Jonathan when he'd gone funny. Reading its contents with new intent she was unable to detect anything untoward. She put the letter away, pressed her hands flat against the doors to St. Paul's, pressed her cheek to them, and felt vibrations; far-off, deep, like when, out in the hills above the village, she couldn't decide for certain if she'd heard thunder from behind a high ridge or felt a tremor underground. Was the wood of these vast doors, being so very dense, still alive somewhere near its middle? Feelings rose up from inside her and again threatened to overwhelm. She leaned
against the wood, focusing inside her chest. It was as if a terrible battle had broken out inside her, and all she could do was hang on and await the outcome.

Jonathan nodded to the man on the door and made his way up the familiar stairs of the dimly lit nightclub, swaying slightly from the effects of all the alcohol he'd consumed. He'd handled the situation with Philomena about as badly as it was possible to have done, and was cursing himself for it. He had hoped he'd managed to put some daylight between himself and his emotions but tonight they'd come rushing back, and in fact what he'd revealed to Philomena was only a tiny fraction of what he felt. What was he going to do about “it”? He went over some of the old arguments in his head. His feelings swiftly came into play and the arguments disintegrated; fragments shot off in all directions and he was left with one predominant emotion, anger, and a burning sense of injustice. There were traces of other emotions, too: sorrow, love, and guilt—that bastard guilt nagged away. Should he be acting? Well, he had, as far as he was able, as far as he reasonably could. Was this excusing himself? Was his “as far as he was able” actually an excuse? Was he really a coward? No one had ever told him so, and he'd never believed that something he'd done or not done was cowardly. He'd felt fear, of course, and had, on occasions, acknowledged that fear prevented him from acting as he might. But also, fear had sometimes saved him. No, fear wasn't the problem here. Nor cowardliness. Not his, anyway.

Had he done absolutely everything he could have? Yes and no. But the sense of injustice was always burning within him; it never died down except for the brief periods when he was totally intoxicated. It burned mostly on a low flame, but the times it flared up were maddening to an intolerable degree because they were a reminder that he knew in his heart of hearts that someone was still getting away with about the worst thing that they could get away with. And he didn't know how to rest because of it.

He turned left at the top of the stairs in the nightclub and entered a medium-sized room suggestively lit by chandeliers of red bulbs. In the nearly colorless, airless room cigarette smoke curled down from the ceiling, deepening the sense of being slightly underground rather than three floors up. He'd been oblivious on the stairs to the normal goings-on but now he saw what he expected to see: men and women in various states of intoxication having a damned good time even if it killed them. More women than men, of course. More young women than young men, anyway. And a few of the young men had visible disfigurements. The post-war euphoria had worn off to be replaced by quiet desperation as it became progressively more unclear exactly what it had all been for.

He nodded to a middle-aged woman, dressed for the night in a slick gown and gauze veil, sitting on a bar stool smoking a cigarette in a long black holder. Didn't know her name. Didn't want to. She nodded back and, with an incline of her head activated a grizzled hulk of a man, unlikely in evening-wear, to come to Jonathan's side. He barely paused as Jonathan
slipped money into his paw. While waiting for the return part of the transaction Jonathan's hand went to his scalp, to his scar. He absentmindedly ran his fingers along it, while trying to imagine how and when Philomena would discover what the “fuss” was about. Could he trust her, if he told her, to not let on it was him she had learned it from? Obviously he took the threat of libel seriously. But if she heard it first from someone else what version would she be given? No, not what version; whose version? And what would she think of him? He watched the woman at the bar accept his money and give her simian emissary a tiny packet in return. Was this subterfuge really necessary? Now the stuff had been deemed illegal, then yes, he supposed it was. The grizzled man neared. Jonathan got his prickly feeling at the back of his neck. This sensation had saved his life on more than one occasion so he paid it due attention. Stepping sideways, he gave a discreet hand signal to the deliveryman, who changed course, looking slightly puzzled. Jonathan maneuvered himself so that he was able to see what was behind him. His heart skipped a beat and the blood roared in his ears. What had triggered his sixth sense was Anthony Dore, around the corner of the bar, taking a seat. The human being he loathed above all others was calmly sitting down alone, oblivious to being glared at.

Shocked to find his enemy in one of his own haunts Jonathan slipped directly behind Anthony Dore as he settled. Jonathan studied the crown of his foe's head as he sipped his drink, and not for the first time, but never before in such proximity, contemplated smashing it in some way. The various times he
had followed Dore about the streets he had fantasized about hurting him, and now as Dore held his glass to his lips Jonathan imagined reaching over to ram it hard into his face, breaking glass against skull, changing grip, screwing glass into tissue, gouging, tearing and severing.

Why couldn't anyone else know what Jonathan knew? Or did they know but didn't care, had no stomach for the fight? What fight? The fighting had stopped, hadn't it? The arguments in his mind spiraled and spun. He had to get away. And he wasn't just running away from what he wanted to do to Anthony Dore, he was running toward Philomena. He had to tell her before someone else did. She had to hear his version first. He had to go to his chambers, find the address of her hotel, and go there. But first, to make the world seem a much better place than he knew it to be, he must snort some dope. He smiled at the grizzled man, who now advanced and slipped his purchase into his hand.

A while later the night porter at The Daphne was being distinctly uncooperative. He was able to confirm that the young northern lady was in her room, or at least the key wasn't on its hook, but he couldn't contact the room because they didn't have that sort of thing—an internal communications system—not even strings and bells, and he couldn't go up and knock on the door for Jonathan or deliver a note because he couldn't leave his post, such as it was. He was able to put a note in the pigeonhole for the room but he couldn't guarantee that the young northern lady would get it first
thing. Much exasperated, Jonathan tried to appear as if he agreed that the night porter's concerns were legitimate and paramount, while figuring a way to be allowed to pass. But what logic could sway a pedant as rigid as the scrawny wretch who stood in his way? No logic. He'd have to use the authority of his personality. He banged his fist down on the counter, making the droning porter jump.

“Look. If she doesn't get it, I might never see her again, so you are just going to have to let me up there,” Jonathan declared. “Turn your back if you want, pretend you never saw me. But don't dare try to stop me.”

The Daphne's night porter, finding the gentleman quite tall and fierce, did turn his back, pretended to busy himself, humming under his breath.

Philomena was in her nightclothes when the gentle tap came on her door. She had just been sweeping the bed. Her earlier appraisal that the room was the cleanest she'd seen at the price she could pay had had to be abandoned once she'd slipped between the sheets and the fleas had awoken. At the door she called, “Who is it?”

“It's Jonathan,” came the reply. “I'm sorry to come up here unannounced and I'm sorry about earlier, but it's desperately important that I speak with you.”

He'd had a change of heart, of mind? She mustn't let him go off again, but nor could he see her this undressed. She grabbed her coat from the rickety wardrobe and threw it around her shoulders, calling, “I'll come out. You can't come in.”

“Of course not,” replied Jonathan. “I'll wait out here, shall I?”

Philomena opened the door a crack so she could see his face.

“Is it about the sense and the feelings and the fuss?”

Jonathan looked blank for a moment, before: “Yes! Yes, that's exactly what I'm here about.”

“Wait there,” she said, and shut the door. Immediately she opened it again: “Where are we going?”

“To another cafe,” said Jonathan. “Where we can talk. I can tell you a story.”

“Okay,” she said, and shut the door. She snatched it open again.' “You won't run off while I dress, will you?” she demanded.

Jonathan shook his head.

With her door closed she hurried into clean underwear, followed by the previous day's outfit, topped by her hat, rammed down to cover the unkempt state of her hair.

While Jonathan queued for mugs of tea Philomena looked around the cafe, thinking that that day had been the second strangest of her life, after the day following the Armistice when, as Dan's declared next of kin, hungover from the celebrations, she had learned of his death. There were all sorts of men seated at the tables. Some wealthy by the look of them, some drunk, one asleep. The majority were manual workers, filling up before work or on their way home. No other women, bar those behind the counter, until the arrival of a mixed party of night owls, slightly the worse for wear. The
women didn't wear wedding bands, and they smoked cigarettes.

Jonathan seemed much calmer now. He hadn't wanted to start his story on the way here so Philomena knew no more than before. She had had, then put aside, an idea that whatever Jonathan was about to tell her might involve something Dan may have done—something wrong; bad, even. She momentarily feared that everyone had been concealing from her a misdeed of his, protecting her. Perhaps it would be better not to know. Jonathan arrived with the teas. Thick, brown stuff in tin mugs. He sat opposite her.

“Okay,” he said.

She noticed that despite the appearance of equilibrium, his hands shook.

“Okay. I'll start with when I met him. When I met Dan. It's material, in a way. It helps to explain why I think what I think happened, happened.”

“Okay. I understand,” said Philomena, nodding, not understanding, but humoring him. She just wished he would stop procrastinating.

“I met Dan six weeks before the end of the war, during a skirmish. A bit more than a skirmish, really. We'd been out on a recce when they started lobbing stuff at us, quite big stuff. I got separated and a bunch of them decided to do for me. So I jumped into this crater, well, I fell in, if truth be told. Running along, tripped over, found myself at the bottom of this pit.”

Philomena noticed that Jonathan's working voice was almost gone. He was speaking in his native accent.

“So they see what's happened and start fanning out around the rim and I'm firing up at them—got one or two—but I didn't see another one of them taking a bead on me because the first thing I know is that something's hit me on the head and I'm down and I can't move. I think what Jerry did was to stand still and aim at me. He just stood still and I didn't see him. Anyway, I opened my eyes to see if I was dead. I could hear movement but I couldn't move myself. Jerry who'd stood stock still and shot me had come down to the bottom of the pit—I don't know why, it was his mistake, don't know what he was thinking of; he shouldn't have been thinking at all. I could feel a bit of movement returning to my limbs and I could feel that my pistol was still in my hand so I thought if Jerry hangs about a bit more I might be able to finish him before he finishes me. He guessed what was up and raised his rifle and I was looking right down the barrel and I heard a shot and thought that I really must be dead now but no, Jerry had himself been shot by one of our blokes who had run down the pit, across it, and was now running up the other side. He hadn't seen me at all so when I yelled ‘Hey!' he swung around and was ready to shoot me but he saw my uniform and I hoisted my hands up to surrender just in case and screamed ‘I'm alive!' and he said ‘just.' And already we knew certain things about each other. Neither of us was posh, we had northern accents, we were both officers. Later we learned that both having been promoted ‘in't field,' the only difference between us was that I'd elected to enlist as a private whereas he'd had no choice. But, you
know, we recognized kindred spirits, I suppose. He was Dan, of course.”

Philomena nodded eagerly, unexpectedly filled with a strange rapture.

“I had quite a lot of blood coming down from where Jerry's bullet had creased me. It was going in my eyes and I was having to wipe it away but I managed to see another Jerry taking a bead on Dan's back. He was almost lined up behind Dan but I could just see him at the edge, if you get the picture. I thought to shout but it wouldn't have been quick enough—Dan would have had to turn—so I just took a chance and shot. Dan went down, and the other bloke, and I thought hell, I've shot them both, but Dan was all right, just a bit disgruntled because my bullet had passed through his trousers and just missed his, you know—”