Black August (15 page)

When he reached his office he looked at Ann doubtfully. ‘You won't make trouble or anything, will you?'

‘No—I'm sorry I made a fuss. I'll come with you to the country, but no further—you understand that, don't you?'

He smiled at her downcast face as he got out. ‘An armed neutrality, eh?—well, just as you like.'

In the office he found everything in confusion. Not being actually a Government department its continuance was in no way vital, and most of its principal executives being people with some sort of official position, they had abandoned it to attend to more urgent affairs. Normally it would have been closed hours before, but owing to the crisis a certain number of clerks and typists who had congregated there during the day now displayed no intention of even endeavouring to get home. Kenyon could find no one in authority and, after refusing half a dozen cups of tea from members of the staff, went out into the street again.

A commissionaire was on duty, but when questioned about gas, shook his head. ‘Thirty bob a thousand, sir, it was today, but I doubt if you'd get any anywhere now. Most of the gas-filling stations have been cleaned out.'

Scotland Yard was only just across the square, so Kenyon thought he would go there. He did not expect that they would
be able to help him in the matter of gas, but they would probably know about conditions on the other side of the river, and if there was any real danger in taking the direct route over London Bridge and down the Old Kent Road.

Whitehall was a thick jam of people right up to Trafalgar Square and more seemed to be flooding in every moment, despite the fact that the bridge was closed and the tubes and buses not running. Up near the Horse Guards the crowd was singing, and Kenyon recognised the tune as the Red Internationale, so things did not look too good in spite of the squads of police who kept the people moving.

The car crept along at a foot pace but after he had gone about fifty yards he was forced to bring it to a standstill. A mob of roughs were eddying round a big Daimler. Inside, gaunt—impassive—monocled, sat a grey-moustached General, apparently on his way to the War Office. They were booing him but he appeared quite unconcerned. A detachment of mounted police rode up, edging their horses through the crush with the skill born of long practice. The hooligans dispersed, the Daimler moved on, and Kenyon followed.

The gates at the entrance of Scotland Yard were closed, but they were opened for a minute to admit a lorry on which was mounted an enormous searchlight. Kenyon caught a glimpse of motor-cars, reserves of mounted and foot police, and the steel helmets of soldiers in the courtyard. Every window of the great building was brightly lighted and the shadows which moved constantly across them told of an intense activity within. Kenyon was directed to the entrance further down, at Cannon Row Police Station; there he had to wait some little time. Half a dozen rioters were being brought in and a wounded policeman. A little batch of sad-eyed aliens stood in a corner of the room; they had no knowledge of what was happening in their own countries, but now that England seemed to be on the verge of Revolution, they were anxious to get away, and turned with pathetic confidence to the police.

A hysterical woman was loudly insistent that the Sergeant should find her husband, who had gone out the evening before and failed to return. There would be plenty of that,' Kenyon reflected, ‘in the next few days,'

At last he managed to get a few words with the harassed officer. Gas was out of the question. Even if he could find a
supply he would not be allowed to buy it without a permit. All stocks had been commandeered by the Government. The Bridges were open except for Westminster and Waterloo. As far as the Inspector knew there had not been any serious rioting in Southwark or Bermondsey. Isolated cases but nothing more, and cars had been going through up to the last hour.

The Sergeant attributed the comparative quiet in the SouthEastern area to the fact that the majority of roughs had come up to the West End. There had been considerable looting in the Strand earlier in the evening he said, but the mob had been dispersed by baton charges and the situation was well in hand. ‘If things get worse we've got plenty of tear gas inside,' he ended up jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘We'll have to give 'em a real lesson.'

Considerably cheered to think that somebody who possessed real resolution was handling the situation at last, Kenyon fought his way back to the car, and taking the short cut down Cannon Row to Westminster Bridge again, turned left along the Embankment.

Night had fallen now but no sky-signs illuminated the tall buildings on the south bank of the river, and owing to the lack of traffic a strange hush seemed to have fallen over London, yet there was something sinisterly menacing about that unusual silence broken only by the deep drone of patrolling aeroplanes as they passed now and then low overhead.

The City was quiet as the grave, only an occasional knot of men tramping westward and a few policemen standing on the street corners.

At Cannon Street a flying squad car hurtled past them at breakneck speed—the whine of its siren making the night hideous.

Kenyon turned south over London Bridge. On the far side he was called on to halt. A group of Greyshirts with an officer at their head came towards him. ‘Where for?' asked the officer.

‘Kent—Maidstone Road,' said Kenyon.

‘Right—got any food in the car?'

‘No—why?'

‘Orders to stop any supplies leaving London—d'you mind getting out?'

‘Look here!'

‘Sorry to trouble you, but I've got to search your car.' The
man was polite, but firm. Obviously the only thing to do was to look cheerful and obey.

They climbed out and a swarm of lusty Greyshirts began to rummage in the car. Out of the back came the picnic basket.

‘Here—what's this?' exclaimed the officer.

‘Supper,' said Kenyon. ‘You're not going to pinch that are you—we've had no dinner as it is!'

The basket was opened up, and it was obvious that Carter had done his job thoroughly. He had removed all the gadgets for picnic teas and stuffed every available inch of space with provender.

‘Take it inside.' The officer jerked his head towards the Bridge House Hotel, which had been converted into a depot. The hamper was carried off and the search renewed with vigour.

Under the seat the Greyshirts discovered Kenyon's cigarettes, two bottles of hock and one each of Port and Brandy.

‘Here! that's not food!' Kenyon protested as he saw these items about to follow the picnic basket.

The officer grinned. ‘Sorry—but I'm afraid they come under the heading of supplies. You can have your hamper back when it's empty if you like.'

‘No, you can keep the damned thing,' Kenyon said angrily as he climbed back into his seat. ‘How are things further South—down in the Old Kent Road, I mean?'

‘Might be worse—they were making a bonfire of a big Rolls just past the Elephant and Castle half an hour ago, but they are more playful than vicious—only took the gold watch off the old boy that owned it and let him go. He's back here in the Bridge House now.'

‘That doesn't seem too good.'

‘No, I should take the side turnings if I were you—down Tooley Street and then strike into the main road further along.'

Veronica leant out. Her smile was seraphic—enchanting. ‘You don't think
really
that we shall all be murdered, do you?'

The officer smiled. ‘I—er—sincerely trust not!'

‘But it is rather shattering isn't it—for a woman I mean—if only we had you with us I should feel absolutely safe.'

‘I'd love to see you through.' The young man's chest broadened perceptibly under Veronica's gaze, ‘but I can't possibly leave my job—be here all night I expect!'

Veronica had noticed the long line of cars parked outside the
Bridge House. She glanced towards them now. ‘Haven't you someone you could leave in charge?' she wheedled, ‘just for ten minutes, while you took us through the worst part by the docks?'

‘Well,' he hesitated. ‘I couldn't go myself, of course, but I've got dozens more men than I actually need and I could send a car-load to convoy you as far as Greenwich Park—that would get you through the most troublesome area anyhow.'

‘Oh, how perfectly splendid!' she loosed again the battery of her seductive smile.

With sudden embarrassment, cursing the presence of Kenyon and Ann, both interested spectators, he turned away and blew his whistle. The Greyshirts came tumbling out of the hotel, and he hurried over to them.

‘How clever of you,' murmured Ann.

‘Easy dearie!' chuckled Veronica. ‘The conceit of women is nothing compared with that of men!'

The officer was calling for volunteers and there was no lack of them. Ten minutes later a dozen Greyshirts had clambered into an open car and Veronica's new friend returned with another officer.

‘This is Mr. Harker,' he said, by way of introduction.

‘Silas Gonderport Harker,' corrected the lieutenant of Greyshirts with the faintest intonation that declared an American origin.

Ann gazed at him almost in awe. He was a good head taller than his senior, broad of shoulder, and magnificent in girth. Yet on that vast body he displayed no trace of superfluous fat. His face was round, flat-nosed and cheerful. There was an undeniable hint of humour about Mr. Harker's tight-shut mouth and twinkling eyes. ‘If you'll stick as close as you can behind my car,' he said slowly, ‘I'll see you through.'

‘Thank you—thank you a thousand times.
And
you!' Veronica momentarily dazzled the Captain again with her bewitching smile.

Harker squeezed his elephantine bulk into the Greyshirts' car and it moved off into the darkness with Kenyon following.

‘All the luck!' shouted the slim Captain, and the last they saw of him was a saluting figure silhouetted against the light which streamed from the open door of the Bridge House Hotel.

Tooley Street was a cavern of silent blackness. They raced down it and into the gloom beyond. At the crossing by Tower Bridge they met the first sign of trouble; it was a still warm night, and a hundred and fifty people were standing out in the open road in front of a public-house. Immediately they saw the Greyshirts an angry murmur ran through the throng and one man hurled an empty beer bottle. The leading car tore on and hurtled round the bend into Dockland, the young Grey-shirts cheering derisively at the mob.

‘Good thing I've got you an escort, lovie!' said Veronica quietly.

‘I'm not so certain,' Kenyon muttered. ‘The people down here hate these Greyshirts like hell. I've a good mind to catch them up and send them back—we'd probably be safer on our own.'

Ann shook her head. ‘It's too late now. If you try and overtake them at the speed they're going you will probably knock someone down.'

‘That's the devil of it,' Kenyon agreed.

Through ill-lit Dockland the cars roared on, past more public-houses, then swerving sharply entered Parker's Row. Every hundred yards or so a fresh crowd surged out into the roadway, yelling abuse and throwing missiles. A rotten tomato thumped and spluttered on the windscreen of Kenyon's car. He thanked his gods that the glass was shatterproof, the next bull's-eye might be with half a brick.

In Jamaica Road the crowd grew thicker, even the Greyshirts were afraid to rush it, and pulling up, signalled to Kenyon to turn back.

As he reversed his car up a turning they passed him again and sped down a side street lined with small, grim, poverty-stricken houses. A moment later he was after them. The headlights of the cars threw the women and children huddled in the doorways into sharp relief. One harridan shrieked foul epithets as they rushed past—another hurled a flower-pot. Ann shuddered, realising suddenly that if the car stopped for a moment she would be at the mercy of these harpies.

The Greyshirts' car turned again and Kenyon followed through another narrow dark canon of decaying dwellings, where squalid garbage littered the gutters, and another contingent of frail, half-starved, wolfish humanity lifted shrill voices against
the flagrant opulence suggested by the powerful private car. Another turn, and they were back in the main street once more, but forced to slow down by the stream of people who overlapped the narrow pavements. Ahead, in the uncertain light which flickered from a public-house, the crush was denser, and in an open space before it they caught a glimpse of serried rows of people. Perched on a barrow above their head, a short squat bare-headed man was gesticulating violently; they could not catch a word he said, but as he struck his open palm with his clenched fist a moan went up from the crowd. The Greyshirts had been forced to halt again; a black-haired boy perched on the back of their car was making violent signals to Kenyon, who stopped and put his car into reverse.

‘Hi! Where yer goin'—blast yer!' came angry cries from the pavement. An empty egg box hurtled into the body of the car. It caught Ann on the head, but it was light and fortunately did no serious damage. With admirable presence of mind she turned, made a wry grimace in the direction whence it had come, and smiled. The man who had thrown it saw her, and the result was electric. He looked astonished—crestfallen—then all at once he grinned.

‘Sorry lidy—I didn't mean to 'urt yer.' He was a big burly chap, and forcing his way to the front of the crowd he pushed the onlookers right and left from in front of the bonnet.

‘Come on, mates,' he shouted. ‘Aht of the way fer the Duchess o' York—she ain't done no 'arm, and lor blimey, ain't she a daisy?'

The people good-humouredly gave way and for a moment Ann had saved the situation, but as Kenyon glanced over his shoulder he saw that the Greyshirts were in trouble. They were only a few yards behind him, but in turning they had knocked down a man; a threatening mob surged round their car. The black-haired boy was being dragged off the back, the others were using their long heavy sticks freely upon their assailants.