Dominion (45 page)

Although he took the tube to work every day, it was years since he had used it in the middle of a weekday. The last time had been when Charlie died. That had been wintertime
too; it had snowed heavily and the trains had been delayed. He had felt sick on the journey and when he got home he had slipped on the path and fallen and then somehow he couldn’t get up, his
limbs wouldn’t move. Sarah had seen him and come to help him, letting go of Charlie’s body at last.

Someone had left a copy of
The Times
on a neighbouring seat. He picked it up. On the front page was a report of a meeting between Himmler and his East European allies, a picture of him
with the leaders of Slovakia, Romania, Croatia, Bulgaria. One of the leaders was a large fat man with a slab of a face and a downturned mouth, wearing a clerical collar. That must be Tiso, the
Slovak Prime Minister Natalia had told him about. Natalia, who attracted him. Carol, who stirred nothing in him. Sarah, his wife. What would happen to them all now? He put his head in his hands.
Don’t think
, he told himself.
Try to stay cold and clear
. He looked down at the briefcase between his legs. He had picked it up by instinct. He would probably never use it
again, never see the Office again, never again be part of an ordinary crowd of bowler-hatted commuters.

He got out at Kenton Station. Walking home he looked around for anything unusual, fearing the sound of quickening footsteps coming behind him, tensed, ready to run. He remembered his father
saying once, after a big criminal trial, that he could never understand why anyone took to a life of crime, living in constant fear of a policeman’s hand on their shoulder. Now David
understood: he was a criminal himself.

The house, the whole street, was quiet in the winter morning. He let himself in carefully, leaving the front door ajar in case the police were here and he had to turn and run. But the house was
silent, the only sound the clock ticking steadily in the kitchen. Had Sarah been in she would have heard him and come out, but she didn’t. David walked from room to room, frightened of what
he might see each time he opened a door, but the house was neat and still. He noticed that the telephone book had been taken out of its basket and lay on the telephone table, beside his
mother’s vase. He closed the front door and sat in the lounge, waiting for Sarah to return, watching the street from the window. He thought, this is crazy, the police could come at any time.
But he couldn’t leave Sarah, not now. It was utterly quiet in the house. He thought, this is what it must be like for Sarah all the time when she’s at home alone; silence, and the
memory of Charlie. If she had gone to the shops she should be back in half an hour at most. He opened the back door, then returned to the lounge; if he saw anyone coming in at the gate he would run
out the back, try getting over the fence. Or would it be best to let them take him? Would that stop them being interested in Sarah? But what about the others in his cell, Geoff and Jackson and
Natalia and the man from the India Office? He didn’t think he could hold out if they tortured him.

Half an hour passed. He had been pacing the room impatiently and now he went into the hall and dialled Irene’s number. She answered almost at once. He tried to make his voice casual.
‘It’s David here. I’ve had to come home, I’m not very well. Sarah isn’t here. Any idea where she might be?’

‘Goodness,’ Irene said. ‘Is it something serious? Can I help at all?’

‘A bad stomach, I’ve been sick. I’m just a bit puzzled Sarah isn’t home.’

‘I’m sorry, David, I’ve no idea where she is. She hasn’t got one of her meetings, has she?’

‘No. Not today.’

He ended the call and stood irresolutely in the hall. He thought of ringing the contact number again but he mustn’t do that from home, since this number was probably already tapped. He
shouldn’t even have rung Irene. He remembered the miniature camera and the copy of the key to the secret room were upstairs. He went and got them, then put on his hat and went out again.
There was a telephone box outside Kenton Station. He would try the contact number again from there. He might even meet Sarah coming back.

But he didn’t see her. He went into the phone box, rang the number again and this time a male voice answered at once. The pips went and he pressed the button, relief flooding through him.
He said quickly, ‘This is Fitzgerald, David Fitzgerald. The police have come to the office, about a document I misfiled. Two of them, one’s a German—’

The man seemed to know who David was and asked sharply, ‘Where are you?’ It was a young voice, with a strong Cockney accent.

‘In a phone box near my home. In Kenton. A colleague told me the police were with my boss, so I left the office at once. The janitor tried to stop me but I got out.’

‘Shit.’

‘I tried to phone you from near the Office over an hour ago, but there was no answer.’

‘I had to go out, I was only ten minutes. I shouldn’t have – hell! Why did you go home?’ The voice was loud, suddenly accusing.

‘I was worried about my wife. She’s not home, I don’t know where she is.’

‘Is your house all right? Any sign anyone’s been there?’

‘No. I waited, I thought she’d gone to the shops.’ David took a deep breath. ‘What do I do? I was told if anything happened you’d protect my wife.’

The voice became quieter, almost soothing. ‘Okay. We need to get you somewhere safe. Go to the safe house, now. We’ll send someone up to Kenton, to watch the house and pick up your
wife when she gets back.’

‘And Geoff. Geoff Drax—’

‘We’ll phone him, and the others in your cell. I’ll arrange it all now. But you have to get yourself to your safe house. At once.’

David took a deep breath. ‘All right. I’m at the tube station now.’

‘Good. The Underground’s the safest way to travel. We’ve got your home address, we’ll send someone in a car to wait at your house for your wife.’

‘I’m on my way.’

David left the telephone box and stood uncertainly in the station entrance. A woman looked at him curiously. He tried to pull himself together. He thought, how do I know they’re telling
the truth, that they’ll really send someone for Sarah? But he had to trust them now, there was no-one and nothing else. He understood suddenly how much of him, all this time, had remained
anchored to the world he had been brought up in and longed, deep inside, to believe still existed: Britain, his country, dull and self-absorbed, ironic even about its own prejudices. But that
Britain was gone, had instead turned into a place where an authoritarian government in league with Fascist thugs thrived on nationalist dreams of Empire, on scapegoats and enemies. And he was now,
irrevocably, an enemy.

A
FTER
D
AVID LEFT FOR WORK ON
Friday, Sarah, alone in the house, couldn’t settle. She still didn’t believe his
denials about Carol; surely if he had nothing to hide he would have explained, been open, but instead he had drawn himself in even more and so, in response, had she. That morning she was due to
begin chasing up the toyshops, ensuring they were making up the toy parcels for the unemployed, but she couldn’t face it. She hadn’t opened her case with the files in it since Tottenham
Court Road.

She went and sat in the lounge, trying to read her
Woman’s Own
which had been delivered that morning. It was cold but she couldn’t be bothered to lay the fire. She felt
restless all over, she couldn’t settle. She had a desperate urge to do something, anything. She went into the hall and took the telephone directory from its rack. She remembered, from meeting
Carol at the last office social, that she lived with her mother somewhere in North London. She found the entry almost at once:
Bennett, Mrs D and Miss C, 17 Lovelock Road, Highgate.
That had
to be her. She thought, she’ll be at work now. I’ll go round there, I’ll go this evening, I’ll deal with this once and for all. And in the meantime she had to get out of the
house.

She fetched her hat and coat and went to the door. Opening it, she stopped dead for a second, thinking, if I do this, it really could be the end for me and David. She stood still, clutching the
door handle. She considered telephoning Irene, but she knew her sister would try to talk her round.
I can’t go on like this
, she thought,
I’ll go mad
.

Sarah went out, closing the door firmly, and walked up the road, deciding to catch the tube into town, try to find something that might distract her. It was very cold under the leaden sky. She
had a vague idea of going to visit the Tower of London, but when the tube reached Tottenham Court Road, on an impulse she got out. She had to see the scene of those deaths and shootings again, as
though somehow that might help her understand the horrible madness she felt was all around her.

But at the scene of the riot it was as though nothing had happened. Cars and buses drove down the street as usual, over the spot where Mrs Templeman had died. The streets were full of women
Christmas shopping – all the shop windows were full of coloured paper chains and little Christmas trees in pots. She stopped in front of one of the big stores, realizing it was one that was
helping with the toy appeal. A big wooden dummy in a Santa Claus outfit stood in the window, with painted red cheeks and a white false beard. A woman in a fake-fur coat, a grizzling child holding
each hand, almost barged into her, and snapped, ‘Would you please look where you’re going?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said, but the woman ignored her and passed on. Sarah thought how the shoppers all looked cross and anxious. It was what Christmas did to people, perhaps it
always had but she had never really noticed before. Charlie had loved the tree they had bought for his last Christmas, decorated with tiny coloured bulbs. They said Christmas was for children but
really it was supposed to be about celebrating the birth of Jesus, who would later sacrifice himself. She remembered her desperate prayer in Westminster Abbey. Since then things had only got
worse.

Sarah went into the shop, to get out of the cold as much as anything. The big vestibule was filled with toys. They were much more expensive than when she had last bought presents for Charlie
three years before. She passed a display of dolls’ houses. On the opposite side of the aisle were boxes of tin soldiers,
A treat for every boy.
There was a display of the soldiers
arranged as for battle on a papier-mâché field. There were German soldiers in smart grey painted uniforms and coalscuttle helmets, with minute swastika armbands. On the other side of
the hill stood a small group of Russians in dull green, little rips and tears painted on their uniforms.

‘Mrs Fitzgerald?’ The voice at her elbow made her jump, as any little thing seemed to these days. She turned and saw a small, thin man in his late fifties, with sparse grey hair and
kindly eyes; she recognized the manager of the store, who had attended a couple of committee meetings at Friends House.

‘Mr Fielding, hello.’ She extended a gloved hand.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’

‘I was in a bit of a brown study.’

‘Looking for Christmas presents?’

‘I might get something for my nephews. Everything seems terribly expensive these days.’

He nodded sadly. ‘It’s a shame. I often see people going round the store then walking out again empty-handed, looking disappointed.’

‘It’s very good of your shop to help with our work.’

‘We like to do what we can for those who can’t afford anything. It’s all on track with your order, by the way, it will be delivered to Friends House on time.’ He sighed.
‘If only there weren’t all these terrorist attacks and strikes, that’s what’s stopping the country getting back on its feet. I hear the railwaymen are coming out
now.’

Sarah could have argued but she didn’t have the heart. And Mr Fielding was a decent, generous man. She said, ‘It’s very cold out, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. If it goes on like this we might get a white Christmas.’ He paused a moment, then said, ‘I was sorry to hear about poor Mrs Templeman. I couldn’t get to the
funeral, but we sent some flowers.’

‘I saw them. That was kind.’

‘A sudden heart attack, I believe. Well, there are worse ways to go.’ He looked sad for a moment, and Sarah wondered if he was a Great War veteran, like her father. He smiled.
‘She was a character, wasn’t she?’

‘She was a very selfless woman.’

‘Well, I must carry on with my rounds. Good morning, Mrs Fitzgerald.’

Sarah watched as he went off down the store, nodding at the assistants as he passed the tills. His gentle touch had brought tears to her eyes. She went back out, into the cold.

She had lunch in a cafe, then went to the National Portrait Gallery and spent an hour with the pictures of kings and queens and statesmen. The gallery was almost empty,
uniformed janitors dozing in dim corners. She came to the section where portraits of modern leaders were displayed. Although the gallery was dedicated to English portraits, a picture of Adolf
Hitler was prominent. It had been painted about five years ago, before the Führer became so ill. He wore a brown double-breasted jacket, standing with one hand on a globe of the world, the
blue eyes under the grey forelock gazing into the distance, contemplating destiny. He had spent twenty years building a world of blood and fear and there seemed no end to it, ever.

She walked the streets for an age, thinking again how normal everything looked, as though nothing had happened the week before. She looked at her watch. Half past three. Her resolve was
weakening; it would be so easy just to go home. She thought, I’ll go to Highgate now, wait in a cafe or something. She walked to Embankment tube, stopping at a newsagent to buy a London
A–Z
. She found Carol’s street and saw it was close to Highgate Station.

She stood on the platform, waiting for the train. Workmen were altering the Underground maps. There were black circles round several east London tube stations, Bethnal Green and Whitechapel and
Stepney Green, and the men were painting on the words
Closed to the General Public
. She thought, those were Jewish areas, maybe the Blackshirts are looting their houses and don’t want
people to see.