‘Out the back!’ Eileen pointed at Frank, her voice a loud scream. Geoff grabbed Frank’s hand and pulled him towards the kitchen. The others heaved the heavy table in front of the door to the hall, blocking it, just before the plain-clothes man threw himself against it. Other police were coming and it would not hold for long. Eileen shouted, ‘Go!’
Ben opened the back door, slowly and carefully. Outside, nothing but a bank of fog. There could have been a dozen more armed policemen out there, but there was nowhere else to go. Other policemen had arrived through the front now, and were throwing themselves against the lounge door. Frank looked back at Eileen. She smiled weakly, then reached into her dress, between her breasts. She pulled something out and put it in her mouth. Frank had a momentary glimpse of her body convulsing.
The back door was half open, Ben peering round it, gun in hand. He waved to the others to stand back. Frank braced himself for another rush of blue uniforms from the backyard. But there was nothing, just the fog. Ben took a deep breath and stepped outside, gun raised in both hands. David and Natalia followed, then Geoff hauled Frank out, too, slamming the back door shut to cut off the light. He had taken the key from the side of the door and turned it, locking it.
They were out in the yard, in the dark and fog. There was a flash of light from somewhere and a bang. Beside Frank, Geoff gave a cry and toppled over, letting go of Frank’s hand. He lay still on the ground, blood spreading across his chest. He twitched violently once and then was still. Ben and Natalia both fired blindly back into the murk, and Frank heard the sound of someone falling, cursing and swearing. There must have been only one policeman round the back. Then Ben had Frank’s hand, pulling him through the fog, across the yard. Frank cried out, ‘Geoff!’
‘He’s dead!’ Ben said. He hauled Frank across the little yard; a brick wall loomed up. There was a big metal dustbin beside it. David helped Natalia onto it. She climbed over the wall. David followed. Behind them, they heard crashes at the back door.
‘Come on!’ Ben shouted at Frank. He climbed onto the wall, then reached down, took Frank under the arms and lifted him up. Frank grasped the wall, bracing himself to feel a bullet in his back, half hoping for it, but it didn’t come. From the top of the wall Ben fired back towards the house.
‘Fucking come on!’ Ben screamed in Frank’s ear. Then Frank was hauled bodily over the wall. He fell on wet cobbles with a crash that winded him. Ben and David pulled him up and half carried him down an alley, into a street that was just a choking yellow-grey mass of fog. More shots sounded, flashes in the gloom ahead. More police had been waiting in the street. Frank collided with the wall of the alley, grazing his arm. Ben had taken a grip on Frank’s other arm but it loosened as he fired again into the street. Everyone was just firing blindly, nobody could see. Frank heard a sound from behind him; more policemen and Syme, no doubt, climbing over the O’Sheas’ wall in hot pursuit.
Frank pulled away from Ben’s grasp. He was gripped by utter panic – the gunshots, the images of Sean and Geoff falling, Eileen’s body convulsing. They couldn’t save him, they were going to be captured as he had known they would be. He turned and ran away, blindly, into the fog.
Chapter Forty-Five
ALL FRANK COULD HOLD IN his mind was to get away, disappear in the fog. He ran blindly, arms out in front of him. He felt a jolt up his spine; he had stepped from the kerb into the roadway without seeing it. Behind him he heard more shots, a police whistle. He half turned but already it was impossible to make out who was firing at whom; he saw vague moving shapes but a second later they disappeared. He reached the pavement on the other side, nearly tripping on the kerb, and stepped up, groping in front of him. He touched a wall, stumbled along, keeping his hand on walls and damp hedges so he didn’t wander back into the road. A police whistle sounded again a little further off. He reached a corner and turned, walking on until a bout of coughing brought him to a halt. The air stank. He leaned against a privet hedge, trying to get his breathing under control. More shots sounded, but further away now.
The house had been raided; the little boy from the neighbouring house must have betrayed them. The others were gone, probably dead – if they hadn’t been shot they would have taken their cyanide pills. At the thought a choking sob rose up in Frank’s throat.
He must keep walking, all night if he had to. If only he could see. When it got light visibility would be a bit better, though that meant it would be easier for them to find him. Thank God he hadn’t had his bedtime pills; at least his mind wasn’t dulled by them, he wasn’t sleepy. They would be hunting him all over London. He thought, there are road bridges across railway lines. All he needed to do was find one, jump off, and end it. The thought calmed him; he had his goal again. He had known they wouldn’t escape, he had been stupid even to imagine they might. He remembered Geoff falling, the blood, and almost sobbed again.
There was nobody else in the street. He could make out, very dimly, the little circles of light from the nearest streetlamps – how the fog seemed to swirl and eddy about them. People weren’t coming out in this weather and the shots would have been heard, which would keep people indoors. He shivered; he was clad only in one of Colonel Brock’s cardigans and a thin shirt and trousers, and was very cold. He thought of David and Natalia, running down the stairs half-dressed. He was glad now they had had their chance together before the end.
He heard a sound in the distance, growing closer: the shrill electric bell of a Black Maria. Quickly, he felt his way along the privet hedge beside him. He came to a garden gate; dripping wet from the fog, it felt like it was covered with thick, cold sweat. He pulled the gate open, slipped into the tiny front garden and crouched down on the inner side of the hedge, long grass soaking his trousers. He must be quiet, there was a thin pencil of hazy light a few feet away where the curtains of the front window didn’t quite meet. He heard the sound of an approaching car, moving very slowly. Frank thought, they won’t find me, not in this. It passed on down the street. He huddled down, shivering. After a few minutes he crept out of the gate again, carefully, crouching. His shoes and the bottom of his trousers were soaking wet. He shivered and coughed, then stood up and walked slowly on.
He reached a corner. A little way ahead he saw Belisha beacons, two orange globes flashing on and off, for some reason their light penetrating the fog better than the faint glow from the streetlamps. It was extraordinarily quiet, as though Frank was somewhere in the countryside rather than London. Carefully, he crossed the road. It was wider; this must be a main road. On the other side his outstretched hands made contact with a high brick wall. He felt over it. There was a window sill, high up. It seemed like a big building, maybe a warehouse or office block; perhaps he could break in and hide. He groped his way along the wall. Then, from further up the street, he heard a hollow echoing shout through the fog. ‘Go on to the end of the road, to the roadblock!’
‘There’s no fucking point in this, Sarge! They could be anywhere!’
‘They.’ He was sure he’d heard them say ‘they’. His heart pounded, he tried to steady his breathing. Some of the others at least must be alive. Dimly, ahead, he saw moving points of light approaching. Torches, powerful ones, fog whirling in their beams. He felt his way along the wall, away from them. He came to a corner, rounded it, and saw a tall iron gate. Peering through the gloom he made out a flight of stone steps. He heard another shout, closer now: ‘Fuck this! Dunno how I’m even going to find my way home, never mind find these bastards!’