Frank thought, there’s a roadblock, I have to find somewhere to hide. He opened the gate – mercifully it didn’t creak – and climbed the steps. At the top was a heavy wooden door. He dreaded he’d find it locked, but it opened under the pressure of his hand. He slipped inside, pushing it to behind him.
He saw he was inside an enormous Victorian Gothic church with high, stained-glass windows and an arched roof. It was empty. There was dim electric lighting along the walls. Long rows of pews stretched away to a railed-off altar where a red candle burned inside an ornate golden container. Paintings of Christ on the way to the cross lined the walls. It was as cold in here as outside, chill and dank, but though the smell of the fog was in the air the filthy muck itself seemed not to have penetrated the cavernous building.
Frank looked back at the main door. There was a big iron latch; very slowly and quietly he slid it across. Then he looked round the church again. There were several more doors along the walls. He thought, if one led to a flight of stairs, perhaps to a belfry, he could get up there and jump off. His promise to David to stay alive hardly counted now. His heart was beating wildly. His only experience of church had been the chapel at school; cold, with whitewashed walls, a lectern with a ferocious eagle carved on the front. Mrs Baker had forbidden her acolytes from going to what she called the false temples of the old religions.
He walked slowly to the nearest door, careful to make as little noise as possible on the stone flags. Next to it was a plaster statue of Christ, white body hanging from the cross, desperate agony on the thin bearded face. According to his mother, Mrs Baker said Christ was always waiting in a white robe, smiling in a garden, to welcome those who passed into spirit, but this figure was quite different: an agony of suffering.
Stealthily, Frank opened the door. It gave onto a long corridor. At the end was a closed pair of double doors; behind them he could hear voices. For a second he stood rooted to the spot, terrified they had found him and were gathered there, waiting to pounce. He stepped backwards, suppressing a cry, as one of the doors opened. A tall young man came out, wearing a shabby apron over a black shirt with a white clerical collar. He had a shock of untidy brown hair and a round, tired, good-natured face. The smell of cooking drifted from the room. The man saw Frank and smiled.
‘Hello,’ he said cheerfully, in a loud upper-class voice. ‘Come for some grub?’
Frank stared at him; he had no idea what he was talking about. He half turned, about to run, but the man said, gently, ‘Wait! It’s all right. You look as though you could do with some food.’ With an encouraging nod, he stepped back and opened the door wide. Frank saw a room filled with wooden trestle tables, where ragged-looking men and women sat eating bowls of soup. Two women stood by an enormous tureen on a table, passing out bowls and plates of bread. Frank realized it must be a soup kitchen. He knew there were more and more of them these days with all the unemployment but he had never seen one himself before. He wasn’t hungry but he was desperately cold and there was a gust of warmth from a big coal fire. He stayed where he was as the man came up to him.
‘Hello. I’m the vicar here. Call me Terry.’
Frank knew some churches supported Beaverbrook and Mosley and others were against. He hesitated, but then walked slowly towards the warmth of the big room. Inside, it smelt of unwashed bodies and damp, fusty clothes. Most of the people at the tables were beggars, such as you saw on street corners, with matted hair and beards, tattered coats tied with string, lined, dirty worn-out faces. One or two, though, wore stained shiny suits in attempts to keep a former respectability. There were ragged women, too, one holding a tiny baby.
‘What’s your name, friend?’ the vicar asked.
Frank hesitated. ‘David.’
Terry looked at him curiously. He said quietly, ‘Never been somewhere like this before, eh? Where did you hear about us?’
‘I – I forget.’
‘Well, lots of people are down on their luck these days, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Come on, get some food. It’s not a night to be out. This filthy smog, I’ve never seen anything like it. You haven’t got a coat, you must be freezing.’ The vicar looked at him again, more closely, and then his eyes widened. Frank followed his gaze and saw, on the front of his grey cardigan, a dark splash of blood. He drew in a horrified breath, thinking he had been hit after all, then realized it must be Geoff’s blood.
‘You’re hurt,’ Terry said, quietly.
‘It’s nothing, I cut myself—’
‘Let me have a look.’
Frank whispered, ‘It’s not my blood.’ He swallowed. ‘It’s my friend’s. He’s dead.’
Terry hesitated, then leaned close. ‘Please, come with me.’
Frank looked into the vicar’s tired face. Something in his voice and manner made him allow the man to lead him to a side room. It was a little office, with a steel filing cabinet and a table with a telephone on it, a black jacket slung over a chair. White surplices hung from a row of pegs. The vicar shut the door. He said, ‘A couple of people who’ve just come in said they heard shots nearby, police cars. They thought it was the local Jive Boy gangs. Was it something to do with you? Don’t worry,’ he added quickly, ‘I won’t give you away.’
Frank leaned against the table. He didn’t answer but a desperate sigh escaped him. Terry looked at him. He said, ‘I know there’s something going on today, there have been raids all over town in spite of the fog. Are you Resistance?’ Frank didn’t answer. ‘I can help you but you have to trust me. I’m taking a risk even telling you I’ll help.’ He took a deep breath and Frank saw that Terry, too, was afraid. Everything in the vicar’s face told Frank he was sincere, but if Ben and Natalia and David hadn’t been able to save him, how could this man? Telling him anything was a desperate risk.
The vicar stepped over to a door in the wall and opened it. A wave of cold stinking air and tendrils of yellow fog came into the room. He left the door open and went and stood by the other door, the one that led to the soup kitchen. ‘See,’ he said. ‘If you want to leave, you can. You might be able to get away in the fog, but you might not. I’ll help you but you have to tell me what happened.’
‘I was with some friends,’ Frank said. ‘They’re from the Resistance, we’re trying to get out of the country. We were at a house a couple of streets away. There was a raid. Some of my friends were killed. I ran away to stop them getting me. The Resistance don’t want the Germans to take me alive. I’m important; I wish I wasn’t but I am. Please – please, shut the door. Someone might see, and it’s so cold.’
Terry closed the door. He took the jacket from the chair behind the desk. ‘Sit down, go on, you look done in.’ Frank sat, and Terry put the jacket round his shoulders. He looked at Frank’s bad hand. ‘How did you get that? The Germans?’
Frank shook his head. ‘No. Some other people, when I was a boy. I’m not with the Resistance, I’m just – someone who needs to be got out of the country.’
‘Why?’
Frank shook his head firmly. ‘I can’t tell you. The Resistance people know.’
‘Is David your real name?’
Frank should his head. ‘No. He was one of my friends.’ He felt tears pricking at his eyes.
‘Can you tell me your real name? If you can, I can ring for help. I’ve a number.’ Terry nodded at the telephone on the desk.
Frank hesitated, but it was all or nothing now. ‘Muncaster, Frank Muncaster.’
Terry picked up the telephone. He dialled a number. Someone answered and he spoke with unexpected crispness, ‘Reverend Hadley, St Luke’s Church. I’ve a man here, says the police are after him. There’s been a raid nearby. His name is Frank Muncaster, repeat, Muncaster. Medium height, thin, brown hair, injured right hand.’ Then there was silence, the vicar occasionally nodding and saying ‘yes’ briskly. He looked at Frank again and asked quietly, ‘Do you know how many of your people got away?’