His voice became stern. ‘This measure is necessary for Britain’s security. The threat from Resistance terrorism is, alas, ever-present. Everyone must be vigilant, for their own sakes and for the country’s. These are trying times, at home and in the Empire.’ He smiled in a fatherly way, his grey moustache twitching. He went on, his tone lighter, ‘However, I can also tell you that following the discussions the Prime Minister had with our German allies last week, as well as the new increase in British forces available for India, which Mr Powell announced earlier today, new economic agreements have also been reached which will allow British firms to trade much more fully with Europe—’
He went on for several more minutes, talking of new joint ventures between British arms firms and Krupps to supply heavy artillery for the war in Russia, and joint commercial projects between ICI and IG Farben. He concluded his broadcast gravely. ‘Together the British people can defeat anarchy and communism. God Save the Queen.’ As the National Anthem sounded Mosley stood, chest held out proudly. David switched off the television. He and Sarah sat looking at the blank screen.
‘Nothing about the people that were killed today,’ Sarah said quietly. ‘Nothing. What else has been happening up and down the country?’
‘I suppose they chose a Sunday morning because there’d only be a few people around, and not much traffic.’ He looked at her intently, his blue eyes hard. ‘They must be going to hush up what happened in Tottenham Court Road, maybe in other places too. To avoid any sort of big official enquiry.’
She stood up suddenly, still clutching the duffel coat.
David said, ‘What is it?’
‘Do you have to be so – so clinical? So like a bloody civil servant? I saw people shot this morning, young students running for their lives, a woman I know killed . . .’
He stood too, took her by the shoulders. ‘I’m not clinical about it, Sarah. Dear God, I’m not.’ He took a deep breath. ‘This is how I cope.’ She sat down again. He put his hand over hers. He said, ‘I feel it all as much as you. More, perhaps.’
‘More?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not easy, always, at work. I see those people, Mosley and the other Fascists and their friends going in and out of Downing Street. I hate it as much as you do. I’m sorry, darling.’
She thought, maybe I’ve been wrong, maybe it’s because of everything that’s happening around us that he’s become so cold and distant. She said, ‘How can people believe such rubbish, that the Jews are a threat to national life?’
‘There’s always been prejudice, and they’ve been stoking it up since 1940. If a government keeps telling people the same simple message year after year, most end up believing it. Goebbels called it the big lie.’ He picked up the duffel coat. ‘Let me get rid of this; take it out to the bin now, I’ll empty the wastepaper baskets on top of it.’
‘There are some potato peelings in the kitchen bin,’ Sarah said wearily, ‘and those chops in the fridge are off. Put them in too, then nobody’ll go poking about in there.’ She surrendered the coat with an odd feeling of reluctance.
David ripped the sleeve of the duffel coat in case some dustman wondered why they were throwing it out. He filled the bin and carried it through the house to the front garden. Their neighbour, a middle-aged man he acknowledged at the station, was taking out his own rubbish. He nodded to David. ‘Cold evening again, isn’t it?’
David answered with forced cheerfulness, ‘Yes, winter’s here by the look of it.’
‘Forecast said there’ll be fog tomorrow.’ The man nodded again and went back into his house, closing the door. Neighbours didn’t talk much in this street; people generally seemed to talk to strangers less and less these days. David stood by the gate, looking across the road. The old air-raid shelter was a ghostly glimmer at the other end of the little park. He thought of Sarah’s courage. When he’d seen her sitting there in the dark he had thought for a second the authorities had found out about him, had been to question her. For a moment he had actually been glad to think all the secrecy and lies were over, and had felt a sudden rush of his old love for her, the feeling he had started to think was twisted and broken beyond repair. But there was no telling her the truth now. Not after today. It was too dangerous.
When they had left Frank’s flat he and Geoff and Natalia had driven round the dark, foggy streets, looking for a telephone box. When they found one Natalia went inside, leaving David and Geoff in the car. They watched as she dropped shilling pieces one after the other into the box. She must have carried them ready in her pockets, like the gun. She was in the box a long time, gesturing with her arms, her face animated. David wondered if she was talking to Jackson but he thought not; she would have been more controlled speaking to him. When she came out and rejoined them in the car she spoke quietly. ‘There’s going to be a meeting tomorrow, some of the top people.’ She paused. ‘I think we’re going to have to move Dr Muncaster. Probably soon.’
David asked, ‘Did you tell them he seemed to trust me?’
‘Yes. We will probably need you again. Perhaps both of you.’
‘I’ll do it. But my wife’s got to be kept safe.’
‘They’ll take care of that,’ Geoff said.
‘What about the Jews?’
‘It’s true,’ Natalia said flatly. ‘They’ve been moved. We didn’t know anything about it, Mosley organized everything from the Home Office.’
They said little on the journey back to London. David’s mind was whirling, going over the meeting with Frank, wondering what the hell exactly was happening to the Jews. Everything was quiet in the cold streets. They drove out to Pinner and dropped Geoff off at his house. Natalia said she would take David on to the bottom of his street. They didn’t speak, but when they arrived he got out and stood beside the car, looking at the rows of mock-Tudor semis, suddenly reluctant to move. She rolled down the window. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ He took a deep breath. ‘How could the Resistance not know what they were planning for the Jews?’
‘We don’t have anyone in the Home Office or in the higher levels of the police. Not any more.’
‘You did have people?’
‘We had a network. There was a betrayal, three years ago. The man we thought was ours was working for them. A lot of good people died.’
‘You carry a gun in your pocket, don’t you?’ David said. ‘I saw, when that old man came into Frank’s flat.’
‘There are circumstances where we have to defend ourselves. You understand that.’
He asked, ‘Would you ever use the gun on Frank?’
‘Only if he were about to fall into their hands.’ She met his gaze. ‘Then it would be best for him, trust me.’
‘Have you ever killed anybody?’
She nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Not in England, though. I wish it were never necessary. But sometimes it is.’
He sighed. ‘Yes. Yes, I know.’
‘What is it, David?’ she asked quietly. ‘Ever since we saw the old man in the flat you have looked – desperate. It’s more than just seeing your friend in that state.’
He smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps we English aren’t so good at keeping our feelings hidden after all.’ He shrugged. ‘It was hearing about what’s happening to the Jews. It’s upset me.’
She nodded, then gave him a long, searching look. She said, very quietly and carefully, ‘I remember my Jewish friends in Slovakia. I saw how they reacted when things began to get bad.’