The kettle sounded off and a clearly uncomfortable Oliver said, “Ah, tea.” He rushed away before she could finish.
Over their cups of tea and biscuits Oliver said, “Now, Molly, I did want you to know that I wrote the War Office about your father. As soon as I receive a reply I will share it with you.”
“Thank you. I’m also going to write to the Beneficial Institute in Cornwall. The letters Dr. Stephens sent me were lost in the bombing, but I remember the address. Now, what are we going to do about Charlie?”
He explained to her about the impossibility of finding their friend. “I dearly hope that he will return here at some point.”
Frowning, she said, “But he’s out there all alone. Something may happen to him. There are... bad people in this city who can exploit defenseless children.”
He looked at her in alarm. “Molly, are you speaking about anything specifically with regard to Charlie?”
“Being back here and seeing the destruction and desperation, I just mean that it’s not a good situation for a boy to be in all alone.”
Oliver looked guilty. “You are quite right and I feel ashamed that I took the position I did. We must make all efforts to find him.” He glanced at her. “That is, I must. You have a job. I will map out a plan to look for Charlie and will execute upon that plan while you’re at work.”
“But you run a bookshop!”
“Most of my customers come in before lunchtime. I will work until then and after that my time will be devoted to finding Charlie. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a few things to do before my air warden duties tonight.”
“Mr. Oliver?”
“Yes?”
Molly desperately wanted to ask him about the circumstances of Imogen’s death and what he could have done to prevent it, but she merely said, “Never mind. It’s not important.”
The Hitch
“Inspector, sir, we might have a wee problem.”
DI Willoughby looked up from his desk at the bobby who had helped in the arrest and violent interrogation of Lonzo Rossi. Framed in the doorway, the bulky constable looked quite unsettled.
“What are you talking about, Higgins?” growled Willoughby, who was attempting to correct some reports that were long overdue. He had never much cared for the job’s paperwork.
“It’s the Lonzo Rossi lad.”
“What of him?”
The constable came in and shut the door behind him. He approached the desk timidly. “He don’t seem to be wakin’ up, does he?”
Willoughby lit a small, hand-rolled cigarette and blew smoke off to the side. “What the deuce do you mean he’s not ‘waking up’?”
Higgins shrugged. “Just that. He ain’t eaten much since we brung him in. And he seemed drowsy like when we put him in the clink, shufflin’ and such and losin’ his balance. Threw water on him before to get him up. But now, he won’t wake up a’tall. Tried to rouse him to have his bit ’a dinner, but no luck.”
“Damn! Take me to him.”
A minute later, Higgins slid back the cell door peephole and the DI peered in. Lonzo was on his back on the hard bed, one arm dangling limply over the side.
“Open the door,” ordered Willoughby.
They both went inside. The DI knelt down next to Lonzo and checked his pulse. “He’s still alive at least, if barely.” He slapped Lonzo hard on his battered face several times. “Here now, boy, wake up. Oi, stop pretending. Lonzo!”
Then Willoughby saw the blood hardened in the boy’s nostrils, and on his hair and scalp. He pulled back his eyelid to peer into the unresponsive pupil.
“Do we need to get the doc?” asked Higgins nervously.
Willoughby thought quickly. This was the third prisoner who had been seriously injured during interrogations conducted by him. His superintendent had already given Willoughby a caution about that. If this boy died while in his custody, he might be demoted back to uniform.
“No, we do not. This lad is for the gallows anyway.”
The big constable shuffled his feet and looked down at the stained floor. “But not really, sir. I mean, he didn’t kill nobody hisself. The lorry done.”
Willoughby eyed him severely. “Do I really have to remind you that one of your brethren died? Does that mean nothing to you, Constable Higgins?”
The big man took a step back. “Of course it do, sir. Ambrose Tapper was a good bobby, a fine one, in fact. None better.”
“Well then?”
The man looked nervously at Lonzo. “But if inquiries are made, how he come by his injuries, sir. People might... you know? I don’t want to lose my job,” he added, with an anxious glance at the DI. “I mean, none of us do, do we?”
Willoughby rose and looked down at Lonzo. After a moment’s thought he said, “The bombing the other night?”
“What of it, sir? Wireless says they may come back tonight.”
Willoughby rubbed his stubbly chin and said, “Well then, tonight we’re going to take this lad back to the scene of his crime. And if the Germans do bomb, this might work out all right.”
“But, sir—”
“You will either do your duty, Constable, or be written up.”
Higgins gave a halfhearted salute. “Yes, sir. How will it be done, then?”
Willoughby began speaking quietly.
One Night in Hell
Ignatius Oliver was dressed in his air warden’s uniform. He carried his overly large gas mask with massive eyeholes and a built-in speaking system so that he could address a crowd with instructions that might save their lives. He had a coil of tubing over his shoulder that would be used with a bucket and pump stirrup, which his comrade tonight, Lee Parker, would be bringing. He slipped his training manual into his pocket because no one could remember every line of instruction. He had a torch with a special covering so as not to be an unintentional beacon for the Luftwaffe. Even so, he would keep it pointed down. That and his gas rattle and first aid kit completed his equipment.
Oliver recalled that before the Blitz his uniform consisted merely of dark blue overalls and a steel helmet with “ARP,” standing for Air Raid Precautions, imprinted on the front. Things were a bit more complicated now.
He opened the door to Molly’s room and saw that she was already fast asleep after her long and tiring day. Still just a child, really, but nonetheless carrying the burdens of adulthood on her youthful, if capable, shoulders.
He set off to meet up with Parker and commence their rounds. The sky was clear and the wind was quite calm. Both those factors gave him grave concerns. And the moon, while not a bomber’s moon, was full and bright enough to be potentially disastrous for the British tonight. And the BBC had repeatedly warned of a possible attack.
He passed an intersection where an official sign hung on the wall instructing:
Oliver went through the official litany in his mind: Do not rush about like a madman terrifying others, but keep a cool head and take cover in appropriate facilities with your gas mask. Do not try to have a bloody “look” at the bombs falling. Keep in mind that certain noises can be good noises, like our boys firing back with their ack-ack guns. And lastly, the odds are largely in your favor not to be blown to bits.
How terribly reassuring, he thought.
He met up with Parker, a man of about fifty with a lopsided smile and a flask of water, with perhaps a touch of something added, always on his person. Oliver noted that Parker had the stirrup pump and an empty bucket, which, when paired with the tubing Oliver had brought, could be used to fight small fires. The problem was the fires they encountered were rarely small.