Chapter Twenty-eight

London, February 1918 – three months later

O n the wall of May’s office, behind her desk, she’d hung a framed copy of the front page of the Clarion. The one on which she’d printed a photograph, Josef’s photograph of Sykes. The image which had brought the police down on them, closed the paper, and lost them their patron in Countess Sackville.

He stared at it now, as he waited for May to return from her meeting. Even in the black-and-white image, he recognised the faint light of a ghoul in the boy’s dying eyes. The headline read End the Slaughter , and beneath it was Josef’s painstaking description of the forward dressing station in Ypres where Sykes had died. Or, rather, not died.

He couldn’t write about that, of course. Hard enough to make people see the truth about the war. Impossible to explain that the horror of the battlefield had followed him home, had crept through the city’s tunnels and sewers. That men destroyed by war and contorted into monsters had been gassed beneath the streets of London.

Even so, he’d been proud of those words and that photograph. Publishing them not in a pamphlet but in the Clarion had felt like a small triumph in the dark days after losing Alex. Not that it had done any good; the war still raged, and men still died. Well, what had he imagined? The country had been sending its men and boys to the slaughter for four long years. People were used to it, now. Maybe it would never end.

The door to May’s office rattled open, and he turned in his seat as she entered. He could tell from the glint in her eye that the meeting had gone well. “So?” he said, smiling.

“Lady Charlotte is a diamond. We’re back in business.”

Josef grinned. He’d known May and Lottie would get on like a house on fire, although he hadn’t been certain Lottie would have the appetite for a radical newspaper.

“The fight isn’t over for women’s suffrage,” May was saying as she took off her hat and dropped into the chair behind her desk. “But now we’ve got a foot in the door it’s even more important that we educate and shape the female vote. And the working-class vote, too.”

It had only been two weeks since the Representation of the People Act had passed, expanding voting rights to working-class men like Josef and to some women—those over 30 who met the property qualification. Wealthy women, in other words. Still, it was a start.

And it was exciting.

Now that the men who were fighting at the front could vote, there was a chance that things could change. He had to believe that; he had to have hope for the future. Even if, on a personal level, the future had felt rather bleak since the day he’d emerged from King William Street station to see Alex loaded into the back of a black, unmarked ambulance and taken straight to Belgrave Square.

He only knew Alex was still alive because Lottie had told him so. She’d spoken briefly to Dutta, at a society event. That was society with a small ‘s’, not The Society. Lottie was no more welcome there than Josef, and he’d tried—five times—to get in and see Alex.

Apparently, Lord Beaumont was not at home to Mr Shepel.

Maybe it was Saint keeping Josef out, but he feared the choice was Alex’s. He was still haunted by that terrible moment in the tunnels when he’d refused to put a bullet in Alex’s head, when he’d broken his promise and left him alone in the dark.

You fucking coward!

That betrayal, he feared, was the reason Alex refused to see him. Whatever the reason, though, the result was the same—their friendship was over. Realistically, he knew that had been inevitable from the start. Even so, he felt the loss. He felt the ache of it in his chest every day.

It grieved him.

“Well?” May said, and he had the awkward feeling she’d been waiting for an answer. “Are you in, Joe?”

“You know I am,” he said. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

She flashed a grin. “All right, then. First off, we need a new title for the paper—something forward-looking. What do you think of The People’s Tribune ? Or the Voter’s Vanguard …?”

They discussed that for a while, eventually settling on a couple of options to put to Lottie. There was some work to do to design the look of the new paper, but essentially it would be the Daily Clarion under a different name, and so soon they fell into talking about stories to cover, and that led them back to the war.

“We can’t tackle it head-on,” May said. She indicated the framed front page behind her. “I’m proud of that piece. I think it had to be said, but…”

“But it hasn’t changed anyone’s mind,” Josef finished. “I know. I thought if people saw the truth…”

May looked sympathetic. “I think some truths are too hard to believe, even when you see them with your own eyes. People aren’t ready for it yet.”

He understood that in a way May couldn’t imagine. How long had it taken him to believe the incredible truth Alex had told him? It was still difficult to believe. He laughed, or tried to, but it sounded more bitter than amused. “The things I could tell people, if they’d only listen.”

Ghouls, witches and who knew what else? The story of a lifetime at his fingertips, but not even May would believe that one.

She cocked her head, studying him. “You know, sometimes it’s easier for people to hear the truth when they think it’s fiction.” She shrugged at whatever she saw in his expression. “A story about the trials and tribulations of a conchie working as a stretcher bearer, perhaps?”

Josef shook his head. “I’m no writer.”

“You’re not bad.” She grinned. “Besides, there’s no such thing as a good writer—only a good editor. And that’s me.”

“I don’t know. I’m a photographer. I prefer to let my photographs do the talking.” It was a thought, though. And his first thought was of a story about the ghouls living in the disused Underground tunnels…

Saint would not be happy. That idea should worry him, but in fact it fired him up. Saint thought he had all the power, that he could snatch Alex away and silence Josef. Well, sod that. Maybe there was another way for Josef to speak?

If he dared.

Rising, he said, “I’m happy for you, May. I’m glad Lady Charlotte could help and that you’re back in business. The country needs your voice more than ever.”

“ Our voice,” she corrected. “Like I said, Lady C is a diamond but—oh, wait a moment.” She rummaged in her bag. “Here, this is for you.”

She held out a small envelope, his name written on the front. Instantly, his heart leaped at the idea it could be from Alex, but it wasn’t his hand. Frowning, he took the envelope from May. “What is it?”

She raised her brows. “I’m no expert, but it looks like a letter.”

“Very amusing.” He studied it for a moment, then shoved it into his pocket. “Thanks.”

May’s expression sharpened into keen interest. God knew what she thought was in the letter—a love note probably—but he didn’t want to find out with an audience. Not one as quick as May.

Nonetheless, the note burned a hole in his pocket all the way back to the Underground and by the time he’d found a seat in the carriage, it had become impossible to wait any longer. Pulling the envelope out, he quickly tore it open.

It wasn’t a note from Alex. Simply a few lines in the efficient hand of someone who wrote a great deal—such as an academic.

Dear Mr Shepel, Our friend has finally been released. He’s at home, terribly morose and rather immobile thanks to his leg, which is healing but not yet usable. Naturally, he believes he’s unfit for company, but I rather think the opposite is true. If asked, he’ll refuse to see you, so I suggest not asking. Yours in friendship, Lady Charlotte Wolsey.

Released? He suspected that was exactly the right word. It had looked like nothing more than an arrest that evening on King William Street. Had they punished Alex in other ways, too? God only knew what The Society might do; they clearly believed themselves above the law.

Anger, relief, and something he could only call excitement swelled his heart. Did he want to see Alex? Of course he bloody did. But he was afraid. Not of Saint, not of any consequences in that direction, but of Alex. Of rejection.

Truth was, he’d come to feel something for the man. More than something, if he was being honest. And why shouldn’t he feel more? Alex had saved his life, and he’d saved Alex’s. That alone would have forged a bond difficult to break, even without the…other things.

And the other things lived as bright memories beneath his skin. Each tender touch and forbidden caress more precious for being fleeting. For being secret, and theirs alone.

If he saw Alex again and was dismissed, those memories would tarnish and spoil. But that was the argument of a man who’d choose blissful ignorance over painful truth, and Josef was nothing if not an advocate for the truth.

Which meant his decision was made.