27

The Fireman’s Arms was in prime position, at the bottom of the high street, next to the station. It had changed hands since I’d last visited. The new landlord had spruced things up, to the extent that putting a few pots of geraniums on the window sills could be considered spruced up. A blackboard by the front door promised sandwiches. Another innovation.

I had to push my way through a crowd of soldiers outside, and when I made it inside, I was surprised at how busy it was. I’d been expecting the usual quiet evening – working men quietly drinking away their lives – but the place was full, and there was an electric energy in the air. A fug of smoke hung down from the yellow ceiling, and men were shoulder to shoulder, drinking and talking. Most were soldiers who looked like they’d slipped away from the trains shuttling men from the coast to barracks inland.

For every soldier, there was a girl. I recognised a few faces. Others looked like they’d arrived from out of town for professional purposes – their dresses more revealing, their make-up more expertly applied.

Watching over all of this, two military police officers stood at the bar, their red berets folded and stowed under their shoulder lapels, a warning to everyone. They had a practised nonchalance that I knew, from experience, could switch to action in a second. I’d had my fair share of brushes with MPs, and had learnt to give them a wide berth when I’d been in uniform. Now, though, I was invisible to them. Another old man in for a few beers after his day on the farm.

I pushed my way through the crowd. A commotion in a group of gunners rippled out and one of them staggered into me, spilling his beer. I put my hand on his back, keeping him away from me, and at the same time another man bumped into me from behind.

‘Steady on!’ he said. I turned, ready to apologise.

‘Hello!’ the man said. We recognised each other at the same time. He was the artist I’d seen that morning, near the Leckies’ house.

‘They didn’t catch you,’ he said, with a smirk.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, leaning in to hear him over the noise of the crowd.

‘I watched you,’ he said, ‘doing a recce.’

‘Just out for a walk,’ I said.

‘That’s all right,’ he said, and he winked at me. ‘Our little secret.’ It was unsettling. His wink was intimate, like we were old friends, in on a private joke. Before I could come back with a retort he slapped me on the shoulder and left. I watched him push his way through the crowd, on his way to the gents.

I made it to the bar and ordered a pint of best, still thinking about the artist.

‘Kate Davidson’s lads been in tonight?’ I asked.

The barman shook his head. It could have meant no, or it could have meant he wasn’t going to tell me.

‘Someone was in here last night talking about people needing to be killed,’ I said. ‘Hear anything like that?’

‘Look around,’ the barman said. ‘Take your pick.’

The Polish soldier joined me at the bar.

‘You heard the latest rumour?’ he asked. ‘Local priest caught with wireless set in his belfry.’

‘That one’s been going around since last year,’ I said. ‘Your source is out of date.’

I bought the Polish soldier a drink, keeping an eye out for the Davidson boys.

‘You hear any more German voices out in the fields?’ I asked.

‘It’s the fence,’ he said. When I looked surprised, he smiled, pleased with himself.

‘I figured it out,’ he continued. ‘Last night. I heard the voice, hid in a bush, but got fed up hiding, so went looking for a German to kill. It’s your fence.’

I nodded.

‘Makes me wonder,’ he said. ‘You haven’t signed up to fight, and your fence talks German.’

I drank my beer, looking around at the busy pub.

‘If I was on their side, I wouldn’t be using my fence to take orders,’ I said. ‘I’d have a nice little receiver tucked away in the attic, like that priest you heard about.’

He finished his beer and waved to the barman for another round.

‘Still,’ he said. ‘Germans on the radio. People getting killed. Doesn’t sound like quiet English countryside.’

‘How long are you sticking around?’ I asked.

‘A while,’ he said. ‘They’ve set up a, what’s the word ... cordon ... on the roads out. No one in or out without the right papers. Protecting the rest of the country from people like me.’

‘Or trying to filter out the spies and saboteurs who came over on the boats,’ I said. ‘If I were a German commander I’d have rounded up everyone I could lay my hands on with passable English, shoved them into a Tommy’s uniform, and told them to get themselves onto a boat.’

‘How do you know I’m not one of those,’ he said.

‘I don’t.’

‘You should get me drunk,’ he said. ‘See if I give up my secrets.’

‘Let’s start with your name.’

‘Milosz,’ he said, holding out his hand. We shook.

We spent the evening drinking, and I kept an eye out for Kate’s sons, but they didn’t show up, presumably lying low until the dust settled.

I left Milosz buying a round, and took myself off to the toilets. I kept my eye out for the artist, as I pushed through the crowd. He’d been close to the Leckies’ house when the attack happened, and now he was here.

The urinal was full, four men standing shoulder to shoulder. In the stall behind us, a rhythmic thumping told me one of the professionals had found a client.

A man buttoned up and pushed past me. He avoided my eyes, and I reciprocated. It was only as I unbuttoned my flies that I looked forwards, at the wall above the urinal. There was a row of leaflets, all the same, all roughly printed. Large text. A simple message.

SAY NO TO A JEWS’ WAR

It wasn’t the first of its kind I’d seen. For the last five years, as the threat of war built, there’d been an undercurrent of debate, which often turned violent. Germany had its Nazis, and so did we. But the tide had slowly turned since the -outbreak of war. The British Union of Fascists had been outlawed in May, and Oswald Mosley, our homegrown -Hitler, had been arrested.

This leaflet was different. It stood out. The apostrophe showed the poster had been created by someone with a high level of education, and a finicky sense of detail. Most people, even if they’d realised they needed an apostrophe, would have guessed wrong and put it after the W. Or they’d have left it off, not wanting to get it wrong.

Regardless of grammar, the paper in front of me wasn’t destined for a long life. As I stood there, it unpeeled itself from the wall and slid into the urinal to join the mess of yellow piss and cigarette butts. The next leaflet along was on its way there too. It looked like they’d all been kept rolled up in someone’s pocket, and the paper wanted to revert to the rolled shape. They’d been hastily pasted onto the wall, but the wall itself was covered with glossy paint that was damp with condensation. Not the ideal surface for a quick smear of wallpaper paste.

As I returned to the bar I scanned the drinkers to see if anyone was watching me. Someone had posted up propaganda posters for their cause. Perhaps they’d decided to stick around to see if anyone looked stirred up by their -slogan. Maybe there’d be some kind of effort at recruitment. Maybe a secret society, dedicated to posting up more -notices. But nobody tried to catch my eye or start up a conversation about the merits of the war. No loud comments about Jews, testing my thoughts on the subject.

One man did catch my eye, though. He was sitting at a table in the corner, flicking his eyes around the pub, scanning faces. He had his back to the wall, and from where he sat he had a view of both the bar and the entrance.

When I got back to my place at the bar, I used the mirror behind the landlord to study the man in the corner in more detail. He was my age, forty-ish, with close-cropped hair. He had a red scar across his cheek. He was dressed in worn tweed, his jacket slightly large, allowing freedom of movement in a fight, and useful to conceal a weapon.

Two other drinkers sat at his table, either side, talking across him. They must have known him, otherwise they wouldn’t be sitting with him, but they were ignoring him, like he was a servant, or a relative. A boring uncle perhaps. The other two were younger, a man and a woman. They were flushed from drink, laughing, caught up in each other. I let myself watch the woman. She was glamorous, dressed up for a night out, sure of herself.

I realised where I’d seen them before. The night of the parachutist. Getting out of a luxury car.

‘Don’t be too obvious about it, but have a look at the three people in the corner,’ I murmured to Milosz. ‘Young man and woman, older man in the middle. Have you seen them before?’

Milosz watched for a minute before turning back to the bar.

‘The older man had rushed field dressing,’ he said. ‘Bullet wound. Not deep, but messy. Probably sewn up at front lines, got infected. Lots of old men like that in Poland from last war.’

‘Was he in yesterday?’

‘Don’t think so,’ he said.

As I watched, the young woman held her glass up and said something to her companion. He got up from the table and made his way towards our position at the packed bar.

I stood back, giving him a path to the bar. He nodded his thanks and caught the landlord’s attention.

‘Another pint and a G&T please, heavy on the G,’ he said.

Curious, buying two drinks, when you’d come from a table with three people. It added to my impression that the older man was a third wheel.

‘Let me buy you a drink if you’ve come over from Dunkirk,’ I said. He turned to face me and I got a good look at him. He was older than I’d thought. Older than the woman. Mid--thirties at least. He had a tanned face, with deep lines by the corner of his eyes, like he’d spent too much time in the sun. He’d shaved before he’d come out, and had a fresh nick on his neck, with the faintest trace of toilet paper attached.

‘I’m not with that lot,’ he said, gesturing to the soldiers. ‘You?’

‘Just a farmer.’

‘No just about it. Equally as heroic. Keeping the nation in feed,’ he said. I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or not.

‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

‘One and four,’ the landlord said, pushing the two drinks across the bar. It gave the man a second to think.

He reached into his pocket for the right change.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘not allowed to say. Loose lips and all that.’ He said it in a friendly enough way, but there was a firmness underlying it.

He put his coins on the bar, confirming the amount with a quick flick of his eyes.

‘I saw your poster in the toilets,’ I said.

‘Not me, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Although ...’ he smiled, ‘if you’re looking for the culprit ... I’d say someone older than you or me. Well educated. Someone who knows their grammar and believes the printed word has power.’

The scar-faced man in the corner was watching our -exchange. He stood up and muttered to the woman. She complained but he cut her off. He was clearly in charge. She finished her drink hurriedly and grabbed her handbag.

‘Nice talking with you,’ the man said, unaware that his companions were making plans for a hurried departure.

I felt a strong compulsion to keep him talking. Something was wrong, and some part of my subconscious had registered it but was declining to pass on the information. The longer I kept him talking, the more chance I gave myself to get to the bottom of my sense of unease.

But then the evening changed.