Fires of London by Janice Law

Author:Janice Law [Law, Janice]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Historical, Gay
ISBN: 9781453260999
Publisher: Open Road
Published: 2012-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

A rattle, the squeal of old hinges, the scrape of swollen wood. I opened my eyes on a sour, dusty morning-after-the-Blitz light. Sat up and knocked my head against the shelf of the bar. Saw a very pink pillow and a row of bottles, heard footsteps approaching: the day jumped into focus. I was lying behind the bar at the Europa, where I had slept on one of Maribelle’s pink satin pillows. That uneven step was the charwoman, whom I had promised to avoid. I peered over the top of the bar. A stout, gray-haired woman was stumping toward the WC for her pail and mop. I stuffed the pillow onto the shelf and collected my hat and mask. As soon as I heard the door to the WC close, I jumped up, stinking of dust and beer, and hustled out the door and down the stair in my stocking feet to the street. I pulled on my boots and set off into the morning.

Horns, sirens, detours; dust, smoke, and mist. Workers of all sorts were already picking their way over craters and trenches, trying to avoid gas lines, some broken, and cables, some live. Heavy Rescue Squads were at work on nearly every block, and on one corner firemen sprayed water onto a still-smoldering building—three walls, no windows, roof in the cellar.

I got tea and a cheap roll at a canteen. “Bad night,” I remarked.

“I’ve seen worse,” said the tea lady, her face pasty with fatigue, her hair in a kerchief, her sweater stretched and stained: everyone’s wardrobe was beginning to look tired.

Back on the street, I was nervous for a bit, seeing coppers and arrest in every pedestrian, but I soon realized I had little to fear in the post-raid chaos. The previous night had left my face black with soot, and I believe that I could have passed the inspector and his handsome sergeant without their taking the slightest notice. With this conviction, I stepped out boldly with a reasonable impression of innocence.

Besides, the eyes of the London public were focused on the newly treacherous ground, the heaved paving stones, the sharp obstacles; we were all busy updating our personal maps in a district where landmarks were routinely altered or erased. There should be a pub on the corner—wasn’t that the one with the fine fish and chips? Where was its old-fashioned hanging sign? Gone with the blast, along with the pretty window boxes and whole upper story. And what’s this? Usually a convenient alley, a quick detour by the antiquarian and used bookstores, now a massive, steaming, Blitz-reeking heap of masonry.

I took the better part of an hour to reach John’s studio, normally a fifteen-minute walk, but my knock still came too early for him. I pounded the door for a good five minutes before he rolled out, whey-faced with black circles under his eyes and a greenish tinge to his unshaven jowls.

“Francis?” He rubbed his hand over his eyes as if I might be the ghost of last night’s gin.

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