The Churchill Memorandum by Sean Gabb

Author:Sean Gabb
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Hampden Press
Published: 2011-06-06T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

“Don’t try speaking back to me,” Vicky continued. “Just listen very carefully.” I looked about me. Outside, the rain had cleared, and a watery sun was low in the sky. We were in a car park crowded with electric vehicles. Women with children were supervising uniformed boys as they unloaded metal trolleys filled with bags into the boots of the cars. Some of the boys were pointing at the very grand vehicle where I was sitting. But I couldn’t see anyone who seemed interested in me. For sure, I couldn’t see Vicky Richardson anywhere.

“Anthony,” she said again, now urgent, “I want you to get out of that car at once. In just a few minutes, men with guns will surround it and take you prisoner again. If you try to resist, they will shoot you. I want you to get yourself to Daddy’s office. You will be safe there, and all will be explained.”

“Where are you?” I shouted. “What is going on?” But she’d told me not to try speaking back. Either she couldn’t hear me, or she wasn’t interested in conversation. The wireless went silent. Then, through more static, I heard the measured tones of the Home Service presenter as he read out the sermon Archbishop Lewis had earlier delivered on the new altar. There was a note of relish in his voice at those clear and balanced sentences. Normally, I’d have given my whole attention. But I turned the wireless off and unlocked the car door. I got out and stretched my legs. I was stiff all over from the long drive, and I could feel another headache coming on. I reached back in to get my overcoat and hat. As I put them on, I thought of waiting for Krellburger. Or I could follow him into the shop, where he was making his telephone call.

But now I saw the black van pull into the car park. It was one of those fancy models that had been popular back when diesel was still a viable fuel. This one hadn’t been converted to some other fuel, and I could hear the loud throbbing of its engine from fifty yards away. Its way was blocked by a couple of cars that were waiting to get out into the stream of traffic in the main road. Looking through the windscreen of the van, I could see two big men. The one who wasn’t driving was looking carefully about. I stepped back behind the cover of one of the higher electric cars. I crouched down and made my way under cover to the far side of the car park. There was a brick wall, rather low on my side, but with an eight foot drop on the other. I swung myself over and dropped into a road lined with small houses that dated, by the look of them, from the early 1940s. I looked left and right. About a hundred yards to my left, brisk traffic was moving up and down Westwood Hill.

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