‘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 theywouldn’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?’
