Lost Angel
Virgin
- Joined
- Oct 14, 2005
- Posts
- 2
Funk Hole………
OCC….."A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct." Frank Herbert-Dune
And so I shall try with this beginning. And to the dark gentlemen, my grateful thanks for writing with me.
L.A. Prologue.
~#~
“Tomorrow. It goes tomorrow,” the Whitehall pencil-pusher said, pulling at the collar of his shirt.
“It should have gone days ago,” Taylor eased his right leg forward. The bullet he had carried in his flesh since the first day of the Somme seemed determined to remind him of his age tonight. He was too old for this. The burden belonged on younger shoulders, but none had appeared. Did that mean it was the end? Taylor shook the thought away. He would not even begin to contemplate that England would fall.
“Yes… but more important items needed to be moved to the Manod Quarry in Blaenau Ffestiniog, Wales. The crown jewels, paintings and statues from the Tate and National galley….” the pencil-pusher spluttered.
“They could have waited,” Taylor said and put down his brandy, untouched.
“What? Are you saying a battered safe deposit box is of more importance than the crown jewels?”
Taylor shook his head and rose. Of course it was, but he was not going to say so out loud. Taking his stick from the side of the chair Taylor limped to the door of the private room. He left the pencil-pusher to pay for the untouched brandy, if, or when, the club’s staff came out of the air-raid shelter. For a moment Taylor contemplated going down to the cellar to join the rest of the members among the bottles of port and vintage wine. Then he snorted. Jerry had tired to kill him on the western front in the last show, and did not succeed.
He let himself out into the demon’s hell that was the streets of London this cold November night of 1940. The raid was at its height. He could hear the whumph, whumph of exploding bombs, cut through with the clank of fire engine bells. He shrugged his shoulders and turned in the direction of his home in Chester Street, just off Belgrave Square. As he neared his destination Taylor saw a policeman approaching on the other side of the street. The man did not seem in a hurry, but sauntered by, eying Taylor as if he was a thief on the prowl. Taylor smiled to himself and pulled his coat collar up higher, trying not to look east. Tried hard not to see the sky full of flames, marking where the Albert Docks were. As he reached the steps of his home he stopped. It was not just the policeman’s keen observation of him that had struck Taylor as unusual; it was the dark shadow in the man’s right hand. A gun. London Bobbies did not carry side arms. Taylor fumbled in his pocket, searching for his keys attached to the chain on his pocket watch.
He hurriedly climbed the steps. A cold sweat began to break out down his back. Then it hit him. The twin of the pain he had felt that day on the Somme, cutting deep into his back. He fell forward, his teeth biting deep into his bottom lip as he stifled a scream. The cold stone rushed up to hit him, he half rolled. Another bullet tore through his side and this time he did scream. Taylor’s fingers closed round his watch, dragging it from his pocket. He clenched his palm. The bastard would have to cut his hand open to get it. The seal on the back of the watch felt warm and comforting, it denied the danger that was threatening.
Taylor fought to crawl up the steps, to reach the door. It was no use. His attacker was on him, roughly going through his pockets, scattering the contents of his wallet into the night. The policeman’s hand closed on Taylor’s just as the side of the building imploded. All went dark. Taylor knew he was dying. For a second his dimming eyes caught sight of the face he had been hoping to see. His hand unclenched, returning the watch with the seal on its back to where if had come from forty years before.
~#~
Hanna Hitchens.
“What I do for my brother,” Hanna Hitchens sniffed and clattered her way down Chester Street. She was making for Grosvenor Place then Victoria Station. She had walked half the way from Paddington Station in an air-raid. She must be mad she told herself. No. Walking in an air-raid was better than facing her brother if she failed to meet the “gentleman customer”.
Hanna’s brother was a Fence, one of the best. He knew the market better than anyone. In 1938 James Hitchens has invested his well earned-gains in a large, Victorian pile of bricks and mortar, just south of Oxford. Hanna had though him mad, but didn’t say so. James had a hand as hard as cricket bat and used it like one, normally on his sister Hanna, and his two younger brothers, if they didn’t see the sense of his plans.
Once he had bought his large house in the country, James spent a fortune doing it up. He had reasoned that war was coming, and if it was coming members of the London underworld would need a place to stay away from any bombs and coppers. A place that could cater to their every needs; for a price of course. A very select Funk Hole, so select that the guests did not know where it was until they were escorted to the door.
That was Hanna’s job this night; she was to meet a “client” who needed to retire to the country for a while. She was supposed to meet him at Victoria Station at midnight. “If there was anything left of the station by that time,” she muttered to herself. She began to cross the street and stopped. There in the dull glow from the fires burning by the river Thames, she saw the figure of a bobby over that of a man on the steps of one of the houses. Bloody rozzers, she thought, biggest thieves of the lot
Whumph! The ground heaved and Hanna was thrown to the floor her handbag snatched from her hands. “My stockings!” she cried out loud, as part of the street opposite vanished in a cloud of dust, flame and rubble. It was a stupid thing to say, but they were her second best silk pair and had cost a small fortune. Hanna blinked, coughed and fumbled on the road for her bag. She got to her feet, trying to look at her stockings in the glow the fire beginning to blossom in the ruins. There was no damage as far as she could see. Nor to herself for that matter, save for a layer of brick dust. Hanna began to shake as the shock of what had happened crept into her thoughts. She began to feel sick and glanced about the street; it was empty, though she could hear the bell of a fire engine in the distance. Hanna looked over to where the policeman had been. He was no longer there. The blast had blown him across the street. He lay crumbled up against the railings of the houses on the other side of the road.
Hanna’s dubious upbringing kicked in and she walked quickly over and began to go through the policeman’s pockets. Well better in her hands than another’s. His wallet was full of white fivers. Her eyes widened as she stuffed them in her purse, along with the gun. She sniffed and straightened, dusting her coat as best she could and made to move on, ignoring the thudding fear of being discovered in her chest. As she did, she caught sight of the man the policeman had been robbing. He still lay on the steps, untouched by the explosion. Another quick glance round and she ran to the man’s side. Well, he was dead already. As she bent over him his eyes opened. “I meant no harm, mister, honestly.” Hanna garbled and backed off in panic. The man gave a faint smile and opened his hand. There was a pocket watch, one of the finest Hanna had seen in all the years of helping her brother.
Without thinking Hanna took the watch from the man and slipped it into her purse.
