Forests of the Night (23 page)

thirty-two

Peter treated it like a game. He was Tiger Blake trapped in a Nazi prison for British spies. It was his job to escape without being spotted. Sneak out right under the noses of those devilish Germans. If he didn't he would be shot at dawn. His tummy churned with pleasurable excitement at the thought of his mission. He was now fully dressed in his own clothes; he had stuffed the faded pyjamas he'd been wearing under the covers of the hospital bed with a couple of pillows so that anyone casually putting their head round the door would think he was still there and fast asleep. He'd seen Tiger do that in
Tiger Blake and the Devil's Gate.

Holding his breath, he opened the door of his room a fraction, just enough for him to see if the coast was clear. It was. With a deep breath, he slipped out of the room and headed down the corridor. He had no idea which was the best direction to take, the one that would lead him to the exit, but he reckoned his first priority was to get away as far as possible from his room and the people in the vicinity who would know who he was. He reasoned that no one would know him in other parts of the building – after all he wasn't dressed like a patient any more – and if he couldn't see a sign to tell him how to reach the way out, he could, if necessary, ask. If he were really Tiger Blake and this was a German prison, he would have to adopt a German accent and say
Heil Hitler
a lot, but as he sped down the apparently endless corridor, the reality of his situation was overtaking his fantasy. This really was about him, Peter, escaping from a life in an orphanage.

At last he came upon a staircase. A sign indicated ward numbers with various arrows. That's all. He reckoned it would be best to go down rather than up. As he reached the floor below, he encountered two young nurses coming up. They were engaged in a deep, hushed conversation and did not give the young boy a second glance. Peter grinned. See, he was as clever as Tiger Blake. He went down a further floor and then spotted a sign – a painted hand on the wall pointing and below it the word ‘Outpatients'. Peter was unsure what this meant, but was cheered by the ‘out' bit. He headed in the direction indicated by the painted pointing hand. Now the corridors were getting cluttered, with wheelchairs, trolleys and occasionally large tanks like those that deep sea divers wore when they were seeking lost treasure at the bottom of the ocean.

As he turned a corner, he collided with a tall man wearing a brown canvas coat, a hospital porter.

‘Hey up, sonny. Watch where you're going,' he said, placing his hands on Peter's shoulders and holding him firmly. ‘Now then, where are you off to in such a hurry?'

He had a kindly face with swirly white hair and rosy cheeks, but his eyes stared at Peter suspiciously. ‘I … I … er, was trying to catch my dad up. I got lost. He's waiting for me by the out bit.'

‘The out bit? You mean the exit.'

‘Yes, that's it. He's waiting there. I … I sort of wandered off and got a bit lost.'

‘A bit lost.' The man's eyes narrowed. ‘You certainly did, sonny.'

‘Can you tell me how to get to the out … the exit?'

‘Well, this place is a bit of a maze. I think it would be better if I took you there myself. Make sure you meet up with your dad. No doubt he's getting worried about you now.'

Peter nodded. His instinct was to run, but something held him back from this form of action, kept him calm and logical. To run off now would only alarm this chap and then his chances of escaping would be reduced further. He reasoned that he should let him take him to the exit and then he would have to think again. That would be the time to run for it, rather than now. That's what Tiger Blake would have done.

Peter nodded again. ‘Thank you, mister,' he said in his most angelic voice.

The porter's eyes softened and he smiled. ‘Come on then,' he said kindly, guiding Peter with one hand on his shoulder. They travelled down a whole series of anonymous corridors, some were deserted, some bustling with life, with white-coated doctors and nurses hurrying by. At last, pushing through a pair of swing doors, they came into a large circular foyer which was busy with lots of people, many of whom were neither doctors nor nurses. This must be the exit place, thought Peter, because there were windows. They were shrouded with blackout curtains but they must look out on the real world beyond this infernal Nazi prison. The real world – and it was so close to him now.

‘Well, here we are, sonny,' said the porter. ‘Now where's your dad?'

‘He said he'd be by the door.'

‘Ah, over there then.' The porter pointed and at last, Peter spied his escape. As luck would have it, there was a tall man with grizzled features standing by the door checking his watch.

Now he had to chance it. To be brave and full of cleverness like good old Tiger. He wasn't just escaping from the building but from a life of misery in an orphanage where he would be beaten and starved. He slipped from the porter's gentle grip and ran towards the grizzled man with a cry of, ‘Dad!'

The man looked at him in surprise. His surprise increased as the lad ran straight past him, pushing the large exit door open and slipping out into the night.

‘Hey,' cried the porter, racing forward. ‘Is that your son?' he asked the grizzled man.

‘'Course not,' came the stern reply.

‘The little blighter,' said the porter with a twinkle of admiration in his eyes. He pushed open the door and glanced down the street. The boy had disappeared.

Peter had successfully escaped from the Nazi prison and was a free man again.

*   *   *

A large grin softened Peter's gaunt features. He was really pleased with himself. As he leaned over the parapet and stared at the seething, undulating waters of the Thames, he felt proud and happy. He had carried off his big adventure with great style. It was quite clear to him that when he grew up he would make a great secret agent.

Across the river he could see the flames of burning buildings after another night raid. The orange glow tinged the water so that it looked like blood. For some reason he thought of his mother. Her face, that bloated drunken face she'd had when last he saw her, came into his mind. It was strange that ever since he'd walked out on her, he hadn't given her one thought – until now. He felt himself weaken and tears began to brim up. He clenched his fists inside his pockets. He must not cry. Why should he cry? He felt nothing for her now. And yet something softened his resolve and the tears rolled down his cheeks. Whatever kind of cow she was, she was his mother. Without her, he had no one. And nowhere to go – except an orphanage. Well he bloody well wasn't going to one of those. He dragged his sleeve across his eyes and wiped the tears away. Feeling sorry for yourself is pointless. He had to be more practical than that. What would Tiger Blake do in his situation?

He didn't know. But the thought of Blake made him think of Johnny, Mr Hawke. And that thought warmed him. He remembered that night in his scruffy little flat when they'd had Spam and beans together and Johnny had given him the biggest portion. Peter grinned. Yeah, that was all right really. He was a good bloke and he'd been nice to him in the hospital. Although he hadn't turned up today. Well, Peter supposed, today wasn't over. He could be there now, staring at an empty bed with his arms filled with Tiger Blake comics, wondering where his young friend was. Really, he'd let Johnny down, not the other way around. That was twice he'd run away from him. He ought to explain and apologize. And maybe … maybe Johnny Hawke could help him. Maybe.

thirty-three

Leo Epstein resisted the temptation to pour himself another whisky. He knew that he had to remain as sober as possible. Despite downing three glasses already, his mind was still clear and alert. Or so he thought. It seemed to him that the alcohol had had no effect on him whatsoever. It had failed to soften the edges of the real world, lulling him into a sense of warm security. He put this down to fear. He was frightened. Of course he was. He knew his life was in danger – John Hawke had convinced him of that. But what made the situation worse was that he didn't know exactly in what way. There was nothing tangible to prepare for or even run away from. Apparently he was next on the list of Pammie's lovers to be bumped off. But he wasn't about to place his life in the hands of a one-eyed amateur detective whose sole concern, it seemed to him, was to catch the killer. He was sure that Hawke saw him merely as a pawn in his game and the detective didn't give a damn what happened to Leo Epstein as long he got his man. That is why Epstein had left his office early, by the back entrance, and raced home to the safety of his flat. Here he had locked and chained the door and armed himself with his father's old army pistol. Let the bastard come now, he thought in a rare moment of bravado, I'm ready for him.

He sat in an armchair facing the door, with the gun resting on his lap. The room was in darkness, apart from a table lamp on the small table by his side.

As the evening wore on, he was not unaware of the irony of ignoring the air raid sirens, remaining holed up in his flat. Wasn't it more likely that he could end up dead in a bombing raid than being attacked by a murderer? Much more likely, in fact.

But still he stayed put. He liked the womb-like cosiness of his flat. With the heavy plush curtains, the bookcases and the tasteful works of art adorning the walls, it was his haven from the harsh world outside. It was his domain and if he were going to die, he'd rather do it here than out on the alien streets or in some cramped urine-smelling bomb shelter.

His flat had always been his escape from the sordid reality he was exposed to every day. As a solicitor he spent his time dealing with life's moral bankrupts and emotional cripples – the grubby flotsam and jetsam who lacked the ability and sense to organize their lives properly. On leaving the office every day, he felt unclean, tarnished by the work he was involved in. He was able to escape from all that, to cleanse himself here in the privacy of his own world. It's what kept him sane – that and a string of young girlfriends, his office girls usually, who provided the kind of uncomplicated sexual satisfaction that he desired. He felt nothing for these girls; they were just an attractive means to an end: the release of his sexual needs. That is until he met Pammie.

A cynical grin touched his lips as he thought of Pammie: her beautiful, provocative face, her lithe, yet womanly figure and those miraculous, sensuous eyes. On meeting her, the unthinkable happened. He fell in love. It was a new sensation to him. He had no notion that he was capable of the emotion so when it came, it was as though Pammie had released some internal floodgates. All the repressed passions held back for years – deliberately held back – flooded out and overnight, it seemed, he changed from being a self-sufficient being with total control of his own life to behaving like a moonstruck calf. He became obsessed with the girl and showered her with gifts and money in an attempt to make her his.

He was fully aware that she took advantage of his weakness for her, but he didn't care as long as she succumbed to him, went out with him, kissed him, let him hold her beneath the sheets and allowed him to make love to her. If money was the key which opened the door to this happiness, he didn't care. Buying happiness was not a new concept and he was lucky to have the means to do it.

He cast a wistful eye in the direction of his bedroom where they used to make love, spending long evenings in bed. He remembered the smoothness of her skin as he ran his fingers along her thigh and how he'd gently cup her breasts to kiss them while she moaned softly. Her responses to him were genuine; she did care for him. He was convinced of it. He had never known such bliss and now he was reminded with a desolate sadness, that he never would again.

Dammit, he would have another whisky. With an unsteady hand he splashed a generous measure into his glass. He closed his eyes and took a large gulp. He waited for the warming and relaxing effect that the single malt usually had upon his senses. He waited in vain. He was too tense, too focused on his fear and too miserable.

He allowed his fingers to run over the contours of the pistol. It was comforting to feel the cool metal, but he wondered whether he would have the nerve to use it? If this murdering madman broke in seeking some kind of revenge, could he fire the damned thing? He held the weapon and aimed it at the door, his finger closing tightly on the trigger. His hand began to shake. Christ, this was some sort of nightmare.

He dropped the weapon back in his lap and took another swig of whisky. He didn't know if he could shoot another human being until the moment arrived. How could he? It would be self defence, of course. He would be exonerated by the law, but would he be able to live with himself knowing that he had killed another person?

These are wandering thoughts, he told himself sharply. The whisky is starting work on my brain. He slammed the glass down on the table as an act of rejection. That was enough artificial stimulation.

And then something happened, something completely unexpected.

The doorbell rang.

Leo Epstein froze with fear.

thirty-four

Leo Epstein waited in a frozen panic. He had no idea what to do next. Perhaps, if he stayed put, whoever it was ringing his bell would go away. The logical part of his mind told him that no self-respecting murderer would actually ring the doorbell of his potential victim. They would just gain entry by either violent or surreptitious means and then carry out their work. But his racing heart and sweating palms were having none of this logic.

It came again – the soft ding dong chime. It resonated in the quiet apartment. His caller was persistent.

Epstein found his fingers curling around the cool, hard metal handle of the pistol. As he realized what he was doing, he recoiled in horror. His hand sprang free, releasing the gun. It dropped on to his lap and then slithered to the floor.