The men who had attended Ronny’s funeral returned to Mavis’ kitchen. Cleaning the dirt off their soles on the scraper in the niche by the front door, they came into the kitchen slapping their hands together, and clustered near the fire before starting on the sandwiches and eggless sponge cake laid out on mismatched plates on the table. Quantities of weak tea were drunk. Things were said that are always said on such occasions and sound shallow and meaningless except at the very moment of grief, when they strike to the heart. Before long everyone left. The men held their hats, anxious to leave, while the women hugged Mavis and offered useless but well-intentioned advice.
Mavis took a deep breath when the final visitors were gone. “Thank heaven that’s over. I need a breath of air.” She went out into the backyard.
Grace, who was tired herself, sat down at the table. She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them, there stood Hans, unshaven and dressed in crumpled clothing.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Mavis said, coming in behind him. “Where you been, Hans? Helping Santa out, was it?”
Hans laughed loudly and then pantomimed covering his mouth, as she continued. “You didn’t have to come to the backyard. There’s a front door. Scared me out of me wits suddenly seeing you.”
“Sorry, Miss Mavis. I didn’t want to disturb your guests.”
“Oh well, at least you’ve turned up again like a bad penny. Grab a chair and tell us all about it.”
“I am happy you are not angry with me.”
“We were worried sick about you, Hans,” put in Grace. Mavis appeared to have a remarkably cavalier attitude to her missing friend’s abrupt return. Her husband had just been buried. Anything else must feel trivial for the time being. But Grace saw how she bit her lip and gave Hans a sideways glance as he settled into a chair.
“I hope you are not angry with me either, Miss Grace. I would never want to worry you.” He briefly put his hand over hers where it rested beside her plate.
Her attempt at a smile failed miserably. She was duty bound to report Hans’ return, meaning he would be brought to the station to assist the police with their inquiries, as official announcements would have it.
Hans guessed what she was thinking. “I shall go to the station shortly, but first I wanted to assure my two good friends here I am not floating facedown in the river or locked in a police cell somewhere.”
“Doesn’t mean either might not still happen,” Mavis pointed out. “What did you have to go and do a bunk for? Talk about suspicious behaviour, me husband found dead and me so-called fancy man disappearing. No doubt that fond fool Baines suspects us both.”
So Mavis did grasp the situation after all, Grace thought. “She’s right, Hans. Why did you run away?” Simply to see his reaction, she probably should have asked if it was because he had killed Ronny, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Hans admitted it did not look good. “But you see, I am a foreigner and always suspected. In such situations regrettable mistakes are made, and I did not wish to be found hanging from a lamppost. I stayed at a hostel. It was for those who have lost their homes. They were very kind and gave me a meal.
“It was foolish of me,” Hans went on. “Naturally, I will be suspected in the circumstances.”
“What about suspects not called Hans?” Mavis asked Grace.
“Could be a person from Ronny’s past, a private grudge. His death might be payback for something that happened before the war. Sorry, Mavis, but you did ask.”
“For that I would pick Charlie Gibson,” Mavis replied. “What if he caught Ronny in the blackout and decided to administer a little private justice for being so crippled he couldn’t work at his old job? Not to mention for Nica. She’s not been long at school. Everyone knows her story and kids can be cruel.”
Grace considered the idea. “The Gibsons obviously love her, and Charlie has a quick temper, saw that myself.”
“Charlie may not have the strength he once had, but a cosh can do a lot of damage in the right hands,” Mavis pointed out.
“Do you think there’s a link between the two deaths?” Hans put in. “The way the arms and legs were arranged, and both of them found at the same place?”
“Do we have to dwell on it? There’s more darkness than light these days, what with bombs and factory smoke hanging over these streets.” Mavis added, “How about if I play something on me gramophone?”
She had a whole binder full of Glenn Miller records. Before long Grace began to feel she was back in the church hall with Hans.
“Let’s dance!” Mavis said.
Hans looked nervously from Mavis to Grace.
Mavis grabbed a chair and started whirling around the room with it. “Me chair’s me usual partner. A bit stiff in the legs, but he never steps on me toes.”
Hans stood and with a slight bow offered Grace his hand.
They moved carefully around the limited floor space, managing to avoid the furniture.
Hans put his face close to hers. “How could I have stayed away from you, Miss Grace? If I may be so bold, may I ask to escort you to the cinema?
***
“Can you believe it, Jim? The Hun’s back.” Stu gestured toward Mavis’ window. An occasional faint squeal of music leaked into the street. “If he knew what was good for him he’d have stayed away.”
By chance Jim had run into Stu on Carter Street. “What you hanging around out here for, Stu?”
“Couldn’t take no more at home. Mam’s been beside herself. We sat down yesterday to eat and all of a sudden she says ‘Robbie’s here. He’s come to spend Christmas with us. Can’t you feel him, Stu?’ Then she starts bubbling.”
“Could you feel him, then?”
“Bloody hell, no!”
Stu didn’t ask why Jim was out. Jim’s old man was someone who’d as soon beat his son as look at him after he’d had a few, and since he was off work today he’d doubtless had more than a few.
Stu took out his knife. “Maybe I ought to give Rob a Christmas present and put this in the Hun’s back? What d’ya think?”
A tinny snatch of song made its way outside, something about love.
Jim dug his hands into his jacket pockets. “Let’s walk. It’s too cold to be standing around.”
They set off, going nowhere in particular, just keeping ahead of the chill.
“Put yer knife away, Stu. What if a copper come along? You need to stop all this talk about killing people. Even if Hans is a German, he’s not the German who killed Rob.”
Stu reluctantly pocketed his knife. Looking at the shiny blade, rubbing his finger carefully along its razor edge, made him feel better, made him believe there would be justice some day.
The two boys walked on in silence, close enough friends they didn’t need to talk. Turning the corner, they came to the temple.
Jim leaned against an altar. “Don’t it seem strange how you go out to walk around and always end up at these ruins? Like they were some kind of magnet?”
“You’re daft.”
“Well, we’re here, ain’t we?”
“Where else would we be in Benwell? There’s nothing. You only notice when you get here because you’ve arrived somewhere.”
Jim shook his head. “Yer a deep one, Stu. Either that or a fool.”
“Maybe, but I ain’t standing where them dead bodies was laid out. The tart’s arms and legs was bent just like a swastika. I seen them.”
Jim shrugged. “And you was telling me I was daft for thinking there’s something queer about this place.”
“I’m not talking about some old stones, I’m talking about dead bodies.” Stu paced around the foundations. “It was the Hun killed Ronny,” he said suddenly. “He’s carrying on with Ronny’s wife, isn’t he? Another reason he should be dead. One of these days, he’s going to pay, and everyone helping him is going to help foot the bill.”
“What? You mean like Ronny’s wife? What would Ronny think of that?”
“Ronny’s dead. He ain’t thinking nothing.”
“And that copper staying with her? You wouldn’t kill a copper?”
“Wouldn’t I? I’d do anything to beat the Huns.”
“Anything? Are you sure?”
“What yer getting at?”
Jim nodded in the direction of Rutherford’s maisonette. “Old geezer there used to give these talks at the church hall. Friend of me mam’s went. Reckoned he was always going on about ancient knowledge. Reckoned he could stop the Nazis with some magical rubbish, only nobody would help him do it.”
“Don’t surprise me none. He’s soft in the head.”
“That’s what everyone says. Rutherford reckoned if they’d only give him a hand with what he called a cone of power, it would do the job. Said it’d get this god the Romans worshipped right where we’re standing to help defeat Hitler. Me mam’s friend rattled on and on about it, but said she wasn’t about to dance naked around a bonfire.”
“Ah, yer pulling me leg, Jim.”
“I’m not. Swear to God.”
Stu looked at him. “What god?”
“Whatever one you like.” Jim pushed himself away from the altar. “I’m gannen eeyem. Dad’ll be out of it by now.”
Stu took a last look around before they left. He had never noticed before but the altar against which Jim had been leaning had a knife carved on one side.
Parting from Jim, he continued home, thinking about the carving. They didn’t mess about, them Romans. No doubt when the temple still stood, sacrifices were many. After the building’s remains were hidden by darkness, would shadows detach themselves from the altar and move around within its confines? He cast an uneasy look back as he reached the corner of Carter Street.
Rutherford’s idea was daft, Stu told himself on his way home and again when he had sneaked in past his mother and locked himself in his room. Daft.
And he was daft for not dismissing it out of hand.
But Rob was rotting in his grave and he could hear his mother sobbing in the kitchen.
In the light of day religion was obviously rubbish, a superstition left over from the past. But at times, in the darkness of his room without any distractions from the temporarily invisible workaday world, Stu could almost believe in God.
Even if He hadn’t answered his prayers to avenge Rob.
Maybe the Roman god was more powerful. The ruins of his temple remained after thousands of years. The Romans had conquered the whole world, or so he’d learned at school. They must have had real gods. Strong, fighting gods. Roman gods hadn’t advised their followers to turn the other cheek, had they?
What they wanted was sacrifices on altars decorated with carvings of a knife. The idea appealed to him. If the old god wanted blood, if the god existed, was still alive somewhere, wouldn’t he want such offerings to resume?
That black cat that hung about the ruins would be a good start. Certainly worth thinking about. It might take some doing, though, since he’d tried to catch it before and now it raced off as soon as it saw him. Thinking of the cat reminded him of Rutherford’s mangy herd of flea-bitten pets. Might have better luck nabbing one of them.
His thoughts swung from Rutherford’s cats to the cone of power business Jim had mentioned.
And yet…what if? What if there were the smallest chance of it working?
Stu was resigned to hanging for killing one Hun.
Would he dare make a fool out of himself to stop the Nazis completely?