They left Blakey’s flat to set out on his mysterious hunting trip, which, he assured Jago, would be fun. Blakey produced a smug Hillman from a garage at the back of his optician’s shop. They drove off slowly through the blackout.
‘Ridiculous really,’ the little man grumbled. ‘The bombers don’t come any more and the rockets don’t find their targets by light. We could illuminate London like Blackpool during Wakes Week and it wouldn’t make a jot of difference. This continued blackout is just another aspect of Churchill’s melodrama.’
They drove past large houses in prosperous suburbs.
‘We’re heading for a little bit of Middlesex that’s still green, Horsenden Hill.’
It confirmed Jago’s suspicion that they were going rabbiting; no doubt there were shotguns in the boot. A bunny probably passed as big game in Ealing. Something for the Widow Pie-Crust to add to another pie.
As they drove, Hector Blakey regaled Jago with stories of Africa, as if he’d actually been there. Jago was reminded of George the Fourth who, when Prince of Wales, told the story of the Battle of Waterloo as if he’d been present at it, as if it was he who commanded the British forces, and not the Iron Duke. Blakey’s stories were all gleaned from his son’s letters, and Jago understood that the father’s inclusion of himself in the adventures was a way of sharing a part of George’s life that he’d missed. The anecdotes mostly involved killing things – animals with a bullet, and negroes with a noose.
They passed a push-and-pull station, Perivale Halt, then a large factory. And as they crossed a small bridge over a canal that meandered like a river, they suddenly seemed to be in the countryside proper. The road ahead narrowed and became a lane, trees replaced houses and the moon became obscured by their branches.
‘Nearly there. There’s a track coming up on the right we could use but we’ve been asked not to. A mite too much traffic might alarm the prey.’
Instead they pulled up into the car park of a large country pub called the Ballot Box. Leaving the car, they set off up the hill and Jago noticed Blakey had not produced any guns from his boot. Maybe the guns were being provided by others? Walking silently up the hill in the moonlight resembled the gathering of a coven, Jago thought. As they crossed the crest and reached the summit of the hill, Jago saw ahead of them two dark police cars with a dozen men standing around them.
‘Watch your step; during the proper Blitz, there were anti-aircraft batteries up here. They’re gone now but the concrete placements and steps are still in place. You could take a nasty tumble if you don’t take care.’
The shadow men turned and welcomed them into the pack with a whispered share of names; James, Warwick,David, Eric, Harry, Chalky.
Jago was introduced. ‘This is Major Chamberlain from my late son’s regiment. He’s one of us. Where’s Billy?’
A police sergeant answered Blakey. ‘He’s taken a section around the hill and downwind of matey. Cut off their escape. Are we ready, all set?’
They were.
‘Right then, no time like the present.’
A driver climbed into each of the police cars and the others, with silent practice, moved up behind the vehicles and began to push them to the edge of the summit.
‘Don’t want to spook them by starting up the engines prematurely,’ said Blakey to Jago.
The cars tipped over the edge and freewheeled away from the pushers down a long slope towards a copse of oaks. The men began to run silently after the cars; Jago could feel their excitement and saw that truncheons and coshes were being produced. Suddenly, shockingly, the cars roared into noise with both their engines and bells. The men following whooped and cheered and one of them yelled Tally-ho! and suddenly there was the sound of hunting horns piping in the dark.
The effect on the wood below them was instantaneous. Men began to run from the trees and headed off downhill away from the charge, but as they did so, a line of men suddenly appeared from a hedgerow below, cutting off their escape. Jago heard cries of dismay.
‘Good old Billy,’ Blakey puffed beside Jago.
The fugitives split and ran right and left between the converging lines, like coursed hares. Tally-ho! came again.
‘Get the bastards!’
‘Kick the fairies where it hurts!’
‘Nancy-boys!’
Jago understood. The hunt: it was a queer-bashing party.
Just like a real hunt, there was a bloodlust, a desire to hurt and kill. One of the policemen rugby-tackled a fleeing man. Hunters ran up.
‘Put the boot in!’
Sickened, Jago saw them kicking and stamping on the screaming figure on the grass. He ran past and saw the victim was in uniform, he was a soldier.
The ambushing group from below had captured another struggling man, not a soldier this time, just a boy.
‘Let’s spoil his pretty looks!’ said Blakey, running up to him and, without pause, punching him in the face. The others joined in, laughing and encouraging each other. Jago ran on, as about him other policemen and friends pursued men in the uniforms of the armed services, and he felt a surge of outrage that the police, who served so far from the front line, could persecute men who had been there and done their duty.
He ran on, through the cruelty, the hunting horns, the screaming, the laughter. He ran downhill away from it all and in his blind escape he almost blundered into a figure who emerged from the bushes. For a second, Jago thought it might be an escaping invert and he saw the man had the same thought about him as he raised his arms wide to stop Jago. He guessed it was the man they’d called Billy because Jago could supply the rest of his name; William Grogan. Grogan, the man below in Chichester Cathedral, the policeman tasked with being Jago’s nemesis. Unable to prevent it, Jago ran into his arms.
‘Gotcha!’