The Day Before Tomorrow Read online

  It was the last place that she wanted to go, but after Ophelia’s invitation had arrived (‘You must come. You really can’t stay in London with all those nasty bombs Darling. It’s not nice.’ For Ophelia, the world was divided into ‘nice’ and ‘not nice’.)

  Denny had insisted that she accept. He would feel happier, he said, knowing she was safe.

  “Safe” was a relative term, Tamar thought. Safe from the bombing certainly, but not safe from Tristan Ffawlkes Buffington Smythe’s wandering hands. (It was not just his hands that wandered. A tall, thin, sparse personage; he seemed to be permanently on the move, restless and twitchy – afflicted with what Denny referred to as the “look arounds”.)

  Oh well, she had not been known at school as “The Bitch Queen of Hell”, for nothing. If she could not handle one chinless wonder, however amorous, who could? She wondered if Ophelia knew what she had married. Some people would put up with any humiliation for the sake of money.

  ~ Chapter Four ~

  Denny was frightened, more frightened than he had ever been, but not as frightened as the young, dark haired boy – and he was a boy – seated next to him. Denny still had enough self-possession to hide his feelings, but the lad beside him was gnawing on his fingernails and looked as if he were about to cry. They were all in the same boat, Denny realised. Being sent to a strange county to fight people with whom they had no personal quarrel, for reasons that they did not understand. What was it to them if Russia had invaded China? And China was now their ally by virtue of being the enemy of America, who had declared war on most of Europe. The edict of a mad President who believed that America was destined to rule the world. This much Denny understood, but not the reasons why. There were American troops now charging through Europe, as once the Nazis had done. Germany was now Britain’s ally; all beach towel infractions now forgiven. And Russia, although not allied to America, had taken the initiative from them, and invaded their old enemy of China instead of joining forces with the rest of Europe against America. It was all incomprehensible to Denny. And he was not the only one.

  * * *

  Captain Jack Stiles stood before the General looking bemused. This was not terribly surprising since he was drunk again. The General was haranguing him about his conduct, but Stiles did not care. For him, the only way to get through the horror of this war was to look at it through the hazy glow at the bottom of a bottle of whisky. It still made no sense, but at least this way it made at least as much sense as anything else did.

  The General was threatening to throw him out of the army.

  ‘No such luck,’ thought Stiles. It was an idle threat, he knew. They were just too short of troops; and he did not care if he got demoted, he was not a proud man. And it was for this very reason that he made such a good Captain – when he was sober. They could not afford to lose him – unfortunately.

  ‘Report to the camp surgeon,’ barked the General, giving up and dismissing him.

  ‘Yesshir,’ slurred Stiles and lurched out of the General’s tent.

  ‘And try to sober up, man. Before the new troops arrive,’ the General shouted after him.

  The General put his head in his hands after Stiles had departed. He looked at the orders that had set Stiles off again on this latest binge. He knew how the man felt. He did not understand it either.

  Stiles wandered outside into the dreary sunshine. ‘More troops?’ he thought, ‘more cannon fodder.’ And did anyone know what the bloody hell this war was about anyway?

  ~ Chapter Five ~

  ‘The Apocalypse, Dolus, get that through your head will you, that’s what this war is all about. Well, it’s what it’s supposed to be about anyway.’

  ‘Supposed to be? Surely it is, or it isn’t.’

  ‘Hah! You’d think so wouldn’t you?’

  ‘What’s the problem then?’ drawled Talbot.

  ‘Well, it’s just not bloody happening, is it? In your private ear, I’d say there’s been a cock up somewhere. I just hope I don’t get the blame, that’s all.’

  ‘Any reason why you should?’

  ‘Well, if they’re not destroying the world as per spec, then that can only mean one thing, can’t it?’ he paused.

  Talbot just looked blank.

  ‘It was my responsibility, I suppose, back then,’ he mused. ‘But I did my bit,’ he wailed. ‘It’s not my fault if it’s all gone wrong now.’

  Talbot continued to look blank, Crispin was exasperated. Matlus, had he still been here, would have got the point immediately.

  ‘The box, Talbot,’ he snapped. ‘What’s happened to the bloody box?’

  Talbot took the point. ‘You think it’s gone missing?’

  ‘How else do you explain it?’ asked Crispin wearily. ‘The box was always an integral part of the plan.’

  Talbot thought about this and then went pale. ‘Oh system failure,’ he said. ‘Do you think it’s too late for me to request that transfer?’

  Dolus looked up from his crossword. ‘What box?’ he said

  .

  ~ Chapter Six ~

  A girl came swiftly out of the gloom, with a click of high heels – a tinsel blonde, heavily made up, but pretty. She looked about twenty five. Even in her outdoor clothes, she was very shapely. A man opened the car door for her, and she climbed in.

  ‘I thought you were never coming,’ she complained.

  ‘Don’t see why,’ said he, ‘I’m not late.’ The car moved off silently, now filled with a cloying scent.

  ‘Maybe I was early,’ she shrugged, anxious not to offend. ‘I’m nervous I suppose, I’ve never done anything like this before.’ She sounded slightly breathless. Spoke quickly.

  The man jerked his head irritably. ‘Shut up Cindy,’ he told her. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  Cindy subsided immediately. She was not in the least submissive by nature, but this man frightened her, he knew her secret; that was why she was here.

  The car pulled up sharply outside what even Cindy knew was a doss house. Another man – a youth – was lounging casually – too casually – against a lamppost. On seeing the car, he strolled over and climbed in the back.

  ‘Hey Tom,’ said the driver.

  ‘This her?’ asked the youth excitedly.

  The man grunted assent. ‘Put that cig out, Tommy boy,’ he added, ‘ain’t you got no manners?’

  ‘Sorry Mack,’ said the youth.

  Cindy closed her eyes and prayed to Hecaté to get her out of this. If only he had not got a video of her she would be okay. After all, without that proof, who would believe him? Although admittedly, never the brightest star in the firmament, she still could not believe that she had been so stupid. Now all she could hope for was that she was good enough to keep him happy; she was so out of practice, and if he carried out his threat … Perhaps people no longer believed in witches, but Cindy knew her history. She believed in witch-hunts.

  * * *

  Tamar felt lonely in the big old house. Most of the servants, whose company she generally preferred to that of the master and mistress of the house, were gone. Tristan Ffawlkes Buffington Smythe III was best avoided, and Ophelia, who had never been the best company, was now intolerable without Denny as a buffer. Worse, she was expecting, and could talk about nothing else but “baby” and how proud she was to be bearing the next scion of the great house of Buffington Smythe, until Tamar felt like she could scream. Never sensitive to the feelings of others, Ophelia never realised that Tamar wanted to be alone with her anxieties. And probably would not have cared if she had.

  Tristan was better, at least he was sympathetic, and it was he who anxiously scanned the mail every day for a letter for Tamar. And it was he who, with great jubilation, brought her the first one after a week of waiting.

  She recognised the handwriting immediately, as you might expect, and hugged it to her, tears of relief shining in her eyes.

  ‘An’t you going to read it then?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘Oh, I will, but I don’t ca
re what it says,’ she told him. ‘I just care that he’s alive to write it.’

  Tristan nodded and left her to read it alone, sensing, as his wife could not, that that was what Tamar wanted. He bustled Ophelia from the room with a rather overdone carelessness, and a remark about taking care of herself in her condition, and didn’t she feel like a lie down, as she was looking a little wan.

  Tamar gave him a grateful smile and resolved to try to be nicer to him in future. Not as nice as he would like her to be, obviously, but nicer than previously. After all, it could not be easy being married to Ophelia. She was later to be glad that she had made this resolve.

  For now, however, there was Denny’s letter.

  Oct 25th

  Dear Tam,

  Just landed in ––I am with the –—th everything is okay, please don’t worry. Captain Stiles is our captain, and he is a decent bloke. I feel like I know him from somewhere. I am billeted with a good bunch, but some of them are very young to be here I think. My bunk mate is Karl Morris who is only 17 but is built like a brick out house. I have shown him your picture, and he wasn’t half jealous ha ha.

  Tomorrow we are setting out for –––- which is where the front line is, but don’t worry Captain Stiles says nothing much is happening at the moment. I’m only telling you, because the mail is slower from the front lines and I don’t want you to worry if you don’t get a letter next week, although I will write. Captain Stiles is a right laugh. He says General ––– is a right –––- but he seems okay to me, just a bit pompous, you know. Speaking of pompous how’s Tristan whatsisface? He’d better be behaving himself. Why isn’t he up here with us lot anyway, did he tell you? All right for some eh?

  I have to go now, make sure and write to me soon. I love you. And God knows I miss you. Captain Stiles says it’ll all be over by Christmas. Well, he says it had better be. Do you recognise the name? I’m sure I know him from somewhere. I love you.

  Always, Denny x

  * * *

  Denny was on sentry duty with Karl. It was freezing cold, and Denny was tired. The push to the front had been postponed for reasons unknown. But Denny suspected that the reason was Captain Stiles, who had exploded impressively when the orders had been confirmed. So impressively, in fact, that the whole camp had heard him. Denny grinned at the memory. He had ranted on at some length about incompetent Generals and raw recruits. Denny appreciated it. Here, at least, was one officer who cared about the lives of his men.

  The Captain had been found, later that night, wandering around drunk as a rat and singing loudly about the army and how he didn’t want no more of it. ‘The Generals in the army are all a bunch of bas-tards – I don’t want no more of ar-my life. Gee mom I wanna go home.’

  Denny sighed, it wasn’t funny really, wasn’t it how they all felt? And the Captain had been here from the beginning.

  The other recruits had been reluctant to handle him in this state, and so it had been Denny who had propelled him into his tent and put him to bed. He did not feel like the Cap was a stranger for some reason, like the others did. Every time he saw him, he felt a strange sense of Déjà vu, which he had played down in his letter to Tamar, knowing her scorn for all such chimera. Anyway, Denny was used to handing drunks, his father had been one, but not like the Cap who was a friendly drunk. Indeed the Cap loved the whole world (except, apparently, the Brass) when he was in his cups; it was impossible not to like the guy. He had probably got drunk on purpose to delay the move to the front lines.

  Denny did not like sentry duty; too much time to think, and thinking, in a place like this, could drive you mad. So far, he had avoided it, mostly by taking care of Karl who was prone to thinking. But now Karl had fallen asleep, and Denny did not consider it worthwhile to wake him unless something happened, so he had nothing to do but think.

  Captain Stiles stumbled out of his tent to Denny’s simultaneous relief and alarm. He shook Karl urgently, but the Cap was upon them.

  He treated Denny to a toothy grin. ‘Naw, don’t wake him,’ he said. ‘He’s a growing lad, he needs his sleep,’ and he put a finger to his lips. ‘I won’t tell.’

  He settled down next to Denny and lit a huge cigar, which Denny surmised to be the property of the General.

  They sat in a companionable silence for a while. But the Cap kept looking at Denny and opening his mouth then shutting it again. Sometimes he would begin a sentence then stop. Clearly, he had something on his mind.

  Denny decided to help him out. ‘Do, you know something Cap?’ he said, ‘I have the strangest feeling we’ve met somewhere before.’

  ~ Chapter Seven ~

  Captain Stiles hated the army, and he hated it even more when the new recruits had turned up. There they stood pale and weary in a ragged line straight off the wagon. Waiting for their orders. Good god, he thought, some of them were little more than children.

  Like that one at the end there, despite his prodigious size, he was baby faced and clearly in over his head. But the one next to him, the skinny undersized one who seemed to be the only thing holding the big one up, although not literally of course, he was officer material if ever Stiles had seen it. A former high-ranking policeman at Scotland Yard, Stiles had an unerring eye for men, and this one interested him. A small, skinny man himself, he knew that a large man just makes a larger corpse and Private Sanger’s almost uncanny self possession in the face of the horrors before him as compared with Private Morris’s clear terror, made him living proof of the archaism “size matters not.” He found his eye repeatedly drawn to this young man. He was only average height but seemed taller because he was so thin. Sharp featured with hollowed cheeks, he was not at all handsome, but he was striking. (Stiles sensed rather than saw that he was older than his companion. He was one of those men who would look young for the rest of his life. Which was in Stiles’s opinion, something of a mixed blessing) He stood so still in contrast to the nervous fidgeting of the others, looking calmly around him. A listener and a watcher this one. He looked no older than his companion until you watched his eyes. It was in the eyes, Stiles decided, the difference between a young man and a boy, not the physique. Thus, before he had ever spoken a word to him, Captain Stiles had marked Denny Sanger out for promotion to Corporal.

  Captain Stiles was not prone to fancy, and he put his “feeling” about Private Sanger, down to his experience of men in general and in no way did he think that it might be because he instinctively felt that he “knew” the man and his character.

  But when Denny said that he thought they might have met before, he realised that that indeed was the feeling that he had been trying to put his finger on for the last three days. However. ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met,’ he evaded.

  Denny sighed. ‘No, I suppose not,’ he said.

  ‘Mind you,’ said Stiles, ‘You’re a London lad, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve ever been arrested, have you Sanger?’

  Denny shook his head.

  ‘No I didn’t think so,’ said Stiles. ‘I only ask because I used to be in the police force.’

  Denny gave a violent start. ‘I’m sorry sir, but now I’m certain that I know you from somewhere.’

  ‘Well, I have the same feeling,’ Stiles admitted. ‘But I don’t suppose it matters.’

  Denny thought it did matter, although, if he had been pushed, he could not have said why. Therefore, he dropped it.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me sir?’ he ventured.

  ‘Yes,’ Stiles cleared his throat. ‘The thing is, I reckon we’ll be pushing on to the front tomorrow – day after at the latest.’

  Denny bowed his head in agreement.

  ‘That Damn General won’t be told – anyway, I can’t delay any longer,’

  Denny smiled at this.

  ‘So, ahem, anyway, I’m going to need a good right-hand man up there, and I reckon that’s you – Corporal.’

  ‘Er, that’s “Private”, Cap.’

>   ‘I know what I said.’

  * * *

  Tamar had taken to watching Television as a way to avoid conversation. Since the set was in the old servant’s quarters, and both the Buffington Smythe’s considered Television a pastime that was beneath them, she found that she got quite a lot of peace that way. Unless Tristan ran her to earth and delivered his “Television is the opiate of the masses” speech and tried to tempt her to a stroll round the garden.

  She quite agreed with him in a way, but she was finding the TV soothing. It demanded nothing from her, and, in its banality, she could lose herself for hours on end and almost – not quite – but almost, forget her troubles. Besides, there was the aforementioned bonus of avoiding conversation. Ophelia never came in here. She thought that “vibrations” from the TV set were harmful to your health.

  Sometimes Tristan would wander in like a pallid ghost and sit with her in silence watching old programs that neither of them had seen before. (Repeats and war updates were all that was ever shown these days.)

  Perhaps, she thought, he liked the peace and quiet too.

  * * *

  The house that Mack was planning to rob was, like most large houses these days, fairly deserted, all the staff having gone, either to war or to be back with their families. But there would be some people there, and that was where Cindy came in. She was to make them invisible.

  Until he had discovered her, Mack had contented himself with small jobs, looting and petty theft, but he had seen the advantage of the war at once. He knew that these big houses – once impenetrable fortresses – would now be half empty and vulnerable. He just had not had a plan – until now.

  He had been watching her for some time; she was undeniably good looking and pretty well off. That was enough to interest him initially and then he had started watching the house. When he had seen her literally vanish for the first time, he had not been able to believe his eyes. He had set up the surveillance at first, with no idea of blackmail; he just wanted proof that he was not seeing things. Only when he had the taped evidence in his hands, did he realise what he might be able to do with such an accomplice.