Read Chapter 28: The Chase

Brambles tore at Arthur’s coat sleeves as he half-dragged George through the hedge gap. The field beyond sloped down toward a scatter of rooftops and a church spire. Dover. They hadn’t got far.

Behind them, an engine snarled and tyres squealed as the ambushers corrected their turn. A pistol shot cracked, but the bullet went wide, ripping through leaves overhead.

“This way,” Arthur said, hauling George by the arm. George’s breath came in ragged bursts, his side still weak from the hospital ship, but he kept his feet moving.

They hit a low stone wall and vaulted it, landing in a lane that ran between allotment gardens. Cabbages and runner beans nodded in the evening light. A woman in a headscarf looked up from her hoe, mouth open.

“Get indoors,” Arthur shouted at her. “Now.”

She didn’t argue. The clatter of the hoe hitting the ground followed them as they ran.

The lane bent right and opened onto a row of terraced houses. Front doors lined up like soldiers. No cars parked outside. No cover except the gaps between houses, too narrow for a man to squeeze through.

George stumbled. Arthur caught him before he went down, felt the heat of fever through the boy’s thin shirt.

“Leave me,” George gasped.

“Don’t be stupid.”

Another shot, closer now. The slug smacked into a brick wall a few feet behind them, showering them with dust.

Arthur looked over his shoulder. Two men were coming down the lane, one tall and thin—the one who’d spoken with the clipped, educated accent—the other stockier, running low with a pistol held in both hands.

Arthur dragged George into the mouth of an alley between two houses. It was blocked halfway down by a wooden fence. But the fence had a gate, and the gate had a latch.

He slammed it open. Beyond lay a scullery yard, then a back garden, then—thank God—a garage with its doors standing wide. Inside, a dark green Morris Ten sat with its bonnet up and a man in shirtsleeves leaning over the engine, spanner in hand.

Arthur didn’t slow. He ran at the man, who looked up with alarm, reaching for a spanner as if it might stop a desperate stranger.

“Keys,” Arthur said. “In the ignition?”

“Here, now, you can’t just——”

Arthur pulled the naval pass from his pocket and shoved it in the man’s face. “Crown service. Enemy agents are fifty yards behind us. I need your car.”

The man blinked at the paper, then at the two bloodied, wild-eyed figures before him. He reached into his pocket and tossed a set of keys. Arthur caught them.

“I’ll see it comes back,” Arthur said, already moving.

The engine caught on the second turn. Arthur shoved George into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and reversed out of the garage with the accelerator flat to the floor. The Morris shot backward into the lane. The two men had just reached the mouth of the alley.

Arthur yanked the wheel, swung the nose around, and drove straight at them.

The stocky man dived aside. The tall one held his ground, raising a pistol—not the Webley from earlier, something smaller, a Mauser perhaps—and fired twice. The windscreen starred between Arthur and George but didn’t shatter.

Arthur kept the throttle down. The tall man jumped clear at the last instant, rolling into the hedge.

Then they were past, accelerating down the lane toward the main road.

---

They drove through Dover’s back streets for ten minutes, Arthur taking corners at random, checking the mirror each time. No headlights followed.

George slumped against the door, one hand pressed to his ribs. “We should—should ditch the car. He’s seen it now.”

“We will.” Arthur turned onto a street of shuttered shops. A train station’s glass canopy loomed ahead. “The navy pass got us through Dover once. It’ll get us onto a train.”

He parked the Morris down a side alley, wiped the steering wheel with his sleeve as best he could, and left the keys in the ignition. A boy with a bicycle was the only witness, and Arthur paid him a shilling to ride to the garage man’s address and tell him where to collect his car.

“War effort,” Arthur said. The boy nodded and pedalled off like his life depended on it.

The station was crowded with soldiers, sailors, and civilians, all pressed toward the London platform. The raid sirens had just started their mournful rise. A porter with a whistle was shouting that the 6:15 to Victoria was delayed on account of the raid.

“Good.” Arthur guided George onto the platform, found a quiet corner by the coal bunker, and sat him down. “Let them bomb the tracks. We wait.”

George nodded, eyes closed, breathing shallow.

Arthur watched the platform. Soldiers smoked and swapped rumours. Some said the Germans were at Calais. Others said Paris had fallen. No one looked like an agent. But then again, the man in the lane hadn’t looked like one until he’d drawn a gun.

The all-clear sounded twenty minutes later. The train pulled in, an old Southern Railway locomotive hauling a rake of grimy carriages. Arthur and George climbed aboard, found an empty compartment, and slid the door shut.

The train crept out of Dover, gathering speed through the darkening countryside. Arthur drew the blinds against the blackout and let out a long breath.

“We made it,” George said quietly.

“For now.”

The compartment door rattled. A man in civilian clothes slid it open and stepped inside without asking. He was middle-aged, with grey-streaked hair and a pale face, wearing a suit that had seen better days. He nodded at them, took the window seat opposite, and opened a newspaper.

Arthur watched him over the top of his own coat. The man’s hands were clean, soft. He turned pages slowly, but his eyes didn’t move across the print. They stayed fixed on one spot.

The train swayed. George’s head lolled, his chin dropping to his chest. Arthur let him rest, but kept his own gaze on the stranger.

After a quarter of an hour, the man lowered his paper and smiled. “Rough night, is it?”

“You could say that,” Arthur said.

“Where are you headed?”

“London. Family.”

“Ah.” The man nodded, as if that explained everything. “And your son? He looks done in.”

“He’s fine.”

The man’s smile didn’t waver. He folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. “I served on the trawlers, once. Rye Bay, long time ago. Those little ships, they’ve got a feel to them, haven’t they? You can always spot a man who’s spent time on a trawler.”

Arthur’s hand went very still on his knee.

The man stood, reaching for the door handle. “The name’s Turner. If anyone asks, tell them Turner gave you a comfortable ride. They’ll understand.”

He slid the door open and stepped out into the corridor, pulling it shut behind him.

Arthur stared at the closed door, heart hammering. He hadn’t said a word about trawlers. Neither had George.

The train rattled on toward London.