LITMIR.BIZ

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decided to lay a few bets as to which of them could give little Moniek a proper parting. A difficult job in the swell, but the fifth bullet had taken off the top of Moniek’s head like a ripe gooseberry.

      It’s strange what a persecuted mind will do, how it tries to protect itself. Mac would always remember Moniek, but when he had finally found his way out of the gulags and obtained passage on a ship bound for anywhere, he couldn’t remember his own name. It had gone. Somehow the System had swallowed it up, robbed him of his identity, left him as nothing more than a number. When the ship eventually docked at a place called Tilbury, the official of yet another mamzer System had demanded a name from him – didn’t seem to care which – so he had called himself McFadden, after the ship’s captain. A good, stout, non-Jewish name.

      And it’s what he still calls himself all these years later. He has long ago learned that being Jewish in this world is an invitation to a beating, or worse – even here in London. It’s not so much that he has forgotten he is Jewish, simply that he’s put it behind him, like taking off an old coat. Things are so much easier that way.

      Now there is to be a Mrs McFadden. She is a shiksa, not kosher, but pleasant enough, a widow several years older than he who has been left with her own modest ground-floor apartment in West Hampstead and a desire which borders on the desperate to be married once more. ‘It could be war at any moment,’ she says, ‘and by then it might be too late.’ She’s right. So Mac has agreed, not because he loves her but for no more solid reason than that he doesn’t want to disappoint her. Anyway, as she says, if war breaks out London will be bombed and gassed until nothing is left, so it doesn’t make any bloody difference.

       But – miracle of miracles – there isn’t going to be a war!

      Chamberlain has come back from his mission to Hitler waving a little bit of paper ‘which bears his name upon it as well as mine’ and which promises peace, all in exchange for a chunk of an unfamiliar, faraway land which belongs to someone else. The world has gone quite mad. They believe Hitler. But Mac knows better. He knows dictators, knows the System, knows that the only signature you can trust is the signature they put on a death warrant or transportation order. He sighs. His leg feels as if it’s burning to the bone and the mud beneath his feet is now clinging, treacherous. He stoops to grab a sheet of wind-thrown newspaper to wipe the mess from his shoes. The page carries a huge photograph of Chamberlain back from his dealings in Munich and standing triumphant alongside the King and Queen on the balcony of Buckingham Palace. Everything is floodlit, like a huge stage, and the crowd below is almost hysterical with relief and gratitude. Mac scrapes the mud from his feet and wonders if they are celebrating in Prague, too.

      But maybe they are right. Perhaps there isn’t going to be a war – in which case he and Mrs McFadden will most certainly repent their marital rashness at leisure. But his nose tells him that war can’t be far off, he can smell it, in which case – what’s the point? Of hurrying? Of marriage? Of anything?

      In the corner of the park he can see the crew of an anti-aircraft gun at their training. They seem to be making a hash of it, judging by the exasperated voice of their instructor. It’s rumoured there are fewer than a hundred of these guns to defend the entire capital – no wonder they’re praying there isn’t going to be a war. But Mac has long since lost any belief in a god. The rain has started again and the mud is back on his shoes, the damp worming its way through the welts. He pushes his aching body forward once more, head bowed, like the slave he once was. As he does so the flower in his buttonhole finally makes its escape and drops back to earth. ‘Pshakrev!’ He curses and throws away the soiled newspaper in disgust.

      Then he turns and retraces his footsteps back home.

      

       Chartwell, Kent.

      It was the season of decay and the leaves of the chestnuts that stood guarding the Weald of Kent were beginning to curl at the edges and turn brown. The young man had found the drive down from London exhilarating. His open-top MG had nearly eighty brake horsepower – not the biggest machine on the road, but he was able to stretch it on the empty weekend roads and he had topped eighty-five past Biggin Hill. The occasional shower of rain had only added to his pleasure, if not to his elegance, but he had never placed much store on elegance. Although he was a radio producer for the BBC he was more likely to give the impression of being a garage mechanic caught in the middle of an oil change, and if others occasionally looked at him askance it only served to add to the risks of life. He enjoyed taking risks. Or perhaps he had something inside him that required him to take risks, like others needed to take drink. Like the Great Man.

      As he turned off the road into the short drive that led to the front of the house he found himself scratched by a sense of disappointment. He had imagined a residence that sang of the Great Man’s eminence and aristocratic origins, but all he found was a sombre Victorian frontage standing in shadow on the side of a hill, squeezed tight up against a bank of rhododendron bushes that, so long after their season of flowering, were dark and sullen. The front aspect of the house was mean and more than a little dull. He hated dullness. Christ, the Victorians had spawned so many great architects – Pugin, Barry, Sloane – but this one seemed to have failed his inspiration exams and been sent into exile in Kent. The BBC man pulled at the bell by the front door and was answered by a forlorn echo. He pulled again. Nothing. Perhaps the trip had been a waste of time. Distractedly he walked around the side of the house and only then did he begin to understand why the Great Man loved this spot so, for if England had a heart it was surely here. The views seemed to tug at the soul. The house was built into the side of the Weald and before him tumbled thousands of acres of trees over a countryside that was dressed in the green-gold colours of autumn, stretching away towards Crockham Hill and disappearing into the mists that clung to the south coast some thirty miles beyond. The ground fell away sharply from the back of the house, and below were stream-fed lakes on which swam black swans and where trout rose to ruffle the surface. There were also several outhouses, a substantial walled garden and cottages built of red brick. Beside one of these cottages he could see two figures at work – perhaps he hadn’t wasted his time after all. He began to make his way down the steep pathway, slippery in its covering of recent rain, and as he approached he could see that one of the men was a young worker. The other figure was disguised in a thick overcoat and hat, yet the curve of the back was unmistakable, as were the shoulders, hunched like a prizefighter’s. There was also a haze of cigar smoke.

      ‘Hello!’ the man from the BBC called from a distance.

      Winston Spencer Churchill, a man who had filled the offices of Chancellor of the Exchequer, Home Secretary and First Lord of the Admiralty and who had served his country as soldier, statesman and historian, turned from his labours. He had a trowel in one hand and a brick in the other. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, with no pretence at goodwill. The mouth was clenched tightly around the cigar, giving his chin a stubborn look.

      ‘My name is Burgess, sir.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘I telephoned …’

      The Great Man scowled, trying to recall. ‘You can see I’m busy,’ he snapped. ‘The world has decided to destroy itself, so I am building a wall.’

      Burgess tried to follow the politician’s logic. Perhaps it was a symbolic act of defiance, or nothing more than an outstanding sulk. This wasn’t quite the greeting he had expected, or required. ‘Guy Burgess,’ the young man repeated. ‘From the BBC.’

      Churchill’s eyes were swollen and sleepless, red with anxiety. They travelled across the unexpected visitor, taking in the unruly hair, the crumpled suit, the sorely bitten fingernails. ‘You don’t look much like the BBC.’

      Burgess returned the stare. The old man was wearing an ancient and much-soiled overcoat whose middle button had been ripped away. His homburg looked as if it had just taken part in the Eton wall game and the boots were covered with splashes of cement. ‘You don’t look much like a great politician, either,’ he replied bluntly.

      The cigar twisted between the lips as the Great Man sized up this impudent intruder. Then he threw the trowel to one side.

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