She replaced her tumbler firmly, the glass thunking against the wood of the side table. “Be careful with your tone, Edward,” she warned acidly. “You needn’t think we’ve forgotten what he did. He will be taken care of. He’ll be visited by someone when he isn’t expecting it. He’ll be paid back what he’s owed.”

Edward could not help himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I just don’t think it’s sensible. The black market won’t last forever. You must read the papers––the government are going to crack down on it harder and harder, and then, eventually, things won’t be so scarce. Things will get back to normal. The money you’re making now can only be temporary. A year or two, at best, and then it all dries up––and then what?”

She regarded him coolly, her tight little smile disappearing as her lips pursed. “And then we’ll concentrate on new areas,” she said, as if she was speaking to a child.

He pressed on. “Such as?”

“Building. There’s a lot of money to be made repairing all the damage the Germans caused. We have some interests in that direction.” She raised her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “You strike me as a practical man. What’s the point in starting a war when the profits don’t justify it? We’ll make hay while the sun shines and pick our moment to settle the score with Spot.”

Edward found that he could barely open his mouth to speak. “I think you’re making a dreadful mistake,” he said.

“I don’t really care whether you agree or not,” she snapped. “I’m only telling you this because Joseph speaks highly of you. I’m not looking for your approval.”

A look of puzzlement and suspicion had fallen over Violet’s face. Edward could see that she was perplexed at his reaction, and irritated by it, but, at that moment, he did not care. Violet and George were making a foolish error and someone had to tell them before they lost everything. Wasn’t it obvious? He wanted to explain himself, to break through to Violet so that she could understand him, see that he was right, and feel the same way. “Think about it,” he urged. “If you don’t stamp on him now, it will be harder the longer you wait.”

Her eyebrows lowered into a stern, unforgiving frown. “You’ve only been working with us for a few months. You might have ideas, but you have no experience. You don’t know the West End, you don’t know anything about it. You have no idea how the business works––you’d do well to remember that.”

Edward realised, too late, that he had gone too far. “I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “I know, you’re right. I get ahead of myself sometimes.” He laughed a little, tried to make his objections look silly. Violet did not respond, only put the cigarette holder in her mouth and poured herself yet another whisky. Edward felt himself beginning to sweat. He wanted her to say something to him, to tell him that she wasn’t offended, perhaps even to say that she appreciated his candour, even if she disagreed with his sentiments, but instead she said nothing. She was indifferent, looking at him across the table through the long exhalations of smoke.

He sat up, thinking that he had heard a car on the gravel outside, but there was no car. He looked back at Violet but his eyes were blurred. He blinked, trying to bring her into focus, feeling a sudden dread of her. His thoughts turned to her brother, Georgie the Bull, and the things that he had heard about him. Edward took up his glass and, sipping down the last of his whisky, he jumped up so suddenly that he knocked the chair backwards. “Sorry,” he said, setting it back in place again. “Thank you for a super evening,” he managed.

She got up and took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. He dipped so that she could press her lips to his cheek. They were pursed, hard and cold. “Good night, Edward,” she said. Edward’s knees felt like water and, as he passed out into the hallway and took the wide stairs up to the first floor, he felt an overwhelming surge of relief. It was over. He closed and locked the door of his room behind him and sat on the edge of the bed, working off his shoes and then loosening his tie. There was a tall dressing mirror in the corner and he caught his reflection in its glass: he was pale, a little sweaty, and his eyes bore a frightened look. He took off his tie and his shirt and ran the cold tap, cupping the water in his hands and dunking his face into it. He felt thwarted, and sick with fear that he had taken too many drinks and spoken too freely. He dried his face, finished undressing, and slipped between the cold sheets. He knew he would find it difficult to sleep but he closed his eyes anyway, experiencing the conversation again despite trying to think of something––anything––else.

47

EDWARD GRIPPED BOTH ARMRESTS as the Douglas DC-3 accelerated down the runway and, after what seemed like an eternity, took to the air. He had always been a poor flyer and the double gin he had quickly swallowed in the departure lounge had done very little to soothe his nerves. He glanced out of the window and watched as Northolt Aerodrome shrank away, the propellers blurring through the early morning sunshine as they ascended into a low bank of cloud. He watched as the hostesses unhooked their safety belts and made their way back to the galley to prepare breakfast. It was early, just after eight, but he hoped he could order another drink. His nerves were shot to pieces.

They rose into the clouds and then, abruptly, passed through them and into a bright, blue sky. He could see the ground through the jagged gaps in the white below: the tiny houses, the miniature cars passing along ribbon-like roads. It looked so peaceful from up here. It looked unreal.

His thoughts settled again on the events of the last few weeks. The operation was running smoothly, and, as far as he could tell, no-one was wise to what they were doing. He should have felt like one of the heroes in the tuppenny bloods he used to read when he was a boy––illicit, outside the law, putting one up against the world––and yet he did not. He felt awkward and nervous. It was Joseph who was causing his trepidation. Edward could not shift the awful sensation that something had fallen between them. He could not precisely define it, yet he worried that some decision had been made of which he had not yet been made aware. It was a sense of finality that, perhaps, once the last lorryload of goods had been removed from the depot there would be nothing else for him to do. Surely his own lies would come to stand against him. The family would expect him to go back to his medical ‘career’; delaying it again so that he could continue with them would appear perverse and suspicious. Why would he do that? He was an educated man, highly qualified, and medicine promised to be lucrative without any of the risks that they had to run. Why would he put that to one side? Edward could not shift the terrible feeling that there were one or two more trips to make but that when the base was empty of the most saleable goods it would all be over, and then what would he do?

Their relationship was troubling him, too. Edward had always been prone to insecurity and he knew that his insecurity could easily run to paranoia, but, to him, Joseph’s polite cheerfulness on the drive to the airport had been forced, like the good manners of a host who has loathed his guest and is afraid the guest realises it, and who tries to make it up with last minute good humour. Things had not been good between them for several weeks. They had argued regularly since Tommy Falco’s funeral. Edward continued to insist that they must persuade his aunt and uncle that their course was wrong and Joseph had seemingly grown weary of it. Edward knew he should keep his own counsel but he could see them make mistake after mistake and he just could not do it. And if he did not say something, then who would? No-one. They would continue to totter down the road to disaster, oblivious, helpless, and then where would that leave him?