THE KILLER OF THE DARKNESS

EPISODE ELEVEN

ELEVEN

I slept badly, tossing, and turning in a dream-filled semi-consciousness.

In the morning I got out of bed. And stiffly I wobbled to my bedchamber door, took my overcoat off the hook, putting it on over my pyjamas.

As I stood relieving myself, I tried the lights. Nothing happened. That meant the electricity would be still off.

Depressed, I made my way into my tiny kitchen and over to the solid fuel range. To my satisfaction I could feel the warming temperature as I got near to it. A quick referral exposed the dull red embers which I stirred with the poker. I chucked a few nuggets in and then shut the door and crossed to the sink. I topped-up the urn half full of water and located it on the hot-plate.

While I bid my time, sitting huddled on a stool, I pulled the curtain and peered out at the street. The field of view daunting. Onehouse half-submerged in an arctic-looking landscape. I pulled a face and let the velvet-drapes fall-back into place. My life utterly pointless; barren and desolate as the panorama past the window.

The silence depressing, fractured only by the wall clock giving out its repetitive, measured tick. And that for some reason accentuated the loneliness of the room, of me. My heart ached - no other description could fulfil how I felt. The poets are right, I cogitated. To hell with the physiologists.

The kettle began to shudder and steam.

I took my drink back into the bedroom and thought about going back to bed, but in the end I dressed. Once done I thought about what I would do next, when a double thump on the front door knocker, transformed my outlook on the day

My immediate response one of immense eagerness. It must be Joanne. I sprang up and rushed for the door. Even before I reached it, little doubts started to enter my head.

When I flung it open, side on, in a long anorak with the hood up and a face-scarf the person is momentarily unrecognizable.

"Morning."

No mistaking the voice.

Disappointed, I stood back.

"Come in."

I quickly closed the door, keeping out the icy blast.

"Tea in the pot! Or can I offer you something a little stronger?"

Roome pulled off his face-scarf.

"Both, if I may. A dash of your whisky in the hot Earl Grey would be welcome."

I could not help a fleeting smile, defying my sadness.

"What's come over you?"

Roome moved to the oven.

"By God, it's parky outside."

I poured a mug and gave it to Roome, then went and got the whisky.

"Say when."

Roome lifted the bottleneck with his finger, cutting off the flow of the whisky.

"Fine!"

I put the bottle down, changed my mind, and gave myself a shot.

"Cheers."

Roome sipped his hot alcoholic drink, but I knocked my brew back in one go.

"Now then, what can I do for you?"

Roome placed his cup down, found his handkerchief and blew his nose.

"Sorry, it's the heat in here compared to out there. Are you doing anything today?"

I nodded at the window.

"What, with the power off and the streets deep undercover, not much. Why?"

Roome put his hanky away and took up his hot toddy again.

"The Coastguard Station in the south owns a Geiger-counter. I wondered whether you would like to come, seeing as you are such a lot of help."

I gave him an old-fashioned look.

"And another pair of hands might be helpful in this weather?" Roome added with a sly grin; "Doctor Walton wants us to deliver some insulin to the Bennett's on the way."

To me, the thought of being trapped inside these four walls all day promised to be appalling. The chance to work at something physically a Godsend.

"You're on."

Ten minutes later, suitably attired for the occasion, I found myself beside Roome in the 1939 Wolseley ENK 916. We went past the pharmacy on the way out of town. I tried to avert my eyes but found them pulled to her window. A light on in the shop, but no sign of her.

We worked our way around the piles of ice that stood like a testament to parked cars, noticeable only by an occasional doorhandle, a wiped windscreen, or paintwork where the local children gone in for chill graffiti.

Soon we were in the foot-deep drifts that covered the road. The Wolseley's engine whined into an ascendant octave and strained as the vehicle pitted against the bow-wave of white that rose and fell in lumps, threatening to climb up only to drop away.

Roome moved down another gear and gritted his teeth.

"Come on my darling."

But after three quarters-of-an-hour I sensed a strange aroma of burning of the clutch plate. We ground to a stop.

"Shovels are in the boot."

"My, aren't you fortunate I am here to give you a hand?"

This scene is repeated most of the morning. In the end, I took to walking behind the car, or riding stand on the back, jumping my body up and down to help the spinning wheels. Sometimes I tried sacks and sand on the steep parts.

We reached the Bennett's house and handed over the hypoglycaemic agent. The struggle worth the effort, just to see the relief on Mrs Bennett's face. We accepted a hot bowlful of broth and then carried on. The fortress like building showed to the left of the headland, two huge artillery guns aimed skywards.

"It's easier from now on," Roome said to me, and I nodded in agreement.

"Yes, it is that" I said with just enough irony in my voice.

Slithering and sliding from side to side of the small track bordered with great banks of white, we descended the shallow hill, arriving almost with a rush on to the forecourt.

Three men came out to greet us, all from the British Army, all kitted out in white-winter garb

Roome shook hands with one of them and introduced me with a sweep of his arm.

I grinned as I shook the steely paw of Gordon McQueen.

"Pleased to meet you."

"And you," McQueen confirmed, his brown weather-beaten face seeming to stand out in violent contrast to the white background.

We accompanied the men inside, and we all divested ourselves of our clothing in their living quarters. We all sat around the wooden table in the spotlessly clean but spartan main room. Mugs of piping hot coffee given to us, into which McQueen, without asking, tipped a good measure of whisky.

I grabbed mine up gratefully.

"Drunk more before lunch today, than for a long time."

McQueen fixed his refreshment and then sat down with us.

"Now what can I do for you?"

Roome explained about the murder which appalled, McQueen. Irrationally I remembered Joanne's reaction. My gloom side-tracked all morning, hell again like a heavyweight.

"There is something Doctor Walton would like to ask. That is why we are here. We want to borrow your Geiger-counter. I'll get it back to you as soon as possible."

McQueen shook his head.

"There's no hurry, but it is ironic..."

He paused. For a moment I thought McQueen could be going to say, "Funny that's the first time we've operated it." But Roome and I knew, our blood tingling, that it would be less simple than that.

"... I checked the ancillary instrumentation last night, and when I got the Geiger-counter out, it started to crackle. Well, I played around with it, took it out into the squall in the end, and damn me, it got really excited."

Roome moved forward on to his elbows, barely able to conceal his excitement.

"Only lasted an hour or so. Come from over there." He gestured inland. "And moved from the east to the north and died away. The snowstorm blew like hell just then, so I couldn't see extremely far."

I bit my lip.

"You mean as though something, a source of radiation, travelled that way."

McQueen eased his cap up and scratched his temple with a thick hand.

"I reckon I do. I began to wonder if it might be to do with Turner?"

Roome stiffened.

"Who's he?"

"He's monitoring U-boat movement on this side of Onehouse and reports it back to Naval Intelligence in London. He certainly carries a lot of stuff with him."

"You mean he's out on a night like this? Will he be all right?"

"The man's been up here before at this time of year. He knows the ropes, and he is meticulous. Besides, he's got a walkie-talkie."

Roome relaxed.

"Contacted him, McQueen?"

McQueen shook his head.

"Not since he set himself up. The arrangement is only to call us in case of an emergency."

"Well, I suppose that's something."

Roome reflected.

"Do me a favour, call him up and make sure he's okay"

McQueen gave a resigned sigh.

"Okay. I will get Pendergrass to give him a buzz. Hang on."

He left the room. Nobody spokes. McQueen, absent a full five minutes, during which tension elevated to a point where Roome and I stood up as one when he came back. His expression had been enough.

"He doesn't answer."

Wordlessly, Roome walked to the window and glanced out, surveying the white upland that curved away the dark gloom behind it made it bleaker, inhospitable, cruel. A little flutter settled on the windowpane.

He seemed to come to a decision.

"Will you show us where he is?"