The Whispering Gallery

“Not a blooming thing. This isn’t like her.” Bennion ran his hand through greying hair that was becoming sparser by the day. “What’ll you have?”

“Pint of bitter, please.” Johnny put the money on the bar. He had always made a point of paying for his drinks. It had made little difference though: Stella’s father had never liked him. Johnny didn’t take it personally: no man would ever be good enough for his Stella.

“We brought her up to be better than this.” He put the glass down on the mat in front of Johnny then helped himself to a whisky. He ignored the pile of pennies.

“Has she ever forgotten to call before?” Johnny opened a pack of Woodbines and, out of politeness, offered one to Bennion. To his surprise, he took one.

“Thanks. It’ll make a change from roll-ups.”

Johnny did not understand the attraction of rolling your own: flattening out the paper, sprinkling the line of tobacco that always reminded him of a centipede, licking the edge of the paper and rolling it up – usually with nicotine-stained fingers. It was such a fiddly, time-consuming business. Why go to all that trouble when someone else had already done so? To save money, he supposed: in the long run, roll-ups were much cheaper. Dolly preferred ready-made cigarettes as well: Sweet Aftons. They were, according to the ads, good for the throat.

“She won’t have forgotten. There are only two reasons why she hasn’t rung: either she’s unable to or she doesn’t want to. Dolly’s been asking around but not heard anything encouraging. A lot of her friends don’t have a telephone.”

“Perhaps she’s just staying on the beach for as long as she can,” said Johnny. He never sunbathed: his pale skin soon burned.

“Are you still in touch with Sergeant Turner?” Bennion, who generally made a point of looking everyone in the eye, gazed over Johnny’s shoulder. So that was it: he wanted something. That explained his embarrassment.

“I’m seeing him later,” said Johnny, and drained his glass.

“Another?”

“Please.” The publican, having served a couple of customers, returned with a fresh pint. The pile of pennies remained untouched.

“Could you ask him to make a few enquiries?”

“I’m as anxious as you are to see Stella again,” said Johnny. “She’s only been gone for a day though. It’s too early to report her missing. Besides, she could turn up at any second.”

“And what if she doesn’t?”

“I’ll do everything I can to find her – and that includes enlisting the help of Matt and his men. If she’s not back by Monday morning I’ll raise the alarm myself.” The possibility that some ill had befallen her filled him with panic. He drowned it with beer.

He was half-cut after his third pint. The heat increased the power of the alcohol. There was still no sign of Stella. The pavement beneath his feet felt spongy. He sauntered down Hosier Lane, along King Street and into Snow Hill where John Bunyan’s earthly pilgrimage was said to have come to an end.

It was cooler now: the incoming tide had brought a freshening breeze which felt delightful against his hot skin. The cloudless sky was a brilliant blue dome that stretched serenely over the exhausted capital. A kestrel hovered overhead. Johnny stopped and enjoyed one of those rare, uncanny moments when, despite its millions of inhabitants, thousands of vehicles and ceaseless activity, there was complete silence in the city. Seconds later it was shattered by the sound of smashing glass and an ironic cheer.

The Rolling Barrel was only a few doors down from Snow Hill police station, so it was the first place that thirsty coppers made for when they came off duty. It was gloomy and smoky inside the pub. All the tables were taken so Johnny went to the bar. The clock behind the bar showed it was five past eight.

“What are you doing here, Steadman?” Philip Dwyer, one of Matt’s colleagues, glared at him. “Haven’t you done enough damage?”

The sergeant’s eyes were glazed and his speech was slurred. Surely he couldn’t have got in such a state in five minutes?

Dwyer leaned forward. A blast of beery breath hit Johnny in the face. “Be a good chap and fuck off.”

As a journalist, Johnny was accustomed to being unpopular. However, his unmasking of corruption at Snow Hill in December had hit a nerve both within the force and without. The ensuing scandal had made Johnny’s name – but at considerable cost to himself and Matt. His investigations had also led to the deaths of four other men. They would always lie heavily on his conscience. Rumours about what had happened to him and Matt continued to circulate – out of Matt’s earshot. No one wanted to get on the wrong side of the big, blond boxer.

Johnny was in no mood to be pushed around by a drunken desk sergeant, especially when he could see that Matt wasn’t in the boozer. There was no point in buying a drink just to annoy Dwyer: in the state he was in he might throw a punch, Johnny would throw one back and then end up being arrested. Johnny strolled out and soon he found Matt propping up the bar in the Viaduct Tavern, round the corner in Giltspur Street.

“Dwyer just told me to fuck off.”

“Glad to see you did as you were told for once.”

“It’s good to see you too.”

Johnny meant it. He immediately felt at ease in Matt’s company. He always did. It was as if a chemical reaction took place, their personalities somehow combining to produce a sense of well-being. No one else had this effect on Johnny. Matt was a winner of the lottery of life: he was tall, very good-looking and popular. He literally saw the world in a different way to other, shorter, people. As much as Stella made Johnny happy and alleviated his habitual loneliness, she didn’t make him feel safe, secure and stronger in himself the way Matt did. It was, he supposed, his role to make her feel that way. At the moment, though, Stella was making him nervous and fearful. Nervous about what she would say when he eventually popped the question and fearful about her disappearance. He needed some Dutch courage.

“Same again?”

“I’ll have one for the road, thanks. I promised Lizzie that I’d be home by ten – and given the mood she’s in these days there’ll be hell to pay if I’m not.”

Once upon a time Johnny would have experienced a stab of jealousy at such a remark. He had fallen for Lizzie as soon as he set eyes on her and had been heartbroken when she had – quite understandably, in his opinion – chosen Matt as her husband instead of him. Lizzie had worked hard to convince Johnny that his love for her was just an adolescent crush. Now they were, in the time-honoured phrase, “just good friends”.Nevertheless, a part of Johnny remained unconvinced. He was happy for Matt – he and Lizzie had an enviable marriage – yet in his eyes she would always be “the one that got away”.

“How is Lizzie?” They moved over to a table that had just been vacated by a pair of postmen. Johnny set down the glasses on its ring-stained veneer.

“She’s finding the heat unbearable – although it’s not quite as suffocating in Bexley.”

Johnny had been afraid that he would see less of his friend when he moved from Islington to one of the new housing developments that were sprawling out across the virgin countryside round the capital. However, because police officers were not permitted to live more than thirty minutes from their station, the move had produced the opposite effect. Matt had to sleep in the officers” dormitory at Snow Hill more often than in the past.

Lizzie, who had cajoled Matt into the move, now complained that he was hardly ever at home. She had been forced to give up her job in Gamage’s, the “People’s Popular Emporium”, when she became noticeably pregnant. Apparently customers did not wish to be served by mothers-to-be – even in the maternity department. Six months on, she was stuck in the new three-bedroom house, miles away from all her friends and with only the baby inside her for company.

“When’s the big day?” said Johnny.

“A couple more weeks – but we’ve been warned that first babies are often overdue.”

“Who can blame them?” Johnny took another swig of his bitter. “What a time to enter the world.”

“At least I won’t have to enlist: being a copper is a restricted occupation. Pity, really. I fancy killing a few Nazis. What will you do if and when the balloon goes up?”

“I haven’t given it much thought. My flat feet will keep me out of the army. Perhaps I’ll get a job with the Ministry of Information, or I could be a stretcher-bearer.”

“Let’s hope it won’t come to that. Chamberlain might yet save the day.”

“Sure – and I’m going win the Nobel Prize for Literature.”

“You’ll have to write a novel first.”

“As a matter of fact I’ve started.”

“Pull the other one. You’ve been talking about writing a book for years.”

“It’s true. I’ve only written the first few chapters, but I’m enjoying the process so far. It makes a change from having to report the facts. It’s so liberating to be able to make things up. It’s like taking off a straitjacket.”

“Have you got a title?”

“Friends and Lovers. But I’ll probably change it.”

“What’s it about?”

“You and me, amongst other things. Most first novels are autobiographical.”