Page 42 of No Man's Land

After consulting his map, Josef took the tube to Victoria. Now that the morning crowds had thinned, the vast station was quieter, and his footsteps echoed as he left the platform and trotted up the stairs.

A familiar unease dogged him. That same sense of being watched that he’d felt last night.

Glancing over his shoulder as he hurried through the empty station corridor, he saw nothing. If anyone was following him, he told himself firmly, it would most likely be Alex or his Indian accomplice. Subadar Dutta, Mrs Cohen had called him. Although, if the man was anything like Alex, that name could well be false. Nevertheless, if either man was following Josef now, it would only save him the trouble of hunting them down at their poncy club.

Emerging from the station, he found himself in the same November fog he’d left behind in Spitalfields. Its slightly metallic, smoggy tang felt fresh after the stale air of the Underground, and he realised he was grateful to be outside. Despite his anger at Alex, his fury at having been lied to and stolen fromagain, he couldn’t shift the memory of his murderous encounter in the sewer. It would be a long time, he thought grimly, before he would be comfortable beneath the ground. Or alone in the dark.

Luckily, outside it was busier. Traffic rumbled past, the steady mix of omnibuses, motorcars, a few old-fashioned horsedrawn carts, and plenty of people on foot. Plenty of menin uniform, too, as always. Men on leave, loud and noisy, no doubt trying to drown out their dread of returning to the front. Or their glee. A couple of men stood smoking in the lee of the station wall. One poor sod, in a captain’s uniform, wore a God-awful tin mask over his nose and mouth. It was what they gave to men whose faces had been so shredded by shrapnel, or bullets, or mustard gas that the sight was too disturbing for civilians to witness.

Hastily, Josef looked away before the man saw him staring. It boiled his blood, though, to see his wounds and to know that men like Alex were cooking up more weapons. Worse weapons, weapons that stripped away the last of man’s humanity. As if the war hadn’t done enough of that already.

He’d find the truth, though. He’d find the truth and expose it. Strip off the hideous masks of King and Country behind which men like Alex hid their own horrors.

Thoughts of that, and of what he’d say when he confronted Alex, occupied his thoughts as he strode away from the station and into the rarefied air of Belgravia. Tall, elegant buildings of the last century, or perhaps older, rose up on either side of the wide streets. White-painted, they might have gleamed in the sun on a bright summer’s day if it weren’t for the smoke and smuts that turned everything in the city grey.

Beautiful, understated, and quintessentially British: this was the heart of the establishment. A place where men like Lord Alexander Twisleton-Beaumont made decisions over luncheon that sent men like Private Andrew Sykes to their deaths in the meatgrinder of the salient.

He hated it.

Hated the elegance and the beauty, hated the wealth and the privilege. All of it built on the bent backs of labouring men and women.

There were no streetlights here, even though the fog made it feel more like dusk than noon. No streetlights anywhere in London, not with the recent zeppelin raids. Some windows blazed bright, though, their light pushing into the fog and turning it a murky mustard yellow.

Like gas.

He shivered, then jumped at the scrape of a footstep behind him. Turning, he was startled to find a man, a soldier, walking towards him along the street. Why that should startle him, he couldn’t say. London was full of soldiers. Perhaps because of the fog, and his thoughts of gas. His nerves had been jangling ever since he’d got back from the front, May was right about that, and for good bloody reason. Now, though, his fists clenched, and he wished powerfully for the poker he’d cradled last night.

So much for his vaunted pacifism.

Good job he wasn’t standing there wielding a fire poker like a lunatic, though, because it was just a man going about his business. An ordinary man among millions in the city. Nobody Josef recognised, and why should it be? Not in Belgravia where he didn’t know–

Metal glinted beneath the peak of the officer’s cap. A mask, like one worn by the man Josef had seen smoking at the station.

Was it him?

Unease prickled along Josef’s spine, lifting the hair at the nape of his neck as he started walking again. He could feel the man’s presence behind him, hear his footsteps echoing flatly in the deadening fog. Josef’s nose twitched, his heart stumbling as he caught a cloying, deathly scent in the dank air. Imagination. Surely?

He glanced over his shoulder, and now the man was closer, walking steadily. Josef tried to swallow, but he found his throat too dry. Stupid, to be afraid. It was just a man. An officer.

Not looking where he was going, Josef stumbled over a crooked paving stone. He almost fell but caught himself in time. When he looked back again, the soldier was closer still.

And then the man lifted his head and looked at Josef.

Spectral blue eyes gleamed above the tin mask, through which a sound that no man had ever uttered snarled through the fog.

For a dreadful second, Josef froze solid, as in the grip of a nightmare. Or the rigour of death.

Then the man—the creature—leaped forward with a cry, and Josef fled.

Heedless of where he was going, he bolted into the fog. Weird shapes loomed ahead, resolving into lamp posts, trees, motorcars, and then, appearing out of nowhere, a park railing. Josef skidded, sliding to avoid crashing into it headfirst. His momentum slowed, he scrambled for speed as he darted right, sprinting along next to the railing.

Belgrave Square, he recalled from the map. This was Belgrave Square.

Behind him came the wet sucking sounds of inhuman breaths. Close. Closer.

Lungs labouring, Josef fought for more air, more speed. Wilton Crescent was nearby, just the other side of the park. If he could reach it, Alex would—

A hand grabbed the back of Josef’s jacket, yanking him sideways, slamming him hard into the park railing. He staggered, stumbling, caught himself, and spun to face his attacker.

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