Bloody Good Read online

  “Put on that damn tin pot, first!”

  It was warm from the other man’s head as Peter buckled it on. “What now?”

  “You’re going to have to go in and see what’s happening. Are you game?”

  “Yes.” He could hardly say “no” at this point.

  As if in reply a faint, half-broken voice called, “Is someone there? Please help us!”

  “Coming, lad.” As if in reply to Howell’s assurance, the stairs rocked and another chunk of wall fell to the floor.

  “How are we going to do this?” Peter hoped the sergeant had a brilliant idea as he was devoid of anything but numb fear.

  “First thing, lad, you won’t be seeing what I’m about to do, but I’m going to lift the back stairs, or what’s left of them, and you’re going to crawl in under, get through the broken door, and go down into the cellar.”

  Either the man was demented, or he possessed supernatural strength. Peter opted for demented and he half-choked on out, “Alright.”

  Howell replied, “Right you are then, here we go.” And pressing his back and shoulders under the remains of the back stairs, and bracing one hand against the wobbling wall, lifted the stairway enough for Peter to crawl under. “I’m going to let it down,” he said once Peter was through and crouching at the top of the cellar stairs. “Call when you’re ready and I’ll pick it up again. You’d best see how those boys are doing.”

  The boys were huddled sobbing in a corner, covered with brick dust and plaster and surrounded by the ruins of the vicar’s study floor. They stared like frightened rabbits, mesmerized by a car’s high beams, when the lamp shone in their direction.

  “We’re rescued, Sid,” one said to the other, patting him on the shoulder. “We’re bloody rescued. Sorry, sir,” he added.

  “Don’t apologize, you’re entitled to swear.” Heck, quite a few oaths hovered on the tip of Peter’s tongue, not the least how the fucking hell that old man held up half a wall and the back stairs. “Are you hurt?”

  “My shoulder hurts,” the other one, who had to be Dave, said. “Something fell on it.”

  “Think you can walk?”

  “To get out of here, I’d friggin’ fly!”

  Seemed he was taking Peter’s assurances about swearing to heart. “Alright then. One at a time. I’ll get you first as you’re hurt.”

  “No! I ain’t leaving Sid, we go together. I promised my dad.”

  “That’s right,” Sid corroborated. “He said to stick together, whatever happens.”

  Peter wasn’t too sure their absent parent had actually meant whilst trapped in the cellar of a bombed building prone to collapse any minute. “Right-o, you stick together and then stick to me, but we have to go one at a time up the stairs. The whole wall above is flimsy.” If indeed the sergeant could manage a repeat miracle.

  From the foot of the stairs Peter called, “Sergeant, they’re both alive and only one is hurt. Can you lift again?”

  He could. A gap of eighteen inches or so appeared in the the dim light. “You go first, Sid. Keep on your belly.”

  Sid got through. Dave had a harder time of it, obviously gritting his teeth against the pain. It took him ages to belly crawl up the stairs. Surely Howell couldn’t take that weight all this time? Peter stifled the panicky prospect that he’d be the one trapped.

  Darn, if the sergeant could do the impossible, he could do it five minutes longer.

  He did. Peter wiggled his way through the gap to see Sid helping Dave down the hallway. “Keep going,” Howell told them. “Head for the front door. We’ll be after you in a jiffy.”

  “Didn’t want them to see what I was really doing,” he added in a low voice to Peter. “Now lad, grab both lanterns. This wall really is about to go. Step away and get clear.”

  “What about you?”

  “I can move fast. You get going after those young ’uns.”

  This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. But Peter knew he wasn’t hallucinating. Or was he? He stepped back, the sergeant moved from under the shattered staircase, and yes, even in poor light, Peter saw the damaged stairway sag and the wall rock.

  “Move!”

  No one hesitated at the sergeant’s order. Even Dave sprinted toward the wide open front door and all four of them dashed though just as the wall and back stairs gave way, pulling half the house with them.

  Outside on the now trampled vicarage lawn Black, Baines, and a couple of others waited with the stretchers.

  “Hell! You got them out!”

  “Wasn’t as bad as it looked at first,” Sergeant Pendragon lied. “We just shifted a few bits of broken stairs and Peter got down and fished them out. What it is to be young, eh?”

  Just then, with a loud roar, the house shifted and the roof on one side fell in, taking most of the upper floor with it.

  Everyone darted back toward the road, watching with nervous horror as dust rose from the ruins.

  “Blimey!” someone muttered. “Good thing you got out when you did.”

  Not a statement Peter was about to argue with. Cold washed over him like an icy rush as the realization hit just how close they’d all been to finding themselves buried under that mess.

  Took all he had not to start shaking.

  “You should be proud of yourself, young man,” a tall, mustachioed man said as he held out his hand to Peter. “I’m Sir James Gregory, commander of the Home Guard. I live just up the road and came down to see if we could help. I heard you’ve just arrived. Welcome to Brytewood, young man, and may I say, on behalf of the entire village, we’re thankful to God you came. As I bet those two boys are.”

  Peter wasn’t quite ready to be the hero of the hour but seemed no one cared about his consent. The aftermath was downright embarrassing. Besides feeling an utter fraud, he darn well wanted to know how an old man like Sergeant Pendragon could hold up an entire wall and half a staircase.

  Not that he was likely to find out tonight.

  Too much work to do.

  The hall was a buzz of activity. The doctor and Gloria and a couple of other women were busy ministering to the still shaken and sobbing children.

  Peter walked over to Alice. “Need another pair of hands?”

  She looked up, brushing her hair off her forehead. “Yes, but you look as if you need first aid yourself.”

  “What?” Not the most polite thing to say. “I’m alright.”

  “You might be, but your forehead isn’t.”

  “What?” Yes, his vocabulary was sadly lacking, but it had been a tough evening.

  “You must have hit it at some point,” she said, stepping close. Damn, he could smell the fresh sweat on her, and something underneath like floral soap. She touched his forehead and as he gulped, praying to not shame himself in front of half the village, she brushed his forehead with her fingertip. “You’re bleeding.”

  She met his eyes a second, then turned abruptly and swiveled back, handing him a pad of gauze. “Mop it up. If you hadn’t noticed, it probably isn’t too bad.”

  Except now that she’d mentioned it, and he saw the stain of blood on the gauze, it throbbed and hurt like hell.

  A scream from the half open doorway distracted him for the growing ache in his head—and other places. Getting close to Dr. Doyle was not a good idea.

  “No, you won’t!” a young voice shouted. “Damn and blast you! I’m coming and don’t you try…”

  It was young Sid. Peter strode back to the doorway; Sergeant Pendragon was ahead of him. They were trying to load Dave’s stretcher into the ambulance and Sid was resisting attempts to hold him back. The child was kicking and screeching manfully but his strength was no match for the burly man holding him: Mosley.

  “Let him go,” Peter said. “It’s his brother that’s hurt.”

  Mosley’s ratlike eyes peered out of his fleshy face and met Peter’s. “You! Would be you, wouldn’t it? Handing round orders. Well, this little scrubber isn’t going anywhere in my ambulance and that’s final!”<
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  “Why not?” Somehow Sergeant Pendragon’s voice got attention. “That’s his brother in the ambulance. All they have here is each other. They’re evacuees. Won’t do any harm to let him ride along. Better not to separate them.”

  A glimmer of hope lit the boy’s eyes and soon faded.

  “Oh! yes! Clever idea that! Who’s going to watch this little so-and-so when we get there? I’m not.”

  “I’ll come and take care of him. He shouldn’t be left alone anyway and he was trapped too. Wouldn’t hurt to get him checked as well.”

  Before Mosley could come back with any objection, Howell had wrested the child from his grasp, picked the boy up in his arms, and hopped up into the open door of the ambulance. “Lad!” he called down to Peter. “See my bicycle gets home alright, will you, please?”

  “With pleasure, Sergeant!”

  Mosley gave what could only be described as a derisive sneer. He didn’t exactly spit in Peter’s direction, but he got the message.

  “Hoped I’d never see you again, you lousy conscie. They’re welcome to you.” Saying that, he turned to shut the ambulance door.

  “Now, look here, my good man!” It was Sir James Gregory, his voice carrying all the authority of his position and station. “That is no way to speak!”

  Mosley had little respect for rank or station. “Oh, no? Well, I don’t pal up with bloody conscies!”

  A leaden lump formed in Peter’s gut. Yes, he expected the news to get out, but in this fashion?

  “Mind your language, there are ladies and children here. Those two boys in the ambulance owe their lives to this young man.” He clapped Peter on the shoulder. “I think I speak for all of Brytewood when I say we are delighted to have him in our midst.”

  “You’re welcome to him then!”

  The doors slammed and with another scowl, Mosley turned to his assistant. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Is that true, young man?” Sir Gregory asked, his voice quiet but brooking no evasion.

  He wouldn’t have bothered anyway. “That I’m a CO? Yes, sir.”

  The man pondered that a second or two, then held out his hand. “Seems the Army’s loss is our gain. No doubt you had your reasons.”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “And you need fixing up, too. That knock on your head could be nasty.”

  He’d forgotten all about it, but now it was throbbing again. “The doctor mentioned it.” And now he was going to have to go back there. What the hell! He’d have to learn to work with her. At close quarters. Might as well start now but he was rather embarrassed at the cheers that greeted him when he reentered the parish hall.

  “We need to get you a bleeding medal,” Mr. Black said.

  “It wasn’t me, it was Sergeant Pendragon.”

  “Not what he says,” Baines replied, “but no point in arguing about it now. We’ve got all this lot to sort out.”

  Two women, Voluntary Service ladies no doubt, were taking names and pondering where to house the six children and the teacher.

  “Trouble is, we’re pretty much full to the seams as it is,” one said.

  “We’ll take them,” the doctor said, “at least for tonight. We’ll need extra blankets. And they’ll need clothes come morning, but we can manage.”

  “I’ve got Maggie here to stitch up. Celia is on her way to the hospital with Mrs. Roundhill and the two older boys. Can someone drive them up to The Gallop and bring the car back?”

  “I can,” Peter said.

  “You need to stay and get stitched yourself,” Alice said.

  “I can be back by the time you’re done with the child.”

  “I think we’ve had enough heroics from you for one night,” Gloria piped in. “Have a seat. Let someone else drive.”

  “I will,” said Mr. Black. “I’ll take them up to the doctor’s house and be back in no time at all.”

  “Take June Groves with you; she can help Gran.”

  At least the crowds had dispersed. The children, poor little blighters in every stage of disheveled undress, were herded together by the teacher, who looked dead on her feet herself. Sam Black covered them all with an armful of blankets he fetched from the back of the hall, and off they went.

  Peter returned to the church hall and gratefully sank into the first chair he reached.

  He was lightheaded and giddy. Shock? Probably. He still hadn’t quite grasped what had happened back there in the vicarage.

  Someone handed him a cup of tea. It was too sweet, but the warmth was welcome. He sagged against the back of the chair and watched the activity around him. Baines was tidying up, hoping for a quiet rest of the night no doubt. Gloria was gathering up bloody swabs and used kidney dishes. And beautiful, sexy, desirable, unreachable Dr. Doyle (he was punch-drunk but enjoying the view) was stitching up the last child and telling her she was going to be alright and that she was coming home with her in a little while.

  The child was offered a mug of tea and the good doctor turned her attention to Peter.

  “Come on over here then. Let’s have a look.”

  He declined to stretch out on one on the trestle tables, so he carried his chair over with him and sat down far too close to her for comfort.

  “You shouldn’t have been running around with a cut like this.”

  “The ambulance driver was giving Sid what for. The boy’s had enough for one night without that man adding to his misery.”

  “Mr. Mosley? He’s not the most affable man around, is he?” He’d have agreed but she’d just swabbed his forehead with ice cold Dettol. Talk about stinging! Maybe the shock was catching upon him. “Doesn’t look too bad, really,” she said, “but since you’re here we might as well stitch it up.” He felt the sting of the local anesthetic, then the gentle tug as she put in the stitches.

  Dear heaven! Just feeling her fingers against his skin sent a warm rush of sensation right down to where he didn’t want it. At least not now, in this makeshift first aid station, with an audience.

  “Better take your shirt off,” she said as she taped a pad of gauze over his stitches. “If you got that and didn’t notice, who knows if you have other abrasions.”

  “That’s all, honest.” And about all he could take right now.

  “Mr. Watson, you’re not being coy, are you?” Nurse Gloria asked.

  He laughed. He could do that much anyway. “No, just want to keep warm. It’s like a tomb in here. I’ll give myself the once-over when I get home. Might have a few bruises but I can put Arnica on them.”

  The doctor didn’t press the point. Just nodded. “Let’s clean up here then, and I’ll take Maggie home with me. You rode down did you, Gloria?”

  The nurse nodded. “You go ahead. I’ll clean up.”

  “Can’t go anywhere until Mr. Black gets back with my car.”

  “I’ll help,” Peter offered. Might as well do something as sit around.

  “Listen,” Baines said. “We can clean up after you go. We’ve got all night. Let’s all have another cuppa.”

  Seemed the war was going to be won on pints of Darjeeling.

  Sitting in the gloom with the lamps turned down to save the oil was like a surreal party: the child in nightgown and slippers, a blanket over her shoulders, the doctor and Gloria, both worn and tired, the two WVS ladies cheerfully chatty, Baines handing around the sugar and a teaspoon, and Peter Watson tired and aching in body but every nerve and cell alert to the woman sitting opposite him.

  This was not going to be an easy job. He might just be better off back on Sid Mosley’s ambulance. At least he was utterly devoid of sex appeal!

  Chapter 15

  Eiche perched on the church tower and scowled. Enough was enough and this was, to purloin a phrase from the accursed Inselaffen, the giddy limit. First, he’d endured a summons by Weiss, only to be chided, in front of the others, if you please, as if he were a recalcitrant mortal child. Now he returned to find his nest damaged by a bomb attack, although he was de
lighted to see the vicarage a shattered shell. There’d be no more annoying singing and playing, and the next door house had a ruined chimney and roof. Maybe that old biddy would be forced to move out with her yappy hound. Both those thoughts were sheer pleasure to his immortal heart. After all, human misery was not to be missed. Seemed there were injured enough to be carted off to the mortuary—he hoped. And that boy’s distress was quite restorative.

  But much as the damage by the Luffwaffe was a joy to behold, why did they also have to render his current lodgings temporarily uninhabitable?

  He’d had a good look while the yokels were running around like ants, fussing over whining children and wringing their work-worn hands. Broken windows, a damaged roof, and a chimney pot sitting in shards on the back lawn were trivial to a vampire, but would present difficulties with Miss Waite supposedly returning home soon. If she caught pneumonia and died he would be severely inconvenienced. He needed her for nourishment.

  And nourishment itself was presenting a conundrum. He wanted to ask the others if they’d noticed less than usual strength after feeding, but after Weiss’s totally unjustified rebuke over killing that peasant (and how had he known about that anyway?), Eiche was not about to admit to anything that could be twisted into weakness.

  Still, it bothered him. A full deep feeding that ended in death should have sustained him for days—maybe a week to two—but after running back from Guildford, he was spent. He should have paused on the way to feed. He wasn’t risking another mysterious death in his territory. Not this week anyway. Common sense dictated that caution, not Weiss’s pedantic chastisement.

  Dammit! It would have to be one of the farm animals tonight. There was a barn full of cows half a mile away.

  He’d content himself with bovine blood, and then see just how habitable dear Aunt Jane’s cottage was.

  He couldn’t help wondering if the mortals who considered themselves his masters had foreseen this little snag in their master plan.

  Maybe he should send them a message.

  Chapter 16

  Peter hadn’t meant to accept a lift home, but by the time he’d settled the drowsy child on a nest of blankets on the back seat, Black had swung both bicycles up in the back of the shooting brake.