The Silent Cry

Who had he expected? His only feeling was of danger, and that he must hurry. Others were depending upon him. He thought of narrow passages, crawling on hands and knees through tu

How long ago had that been? "Stu

Where had the memory come from, and how far back was it? Ten years, fifteen? When he and Runcorn had both been new and inexperienced, they had fought there side by side, guarding each other's backs. It had been a comradeship. There had been trust.

When had it gone? Gradually, a dozen, a score of small issues, a parting of the paths of choice, or one sudden ugly incident?

He could not remember.

He followed Vida Hopgood across a small yard with a well in it, under an archway and then across a surprisingly busy street and into another alley. It was bone-achingly cold, the fog an icy shroud. He racked his brain, and there was nothing there at all, only the present, his anger with Runcorn now, his contempt for him, and the knowledge that Runcorn hated him, that it was deep and bitter and that it governed him. Even when it was against his own interest, his dignity and all that he wanted to be, it was so passionate in him he could not control it. It consumed his judgement. "Ere! Wot's the matter wivyer?" Vida's voice cut across his thoughts, dragging him back to Seven Dials, and the rape of the sweatshop women.

"Nothing!" he said sharply. "Is this Bella Green's?”

"Course it is! Wot the 'ell dyer think we're 'ere fer?" She banged on the rickety door and shouted Bella's name.

It was several minutes before it was answered by a girl somewhere between twelve and fifteen. Her long hair was curling and knotted, but her face was clean and she had nice teeth.

Vida asked for Bella Green.

"Me ma's busy," the girl replied. "She'll be back in a wile. You wa

"Yeah." Vida was not going to be put off, even had Monk allowed it.

But they were not permitted in. The child had obviously been warned about strangers. She slammed the fragile door and Monk and Vida were left on the step in the cold.

"The gin mill," Vida said immediately, taking no offence. "She'll 'a gorn ter get Jimmy a bottle. Dulls the pain, poor sod.”

Monk did not bother to enquire whether the pain was physical, or the bleak despair of the mind. The difference was academic, the burden of living with it was the same.

Vida's guess was right. Inside the noise and filth of the gin shop, the sound of laughter, the shards of broken glass and the women huddled together for warmth and the comfort of living flesh rather than the cold stones, they found Bella Green. She was coming towards them cradling a bottle in her arms, holding it as if it were a child. It was a few moments' oblivion for her husband, a man she must have seen answer his country's call whole and full of courage and hope, and received back again broken in body and fast sinking in mind as he looked at the long, hopeless years ahead, and daily pain.

Beside her a woman wept and sank slowly to the floor in the maudlin self-pity of gin drunke

Bella saw Vida Hopgood and her tired face showed surprise, and something that might have been embarrassment.

"Need ter see yer, Bella," Vida said, ignoring the gin as if she had not seen it. "Din' wa

"Me 'elp!" Bella could not grasp it. "Per wot?”

Vida turned and went out into the street, stepping over a woman fallen on the cobbles, insensible to the cold. Monk followed, knowing the uselessness of trying to pick anyone up. At least on the ground they could fall no further. They'd be colder, wetter, but less bruised.

They walked quickly back to the door where Monk and Vida had knocked.

Bella went straight in. It was cold and the damp had seeped through the walls. It smelled sour, but there were two rooms, which was more than some people had. The second had a small black stove in it, and it gave off a faint warmth. Sitting beside it was a man with one leg. His empty trouser hung flat over the edge of his chair, fastened up with a pin. He was clean shaven, his hair combed, but his skin was so pale it seemed grey, and there were dark shadows around his blue eyes.

Monk was reminded of Hester with a jolt so sharp it caught his breath.

How many men like this must she have known, have nursed, have seen them when they were carried in from the battlefield, still stu

She had helped them during the worst days and nights. She had dressed the appalling wounds, encouraged them, bullied them into fighting back, into hanging on when there seemed no point, no hope. As she had done to him, at the end of the Grey case. He had wanted to give up then.

Why waste energy and hope and pain on a battle you could not win? It was exhausting, futile. It had not even dignity.

But she had refused to give up on him, on the struggle. Perhaps she was used to going on, enduring, keeping up the work, the sense of purpose, the outward calm, even when it seemed utterly useless. How could exhausted men fight against absurd odds, survive the pain and the loss, support their fellows, except if the women who nursed them showed the same courage and blind pointless faith?

Or perhaps faith was never pointless. Maybe faith itself was the point? Or courage?

But he had not meant to think of Hester. He had promised himself he would not. It left an emptiness inside him, a sense of loss which pervaded everything else, spoiling his concentration, darkening his mood. He needed his energy to think of details he was storing in his mind about the violence in Seven Dials. These women had no help but that which Vida Hopgood could wring from him. They deserved his best.

He must forget the man slumped in the chair, waiting with desperation for the few hours' release the gin would give him, and concentrate on the woman. Perhaps it could even be done without him realising his wife had been raped. Monk could word it so it sounded like a simple assault. There was a great difference between what one thought one knew, privately, never acknowledging directly, and what one was forced to admit, to hear spoken, known by others where it could never after be forgotten.

"How many men where there?" he asked quietly.

She knew what he was referring to, the understanding and the fear were plain in her eyes.

"Three.”

"Are you sure?”

"Yeah. First there was two, then a third one came. I din't see where from.”

"Where was it?”

"The yard orff Foundry Lane.”

"What time?”

"About two, near as I can remember." Her voice was very low, never once did she look sideways at her husband. Perhaps she wanted to pretend he was not there, that he did not know.