The Imposter

Charlie had seen enough and left the auditorium as the three of them went through to the changing rooms. He needed to write his report and update the other members of the Squad. It had been a productive evening, and he had gathered information on Joseph that would be added to the detailed dossier that was being compiled. He didn’t mind the brush off he had received. That didn’t bother him at all.

There would be other conversations, ones on his patch, to his rules.

Conversations that were not so easy to avoid.

9

EDWARD DRESSED in his freshly-laundered dress uniform and, as he made his way out of the boarding house, he noticed himself in the dusty mirror that was hung in the hall: he had become the upright, self-respecting young soldier again. He paused. “Hello,” he said, smiling into the glass. It didn’t look quite right and so he cleared his face and tried again. “Hello,” he repeated in the slightly deeper voice he had perfected on the boat to India that first time, part of the routine he adopted as he settled himself into his new persona. “Hello. I’m Edward Fabian. Pleased to meet you.” He forced his smile wider, exposing his white teeth. That was better. He felt his shoulders drop a little and the muscles in his cheeks relaxed. He straightened his uniform. He was doing the right thing, behaving the right way. There was no need for anxiety. Edward Fabian, the soldier. It was a role he had played for seven years.

He emerged at Victoria and, after walking the short distance to Buckingham Palace, joined the long queue of military types at the Hyde Park Gate. He handed his invitation to the police officer on duty and crunched across the gravel into the quadrangle beyond the Palace’s great façade. A subaltern directed him to the ballroom. It had been arranged with several rows of chairs for the relatives and friends who were invited to witness the investiture. The colours were of red and gold, there were portraits hung in ornate frames, yards of lush drapes and carpets that you sank into, marble floors buffed so bright you could see your reflection in them. The chairs faced a dais where the King received the men who were being honoured. The room was empty at the moment. Edward introduced himself and was ushered into an anteroom for a brief education in royal protocol from a member of the house who remained staid and aloof, as if this teaching these ignorant yahoos how to scrape and bow was below him.

The men were finally led into the ballroom and directed to the reserved seating nearest to the dais. There were men from all three services: the face of a chap from the RAF was deformed by burns and a naval rating had had half of his leg blown off. Edward was in the front row next to those two men. He turned around, sca

King George, accompanied by a retinue of two Ghurkhas, made his way to the dais and the ceremony began. The men who were receiving the Victoria Cross went first, the rating and the airman among stepping up before Edward. The chamberlain read out their citation, they went forward, the King gave them their medal and said a few rehearsed words, they went back. Edward watched with wide eyes. The whole spectacle was utterly surreal.

“Edward Frederick Fabian.”

Edward leant forwards avidly as the chamberlain read out his citation. “Corporal Fabian carried out an individual act of great heroism by which he attacked and killed several of the enemy who had ambushed his own platoon. It was in direct face of the enemy, under intense fire, whilst wounded and at further great personal risk to himself. His valour is worthy of the highest recognition.”

Edward took his cue and went forwards, his face stern and impassive. The King shook his hand and held it for a moment. He leant forwards and spoke quietly into his ear. “Congratulations, corporal,” he said. When he was finished, Edward stepped back and saluted crisply.

There was an upswelling of applause for the three men. Joseph clapped most of all, beaming a wide grin, and Edward could not resist the explosion of pleasure in his breast. He gri

* * *

THEY FOUND A PUB near to the Palace and Joseph bought a couple of beers. “So that’s how you got shot?” Joseph said as soon as they were settled in a booth.

“Afraid so,” Edward said, feigning reluctance to go into detail.

“How many Japs were there?”

“Eight.”

“And they just opened up on you?”

“It was the monsoon––you know what that’s like. You couldn’t see much further than the front of your nose. Half a dozen of the lads had been hit before the rest of us knew what was going on. I was lucky––I just got the ricochet in the foot before I managed to get into the jungle and get a grenade away. That scattered them, and I picked the survivors off.”

“That’s a hell of a story.” He shook his head. “Stone the crows, Doc. The Victoria Cross. It doesn’t get better than that. One of my pals is a war hero.”

Edward savoured it. He drank it all in. It could not have been a more successful morning and now every moment to Edward was a pleasure. The ceremony had been tremendously agreeable in itself. And now there was Joseph’s acclaim, the way that strangers in the pub looked at him curiously, and the way that fellow servicemen, once they recognised the medal that was still pi

Edward felt proud for having arranged everything so perfectly. And yet, despite his pride, there was also a curious sense of remoteness. He could not share everything with Joseph, nor with anyone else. He had a feeling that everyone was watching him, as if he had an audience comprised of the entire world, a foreboding that kept him on his mettle, for, if he made a mistake now or in the future, it would be disastrous. Yet he felt absolutely confident that he was a match for the challenge he had presented for himself. He had had a lot of practice over the years, starting even from when he had been a small child, and this was no different. He was quite sure: he was good, and he would not make a mistake.

They finished their pints and ordered another.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” Joseph asked him.

Jimmy had said he could manage all day without him. “I don’t have any plans,” he said. “We could have a few drinks?”

“Why don’t you come with me to The Hill? It’s the carnival today––plenty of booze and fun, too. You should come, really, you should. My family will be there. I’d love to introduce you to them.”

Edward remembered what Joseph had said to him on the train: there was a successful Costello family business. His interest began to stir. Perhaps there was an opportunity to be had. It had been a good morning. Why not see if he could continue his good luck into the afternoon, too? He looked down at his pristine uniform and the bright new medal that glittered silver against the khaki fabric. He would never have a better chance to make a good first impression.

“Sounds like fun,” he said.