the cap folded up in his inside overcoat pocket, Royle set a decent Guardsman's pace toward Central station. The station was away from the busy crowds of the city centre. He bought a paper at the station and scanned it looking for anything about him. He found nothing. Satisfied, he bought a ticket and waited for the London train.
A poster proclaimed that the Peak Express would only take three hours and thirty-five minutes to the capital. It seemed to Royle to be quite a boast, but a fast get-a-way was certainly in order, so he was pleased, as he sat in the crowded third-class compartment as the train pulled away. He had been lucky and had found a window seat. He hadn't wanted to be on an end seat, as passing people could get a good look at his face. This way, his seating area was blocked from observation, by the large, talkative man with the newspaper. This suited Harry perfectly. He wanted to appear that he and the stranger were good friends.
The man was well dressed, but not overly smart. He had short tight black curly hair and something of a Charley Chaplin moustache. He had kind eyes and a nervous leg that bounced in time with the train. The two talked of weather and train times, and then the conversation turned to work. Royle told the man, whose name was Ernie Scuttle, that he was a printer and had his samples stolen. This got sympathy but stopped further questions on the subject.
Scuttle was a salesman for Ewbank and spent a large part of the journey trying to sell Harry the latest self-lifting mangle. The leaflet thrust into Royle's hand proclaimed the new machine to be so good as to be worth talking about. Harry was amused both by the sales pitch, as well as the machine. The journey passed comfortably and Harry Royle arrived at St Pancras relaxed and ready for what lay ahead. Shaking hands firmly, they parted company with the promise of a future meeting over a drink. But Harry knew this was an empty promise.
Chapter 5
Soho, London: December 1938
Getting to the capital was only the beginning, as Harry didn't know anyone or have any place to go. Royle had managed to keep his head down. His money ran out too quickly, and he had only been able to afford a room for the first week. After that, he had given it up, deciding that food was more important than shelter. He managed to wash and shave in different public toilets, but his clothes began to look shabby, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before either, he was spotted, or else would have to give himself up. He had been sleeping rough in different places for three days. Three long days without food and with only water from fountains and toilet sink taps. Harry was trying to get comfortable at four in the morning, in a disused shop doorway, just off the Old Kent Road, hungry and worn out, when voices startled him.
Looking up he saw a woman struggling with two drunken men. She was trying desperately to get away. Harry staggered to his feet and saw the fear in her eyes, as one of the men pointed at him and grunted at him to stay where he was. Royle hurled himself at the big man closest to him. The woman shouted out a warning and was slapped hard across the face for her trouble.
"Watch out he's got a blade."
Her words came just in time for Harry to twist his body to one side and only receive a slash from the razor blade. Royle's fist struck the man's jaw, sending him backwards with such a force as to lift him off his feet. Turning, Royle shouted at the other man, who, releasing his hold on the woman's arm, shambled off into the night. She came over to Harry's side, as he stumbled and held onto a doorway to steady himself.
"You're hurt, he's bleedin' cut you, we need to get you to hospital."
Harry Royle gripped her wrist, as he looked wildly around him.
"No hospitals, I can't risk it. I'll be alright."
"You darlin' look done in to me. Ain't you got no friends around here?"
The man shook his head in defeat and answered.
"I don't have a
A poster proclaimed that the Peak Express would only take three hours and thirty-five minutes to the capital. It seemed to Royle to be quite a boast, but a fast get-a-way was certainly in order, so he was pleased, as he sat in the crowded third-class compartment as the train pulled away. He had been lucky and had found a window seat. He hadn't wanted to be on an end seat, as passing people could get a good look at his face. This way, his seating area was blocked from observation, by the large, talkative man with the newspaper. This suited Harry perfectly. He wanted to appear that he and the stranger were good friends.
The man was well dressed, but not overly smart. He had short tight black curly hair and something of a Charley Chaplin moustache. He had kind eyes and a nervous leg that bounced in time with the train. The two talked of weather and train times, and then the conversation turned to work. Royle told the man, whose name was Ernie Scuttle, that he was a printer and had his samples stolen. This got sympathy but stopped further questions on the subject.
Scuttle was a salesman for Ewbank and spent a large part of the journey trying to sell Harry the latest self-lifting mangle. The leaflet thrust into Royle's hand proclaimed the new machine to be so good as to be worth talking about. Harry was amused both by the sales pitch, as well as the machine. The journey passed comfortably and Harry Royle arrived at St Pancras relaxed and ready for what lay ahead. Shaking hands firmly, they parted company with the promise of a future meeting over a drink. But Harry knew this was an empty promise.
Chapter 5
Soho, London: December 1938
Getting to the capital was only the beginning, as Harry didn't know anyone or have any place to go. Royle had managed to keep his head down. His money ran out too quickly, and he had only been able to afford a room for the first week. After that, he had given it up, deciding that food was more important than shelter. He managed to wash and shave in different public toilets, but his clothes began to look shabby, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before either, he was spotted, or else would have to give himself up. He had been sleeping rough in different places for three days. Three long days without food and with only water from fountains and toilet sink taps. Harry was trying to get comfortable at four in the morning, in a disused shop doorway, just off the Old Kent Road, hungry and worn out, when voices startled him.
Looking up he saw a woman struggling with two drunken men. She was trying desperately to get away. Harry staggered to his feet and saw the fear in her eyes, as one of the men pointed at him and grunted at him to stay where he was. Royle hurled himself at the big man closest to him. The woman shouted out a warning and was slapped hard across the face for her trouble.
"Watch out he's got a blade."
Her words came just in time for Harry to twist his body to one side and only receive a slash from the razor blade. Royle's fist struck the man's jaw, sending him backwards with such a force as to lift him off his feet. Turning, Royle shouted at the other man, who, releasing his hold on the woman's arm, shambled off into the night. She came over to Harry's side, as he stumbled and held onto a doorway to steady himself.
"You're hurt, he's bleedin' cut you, we need to get you to hospital."
Harry Royle gripped her wrist, as he looked wildly around him.
"No hospitals, I can't risk it. I'll be alright."
"You darlin' look done in to me. Ain't you got no friends around here?"
The man shook his head in defeat and answered.
"I don't have a
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