Read Online Armistice by Nick Stafford - Free Book Online Page A

The arguments in his mind spiraled and spun. He had to get away. And he wasn’t just running away from what he wanted to do to Anthony Dore, he was running toward Philomena. He had to tell her before someone else did. She had to hear his version first. He had to go to his chambers, find the address of her hotel, and go there. But first, to make the world seem a much better place than he knew it to be, he must snort some dope. He smiled at the grizzled man, who now advanced and slipped his purchase into his hand.
    A while later the night porter at The Daphne was being distinctly uncooperative. He was able to confirm that the young northern lady was in her room, or at least the key wasn’t on its hook, but he couldn’t contact the room because they didn’t have that sort of thing—an internal communications system—not even strings and bells, and he couldn’t go up and knock on the door for Jonathan or deliver a note because he couldn’t leave his post, such as it was. He was able to put a note in the pigeonhole for the room but he couldn’t guarantee that the young northern lady would get it firstthing. Much exasperated, Jonathan tried to appear as if he agreed that the night porter’s concerns were legitimate and paramount, while figuring a way to be allowed to pass. But what logic could sway a pedant as rigid as the scrawny wretch who stood in his way? No logic. He’d have to use the authority of his personality. He banged his fist down on the counter, making the droning porter jump.
    â€œLook. If she doesn’t get it, I might never see her again, so you are just going to have to let me up there,” Jonathan declared. “Turn your back if you want, pretend you never saw me. But don’t dare try to stop me.”
    The Daphne’s night porter, finding the gentleman quite tall and fierce, did turn his back, pretended to busy himself, humming under his breath.
    Philomena was in her nightclothes when the gentle tap came on her door. She had just been sweeping the bed. Her earlier appraisal that the room was the cleanest she’d seen at the price she could pay had had to be abandoned once she’d slipped between the sheets and the fleas had awoken. At the door she called, “Who is it?”
    â€œIt’s Jonathan,” came the reply. “I’m sorry to come up here unannounced and I’m sorry about earlier, but it’s desperately important that I speak with you.”
    He’d had a change of heart, of mind? She mustn’t let him go off again, but nor could he see her this undressed. She grabbed her coat from the rickety wardrobe and threw it around her shoulders, calling, “I’ll come out. You can’t come in.”
    â€œOf course not,” replied Jonathan. “I’ll wait out here, shall I?”
    Philomena opened the door a crack so she could see his face.
    â€œIs it about the sense and the feelings and the fuss?”
    Jonathan looked blank for a moment, before: “Yes! Yes, that’s exactly what I’m here about.”
    â€œWait there,” she said, and shut the door. Immediately she opened it again: “Where are we going?”
    â€œTo another cafe,” said Jonathan. “Where we can talk. I can tell you a story.”
    â€œOkay,” she said, and shut the door. She snatched it open again.’ “You won’t run off while I dress, will you?” she demanded.
    Jonathan shook his head.
    With her door closed she hurried into clean underwear, followed by the previous day’s outfit, topped by her hat, rammed down to cover the unkempt state of her hair.
    While Jonathan queued for mugs of tea Philomena looked around the cafe, thinking that that day had been the second strangest of her life, after the day following the Armistice when, as Dan’s declared next of kin, hungover from the celebrations, she had learned of his death. There were all sorts of men seated at the tables.