There was laughter at this, and some contemptuous imitations. The meaty-breathed one now released her and another of the men took charge. “Come on.” He touched her lips with a leather-gloved finger. “Pick one of us.” The finger traced the line of her jaw. The metallic eyes glittered. “Or we’ll pick for you.”
Instinct took over. She raised her knee hard and suddenly and watched his eyes widen with pain and fury. He reeled away, cursing and roaring. The meaty-breathed one now gripped her harder. He lifted his other fist, and Marion saw the knuckle-duster glitter in the overhead light. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the sickening impact of hard metal on soft flesh and delicate bone.
It never came. There were sudden shouts at the end of the passage and the sharp blast of police whistles. The men in black disappeared in an instant, into the shadows at the bottom of the alley. She heard, as if from a great distance, boots in steel toecaps clattering up what might have been fire escapes. On the dirty brick floor, the young man lay still, dark-haired, his white shirt stained with blood. There was something familiar about him.
“You’re brave, Maid Marion,” said Valentine.
“Stupid, you mean,” she muttered.
Half an hour after the frightening skirmish found them sitting in the pub nearest to the alley entrance. It was a rough place, but that was an advantage; no one batted an eyelid when she half carried, half dragged Valentine in and bought him a glass of whisky, for shock. She had bought herself one too.
He was in much better shape than had first seemed humanly possible. She had come, it seemed, at precisely the right time, before the beating had gotten properly underway. The blood covering his front had turned out to be his red scarf. “The trick is to make like the hedgehog,” he said. “Curl into as tight a ball as possible. So they can’t kick your head.”
His head had survived quite well, it seemed to her. He had a black eye, split lip and swollen cheek, but his teeth had survived. His smile remained wide and sunny. “You sound like you’re used to it,” she said.
“Occupational hazard, in my line of work.” He cocked his head at the newspapers. She followed his gaze. She had gathered up the clean ones from the dirty floor of the alley and shoved them in the bag she had found at the foot of the wall. “Not everyone’s a fan of Communism. The fans of Mussolini especially. Know who he is?”
His slightly patronizing tone stung, especially after what she had just done for him. “I do read the papers,” she snapped. “He’s the leader of Italy’s Fascists.”
He grinned. “Very good. He’s also the inspiration for our own dear Mr. Mosley, who’s just founded his own British Union of Fascists in tribute. It was from their friendly embrace that you just plucked me, in fact.”
Marion was curious. “Why don’t Fascists like Communists?”
She expected a long, fluent explanation, but Valentine hesitated. “It’s about the state, basically,” he said, after a pause.
“The state?”
“With Communism the state runs everything.”
“I see. And Fascism?”
“Well, that puts the state first. Basically, that’s the difference.”
Marion frowned. “Is that a difference?”
Valentine drew hard on his cigarette and let the smoke fall out of his mouth. The effect was curiously erotic. He rubbed his forehead. “Look, normally I’d be all over this. But my head, you know?”
She felt guilty. He’d been injured. Embarking on ideological debate probably wasn’t very fair, given the circumstances.
He was looking at his empty glass. “Another drink? It’s really helping with the pain. I’ll go to the bar. Er, lend me a couple of shillings?”
Waiting, she leafed through the Daily Worker. He returned with two glasses of whisky in each palm. “Thought I’d save myself the trouble of going back,” he said, sliding the four tumblers rather carelessly onto the table. Shooting out a hand to steady them, Marion tried not to dwell on the fact that they represented the last of her money. She had been rather counting on the change.
“Do you sell many of these?” she asked, gesturing at the Daily Worker as Valentine knocked back his first glass in one.
“That’s better! Sorry, what did you say?”
She repeated the question, adding, “It doesn’t look very interesting.”
“If by that you mean there’s none of the corruption and entertainment of the popular press, that’s deliberate.”
“Really? Why?”
“So as not to distract the masses from the struggle, of course.”
“But what if they want to be distracted?” She turned the pages, bemused. “There are no cartoons here, no fashion. You don’t even have any racing tips.”
“Racing tips won’t pull down the citadels of the bourgeoisie,” Valentine said sternly. “Or fashion, for that matter.”
She closed the paper. “Well, the revolution doesn’t sound like much fun to me.”
He shrugged and held up his second whisky glass. “Workers of the world, unite!”
She put the first of hers to her lips. The merest sip sent a coarse and fiery path down her gullet. He had clearly gone for quantity over quality. “What work do you do?” she asked, suddenly aware she had no idea.
“I’m a student,” he said, slightly defensively.
“So you’ve never actually worked? Never had a job?” A smile tugged the corners of her mouth.
He shrugged. “From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs.”
“What does that mean?”
He reached over. “It means I’ll have your spare whisky if you don’t want it. Down with the bourgeoisie!”
CHAPTER FOUR
She had expected her mother to be in bed. But as she hurried up the little street, a crack of light divided the front-room curtains. She slid her key into the lock and entered the cramped hall.
“Marion?”
She went to the threshold of the tiny sitting room. The bright rays of a table lamp outlined the comfortable figure of her mother, sitting sewing in her chair by the fire. She felt a wash of deep affection at the familiar scene. “Hello, Mother. Sorry I’m late.”
Mrs. Crawford’s plump, homely face was not, as usual, smiling. It was drawn with worry and bright with indignation. “You’re terribly late! We couldn’t imagine where you were!”
“We?”
“Well, Peter was here. Or had you forgotten he was coming?”