When Darkness Falls
Chapter 7
Foyle sighed and tipped his head back to take in what was left of the ceiling. Of course he couldn't rest. How could he rest? For goodness sake he could barely keep still, let alone close his eyes. They were trapped in a bombed out building for goodness sake with no obvious way of getting out...and even if he could manage to excavate his way out of the rubble, he'd be forced to leave Sam behind, abandon her while he saved himself, and that simply wouldn't …..couldn't happen. He sighed again.
If he were honest, and generally that's where his values resided, he'd have to acknowledge that it would be many hours before anybody even realised they were here and then they'd have to wait until first light for any meaningful help to arrive.
Unfortunately, having the kind of mind that toiled away unbidden, constantly lacing together pieces of evidence like a house-proud spider, he was rarely able to truly relax and right now his mind was far too busy to allow him to just sit and wait in idleness.
Climbing over a pile of broken bricks, one of many that now surrounded the trio, he made his way slowly back to what remained of the bar. Based on what Grimshaw had said earlier, he found Carseldine's body twisted around the metal frame of a stool. The back of the man's skull had been crushed, distorting his face and causing his already harsh features to resemble a sort of lean framed Quasimodo. More than likely he would have died instantly. Just out of habit, Foyle reached down and covered the man's face with the nearest cloth - a dirty apron stained by some sort of foul smelling green liqueur. Not terribly dignified, he knew, but it was the best that he could manage. Even in a crisis, he thought, it was best to follow protocols, the rules that governed his daily worklife. If nothing else, it kept his hands busy and allowed his mind to process.
Standing, he spotted something poking out from under Carseldine's bent elbow. There was hardly any light in the room, the sun was well on its way down but there was something quite unusual about the object. Trying not to disturb the corpse, he reached in and drew out a small grey book. The thick dusty residue on the cover came away with a quick wipe of his hand and, using his thumb, he flicked it open. It was, however, a fruitless task. No matter how slowly he turned the pages or how he angled the shiny paper, he simply couldn't see well enough to read what was on them so he slipped the book into the pocket of his jacket – something to study later.
He turned and went to make his way back to Sam, feeling satisfied that what he'd found had brought him just one step closer to figuring out this whole convoluted mess. As he put his weight on his right foot, the piece of broken timber beneath rolled and he felt himself begin to fall. As a reflex he grappled for the nearest solid object – a task made all the more difficult by the fact that almost nothing existed above knee level. Finding a strut, the long thin metal contorted, his fingers grasped eagerly. His steadying grip certainly prevented him from falling over completely but, unfortunately, it didn't stop his knee from ramming into Carseldine's muscular leg. The grey and blotchy body wobbled in protest and Foyle cursed.
Out of Carseldine's hip pocket, the knock to his thigh having opened up a flap, fell a small brass key. It clinked against the polished floor as it bounced a couple of times and stopped. Furrowing his brow, Foyle bent and picked it up. He only managed to get it to his knee before a cord stopped the movement. Foyle's fingers followed the cord to its source, Carseldine's belt loop, and slipped open the knot. The key and its tether now found themselves in Foyle's pocket.
A rather feminine groan sounded.
"Coming!" he called, mindful of his voice's volume. "Don't try and get up."
Hurrying over the rubble, this time paying much more attention to where he put his feet, he went to Sam's side.
"Mr Foyle?" she whispered, her voice sounding hoarse, almost unrecognisable.
"Right here, Sam" he consoled, kneeling down beside her right shoulder. He braced himself with one hand flat on the floor beside her head and with the other he felt her forehead for a temperature.
As his palm touched her skin, she started to cough, a kind of dry hacking bark that he really hoped sounded much worse than it actually was. Slipping his hand from her forehead and placing it behind her shoulders, he lifted her.
"Can you sit up, Sam?" he asked quietly.
He held her inclined, taking the weight of her upper body in his palm as her lungs expelled the dust and muck that she'd spent the last few hours breathing in.
The spasms soon eased, allowing her to draw in a deep breath. With her next, she asked "what happened, Sir?"
"Raid" he simply replied and slowly lowered her back down.
"You mean I've been bombed….again?" she asked him, relaxing her shoulders as he brought the coat back up to cover her chest. He nodded.
"Are you hurt, Sir?"
"No" he replied, shaking his head. He offered her a small, quick smile and asked "You think you could drink something?"
"I could try, Sir."
Together they managed to get most of the lemonade into her mouth and only a little bit on her chin – Foyle wiped it away with his thumb.
"Are we the only ones here, Sir?" she asked him after he'd helped her to lie back down again.
"No" he said and nodded to the mountain of a man who was lightly snoring about four feet to her left, the dust stained cloth that covered him rising and lowering in a slow rhythm.
Sam gave Foyle a confused look. Her mouth opened and closed in silence, as if she'd wanted to ask a thousand question but had had second thoughts.
"His name's Grimshaw" Foyle said, twisting himself around so that he sat, not altogether comfortably, on the floor beside her. "He's actually a decent man. And he patched you up." Foyle put out a hand and patted her forearm.
The sudden arrival of an overwhelming sense of guilt surprised and unnerved him. It welled up inside his gut and threatened to bubble its way to the surface. Why? Was it because he wasn't the one who had tended to her wounds, that he'd let a complete stranger be her protector? Or was it because he had allowed another man to become so familiar with her, so physically close to the woman his son was stepping out with? Either way it was irrational, not to mention unfair. He pushed it away.
"Patched me up, Sir?" she queried, lifting her head to look down at her own body. She groaned with the effort.
"Steady on" he said, helping to ease her down. "You've had a knock to the head" he explained. "And I suspect that your left leg is broken."
"My head feels fine, Sir but …. my leg is hurting quite a bit" she admitted, her lips pursing in discomfort.
"I wish I could help, Sam. I really do but...there's little I can offer you. I'm sorry."
"How are we going to get out of here?" she asked, her eyes darting around the almost completely dark room.
"Well, there's apparently no hope of getting out of here until morning" he told her. On seeing her face, he instantly regretting bursting her small and rather delicate bubble of hope.
"Oh."
"So you're stuck here with me for a little while" he said jovially and, just as quickly, the smile returned to her face.
As they talked, reliving memories of past cases and generally amusing each other with funny anecdotes, the temperature in the room slowly dropped. Foyle shifted uncomfortably, trying to draw his middle-aged limbs in towards his torso – exercising the kind of flexibility that he, thankfully, hadn't had to test in many years. The discomfort, however, was all for naught, and he soon became quite cold. He began to shiver, which he somewhat successfully hid from Sam but when his teeth started to chatter, it was a much more difficult thing to hide.
"You must be freezing, Sir" she said to him, using the kind of voice he imagined her using when she had accompanied her father on Parish visits. "Where is your coat?" she asked, returning the concern that he had shown to her just a couple of days ago.
He flicked his head, nodding towards her middle. Sam lifted a hand and touched the fabric that was covering her.
"Here, Sir" she said, attempting to pull the felt-like coat off her body.
"No, no!" he exclaimed, taking her hand off the coat's lapel. "Keep it on….please."
"But I have the coat you loaned to me….your wife's….you have this one."
He shook his head and rested his hand on her shoulder.
"Not much left of that now…" he stated, his voice calm, "...it was used to splint your leg."
"Oh no!" she protested, once again looking down to her leg. "I'm so sorry, Sir. You must be …. quite upset…..your wife's coat!"
"Really doesn't matter, Sam" he assured her, patting her hand. "Just a coat….went to a good cause."
"Still," she grumbled, her chin resting on her chest, "I am sorry it's been ruined."
"Don't be" he asked of her, adding a smile.
Turning, Foyle grabbed the corner of the donated table cloth, shaking it out with a flick of his wrist. With an almost silent humph, he gave in and wrapped it around his shoulders, pulling the two long corners in tightly under his neck. It wasn't elegant, nor was it particularly practical, but it did stop his teeth from chattering. That alone was enough for him to let go of his dignity for one night.
"Can I tell you something, Sir?" Sam asked, rolling her head to face him.
"Of course you can." He gave her one of his smiles that made his eyes twinkle.
Now that he was starting to warm up he let his legs relax. His shoes slid along the fine powder that covered the floor.
"I did receive a letter from Andrew."
What he wanted to say was 'so did I' but he resisted the urge – there was nothing good that could possibly come from that exchange. The room fell silent while he waited for her to speak and he could tell, just by listening to her breathing, that she was thinking.
"He, um…." she began but stalled as her voice was swallowed in a hiccough. She turned away from him and took a moment to draw in a deep breath.
"What is it?" he quietly asked.
"...it seems he's thrown me over, Sir."
Foyle groaned. The ruddy fool of a boy, Foyle thought to himself, tensing his jaw. What was he thinking? This beautiful, intelligent, strong and dependable young woman was here waiting for him to return and all he could think of was the next best thing, tossing her faithfulness on the scrap heap like an unwanted Christmas toy on the 3rd of January.
"Oh.." was what he actually managed to say. After a pause, feeling like he really ought to add something more, he said "I'm sorry, Sam."
He waited silently for her to turn back to him which, of course, she did.
"Is that what upset you, Sam? What you couldn't tell me about this morning?" He glanced at the luminous face of his watch and corrected himself "...yesterday morning?"
She nodded.
"Why didn't you tell me? You know you can talk to me about…..anything."
"I didn't want you to think badly of him, Sir."
She was still putting others before herself, even with her heart broken. Andrew certainly didn't deserve her. She deserved someone who could be depended upon, someone who would stick by her, look after her, and put her needs first. She needed a man….not a boy and his son had firmly planted himself into the latter category.
Beside them Grimshaw snorted, shuffled his legs and slowly sat up.
"Oh" he mumbled, wiping the crusted-on spittle from the corner of his mouth with the cloth that he still held around him. "Good to see you awake." He crawled across the small space and pulled up the coat on Sam's chest, pressing the lapels against her neck to add extra warmth. He tucked the edges in under her shoulders and gave her arm a pat. Foyle smiled.
"Will you be alright if I close my eyes for a bit, Sam?" Foyle asked, taking himself to a secluded corner not too far away.
"I think so, Sir" she responded, giving the newcomer a wary smile. "Where are you going?"
"Just over here" he replied, propping a table top against a wall. "Call if you need me."
He leaned back, pulled up the table cloth and closed his eyes. Sleep took him quickly.
Foyle wasn't sure if it was the sun's light streaming through the half-blocked window or the familiar booming voice that woke him but he was equally happy to be a witness to both.
The split piece of timber that he'd called a bed for the last few hours creaked as he pushed up against it. He was still cold and the grumble in his stomach reminded him of how very hungry he was but the sun had risen and Sam was okay – not a bad effort. He stood and stretched.
On the far side of the room he saw Grimshaw sitting beside Sam, holding her hand firmly and stroking her knuckles with his thumb. Both of them had smiles on their faces although he could tell, just by looking at Sam, that she had not had a very restful night. Her cheeks were pale and she had dark rings under her eyes.
As he slowly made his way over to the couple, he said "sounds like the cavalry's arrived." In truth, he was sure that they, too, had heard the voices outside. Both he and Sam had been working with Reid and Milner for long enough to recognise their voices in an instant, even from behind a bomb damaged wall, but he felt the need to announce his presence and that seemed like the most mundane and least awkward way to do it.
Mirroring Sam's smile, he once again crouched and put a hand on her forehead, lifting her tussled hair with his index finger.
"You ready to get out of here?" he asked.
"You bet I am!"
Milner's muffled voice sounded from outside.
"Mr Foyle! Sam!" he called.
"Christopher!" Reid added, a slight panic evident in his voice.
"In here!" Foyle called back, moving as close to the sound as he could manage without causing any more damage.
"We're going to try and push the doors in" Milner bellowed.
"No!" Foyle hurriedly called back, his eyes flicking up to the long beams that were leaning against the door. "The roof will cave in!"
"Got a better idea, Christopher?" Reid questioned, frustration underlining his words.
Foyle scanned the room, making a mental note of where the ceiling seemed to be still intact. Of course he had no idea what the structure looked like above, or even if anything above them still existed, but it was all he had to work on.
"Hold on!" Foyle yelled.
Grabbing a stool from the rubble, he placed it under a bowed ceiling panel.
"Do be careful, Sir" Sam cautioned as he reached up and gave the side beam a tentative push. While his end took the pressure calmly, the snapped timber on the opposite corner creaked in annoyance.
"It won't take the barrage, Mr Foyle" Grimshaw said with absolute certainty as he, too, stepped up onto a rickety chair. "One push," he explained, touching the support beam, "and the whole thing will cave in...none of us will see the light of day."
With a deep and deliberate intake of air, Grimshaw stood, stretching to his whole height. Taking the unsteady beam into his hands he brought it over and rested it against his broad shoulder. His feet took the widest stance that he could manage, his toes right at the edge of the chair, and he blew out his breath through tight lips.
"If they go slowly, Mr Foyle," he said, his concentration fixed, "I can hold it still. At least for long enough for you to get yourself and Sam to safety."
"Danny! No!" Sam called, her upper body resting on her elbows.
Foyle turned to the broad chested man. "You sure, lad?"
"I can hold it, Mr Foyle" he said with a nod, although eye contact was sadly lacking.
"Christopher?!" Reid's voice bellowed. "You still with us?"
"Western wall, Hugh" Foyle replied, "Steady as you go."
Soon the deep rumble of a tractor's engine broke their silence and the wall on the western side of the building began to creak. The floor under them shook with ferocity, as the centuries old building protested this latest assault on its dignity.
"Alright?" Foyle called to Grimshaw.
"Yep."
Foyle nodded and made his way over to where Sam was.
"It'll be alright" he told her, gently pushing her shoulders down so that she was flat on the floor. Her eyes met his, the fear in them obvious.
Everything began to vibrate around them and Foyle looked up at the roof as more debris began to fall. Bricks and panels of wood rained down, hitting the floor in twos and threes, the resulting din quite unnerving.
Cradling her head in his hand, his fingers braced against the back of her neck, he spread his body over hers, his forearm on the floor next to her ear, one leg out stretched. She turned her head, pressing her cheek firmly against the top of his chest.
The coat that was keeping her warm was quickly tossed and he felt her arms wrap themselves around his torso, her finger tips digging into the flexed muscles in his back. Her words, vibrating against his chest in rhythmic prose, told him that she was praying fervently and he, never normally one to do so out loud, joined her.
Come on, Reid. Get a move on!
There was an almighty crash, making them both start. The air was suddenly filled with thick red-grey dust as half of the wall collapsed inwards, spreading bricks and glass in all directions. Sam stifled a yelp.
Sunlight streamed in as the cloud of dust and dirt settled. The strained engine cut out.
"Danny!" Sam called, releasing her grip on Foyle.
"Hurry!" Grimshaw bellowed back, his voice strained, the legs of the chair beneath him creaking against the warped floor below.
Flicking his body over, Foyle quickly slipped his hands under Sam, one under her shoulders, the other bracing against her splint.
In one swift movement, he raised her up off the floor, pulling her towards his chest as he stood. Her hands linked around his neck, holding tightly, as he made his way over the rubble towards the opening.
Reid met them as they exited, his feet slipping on the debris in his haste.
"Hugh, help the lad!" Foyle shouted, nodding his head back to where Grimshaw still stood, his eyes closed, his face red with strain.
Reid cursed, the fear and surprise obvious in his voice. He whistled over two young constables, who obeyed in an instant, and all three of them fumbled their way through the rubble.
Foyle continued on, taking Sam to a waiting police vehicle, the back door open. He slid her into the long bench seat, apologising as a bump to her leg caused her to cry out.
Before he could shut the door, though, a loud crash came from over his shoulder. What little remained of the pub had now caved in and collapsed, leaving a rambling mess of bricks, timber and glass in an uneven arc.
"Danny!" Sam shouted, her cry adding to the chaotic din. She pushed against Foyle's chest, trying desperately to get out of the car.
"No!" Foyle said, the firmness in his voice surprising even him. "Stay here."
Foyle held his breath as he turned around, one hand on Sam's shoulder, the other braced against the car's door.
Ahead of him he saw four figures, two large and two small, all covered in dust, their faces unrecognisable.
One of the taller ones turned and with the palm of his hand wiped the muck from the faces of the two smaller ones.
"Right" Reid said, his voice unmistakably familiar, "go and see the doc...both of you."
"Yes, Sir" one of them replied, scraping the rest of the dust from his face with his fingernails.
The other just coughed, unable, it seemed, to speak.
"And once you've been cleared" Reid added, pausing while he turned his head to cough, "go and see Sgt Rivers." He coughed again, hunching his shoulders as he brought up muck from his lungs. "You did well, lads….very well….thank you."
The other tall figure, much broader in stature, scraped a shaking hand across his face and wiped it onto the front of his shirt. He strode over to the car. Foyle put out his hand and shook it firmly. Nodding, he stepped aside giving Grimshaw access to the back seat.
Leaving his ecstatic driver to her squeals of delight, Foyle strode over to where Reid stood.
"Who is that bloody man-mountain, Christopher?" Reid asked between coughing fits.
"Daniel Grimshaw" Foyle told him. "Home guard….and, in case you hadn't already guessed, he's rather smitten."
"With your driver?" Reid asked, his face still displaying his confusion.
Foyle put a hand on Reid's back, giving him a solid thump between the shoulder blades as another coughing spasm took over.
"Well, I don't think he finds me all that attractive, Hugh."
Hugh rolled his eyes. "Weren't she and Andrew…?"
"Long story, Hugh..."
Before they left, Foyle climbed into the back of the car and sat down on the edge, his added weight making the springs creak.
"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly, patting her hand.
"Tired, hungry….and my leg's really giving me gyp, Sir."
"Won't be long now, Sam" he quietly said and bent over to plant a quick kiss on her cheek. "You'll be alright if I let this chap escort you to the hospital?" he asked, nodding his head in Grimshaw's direction.
"I won't leave her, Mr Foyle" he said, solemnly, and reached under Foyle's arm to grip Sam's hand.
Foyle smiled and nodded. "I'll come to the hospital later and see how you're getting on."
"Jolly good, Sir."