A tinny ring sounded from a rusty little box on the kitchen wall. James whispered, “That’ll be your dad. Or the bloody landlord.” He walked into the kitchen and pressed a button, unlocking the door downstairs.
It was Dad. He carried the box into the flat. He placed it on the small table by the window, carefully sliding the Bible book and the medals to one side.
I said, “I have a piece of furniture to show you, too, Mr. Harker. It’ll go well with your chair.” I slid the Philco 20 Deluxe up out of the box and into view. James’s face broke into a wide smile. “Cor! That’s the one, isn’t it?”
“This was your radio.”
“It’s the very one!”
“When did you last see it?”
“I expect it was the night I brought it back to the Embassy.” James leaned forward and touched its mahogany knobs.
Dad looked confused. He asked me, “But . . . that’s your grandmother’s radio, from Brookline, right?”
“Right.”
Then he asked James, “So how did you get it?”
“I got it from the Embassy’s storeroom. A kind of a lend-lease program.”
“Sorry?”
“My mate pinched it from a Yank.”
I looked at Dad before asking. “Mr. Harker, was the Yank a skinny young man named Martin Mehan?”
“That was his name, yeah. We took off his nameplate, in case we got caught.”
I kept my eyes on Dad. “What do you remember about Martin Mehan?”
James grinned weakly. “All’s I recall about him . . . is that he would set up the big shots with girls.”
“General Lowery, and people like that?”
“Yeah. Him. Joe Kennedy. All of ’em.”
“That’s all he would do?”
“I don’t know. That’s all I ever seen him do. Bill and me called him the ponce.”
Dad and I exchanged a puzzled look.
“Do ya not know that word, Jack?”
“No. Never heard it.”
James looked back and forth between us. “It’s like . . . I don’t mean to be indelicate, Martin, but like . . . a purveyor of women.”
“A pimp?” I suggested.
James winked at me. “There ya go, lad.”
Dad stared back at me until he finally understood. Then he smiled broadly. “I can’t believe it. Not the sainted Martin Mehan?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He emitted a short, dry laugh. “I heard his shrine was closing anyway.”
“That’s right. It never should have opened.”
Dad shook his head back and forth several times. He touched the war medals lightly. Then he took the book of illustrated Bible stories, opened it, and began reading.
James moved closer to the radio, examining its grillwork. He caressed the curve at the top of it like it was a child’s head, and he spoke with great emotion. “Jimmy loved to listen to this. When I’d let him. But I wouldn’t always let him.”
He paused as tears came to his eyes. “You shouldn’t be too hard with little boys. You should treat them as precious, because that’s what they are.” He picked up the medals. “I always told Jimmy not to be afraid—of the bombs, or the Nazis, or the dark. But he was just a little boy. He should have been afraid of those things.”
James looked through the window, into the distance. “I was afraid of those things.” He turned and looked at the bedroom. “I’m only afraid of one thing now.” He asked me, “Tell me, lad, aren’t you afraid of death?”
“No, sir. Not anymore.” I dared to add, “You shouldn’t be, either.”
“No?”
“No.”
“And Jimmy . . . he told you to tell me that he was sorry?”
“That’s right.”
“When I’m the one that needs to be sorry? For all my harsh words? And deeds?”
I couldn’t think of an answer to that.
“Just like his mum, he is.” James nodded thoughtfully for a long moment. Then he pulled his shoulders back, like a soldier. “So then, lad? What do we do first?”
I pointed at the Philco 20. “First you’ll need that.”
“What? The radio?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“That’s it. That’s how I met Jimmy, every time.”
James’s face registered surprise, just like Jimmy’s face had so often. He put both hands on the radio and tilted it slightly, to see how heavy it was. Then he picked it up, carried it into the bedroom, and set it carefully on the table. I reached into the box, pulled out the adapter, and followed him in. Dad did not move. He continued to read the Bible book like he was transfixed.
James sat on the creaky bed and whispered hoarsely, “Just tell me what to do, exactly, and I’ll do it.”
I knelt down and plugged the adapter into an outlet behind the table. I told him, “The way it worked for me is, I’d tune to a spot between the stations. I’d lie with my eyes looking at the dial and my ear listening to the static. Then . . . it would happen. I’d be with Jimmy.”
James nodded his understanding. “Tune it in for me, will you, then?”
“Yes, sir. All right.” I knelt down again and found a place on the dial that emitted a soft stream of static. I heard it crackling in my ear. I felt the warm glow of the orange dial on my face. I stood back up and looked at James, but words failed me beyond “Goodbye, then, Mr. Harker. Goodbye and good luck.”
He lay down heavily, on his left side, with his head near the radio. “Thank you, lad.”
But I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Not yet. I finally stammered, “Please, sir, if you think of it, tell him that . . . Johnny did his bit.”
I don’t know if James Harker was still listening or not. He faced the orange dial, with his eyes wide open, and waited. I turned away and hurried out.
Dad was still immersed in the Bible book. He looked up at me with awe in his eyes and in his face, like he was in the presence of a higher power.
I felt the same way. I felt that, for the first time in my life, I had done something great.
I walked to the door and waited there until Dad joined me. Then I led him down the stairs and into the street.
About halfway across, I stopped, turned, and looked back at James Harker’s windows. Was it happening now? Was Jimmy Harker in there, smiling his crooked smile? Was he chattering on about football, and pop songs, and the war news? Or was he now telling his father what to expect on the other side? Was he telling him about the next phase in the journey of his immortal soul?
Dad pulled me back slowly to the far curb to let a van drive by. That’s when I finally allowed myself to look away. I believed that my job was now finished. I believed that the rest was up to God.
But I also believed this: that I, pathetic, basement-dwelling Martin from Princeton Junction, New Jersey, had just served as His messenger.
THE HAUNTED CITY
Dad and I spent the rest of that day together. By silent agreement, we did not mention the events inside James Harker’s flat after we left there. Instead, at Dad’s suggestion, we studied the history of the medieval city of York. We toured its Viking museum and climbed its Roman ruins. Dad clearly wanted to stay as busy as possible, so we kept up a rapid pace. By six o’clock, the city was dark and we were exhausted.
When I woke up in the morning, though, the bottle of Napoleon brandy, still half full at bedtime, was completely empty. I looked over at Dad’s sleeping body and felt a deep, bruising disappointment.
I brushed my teeth, got dressed, and hurried out the hotel door. I ran to James Harker’s flat on Stonegate, stood in the street, and stared up at his windows. I could see the back edge of the table and one corner of the Queen Anne wing chair, but that was all. I thought about pushing his buzzer, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. If James Harker answered the door and told me to get my stupid bloody radio out of there, then I would go right back to being crazy. So I took off running again, sprinting all the way to the York Minster
.
I had to wait at least fifteen minutes until the door was unlocked. As soon as it was, I squeezed in past a volunteer who said, not too kindly, “Aren’t you the eager one today?”
I hurried past the donation desk without paying. I walked to the top of the nave, turned, and saw Sylvia sitting at the desk by the stairs. She greeted me with a smile. “First customer of the day.”
I plunked down a one-pound coin. “Yes, ma’am. Can I go up?”
“You can. Helen is already up there.”
“All right. Thanks.” I threw myself into the 275-step climb with great urgency, taking the steps two at a time, arriving at the top red-faced and gulping for air.
Helen was sitting in the small office. As soon as I caught my breath, I walked up to her, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you. You’re up here bright and early.”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you know if Mr. Harker is working today?”
“I believe he does work on Saturdays. He prefers to have the weekdays off. I do, too. It helps to get things done.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s just that I saw him last night. My dad and I saw him at the pub.”
She arched her eyebrows.
“Outside of the pub, really, nearer to the gutter, and he said he was not feeling too well.”
“No?”
“Anyway, I’m worried about him. I’m worried that maybe he has overslept?”
“Maybe.”
“I wouldn’t want him to lose his job.”
“No. Certainly not.”
“Perhaps you should call him?”
“He doesn’t have a phone. He can’t abide them.”
I persisted. “You said you help him out sometimes, when he doesn’t show up for work. How do you do that?”
“I walk over there. It’s not far.” She looked at her watch.
I prodded her. “Could you walk over there now?”
“Well, yes. I suppose I could do that and get back in thirty minutes. Don’t you think?”
“I think so.”
“All right, then. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll tell Sylvia on the way out. But if anybody else asks, say I’ll be right back.”
“Yes, ma’am, I will.”
Helen grabbed her purse, walked to the stair entrance, and disappeared.
I waited a moment and then slipped into the office. I checked under the counter and found the pair of binoculars. Then I ran across the roof to my previous spot, the spot where I could see Stonegate and a blue door.
I was watching that door when Helen arrived. I watched her push the buzzer and wait patiently. Then I watched her back out into the street and look up.
I turned when I heard a sound. A group of tourists had joined me on the roof.
I looked back through the binoculars and watched Helen pull out a cell phone and make a call. A few moments later, she made another one.
Sylvia arrived on the roof and announced, breathlessly, that the tourists were free to go back down. She stayed in the office after that, and I stayed at my spot until another group of tourists arrived.
I looked again through the binoculars, and I saw the lights of a police car parked on Stonegate. The policeman and Helen had been joined by the large gray-and-black figure of the landlord. At that point, I knew what was happening at James Harker’s flat, and I began to cry.
Five minutes later, an ambulance pulled up to the blue door. I focused as best I could through my tears as two men carried a stretcher inside. Then I dried my tears on my coat sleeve, turned, and ran back to the office. I spoke loudly to Sylvia. “Here! I borrowed these. Please, I have to go down. Now!”
“Sorry, love. You’ll have to wait.”
“No! I can’t wait. I have to go.” I ran to the door and hurtled myself back down the spiraling steps. I made it halfway down before I encountered a clump of tourists. I forced myself past them, and then past a second group, before I arrived at the bottom. There, I slowed from a run to a brisk walk through the nave and out the heavy door.
Once on the street, I sprinted full out all the way to Stonegate. I arrived just as the stretcher bearers were coming back out. I stood and watched as they lifted up James Harker’s body and placed him in the ambulance. He looked very calm and collected, like Nana had at her viewing. He looked like he had died at peace.
Helen walked out right after that. Her eyes were red and puffy and filled with tears. She looked at me and shook her head sadly. “Did you hear what happened?”
“No.”
“He died in his sleep. Poor man.”
“He did look peaceful.”
“Yes. They say that’s the best way to go. In your sleep.”
“Yeah.”
“He prayed every day. I’m sure he has gone on to his reward.”
“So am I.”
“Forgive me, now—” The woman stopped and looked at me. “What is your name?”
“Martin, ma’am. Martin Conway.”
“Forgive me, Martin. There’s much to be done. I need to speak to a solicitor. And I need to get back to the Minster.” Helen hurried off in the direction of the cathedral.
I turned and looked at the blue door. It was ajar. Someone had placed a wooden stick between the door and the doorjamb, propping it open so the police and ambulance guys could get in.
And it was still there.
I checked left and right and then slipped inside. I took the stairs two at a time to James Harker’s flat. The door was wide open, and I could hear someone inside, moving.
I stepped quietly into the doorway and looked around. There was the landlord, big and menacing, and still in his black jacket. He was huffing around the flat, checking in drawers, touching things, moving things. But the most troubling sight of all was right in front of me. He had dragged the Queen Anne wing chair to the center of the room. The Philco 20 Deluxe was perched awkwardly on its leather cushion. So were the World War I medals and the six-volume set of The Second World War.
I barked at him, “What do you think you’re doing?”
The landlord whirled around, startled. His hand shot involuntarily to his heart. Then he growled, “Who the devil are you?”
“I’m a friend of Mr. Harker’s.”
“Mr. Harker don’t live here no more.”
“I know that. He just died, about five minutes ago. What are you doing touching his property?”
“I’m collecting money he owes me. Now bugger off.”
“Money he owes you? For what?”
The landlord looked me up and down. Then he turned away and muttered, “I caught him smokin’ in here. He owes me a cleaning fee for the drapes and the rug. They all stink of smoke, don’t they?” He pointed at his pile of loot. “These’ll fetch something. To cover my expenses.”
“No! You have no right to steal his property!”
“I’ve heard about enough from you. Back off, my boy, or you’ll get hurt.”
I wasn’t about to back off. “That radio isn’t even his, it’s mine!”
“Is it, now? It has no identification on it.”
I stepped into the flat and walked to the radio. “Yes, it does. It has my identification number right here: 291240.” I clutched the sides of the Philco 20 and spun it around. “Look!”
Instead of replying, though, he suddenly reached over and grabbed the front of my coat, up near my neck. “I don’t need to look at nothing. And you’re leaving, boy, now!”
He dragged me two steps toward the door before I could dig my heels in and stop. Then I grabbed his thick wrist in both of my hands and twisted it with all my might. That made him let go of my coat, but he managed to grab the back of my neck with his left hand. We lurched around the room together like that, twisting and snarling, until I heard a shout: “Take your hands off of him!”
I looked up and saw Dad standing in the doorway, with a horrified expression on his face. He flushed bright red with anger and tightened both of his fists.
Th
e landlord was so startled by the sound of Dad’s voice that he let go of my neck. I changed my stance and gave his wrist one more mighty twist, turning his whole body toward Dad. Dad took one step forward, reared back, and hit him with a right-hand punch, full in the stomach, his hand disappearing momentarily into a roll of flab. The landlord exhaled a short, loud, sickening sound, like he was about to throw up.
I pushed him toward the door as hard as I could. At the same time, Dad grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled. The landlord’s doubled-over body pitched out into the hallway and partly down the stairs. He grabbed at the wall with one hand to keep from plummeting the rest of the way. He slid down the wall like a wet slug, all the way down to the doorway and out into the street. Dad yelled after him, “Don’t you come back here!”
Dad stared at the door a few moments longer. Then he turned and asked, “Are you all right, Martin?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah. He was all blubber. A big nothing.”
“What on earth happened here?”
“Mr. Harker is dead, Dad.”
His face turned pale. “Dead?”
“Dead. The ambulance just took him away.”
“My God, Martin.” He stared toward the empty bedroom. “Did we . . . did we do this?”
I answered confidently, “Yes. We did. I believe we did this.”
Dad leaned heavily against the doorjamb. “God in heaven.”
I waited for him to speak again, but he seemed totally lost in thought. After a few minutes, though, he finally looked back at me, and the Queen Anne chair, and the mess in the room. “But why did that man attack you?”
“I caught him stealing Mr. Harker’s stuff. He was trying to steal my radio, too.”
“And you fought with him?”
“Yes. Or I’d say we fought with him.”
Dad straightened himself and looked around. “Yeah. Well, we should take that radio with us now. If you want to keep it.”
I thought about the harrowing times I had had with Jimmy—the terrors, the night sweats, the petit mal seizure—but I told him, “Yeah. I want to keep it. Definitely.” So we packed up the Philco 20 once more. After a last look around, I pulled the door to Mr. Harker’s flat closed and we returned to the hotel.
Back in our room at the Wayfarer, Dad set the box with the radio down very gently. Then he opened the top of my suitcase, rummaged for a few seconds, and pulled out the sheaf of papers. “I hope you don’t mind, but I was looking at these papers of yours.”