Under a Lightning Sky

PAM LECKY

UNDER A

LIGHTNING

SKY

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024

Copyright © Pam Lecky 2024

Cover design by Sarah Foster/HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

Cover photographs © Jill Battaglia/Trevillion Images (landscape); © Collaboration JS/Arcangel Images (couple) and Shutterstock.com (planes)

Pam Lecky asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008558338

Ebook Edition © July 2024 ISBN: 9780008558345

Version: 2024-05-13

To Ann and Peter Brown

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

1

19th December 1940, Green Street, St. John’s Wood, London

Madeline Fairfax shivered as a chill seeped through the upper floor of her home. Lighting a fire was pointless with the Luftwaffe due to pay their nightly visit within the hour. Too lethargic to fetch another layer of clothes from her bedroom across the hall, Madeline pulled her cardigan closer around her body instead. As the evening shadows lengthened, she leaned against the door frame of her sons’ bedroom.

The room was far too tidy; that was the problem. Madeline smiled to think how upset she used to be when the children left their toys lying around on the floor. Now, the house was too quiet with the poor little mites evacuated to that ghastly farm belonging to Arthur’s aunt.

Madeline had never wanted them to be evacuated, but her protests had been ignored. If they had gone to their grandparents in Oxford, she might have felt more at ease, but Arthur’s parents had been suspiciously ready with excuses not to take David and Peter into their care. The only alternative Arthur would accept was Aunt Pearl. And Arthur always got what he wanted.

They had only visited the boys in Aylesbury once since their evacuation in September. A disaster of a visit. She came away convinced Pearl had turned the boys against her, for they wriggled impatiently when she tried to hug them goodbye. Arthur dismissed her fears as ridiculous, and the journey home had been a silent one. But silence was the currency of their relationship, and she preferred it. It made life bearable.

At least the boys were coming home for Christmas on Saturday. And if she had anything to do with it, David and Peter would not go back to Aylesbury after the holiday, no matter what Arthur might have to say on the subject.

She was determined to make sure it would be the best Christmas ever. One they would never forget. She had even bought them presents; not exactly what she had wanted – those wooden handmade toys – but at least there would be something under the tree on Christmas morning. For now, the gifts were out of reach of little hands and prying eyes at the top of the wardrobe in her bedroom.

With a happy sigh, Madeline thought of the one hundred and fifty pounds hidden in her lingerie drawer and how she might spend it. She’d have to be careful, of course, so that Arthur wouldn’t notice. It was a delicious secret to make the staleness of her marriage more tolerable. She was easily bored. That was the trouble. In fact, it had always been the problem. So many of her scrapes over the years were fuelled by it.

Of course, her sister Penny hadn’t held back with her opinion about Arthur as soon as they’d announced their engagement. The night before Madeline’s wedding, they had had a massive row. Penny pleaded with her not to go through with it. She had accused Madeline of marrying him only to get away from behind the counter of their father’s jewellery shop. It had turned into a screaming match, only ending when Madeline had flounced out of the house when Penny said that Arthur was staid and stuck-up. Of course, he was both those things, but Madeline knew she could mould him to her will. Or so she had thought.

Madeline still regretted the argument, for it had damaged an otherwise close relationship. They hadn’t spoken for months afterwards. And unfortunately, Penny had been right. Why hadn’t she listened to her concerns? Still, there was no point in dwelling on past mistakes.

Madeline’s gaze shifted from the empty beds to the window. She ought to have pulled down the blackout blinds an hour ago. Mr Atkins, the local Air Raid Precaution warden, would have a fit if he noticed. At the window, she hesitated. She could not resist looking skywards, straining to hear. Although the bomber’s moon, the full moon that lit up London for the raiders, was waning, it would still give those bloody Germans enough light to bomb them to pieces. The sky was clear and though there was no ominous drone of any Jerry bombers yet, it was merely a matter of time. Since Black Saturday, back in September, the Germans had turned up every night like clockwork, doing their worst.

Everyone hoped for respite, just for one night, but it was inevitable that Mr Atkins would crank the air-raid siren and the evening routine would begin. Madeline would grab her coat and hat, and mindful of the lecture she had received from Arthur, she would pick up the case he’d left on the hall stand full of his important documents and hurry across to the shelter. How she hated sitting in the stinking, cramped shelter, cheek-by-jowl with some of the worst of her gossipy neighbours with their side-eye glances and muttered comments. All to the clicking accompaniment of Mrs Jessop’s infernal knitting.

Then, just as she was about to pull down the blind, Madeline spotted the couple from two doors up, making their way across the road to the shelter entrance. Typical! They always had to be first. She pulled back in case they looked up. Frumpy Anne, closely followed by the lean, tall frame of Frank, her husband. How ridiculous Frank looked, carting those two deckchairs into the shelter every evening. Of course, the wooden benches weren’t good enough for her majesty to sit on. They never waited for the siren to sound; always had to be first to ensure they got close to the stove.

As if on cue, there was Mrs Jessop, the queen of the busybodies from across the street, scuttling along close behind the Armstrongs, clutching her bag of torture. Madeline had christened her the ‘mad knitter’ after the first excruciating night spent in the shelter with the woman. When Mary Jessop wasn’t talking, or rather pontificating, she was clicking those needles, click-clack all night long. Madeline had wondered if she ought to suggest it to the authorities as a form of torture for captured Nazis.

As she watched Mrs Jessop disappear through the entrance of the shelter, Madeline muttered under her breath. Silly old bat! The idea of another evening in that woman’s company, or any of her neighbours, made her almost want to risk staying at home. Life had taken a grim turn with the Blitz, but the worst part was having to spend most evenings with that rag-tag bunch. Madeline shook out her shoulders as a wave of distaste coursed through her. That shelter was the ultimate nightmare in evening venues; Café de Paris it was not!

There had been speculation in the papers that London might get a reprieve from the bombing for Christmas. She had read it with delight. Could it be true? Surely the German people celebrated Christmas, too, nasty and all as they were? When she had read the news out at the breakfast table, Arthur had chuckled and called her naïve. But then, nothing she did was right. Everything she said was foolish.

At least this evening she would not have to put up with Arthur as well as her annoying neighbours. He was on fire-watch duty and wouldn’t be home until the early hours. It amused her to imagine fastidious, straightlaced Arthur clambering around on rooftops, with his bucket and pump, ready to pounce on incendiaries. How comical he must look. How she’d love to witness that! He had to wear a boilersuit and a tin hat, but he refused to bring them home, instead keeping them at his office, ‘for convenience’. He knew well she’d tease him. Still, at least he was doing his bit, and she didn’t have to share those God-awful wordless mealtimes with him. Madeline sighed. Just a pity Arthur wasn’t on duty every night.

Perhaps she could do something herself to cover the nights he was at home. Why hadn’t she considered that before? That would be perfect, and he could hardly argue. Even her father and Penny had joined the Auxiliary Fire Service, out most nights now trying to save the city from total ruin. It was likely a futile exercise, Madeline thought. The last time she had ventured east, it had shocked her to see the extent of the destruction. Soon there would be nothing left to burn. She felt a little guilty that she wasn’t helping with the war effort. She’d look into the possibilities when the children were back home where they belonged.

Thinking of her family over in Greville Street triggered an unexpected pang of guilt. Her visit yesterday hadn’t been enjoyable. Why were families so tiresome? Even after she had gone to all that effort to call on them, they were so upset about the robbery of their jewellery shop that they had spoken of little else. Dad and Penny were worried that the insurance wouldn’t pay out. Even Mum had been preoccupied.

Madeline frowned into the darkness. That can’t be right about the insurance. It was just another way for Penny to get at her; trying to make her feel guilty. Madeline almost laughed aloud. If only they realised how poor she had been up until recently. It was only her own ingenuity that had turned things around at last. Anyway, what cheek of Penny to suggest she should help more back at home because she now had all that free time. Wasn’t she still a married woman with responsibilities?

In the end, she had promised her mum she’d visit next week with the boys; hasty words as she had fled out the door. But she didn’t want to traipse all the way over again so soon. The idea of walking along the streets in the dark gave her pause; dragging along two reluctant and tired boys would be a nightmare. It would take ages to get there, too, with all the Tube changes. Then there would be Penny’s endless probing if she were around. Penny had always been the intuitive one. Madeline knew her sister meant well, but the state of her marriage wasn’t anyone’s business, thank you very much!

With an angry jerk, Madeline pulled down the blind and made her way downstairs. When she reached the hallway, she paused and sniffed the air. Spice! The quintessential smell of Christmas, she thought. She checked her watch; twenty past six. The Christmas pudding would be done in fifteen minutes. The children would be thrilled. Even Arthur would be pleased. He was ‘partial to a bit of pudding’; his refrain every Christmas, she recalled with a pursing of her lips.

She hurried down the hall and through to the kitchen at the back of the house. Rivulets of condensation were running down the window, generated by the pudding steaming away merrily on the stove. The smell was even more glorious in here.

Madeline made a cup of tea and sat watching the hands of the clock creep forward. As she was contemplating another cuppa, an all too familiar sound filled the air.

The air-raid siren.

She jumped up, startled. ‘Damn and blast!’ she muttered. ‘I might have known! Bloody Germans are early this evening!’

But what was she to do? The pudding wouldn’t be cooked for another ten minutes at least. She couldn’t just leave it. If the water boiled off, the pot and the pudding would be ruined. She’d had to save her rations for ages so she could make it. And even at that, at the last minute, she had been short of suet and had to borrow some from a neighbour. The pudding was small, unfortunately, but its delightful spicy aroma wafted across the room, making her stomach growl. No, she’d have to hold on. Anyway, Jerry didn’t bomb this part of London. It was the East End they went for every night. The docks.

Madeline paced the kitchen, her stomach churning. This was a gamble. Perhaps a stupid one.

She peered up at the clock. Five minutes to go. Come on, come on!

This was torment, this heavy, torturous silence. Where were the German planes? God help the poor souls caught up in their bombing, she thought. How she wished she could leave for the safety of the shelter, bad and all as it would be. By now, all the neighbours would be in there, snug and safe.

Then she heard the roar of an engine overhead and she froze. They rarely flew over St. John’s Wood. Why did they have to pick this evening to do so, scaring her senseless?

Now her heart was pounding. This was crazy. She couldn’t wait any longer. She’d have to take a chance and get the pudding off the stove, then make a dash for the safety of the shelter.

No way those bloody Jerries are going to ruin my boys’ Christmas!

With a cloth wrapped around the handle, Madeline pulled back the lid of the pot and peered inside. She was shaking as she threw the lid into the sink. Would Arthur even appreciate the risk she was taking to ensure his Christmas was like any other? Madeline turned off the gas as yet another plane passed overhead.

As she lifted the pudding bowl out of the pot, she tried to stay calm. If she could put the pudding in the larder, it should be safe in there. Suddenly, the deep throb of an engine enveloped her tiny kitchen. She halted halfway across the floor, bowl in hand. Despite the heat in the room, she broke out in a cold sweat and trembled. That sounded very close; too close. Right above the house! There wouldn’t be enough time to scramble across the road to the shelter. Caught in indecision, her heart racing, she cried out in terror. What should she do?

Where was safe? The larder? Not enough room.

Under the table? Better than nothing.

But as she dived under the kitchen table, she lost her grip on the cloth and the hot bowl scalded her hands. The bowl slipped and smashed on the flags.

Shivering uncontrollably as she cowered on her knees, she heard the ominous whistle and began to pray. There was a bright flash, and everything shook as a blast of hot air roared through her kitchen. As she lost consciousness, she heard a rumble as her home crumbled around her.

Madeline came to with a groan, coughing into a darkness thick with dust and grit. Slowly, the fog in her brain eased, but she struggled to breathe; the air rasping her throat raw. The more she fought for air, the more she choked. Pain pierced her lower body and coursed down her legs. Something was pinning her down, something heavy. In panic, she pushed against the obstruction, only to realise her hands were numb. With cold? The fuzziness in her head didn’t help. Where was she? Then, flashes of memory gradually came back to her; the siren, the drone, and diving under the table. That must be what was pinning her down, but when she pushed against it again, it did not move at all. There must be debris pressing down as well, she realised, maybe a ceiling beam or part of a wall. The table had saved her, but now what? If it moved, it would crush her.

Madeline shivered as a gust of chilly air swept over her. A bomb must have blown the window in, she realised. By turning her head to the right, she soon grasped, with shock, that it wasn’t just the window; the entire back wall was gone.

My beautiful house!

Madeline squeezed her eyes shut as panic bubbled up in her throat. How on earth had she survived? The pain told her that her injuries below the waist were bad. In fact, the agony was almost unbearable. If she could just get out … but any movement was pure agony.

She lay there, trying to keep still. That was less painful. A wave of sickness suddenly overcame her, and she coughed. A metallic taste lingered on her tongue. She tasted blood. Oh God! Then, after what seemed an eternity, Madeline made out the distinctive bell of an ambulance. The siren was distant, but it sounded as if it were getting closer. It was difficult to be certain, because every few minutes she heard the whistle of another bomb and the boom when it found its target. Still too close for comfort.

Was rescue possible whilst the bombing continued? Could she survive this, after all? Her heart rate rocketed as hope grew. Maybe there were rescue crews out front by now. If she cried out, someone might hear. But all that came out when she tried was a squeak.

Pathetic! Try harder!

‘Help!’ she managed at last, her heart hammering hard in her chest. The effort made her head spin. Would anyone hear?

Madeline rested her head back down, trying to breathe normally, spitting out the dust. Shallow breaths were best. Time crawled by and as she lay there, hope faded once more. It might take ages for anyone to find her. What if she became unconscious and they couldn’t see her? What if they were too late? She had to stay awake and alert.

And now the regrets flooded in. They were many, she had to acknowledge. Too many things she had done and words she could not retract. If she died, it might all come out. Another wave of nausea hit her as she remembered the money hidden upstairs. If that was found, how would she explain it to Arthur? She should have found a better hiding place. Hidden it over at Greville Street, perhaps? It was so annoying, after everything she had been through to get it.

At least the children weren’t here. They were safe from harm. Demanding their return for Christmas had been a mistake. It was too dangerous in London, and it was getting worse. What had she been thinking? Then she remembered the little wooden toys. Their presents! Would anyone find them if she didn’t survive? She had so looked forward to seeing their little faces light up on Christmas morning. Oh God! If she died, would they remember her? Madeline sobbed until darkness consumed her once more.

Some while later, she drifted back to consciousness and heard a noise, as if someone were scrambling over rubble, then a muttered curse. It seemed to come from the back garden. Who could it be? Rescue services or a neighbour, perhaps? Dare she hope? She tried to move, but she was stuck firm. That was odd. The pain had diminished, but then she realised all the feeling below her waist was gone. Numb. Oh God! Was she dying? She swallowed hard. This was so unfair. Why her? Her tears came; she couldn’t help it. I don’t want to die! I want to see my boys again.

Madeline heard a bang. It sounded like falling masonry, and it was close. Would the upstairs of the house fall on her at any moment? Once more, she prayed. Please, please, someone help me!

Surely rescuers must be here by now. Straining, she peered out beyond the house. To her surprise, now that the dust had settled, she could make out the stumps of trees at the bottom of the garden silhouetted against an angry orange sky.

London was burning again.

God! This is hopeless, she thought as despair threatened to overpower her once more. It was then she spotted the beam of a torch flickering over the kitchen wall. She struggled to find the source, then sighed with relief as a dark shape appeared near the house. Rescue at last.

‘Help!’ she croaked. ‘Over here! I’m trapped in the kitchen.’

The figure took on human form and Madeline breathed more easily. As her rescuer drew closer, Madeline cried out. ‘Oh, thank God it’s you! Hurry up! I’m under the table. Can you get me out? Maybe you should get help.’ The beam of the torch hit her face. Madeline shielded her eyes with a shaky hand.

But the person hesitated, standing where the rear wall of the house used to be, and played the light around the remnants of her kitchen.

‘Hurry up!’ Madeline cried. Despite that, her rescuer stood at the boundary. Were they afraid the building was unsafe? Madeline’s panic grew. ‘Please!’

With a grunt, the rescuer clambered over the wreckage and dropped to their knees beside the table. They peered in at her, but their expression, half in light and half in shadow, was impossible to read. What were they waiting for? Why weren’t they helping her?

‘Please; I’m in so much pain,’ Madeline said, as, at last, they put down the torch and removed a few pieces of rubble. ‘I’m sorry … for all of it.’

Suddenly, to Madeline’s consternation, their hand froze, and they stared at her, sitting back on their hunkers. After a hurried glance out to the garden, they smiled, a slow smile that turned Madeline’s insides to ice.

The torch was turned off, enveloping them in darkness.

‘What are you doing?’ Madeline cried out as astonishment fought with fear. Her rescuer remained silent and unmoving. Madeline knew something wasn’t right.

Seconds later, Madeline gasped as hands grasped her throat and squeezed hard, forcing her into oblivion, this time for eternity.

2

11th December 1940, New Scotland Yard, Victoria Embankment, London

Jamie was a solitary figure sitting at his desk, resting his head on his upturned hand. On closer scrutiny, anyone observing Detective Inspector Barton of the Metropolitan Police would realise the man was shattered. His dark hair, prematurely sprinkled with grey at his temples, had been pushed back so often it was almost standing on end. As a result, any spectator would have taken him for older than his thirty-four years. The bags under his eyes told their own story.

Jamie was aware of how tired and dishevelled he looked as he rubbed at the stubble on his chin. He had worked through the night, which was not an unusual occurrence since he had transferred to the Met back in February. Earlier, he had contemplated slipping back to his lodgings for an hour or two to catch up on some sleep, but he knew there was little point. He’d only feel worse after a nap. It was best to keep going and work through to the end of his shift. And it wasn’t as if his digs offered much in the way of home comforts, anyway. He only stayed there because Mrs Taylor, his landlady, tolerated his peculiar working hours and her cooking was half decent.

Taking a deep breath, Jamie tried to shake off his lethargy. He needed to focus on the typed statement he had just taken off the top of the ubiquitous pile on his desk. But the words swam before his eyes. He sat back and glanced about the room where his fellow inspectors should be beavering away at their desks, but most of them were out on calls, with one or two lucky enough to be at home. They were too few, and struggling to cope with the upsurge in crime the war was facilitating.

Jamie was all too aware that the recent crime statistics in the London Metropolitan area made grim reading. Was it his fault that their best and brightest had signed up and fewer bobbies were on the beat? Or that those who had remained in the Met – inexperienced youngsters or men too old or unfit – were often caught up in rescue work during the night-time bombing raids, their crime-related duties on hold? Hitler’s night-time bombing raids were a gift to the gangs. Of course, the scum would take advantage and go on a spree. Unfortunately, what the gangs didn’t steal, the looters did. It was too tempting, with rationing beginning to bite hard. Human nature, wasn’t it? Without the resources, the Met was struggling to cope. Jamie and his fellow officers were pulling all-nighters on an all too regular basis, but to no avail. Somehow, their governor, Detective Chief Inspector Cresswell, believed they could do better. His briefings regularly began with ‘In my day…’

It was small consolation that it had been a damn sight worse earlier in the year, with almost daily smash-and-grab raids on the jewellery shops in the West End. The Flying Squad, the specialist robbery unit which operated throughout the city, had done their best, but the gangs sourced faster cars and often outran them. It was not until the last few months that arrests had finally made a dent in their activities. Just when they thought they were on top of things, there had been a change in tactics. Since September, the gangs were using the blackout and the noise of the bombing raids to enter premises undetected. It was far less risky than daylight smash-and-grab raids. As a result, burglary rates were soaring once more.

Davy Watson’s outfit was the cleverest and the fastest of the gangs. Watson planned his raids with military-like precision, the irony of which wasn’t lost on Jamie: Watson had evaded call-up due to ‘poor health’. Jamie suspected someone else had gone in Watson’s place for his medical, for a finer specimen of manhood would be difficult to find. Wasn’t there an entire team of Met officers, just down the corridor, trying to track down the rejected men who impersonated those called up for duty? Large amounts of money changed hands for this service; it was rampant. Unfortunately, no one could prove what Watson had done. And no one dared grass on Watson if they wanted to celebrate their next birthday.

At least Nicoletti’s Italian mob was all behind bars; they had all been rounded up once Italy joined the war in June. Then, into the vacuum had