Homecoming: Men of Our Times, #5

By James Farner

"He knew he didn't have any other choice if he wanted to keep his head."

The Great War is over and millions lay dead across the nations of Europe. John finally makes it home one year after the armistice. Embittered and with nothing to come back to, John settles in London.

After a smuggling deal gone wrong, John is, once again, forced to flee to the only place he knows: Motbridge. But the memories of the locals are long and they haven't forgiven him for the slaughter of Imperial Longford.

Determined to reclaim his fortune and make his way in the world again, he must confront the consequences of the mistakes he made.

But with the whole world turning its back on him, where can he begin?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Farner
• Release date: Jan 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386948278

Book preview

Homecoming

Men of Our Times Book 5

Copyright © James Farner 2019

Cover design by www.stunningbookcovers.com

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter One

1919

Captain Walter Thirsk had come home from the army. One of the first to be ‘demobbed’ after the war due to his former profession as a police officer in the East End of London, he soaked in the benefits of the great victory over the Central Powers. He walked straight back into his job and, within days, found himself back at work with a fat rise in his salary and a new position: criminal investigator.

Not far into the job, he found himself standing on the edge of a piece of apparently abandoned farmland. Captain Thirsk stroked his bushy moustache he’d grown during his time at the front. He peered at his assistant who seemed dumb to the world.

Waters, how long have you served?

The war or the police? said Waters.

Captain Thirsk grunted. The police, you fool. The war is over.

Waters scratched the outcropping of bushy, red hair that never seemed to settle over his thick skull. Captain Thirsk always likened it to a cauliflower.

Waters, Captain Thirsk snapped.

Oh sorry, about five years.

Then use your five years of experience to tell me what you see here.

Captain Thirsk swept his arm across the barren landscape. Despite it being autumn, the dead trees and fallow fields indicated that nobody had tended to the lonely farm in years, decades even. Still, he had to bring Waters up to scratch somehow.

Nothing, Waters declared. It’s abandoned.

Captain Thirsk took a deep breath. Yes, something like that. Come.

He marched from their black car and down the main road towards the farmhouse. The depressed little building sagged on one side, its foundations beginning to crack and sink. The wood had little pockmarks in it. Captain Thirsk had grown up in relative poverty in London. He knew a lost cause when he saw one.

A crow cawed in the background as it pecked at the hard, dusty ground. Waters spun around with a little jump.

Nothing to fear, Waters. We are armed, after all.

Waters kneaded his fingers together as he continued to plot his way along the side of the farmhouse. Captain Thirsk hadn’t told Waters of their intentions here. He’d received an anonymous tip-off regarding a possible burial ground.

The outhouse. See if you can find anything we can use to start digging with.

Waters’ jaw clenched, as if ghost stories floated around in his empty head.

Captain Thirsk pulled out the scrap of paper from his pocket. An elegant handwriting greeted him. The lines of the paper made it hard to read the faded ink. He pursed his lips at it, wondering if the author had written it in a hurry.

Waters made an enormous clattering sound as he rooted around the outhouse, returning with a rusted spade. Evidently, nobody had used it in a long time.

Where do you need me to dig, sir? said Waters.

Captain Thirsk looked back at the note for guidance. Ten feet from the apple tree in the westerly direction. That’s towards where our car is. Do hurry. We must make time, before it gets dark.

Waters jogged towards the darkened skeleton of the apple tree a little way away from the farmhouse. His assistant didn’t have much going on upstairs, but he had a strong back and a strong moral compass. The police needed more of such people, he contemplated bitterly. The whole force needed a clean-up in the face of the corruption emanating from the rampant black market caused by rationing during the war.

The crow cawed again. Captain Thirsk eyed it up. His instincts told him that the crow seemed to know something. Its glassy black eyes had detected the scent of death.

He cleared his mind and advanced towards Waters, who had duly started to plunge the spade into the earth. Little clouds of dust rose from the surface, before the clods of earth cracked and split apart. Waters had already made good progress by the time Captain Thirsk made it to the side of the makeshift hole.

Waters wiped his brow and readjusted his rolled-up shirt sleeves. How will we know if we’ve found something?

When you’ve dug six feet under.

They didn’t bury them that deep in France.

I know that better than anyone.

Waters continued to dig. Captain Thirsk passed the time by preparing his pipe and striking a match at the bowl. The dented pipe had seen just as much action as he had. It had done better than most of the men who had gone off to war with him in that gloriously hot August of 1914.

Is this six feet yet? asked Waters from the hole some time later.

About that.

Waters slammed the dull blade of the well-used spade into the earth and heaved out a few more piles of earth. Sweat ran down his face and dirty streaks coated his cheeks.

There’s nothing here, said Waters.

Captain Thirsk crouched down and inspected the hole himself. He scanned the earth for any signs that anything had risen from the surface. The author of the note had no purpose in lying. Either they found something or they had dug in the wrong place.

He pointed at a scrap of white fabric sticking out of one side of the hole. Scrape away the soil there. I want to know what that is.

Just a piece of scrap fabric. Could be anything. Waters shrugged.

Then I would like to know what it is. No stone left unturned, Waters.

Waters sighed and began to plunge the spade into the wall of his perfectly dug hole. The wall started to give way and Waters kept heaving the excess earth onto the open ground above him. Little by little the scrap of fabric grew larger and more pronounced, as if someone had used it to cover something up.

Enough, Captain Thirsk said.

Captain Thirsk jumped into the hole and eased Waters aside. His heart beat at the discovery before him. He bent and pulled the fabric aside. The mountain of soil covering the object prevented him from pulling it out. Instead, he took his pocket knife and cut a small hole in the faded piece of linen. From the little hole he cut into the side of earth, he saw the outline of a boot.

We need more men.

What is it? said Waters.

I don’t think I need to tell you that this is something that warrants further digging and subsequent investigation. Unless someone has buried a pair of tough leather boots for the sake of it, there can be no doubting that someone has been buried here.

Captain Thirsk threw himself over the top and out of the hole. The discovery of a body didn’t make his blood run cold like it would have with the average man. He had seen hundreds of corpses strewn across France and Belgium. What was one more just because he had found it in England?

So what do you want me to do about this hole? said Waters.

Leave it. Captain Thirsk squinted at the farmhouse. The pieces started to come together in his mind.

Waters struggled to climb out of his hole and succeeded in leaving a muddy imprint on the front of his striped shirt. He followed his gaze but saw nothing. The crow uprooted itself from the field and launched itself into the air, its duty done.

Who owns this farm? said Waters.

Someone we both know. I took the liberty of checking the register before we came here. Our friend Jimmy Dunwald.

Waters groaned. Not him again.

Yes, him again.

Captain Thirsk didn’t share Waters’ annoyance at finding Jimmy Dunwald’s name at the scene of another dead body. They spent most of their time tailing his criminal organisation in London. Nothing that came up ever led back to him, though, at least not in a legal sense.

You think it’s murder?

Captain Thirsk turned to his partner. As a police officer I would say that it is too early to judge whether this is murder or the mere offense of burying the deceased without going through the proper channels. However, as a man of England I would wager every penny I received during the war that Dunwald has his mark all over this one.

Waters continued to squint at the farmhouse. I can see someone there.

Captain Thirsk’s eyes widened as he glared at the farmhouse. A figure did indeed peer at them from around the back of the building.

Go!

Waters jumped over the hole and dashed towards the figure, who promptly fled from sight. Captain Thirsk tore across the grounds, unable to keep up with Waters, who held fifteen years on him. He emerged around the back of the farmhouse with his pistol drawn just in time to see another dark car screech off into the distance.

He grabbed his assistant by the arm to stop him from dashing towards their car.

He will be long gone, said Captain Thirsk.

But we can try, Waters said through short, sharp breaths.

Captain Thirsk gripped Waters’ arm firmly. No, the likelihood of catching up to them and then stopping them is far too low to risk us giving up what we have found here. Bear in mind that we are alone. Should we give chase anyone could take that body over there and dispose of it elsewhere. Then where would we be?

Waters’ relaxed and swore under his breath. You’re right. I want to know who that was, though. Do you think it was Dunwald?

Captain Thirsk shook his head. Ten years ago I would say so. Now he’s too powerful to do his own dirty work.

What should we do about this? said Waters.

Captain Thirsk gave his partner a little half-smile. Bring in reinforcements. We’ve found something that may have Dunwald shaking in his boots.

Waters dashed away. Captain Thirsk could only look at the road where the mysterious car had sped away. He could only think of Jimmy Dunwald. What Waters didn’t know was his business with Dunwald had eaten away at him for years.

Chapter Two

John Williams sighed as the train pulled into King’s Cross Station in London. For a moment, he didn’t get up from the broad wooden seat he’d shared with an old, overly chatty woman all the way up from Dover. She hadn’t let up until her son called her from a private compartment to stop bothering him. John let out a sigh of relief as practically everyone vacated the train.

Are you ready to go, Sergeant? said Chris Ascot.

The sandy-haired corporal had served under John during his time as a sergeant major, warrant officer class one. John didn’t particularly enjoy his company, but Ascot had always shown his reliability and John felt inclined to trust him. He always had a smile plumping up his chubby cheeks.

Just his luck that they had taken the same train to the same destination. He wanted rid of the war.

I suppose. And I’m no longer an enlisted man. You can call me John like everyone else does and I’ll call you Chris.

Chris nodded. Sorry. Five years of spending time on the front has made it hard for me to call people by their usual names. You know how it is. You were with the first wave of recruits, weren’t you?

Aye, I was.

John grabbed his kit bag, now much lighter after returning his greatcoat and uniform at the earliest possible opportunity. His activities and his army pay had given him nothing but a few pounds and shillings. It would last him until he got back on his feet again.

You have anywhere to stay? said Chris.

I’ll find a place. I know London well enough.

They climbed off the train as the conductors walked up and down the busy platform. Women threw themselves into the arms of the men returning home from the war. Only those in vital industries were demobilised the moment Germany surrendered. People like John had to wait their turn.

John gazed around at King’s Cross Station. He hadn’t been back to England since the summer of 1914, almost five years ago. Unlike the other men, he had never wanted to use his leave to return home. Nor had he shot himself in the foot to try to get himself sent back home. John had never wanted to go home, knowing nothing awaited him there.

Nobody waiting for you, either? said Chris.

Nah, not for me. What about you? You told me you had a mother waiting for you in London.

And a sister.

John moved his head in acknowledgement. So where are they?

Well, she can’t really move around well anymore. My sister would have either been working or taking care of her. I told them not to bother waiting because I didn’t know when I would be coming up from Dover. Didn’t make sense to put her through that.

Aye, alright.

John began to move away from Chris, eager to find a place to stay for the evening. He glanced to his side as he walked along the crowded platform, the steam billowing out from underneath a train on the opposite side of the platform.

Where are you going now? Chris matched him stride for stride. You said you were from Tyneside. There’s another train going up there soon.

John didn’t stop walking for a second. They passed underneath an enormous British flag. He saw only the relief of loved ones greeting the boys returning home. He didn’t notice any lasting euphoria from their final victory.

I’m not going to Tyneside. I’ll be staying in London.

That’s good. I live here so might be we can go for a drink. You’re not busy now, are you? said Chris.

John struggled to maintain his composure. He just wanted Chris to buzz off and go back to his family, but after all they had been through, how could he do that? Chris had stuck with him since the start of 1916, one of the few to survive all the way through.

He stopped. Aye, I suppose I have some time for a drink. Know a pub around here?

I know the perfect place. I drank in it when I left for the war. You know the Duke of York?

John shrugged. If they have enough drink, I’m happy.

––––––––

The Duke of York looked like any other pub in England. Inside the usual drab interior, a smattering of older men inhabited the various nooks, all laying claim to their regular seats. The working men hadn’t yet made their way into the drinking houses of London. The smoke drifted in the air, never settling.

John and Chris approached the bar, dropping their kit bags at their feet.

I’ll get it, said Chris. You did so much for me when we were out there and I always said I’d buy you a drink one day when we got home.

Thank you.

The landlord behind the bar pulled back on the tap leading down to the keg below. The glasses overflowed as he did his best to get rid of the foam mixed in with the dark mixture. Chris handed him a couple of coins and passed the dripping glass to John.

Chris made him a toast and John put the glass to his lips. The smoky-tasting beer went down smooth. He hadn’t had a proper pint since leaving for the front. What they called beer on the continent barely qualified in his eyes. He swallowed two-thirds of the glass in an instant and wiped his lips.

Where are you planning on going after this? said Chris as he led them to a distant corner of the pub.

John sat down. Haven’t decided yet. Find a boarding house or something like that until I can find something better.

Chris’s face dropped. No, no, you can’t be doing that. I can’t have my sergeant in some horrible little boarding house. We’ve got space at home since my brother went to Russia to fight against the communists. You could have his bed for a few days.

John narrowed his eyes. No thank you.

Chris didn’t hide his disappointment and sipped at his beer. Silence passed between them for a long time. John did nothing to break the silence, only wanting to get on with his business. He needed to get used to his surroundings again. Adjusting to civilian life and coming back to the destruction he’d left behind would be something of an ordeal.

How did you get all the way to sergeant major if you volunteered like I did? I only got to corporal and was surprised I even got that.

John tasted more of his beer. Knew the right people.

Chris leaned forward with interest. Anyone I might know of?

Not likely.

The silence resumed. Nobody ever found out about his true identity as Lord John Williams, or that General Camberwell had swung him the position so he could at least avoid the troubles of being