Night Over Water by Ken Follett Read Free Book Online Page A

turn away from him and start to scream.
    She screamed loud and long.
    She could vaguely hear him saying, in a worried voice: “All right, all right, don’t take on so. I didn’t mean any harm.” But she was too scared to be reasoned with and she just carried on screaming. Faces materialized out of the darkness: a passerby in workman’s clothes, a Fallen Woman with cigarette and handbag, and a head at a window in the house behind them. The drunk vanished into the night, and Margaret stopped screaming and began to cry. Then there was the sound of running boots, the narrow beam of a masked flashlight, and a policeman’s helmet.
    The policeman shone his light on Margaret’s face.
    The woman muttered: “She ain’t one of us, Steve.”
    The policeman called Steve said: “What’s your name, girl?”
    “Margaret Oxenford.”
    The man in work clothes said: “A toff took her for a tart—that’s what happened.” Satisfied, he went off.
    The policeman said: “Would that be Lady Margaret Oxenford?”
    Margaret sniffed miserably and nodded.
    The woman said: “I told you she weren’t one of us.” With that, she drew on her cigarette, dropped the end, trod on it and disappeared.
    The policeman said: “You come with me, my lady. You’ll be all right now.
    Margaret wiped her face with her sleeve. The policeman offered her his arm. She took it. He shone his flashlight on the pavement in front of her and they began to walk.
    After a moment Margaret shuddered and said: “That frightful man.”
    The policeman was briskly unsympathetic. “Can’t really blame him,” he said cheerfully. “This is the most notorious street in London. It’s a fair assumption that a girl alone here at this hour is a Lady of the Night.”
    Margaret supposed he was right, although it seemed rather unfair.
    The familiar blue lamp of a police station appeared in the morning twilight. The policeman said: “You have a nice cup of tea and you’ll feel better.”
    They went inside. There was a counter ahead of them with two policemen behind it, one middle-aged and stocky and the other young and thin. On each side of the hall was a plain wooden bench up against the wall. There was only one other person in the hall: a pale woman with her hair in a scarf and house slippers on her feet, sitting on one of the benches, waiting with tired patience.
    Margaret’s rescuer directed her to the opposite bench, saying: “Sit yourself down there for a minute.” Margaret did as she was told. The policeman went up to the desk and spoke to the older man. “Sarge, that’s Lady Margaret Oxenford. Had a run-in with a drunk in Bolting Lane.”
    “I suppose he thought she was on the game.”
    Margaret was struck by the variety of euphemisms for prostitution. People seemed to have a horror of calling it what it was, and had to refer to it obliquely. She herself had known about it only in the vaguest possible way; indeed she had not really believed it went on, until tonight. But there had been nothing vague about the intentions of the young man in evening dress.
    The sergeant looked over at Margaret in an interested way, then said something in a low voice that she could not hear. Steve nodded and disappeared into the back of the building.
    Margaret realized she had left her shoes on that doorstep. Now there were holes in the feet of her stockings. She began to worry: she could hardly turn up at the recruiting station in this state. Perhaps she could go back for her shoes in daylight. But they might no longer be there. And she badly needed a wash and a clean dress, too. It would be heartbreaking to be turned down for the A.T.S. after all this. But where could she go to tidy herself? By morning even Aunt Martha’s house would not be safe: Father might turn up there, searching for her. Surely, she thought with anguish, her whole plan was not going to fall apart because of a pair of shoes?
    Her policeman came back with tea in a thick earthenware mug. It was weak and had