Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [53]
The train stopped, and from the noise outside the passengers guessed they had arrived. When Faber got out he realized how hungry and thirsty he was. His last meal had been sausage-meat, dry biscuits and bottled water, twenty-four hours ago. He went through the ticket barrier and found the station buffet. It was full of people, mostly soldiers, sleeping or trying to sleep at the tables. Faber asked for a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea.
“The food is reserved for servicemen,” said the woman behind the counter.
“Just the tea, then.”
“Got a cup?”
Faber was surprised. “No, I haven’t.”
“Neither have we, chum.”
Faber contemplated going into the Great Eastern Hotel for dinner, but that would take time. He found a pub and drank two pints of weak beer, then bought a bag of chips at a fish-and-chips shop and ate them from the newspaper wrapping, standing on the pavement. They made him feel surprisingly full.
Now he had to find a chemist’s shop and break in.
He wanted to develop his film, to make sure the pictures came out. He was not going to risk returning to Germany with a roll of spoiled, useless film. If the pictures were no good he would have to steal more film and go back. The thought was unbearable.
It would have to be a small independent shop, not a branch of a chain that would process film centrally. It must be in an area where the local people could afford cameras (or could have afforded them before the war). The part of East London in which Liverpool Street station stood was no good. He decided to head toward Bloomsbury.
The moonlit streets were quiet. There had been no sirens so far tonight. Two Military Policemen stopped him in Chancery Lane and asked for his identity card. Faber pretended to be slightly drunk, and the MPs did not ask what he was doing out of doors.
He found the shop he was looking for at the north end of Southampton Row. There was a Kodak sign in the window. Surprisingly, the shop was open. He went in.
A stooped, irritable man with thinning hair and glasses stood behind the counter, wearing a white coat. He said, “We’re only open for doctor’s prescriptions.”
“That’s all right. I just want to ask whether you develop photographs.”
“Yes, if you come back tomorrow—”
“Do you do them on the premises?” Faber asked. “I need them quickly, you see.”
“Yes, if you come back tomorrow—”
“Could I have the prints the same day? My brother’s on leave, and he wants to take some back—”
“Twenty-four hours is the best we can do. Come back tomorrow.”
“Thank you, I will.” On his way out he noticed that the shop was due to close in ten minutes. He crossed the road and stood in the shadows, waiting.
Promptly at nine o’clock the pharmacist came out, locking the shop behind him, and walked off down the road. Faber went in the opposite direction and turned two corners.
There seemed to be no direct access to the back of the shop, and Faber did not want to break in the front way in case the unlocked door was noticed by a patrolling policeman while he was in there. He walked along the parallel street, looking for a way through. Apparently there was none. Still, there had to be a well of some kind at the back, the two streets were too far apart for the buildings to be joined back-to-back.
Finally he came across a large old house with a nameplate marking it as a residence hall for a nearby college. The front door was unlocked. Faber went in and walked quickly through to a communal kitchen. A lone girl sat at a table, drinking coffee and reading a book. Faber muttered, “College blackout check.” She nodded and returned to her text. Faber went out of the back door.
He crossed a yard, bumping into a cluster of garbage cans on the way, and found a door to a lane. In seconds he was at the rear of the chemist’s shop. This entrance was obviously never used. He clambered over some tires and a discarded mattress, and threw his shoulder at the door. The rotten wood gave easily, and Faber was inside.
He found the darkroom and shut himself in. The light switch operated a dim red lamp in the ceiling.