London, 1941

Helen closed the front door of her drab boarding house and walked down the front steps to the footpath. She glanced around at her surroundings. Everything was still badly damaged by the Blitz that had devastated London. She thanked God that the bombing seemed to have abated since Corporal Hitler, as Evan always called him, had turned on Russia.

As she thought of her brother, her eyes pricked with tears. When would she be able to remember him without crying?

She seemed to be the only person up and about on this miserable morning. The grey dripping skies and the glistening footpath suited the rubble and blackened timbers all about her.

She shuddered at the memories—the slow whooping of the sirens, the whistle then crash of the bombs. The wrecked building next door was testament to how close she and the rest of the girls had come to dying that night when there had been no time to reach the air raid shelter. Then there had been the fires, with ashes raining from the sky, the fire bell clanging insanely, the ambulances arriving... Helen shut her eyes.

An army staff car coming down the road toward her slowed suddenly. She glanced at the driver and noticed he was a young soldier. He’s probably lost.

The idea of taking away all of the street signs had been good in theory. The Germans were so close. If—and as many people thought, when—they invaded, not knowing the street names would help to confuse them. The trouble was, it had also confused a lot of Londoners!

The car pulled over near Helen, and the soldier called out in a cockney accent, “Excuse me, lady, could you help me with a few directions?”

Helen walked over to the car and smiled at the young army private who had walked around to the passenger side and was waiting, map in hand.

“Thanks, Miss,” he said, grinning “I’m supposed to be a driver, but I still manage to get lost.”

Helen leaned over the map and was about to reply when she heard the door behind her open. She noticed a fleeting movement behind her back, and realized that someone had jumped out of the rear passenger seat. She gasped as she felt a very strong, tall man grab her from behind and toss her with ease onto the back seat of the car, then leap in behind her. The soldier with the map ran back to the driver’s seat, slammed his door, engaged the gears, and roared off down the street.

Helen panicked. Why didn’t you scream for help? She knew the answer: her attacker had been too quick. But if she hadn’t screamed then, she did now—and kicked and bit and scratched her much stronger assailant. She could tell that, despite his strength, he was having a difficult time restraining her, but she knew she couldn’t keep this up. She was already tiring. She reached for the door handle and opened the door slightly, screaming, “Help me! Help me! Somebody help me!”

“What a wildcat,” said the amused voice of her tormentor as he slammed the door closed. Before she could turn in his arms to scratch him again, he gathered her up and sat her on his lap, holding her tightly. He was so strong. She couldn’t move.

“Let me go, let me go,” she screamed in terror, trying to wriggle and squirm but completely unable to do so. He held both of her small hands in his one much larger hand and wrapped his other arm around her body. His arm was pressed up against her chest and his hand tightly grasped most of her left breast.

Helen felt something starting to jut into her bottom, and she moaned in fear and sudden anger, “Oh my Lord, what are you going to do to me? You revolting PIG!”

The man laughed. He released her breast, but held her more tightly still, with his hand reaching around to her back. “I’m very sorry,” he said with amusement and guilt in his voice. “You are very lovely, and I really can’t help it. Now, be a good girl, and stop fighting me.”

Helen stopped struggling and tried to calm herself to face whatever was to come. Being restrained as she was, Helen couldn’t turn to look at her assailant, but she could see the khaki color of his sleeves. It seemed likely this man was a soldier, too. His voice was a cultured one, and, despite the evidence of what was still jutting into her, he did not seem to be threatening her with imminent ravishment. Anyway, she was too exhausted to fight any more just now. She knew she needed to save her strength.

They drove almost in silence, with only a short self-congratulatory speech from the driver, who said, “Well, that all went off very well. We were lucky to spot her.”

Her captor did not reply. Still in his straightjacket grip, she forced herself to observe and try to memorize the route they were taking. She recognized many of the landmarks and streets of central and then west London. Everywhere she looked were bombed-out buildings, rubble, and what was left of houses and shops after the fireball had passed through.

The car slowed at a narrow laneway beside a large, brick building and drove down into a small car park. Helen tried to steel herself, to quell her terror. Whatever these men had in mind for her was about to happen.

Her assailant released her. Helen twisted around and found herself looking into the eyes of a very handsome young man wearing a captain’s uniform. He smiled and said, “You know, Marianne, I’m really quite impressed by your terrified lady act, but let’s not pretend any more, please. After you.” He gestured to her to look outside, where his driver had opened the door and was waiting. Helen opened her mouth to protest her change of name, but fear had frozen her throat.

The driver helped her as she climbed out of the car. She tried to build up the strength to scream for help, but her lungs seemed to have no air, and she was gasping for breath. Her legs shook, and she had difficulty standing. The man in the captain’s uniform had got out and had taken the private’s place. He glanced down at her and frowned, a brief flicker of concern showing in his eyes. He clasped her around her waist with one arm, and half led, half lifted her towards the door of the nearby stairs.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, finally able to speak. She was annoyed to hear her voice shaking. Clenching her teeth, she forced herself to be strong, to face with some semblance of courage whatever was to come so that Evan would have been proud of her. In a firmer voice, she said, “You can put me down now, Captain. I can walk. And my name is not Marianne.”

He didn’t reply, but, although he retained a loose grip on her arm, he did release his hold on her waist. Instantly, Helen twisted herself free and started to run away. “Help me! Someone help me!” she screamed.

She heard a muttered, “Damn” and footsteps behind her before feeling a strong arm grab her around her waist.

She screamed again. “Please, somebody, help me!” This was the middle of London. Surely someone would hear? The captain put his hand over her mouth. She bit him.

He stifled an oath and spoke in an urgent whisper to his accomplice. “For God’s sake, John, open the bloody door of the stairwell.” He scooped her up underneath her knees and lifted her as if she weighed nothing, then ran the few steps to the stairs with her in his arms. She heard the door slam shut behind her. He put her down, a grim look on his face.

“Scream all you like now, Marianne. No one can hear you in here.”

Helen stopped fighting. She forced back her tears of frustration and fear. The captain grasped her tightly around her waist and frog-marched her in silence up the four flights of stairs from where she was led out into an ill-lit corridor.

At the first door along the corridor, the younger soldier knocked. A voice said, “Come,” and Helen and her two escorts entered the room.

In the room was a table at which was seated a small, tubby man, also in uniform and wearing round, steel rimmed glasses. She thought he was about fifty years of age. He rose and smiled in surprised delight at Helen. Insensibly, she began to relax, feeling that murder and rape were perhaps not on the agenda, although she still had no idea what was happening.

“Well, Marianne, this is a surprise! We have been looking for you for some time.”

The army officer guided her with a steely grip on her upper arm to one of the empty chairs around the table, and pushed her, none too gently, into it.

“Any trouble, Adrian?” asked the older man.

“None at all from the general populace,” he replied. “No one saw a thing. But heaps of trouble from this one.” Adrian, as Helen gathered was his name, looked down at her and laughed. “My pretty one, we know all about your charming activities, so you can stop wasting our time with this lady-in-distress act, and know that we will get answers from you. It can be done gently if you cooperate or quite the opposite, if you don’t.”

Helen thought she was going to be sick. “What are you talking about?” she gasped. “My name is Helen James, and I’m a British citizen. What am I supposed to have done?”

The captain sighed and looked regretfully at her. “You know, my dear, please believe me when I say that I hate inflicting pain on anyone, especially women, particularly women as lovely as you. But so many of our men have died because of you. You really need to be stopped, you know.”

As he spoke, he grasped her left hand and began to bend back her little finger. She screamed, more in fright than pain.

There was a loud knock on the door. Another soldier burst in and blurted, “Sir, sir,” with a nod and salute to both officers, “we’ve found Marianne! She’s been at Guy’s Hospital all week. A hit and run. She’s dead.”