Stone's Fall

'Hardly. I mean, there are so many of them, you can't know them all, can you? I just thought you might have come across the name.'

'So why are they after you?'

'I don't know.'

'But this has something to do with Ravenscliff?'

'I don't know.'

Hozwicki rubbed the end of his nose, and thought. 'Never heard of them,' he said finally.

'Yes, you have.'

'Yes, I have. But I'm not going to tell you anything.'

'Look, Stefan—'

'If they've got a grudge against you, then steer clear of them. Or get a gun. Do you have a gun?'

'Of course I haven't.'

'I'll give you the name of a man who can get one for you.'

'I don't want a gun.'

'Perhaps. But you may need one.'

'Who are these people?'

Hozwicki's good and bad sides were wrestling for control of his conscience, which put quite a strain on him. He did not answer for some time. In fact, he didn't really answer at all. Instead, he pulled out his notebook, tore off a sheet and scribbled on it. 'Here,' he said. 'I'm not going to help you. But go there and ask questions. That's all I'll do for you.'

Written on the sheet was an address. The Anarchist Club; 165 Jubilee Street.

For those who have forgotten what London was like before the war, or who never knew, the very idea of an Anarchist Club sounds absurd. Most people are more familiar with the Reform, or the Athenaeum, and when they think of clubs, they think of leather armchairs, port and cigars, with quiet waiters padding about bearing silver platters. The idea of anarchists enjoying such surroundings cannot help but bring a smile to the lips.

And yet there was such a club, although it was closed down when the war began and never reopened. More than that, it was a popular place. The East End was a seething mass of revolution in those days; wave after wave of immigrants had swept in, bringing Jews, nationalists and revolutionaries fleeing the authorities in Russia and elsewhere. It was a cause of great tension. On the one hand, it made Britain most unpopular in those countries which preferred to have their revolutionaries either dead or in gaol, rather than freely plotting evil. On the other, the mass of men seeking work annoyed our own labourers, who found their housing taken and their wages undercut. But government after government refused to do anything. The employers liked the cheap labour and I suspect the Foreign Office enjoyed tweaking the noses of autocratic governments abroad. So the authorities reached a sort of pact with the unwelcome guests. As long as they caused no trouble in England, they could plot to visit whatever mayhem they liked on their own country. Nonetheless, the authorities kept a firm eye on what was going on, as much as they could. I had learned from the police, however, that this wasn't very much. These Letts and Poles and Pan-Slavs and Russians and whoever not only spoke a wide variety of languages, often in obscure dialects, they also seemed to change name with bewildering rapidity. Several criminals were tried in court for offences using only nicknames – the elephant, fatty, the bricklayer – because the authorities had no idea who they were.

Now, the trouble with revolutionaries is, having got into the habit of opposing their own authorities, they end up opposing everything else as well. That is to say, no sooner had a party formed – to install, say, the principles of Marxist socialism, or anarchist freedom in liberated Lithuania – than it tended to split into two on the question of what, exactly, socialism or anarchism was. Or even what Lithuania was. So the Anarchist Club was formed; fraternal loathing was suspended while members were within its portals. There you could find speeches on all manner of subjects, as long as they were intense and impractical. As I approached it that evening – I took a bus from Fleet Street to Commercial Road, then walked up Jubilee Street to my destination – I tried to imagine Lord Ravenscliff, with his silk top hat and cashmere overcoat, rubbing shoulders with such people. I almost succeeded, but eventually gave up. It was too absurd.

The club smelled, but was no worse than most pubs; it was also a good deal quieter. Chilly though, and not very clean. Anarchists did not approve of housework; that was for their women and, on the whole, there were few women dedicated enough to cook, clean, listen to the rhetoric and foment revolution all at the same time. I guessed there were about thirty men in the large room and only four women. Everybody was dowdy and poor looking and, although some were dapper enough with waxed moustaches and strutting walks, most were subdued and moved with an air of caution. They did not give a very convincing imitation of murderous lunatics. All were foreign, I guessed many were Jews, and they seemed different from the unionists and syndicalists I had written about in my days of toil. Few had the true air of working men; they did not stand or move like men used to working with hand and body. They also looked very much worse fed, greyer of face.