Free 2 The Imposter by Mark Dawson

the ballroom. It had been arranged with several rows of chairs for the relatives and friends who were invited to witness the investiture. The colours were of red and gold, there were portraits hung in ornate frames, yards of lush drapes and carpets that you sank into, marble floors buffed so bright you could see your reflection in them. The chairs faced a dais where the King received the men who were being honoured. The room was empty at the moment. Edward introduced himself and was ushered into an anteroom for a brief education in royal protocol from a member of the house who remained staid and aloof, as if this teaching these ignorant yahoos how to scrape and bow was below him.
    The men were finally led into the ballroom and directed to the reserved seating nearest to the dais. There were men from all three services: the face of a chap from the RAF was deformed by burns and a naval rating had had half of his leg blown off. Edward was in the front row next to those two men. He turned around, scanning the crowd behind him, and saw Joseph. He winked. Joseph grinned back at him. He was wearing a beautiful suit, a shining pair of shoes and he had a trilby in his lap. His clothes were new and obviously expensive, and he looked quite a picture. Joseph was the only person that Edward had invited. He would have asked Jimmy but they could not afford to shut the restaurant and it seemed wrong to have a moment like this and not share it with anyone.
    King George, accompanied by a retinue of two Ghurkhas, made his way to the dais and the ceremony began. The men who were receiving the Victoria Cross went first, the rating and the airman among stepping up before Edward. The chamberlain read out their citation, they went forward, the King gave them their medal and said a few rehearsed words, they went back. Edward watched with wide eyes. The whole spectacle was utterly surreal.
    “Edward Frederick Fabian.”
    Edward leant forwards avidly as the chamberlain read out his citation. “Corporal Fabian carried out an individual act of great heroism by which he attacked and killed several of the enemy who had ambushed his own platoon. It was in direct face of the enemy, under intense fire, whilst wounded and at further great personal risk to himself. His valour is worthy of the highest recognition.”
    Edward took his cue and went forwards, his face stern and impassive. The King shook his hand and held it for a moment. He leant forwards and spoke quietly into his ear. “Congratulations, corporal,” he said. When he was finished, Edward stepped back and saluted crisply.
    There was an upswelling of applause for the three men. Joseph clapped most of all, beaming a wide grin, and Edward could not resist the explosion of pleasure in his breast. He grinned, too, and, for the moment at least, his reservations were forgotten.
    * * *
    THEY FOUND A PUB near to the Palace and Joseph bought a couple of beers. “So that’s how you got shot?” Joseph said as soon as they were settled in a booth.
    “Afraid so,” Edward said, feigning reluctance to go into detail.
    “How many Japs were there?”
    “Eight.”
    “And they just opened up on you?”
    “It was the monsoon––you know what that’s like. You couldn’t see much further than the front of your nose. Half a dozen of the lads had been hit before the rest of us knew what was going on. I was lucky––I just got the ricochet in the foot before I managed to get into the jungle and get a grenade away. That scattered them, and I picked the survivors off.”
    “That’s a hell of a story.” He shook his head. “Stone the crows, Doc. The Victoria Cross. It doesn’t get better than that. One of my pals is a war hero.”
    Edward savoured it. He drank it all in. It could not have been a more successful morning and now every moment to Edward was a pleasure. The ceremony had been tremendously agreeable in itself. And now there was Joseph’s acclaim, the way that strangers in the pub looked at him