Free Death Ray by Craig Simpson

wiped a damp cloth over it. He was a middle-aged chap, of stocky build, and had faded tattoos of coiled serpents on both arms. The Cadenza proved a pretty cheerless place with cheap tables and chairs, and the menu offered little except spam sandwiches and coffee that smelled suspiciously of chicory.
    Loki had shifted his chair sideways and, arms folded, was staring out of the partially misted window towards the other side of the square. In fact, it was more of a circle than a square, with roads radiating from it like the spokes of a bicycle wheel. In the middle was a clock tower and a shelter for those queuing for the next electrically powered trolley bus. The centre of Bournemouth was full of tall buildings, some seven storeys high, housing department stores and other shops. Lewis guns were stationed on their roofs in case of an air raid. There were blocks of residential apartments too, including Cranford Mansions, the one occupied by Félix Mouton – alias Renard.
    As life drifted past the window of the Cadenza, we discussed whether Britain and Germany were in some sort of race to develop a death ray. If they were, then whoever succeeded first was likely to win the war.
    ‘Christ, imagine such a weapon,’ said Loki. ‘Maybe it’s some sort of high-energy beam of light that fries anything that stands in its way.’
    ‘Or maybe like a bolt of lightning,’ I suggested. ‘Do you think it could destroy tanks or ships or aircraft?’
    ‘Probably,’ he replied.
    Freya tutted. ‘If it exists then it’s almost too terrible to contemplate. I just hope such a thing proves impossible to make.’
    We both nodded in agreement, but I thought the fact that some blueprints had been stolen surely had to mean a device existed, at least on the drawing board.
    ‘Still no sign of him,’ Loki muttered, wiping the mist from the window with the sleeve of his coat. ‘I’m not sure he’s even at home.’
    Bournemouth was a lucky town, I decided. When Walker drove us round to give us our bearings, I noticed few obvious signs of bomb damage: he told us that the gap close to the square had been the Central Hotel until the Luftwaffe decided to close it down for good. It was a seaside town rooted in a valley where the sea cliffs temporarily gave way, allowing easy access to sandy beaches and promenades. War, however, meant that steel-reinforced concrete anti-tank defences called dragon’s teeth, vicious barbed wire and heavily armed soldiers barred entry to the golden sands, which Walker had told us had been extensively mined anyway. He’d stopped our car on the cliff top within sight of the pier. Anyone wanting a gentle stroll along it was in for a disappointment: the railings and decking had been removed and a sixty foot middle section deliberately blown up by the Royal Engineers to prevent its use as a landing stage during an invasion.
    ‘Three hours and we’ve seen nothing – and the light’s fading fast.’ Freya complained. ‘This is cruel. All those shops but I can’t go shopping!’
    Loki laughed. ‘You haven’t got enough coupons for a hanky, let alone a new dress.’
    I noticed the waiter staring at us again. We’d been whispering in Norwegian, and I wondered if he’d caught an earful. Towns like Bournemouth were full of troops and people who’d fled Nazi persecution and the streets rang with foreign tongues, so I doubted that alone was the reason he was watching us so determinedly. It made me anxious. I had an awful feeling he suspected us of something – as if we were up to no good. ‘We’d better find somewhere else,’ I said finally. ‘We can’t hang around here all afternoon.’
    ‘Good idea, Finn,’ said Loki, quickly rising to his feet and grabbing his gas-mask case. ‘I’m bored to tears sitting here. Let’s go for a wander.’
    The waiter’s stare followed us outside. I could sense it burning into the back of my neck. God, he gave me the creeps. On the pavement we took stock of our surroundings.