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Majid Salim was born in 1976. His work has been published by
Springer-Verlag and The Guardian newspaper. The Eye of Control
is his second novel. He likes wine and cooking. He is married
with children and lives in Birmingham.
Majid Salim
THE
EYE
OF
CONTROL
Acknowledgments
Thank you to all my friends and family for their support.
Chapter One
onto the streets of London, and sometimes the air was thick
with paranoia about Nazi spies. It was a hard time, war, made
harder by the strange element of espionage. Spies were
working throughout the capital cities of Europe every day.
Nobody knew who these people were, but everyone was afraid
of them and they had given London a disconnected, slightly
on hold feeling. Nobody seemed to know how to lead a
normal life in London any more. Once in a while everyone felt
as if they were heading for, or had come straight out of, a
sanatorium.
There was a ripple of fear that ran through London
sometimes, and that was when somebody said the word that
filled everyone with a stage dread invasion. What if the
Nazis invaded Britain? With tanks and millions of troops?
What would that be like? It wasnt a sentiment that was
openly discussed, because it was important to keep shared
morale high, and nobody was permitted to wonder aloud with
such pessimism. But the word stalked the streets of London,
under everyones breath, and sent a shiver of terror down
every spine. Nobody could imagine how mortifying it would
be to see Nazi tanks trundling down London roads like Oxford
Street and Regent Street, machine gunning people. Horrors
like that had engulfed other countries, and everyone prayed
that it wouldnt land here, and that the war would be won in
France.
The boy wondered how long the war would last. Everyone
was hoping it would be over soon. Then it would be a real
springtime in London, not mirthless purgatory. Over the
British Museum there was an airship, moving East with a deep
bass engine burr that echoed around the buildings. It had a
massive bristling radio antenna hanging sideways from its
cabin; it was probably designed for relaying encrypted code to
ships in the Atlantic fleet. On the other side of the road there
was a man in a trilby and expensive grey overcoat. He had the
Times under his arm. He walked towards the boy. He saw the
flowers and fished in his back pocket for change. His gold
watch glittered.
Hello lad, he said, handing over four pennies. Have you
seen any train drivers today?
No sir, said the boy. He picked up a bunch and handed
them to the man.
If you see any train drivers, tell them theres a meeting at
Euston at five pm today. All the train drivers have to be there
because the War Office wants to talk to them. Its been well
advertised in advance, but just on the off chance a reminder
wouldnt hurt, theres a good lad.
Yes sir, said the boy.
The man regarded the boy. He had a tired face and
searching, war-haunted eyes. He nodded at the boy.
All right then, he said. Have a good day lad.
You too sir.
The man moved off, flowers in hand. His copy of the
Times showed a burning warship in the Mediterranean. He
was probably a civilian, but the war had affected everybody,
and cast a shadow over every bureaucracy in the land. It was a
war economy and the possibility of invasion had put the
frighteners in every company.
By this time the airship had moved a hundred feet east,
and was approaching Bloomsbury Square. The boy thought its
drone sounded sinister - it was a sound of war. Someone on
the radio had been talking about street by street fighting in
towns in Southern Europe. Would it be like that in London?
The boy shuddered.
Chapter Two
Five minutes after she left Russell Square, the woman who
bought the daffodils for a shilling was nearing her flat. She
lived in St Smithfields, a locality just east of Russell Square. It
was a bohemian, artistic quarter, full of young people renting.
The area had always had an Art Deco feel, but the war had
cast a sombre mood, and in many ways the young people who
lived in St Smithfields bore the psychological brunt of the war
worst of all Londoners.
The buildings around here were all seven stories high, and
mostly full of apartments. St Smithfields was named because
of an old legend about a Saxon Catholic saint who saw a
vision of the Lady here, when London was just a village. On
eerie mornings like this all the buildings were suffused in the
minds eye with a strange sort of glow. It was the sort of
morning where people might want to sit and think about
meaningful things. But she tended to be too fretful ever to
think anything philosophical properly through, and anyway
she liked simpler things in life like flowers and earrings.
She needed to paint her nails. Makeup was getting more
expensive because of the war in the Atlantic. She wanted to
look good for as long as possible. Absently, she brushed a
blonde lock of hair away from her face. Her daffodils were
fresh with droplets of dew on them, and they brightened her
spirits somewhat. It had been a pleasant walk this morning.
Her name was Laura McDermott. She was twenty nine.
Her grandfather had been an Irish immigrant to London from
a moneyed family, and he had made a lot of money himself by
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