Noose by Bill James

quite a lot about the different parts of it. He’d most probably try to join the Royal Artillery. He would be used to the sounds of guns if there were more raids like this. Of course, he knew something about bombs and bomber aircraft, too. Perhaps he’d decide to join the Air Force.
    Now that it had become quiet outside, with no shrapnel or bombs falling, Ian thought the men might go, or one of them, anyway. Perhaps his mother was right, and as long as nobody took any notice of the two this trouble would end. But then Clifford said: ‘He’s got a knife.’ He did not whisper. He just said it in an ordinary way but with some throaty phlegm, trembling, and Ian could hear it, although his mother and Graham were between him and Clifford. Ian looked at the two men. One man seemed really angry because the other one had turned his back. He felt insulted, you could tell. Although Ian did not know their names at this time, he discovered what they were when the newspapers did reports on the stabbing, of course, and at the trial. When Ian was describing things to the court the judge told him to say, ‘The man I later learned was Martin Harold Main’, or the other one.
    The man who had turned his back probably knew it would make the other one more angry. That might be why he did it. He wanted to be rude. It was like telling Mr Main he didn’t matter. This did not mean Mr Main was right to do what he did. If he had been right he would not have been hanged after the trial, and that notice put up on the prison gates. This was obvious.
    The man stepped forward two paces very fast and got his left arm around the neck of the one who had turned his back. The man with the knife pulled the other one hard against himself. They both had black or dark overcoats on and now they were together like that and in the smoke they looked like one big, thick shadow of a creature with two heads. The one who had turned his back tried to struggle and shouted something, or it was nearly a scream, but Ian could not tell if there were words. It might have been just a shout of surprise or perhaps he had been trying to say something but could not because of the arm inside the overcoat sleeve pressing so hard against his throat. He might be able to get enough air to let him screech, but not enough for shaping the screech into words, not even the one short word: ‘Help!’ He could not fight free.
    Anyway, perhaps he knew that calling for help in this shelter would not work because everyone would be too scared to go for the man with the knife. The raid outside with the whistling bombs and the fire and the broken glass had made them frightened enough and they would not look for an extra fright, such as trying to get the knife off this man. The posh way the two men spoke might also stop anyone in the shelter interfering because these two sounded as though they were used to doing things the way they wanted and would not put up with any bother from ordinary Barton Street people and such like.
    Through the smoke around the two men Ian thought he did see something shine. It was in the right hand of the man who had not turned his back. His other hand and arm stayed around the neck of the man who had turned his back. The man who had not turned his back said in a loud voice, but still posh, ‘You shouldn’t have had it all. Shouldn’t. He said the ‘shouldn’t’ really strong, twice, and stronger on the second go. It seemed to sound right along the shelter, past Mr Chip Shop, and then past the four of them. This one seemed to have plenty of breath for words, even though he must be using part of his strength to grip the other man like that on his throat and not let go. But the ‘shouldn’t’ came out with real power. He meant it. But it wasn’t just that he meant it; no, he wanted all in that shelter to know the other man ‘shouldn’t’. This was a message to travel the total length of the