‘You won’t let them touch this, though?’ The rush of possessiveness that comes over me, shocks me. I’m not sure why I feel so strongly about it being left as it is. Maybe because it has been, for all these years.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ana says, ‘no one’s gonna touch anything.’
I nod, relieved, and edge further into the room. Gravitating to the left bed, I sit, feeling the mattress give. I’m so tired, I’m tempted to lie down, but I can hardly do that with Ana here. Instead, I bend over the bed’s edge, looking beneath it, to see what, I have no idea, and there’s nothing there anyway.
Ana crosses to the dormer window, beyond which night is rapidly falling – the clouds no longer violet, but deep grey – and I get up, moving to the chest of drawers, where I peer into my reflection in the mirror. I frown. My face doesn’t seem to belong in this old, mottled glass. I’m too twenty-first century, with my messy ponytail, mascaraed lashes, and hooped earrings. I should be in costume: a tie around my collared neck; a WAAF cap on my hair.
Looking down, I pull at the chest’s top drawer. It sticks, then gives, jolting open. On first glance, it appears empty. But then I spot a strip of metal wedged into the back seam. Reaching for it, I yank it free, and, seeing that it’s a hair grip, feel a tingling in my skin. I turn the grip over, running my thumb across the grooves, and the tingling grows.
She breathed this air, I had to tell myself about Iris, back in the entrance hall.
I really don’t need to tell myself anything up here.
‘Come look at this,’ says Ana from the window.
Setting the hairgrip down, I go. She gestures downwards, towards the set. It’s much harder to make out now that it’s getting so dark. The huts, tower and planes are all cloaked in shadows. Somehow, they seem more believable for it.
‘Eerie, isn’t it?’ Ana says.
I nod in agreement.
And, from the direction of the woods, that bird calls again.
It’s a distinctive sound, more a screech, than a song. Instinctively, I’m drawn to it. Yet it unsettles me too.
‘Come up whenever you need,’ says Ana. ‘You’ll work things out here.’ She hands me her key. ‘I know it.’
Chapter Three
Ireturn to the attic within a few hours.
I don’t plan to.
I plan to try and get some rest. Even though Nick and Felix are now going to be shooting first thing, I still need to be in make-up at nine. With Emma out of action, Naomi’s frontloading some montage shots of the rest of us around the base. It’ll be straightforward, but dull, and the last thing I need is to be as knackered as I’ve been today.
But, when Nick and I turn in at ten, I can’t sleep. I lie beside him, wrapped in our 1,000 thread count sheets, listening to his stillness, thinking about the evening that’s been.
Nick was still in wardrobe when I let myself into our room earlier, so I unpacked and sank into the roll-top bath. There, I flicked through my worn copy ofThe Bomber Boys, then stared, like I’ve stared so often before, at the photograph of the originalMabel’s Furycrew on the cover. It was taken the afternoon before they left on their final mission. Tim and Robbie are in the middle of the group, both of them stirringly handsome – Tim, like a young Robert Redford; Robbie, in a class of his own – and Robbie’s focus is direct into the camera. He has one foot forward, like he’s about to set off towards the person behind the lens.
Iris?
I’ve wondered about that for a long time. I asked Imogen if she knew, but she said that Tim can’t remember who took the photo. I think it probably was Iris, though, and it breaks my heart, looking at the smile on Robbie’s face. It kills me, looking at all of them. I hate how young they are, how alive.
Dropping the book face down, I dressed, then, texting Emma to check she was awake, went to see her. Her room wasn’t hard to find. It was the only one with a ‘No Entry’ sign fixed to the door.
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked her, once she’d let me in.
‘So bad,’ she croaked in her southern drawl, shuffling back to bed.
She’d been crying, I could tell from her blotchy face. I felt awful for her, locked away in quarantine, all miserable and alone. She reminded me so much of Lisa, burying herself beneath her duvet, that I very nearly went and gave her a hug.
I didn’t though. We only met at rehearsals, and although we spent plenty of time together then, the days were packed, I was all over the place, and I guess we’re still finding our way as friends. But I do like her. Honestly, she’s pretty much the only person I haven’tbeen dreading seeing here.
‘Is it something you ate?’ I asked, perching on her bed.
‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘I can’t think about food.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
