I pointed my gun at the young man.
‘Stop the broadcast,’ I ordered.
He smirked. ‘Do you see any microphones?’ he asked.
‘How’s your English?’ I asked him.
‘WeareEnglish,’ he said. He sounded exasperated. He looked at the woman as if it were her job to solve this little problem for him. Get things back on track.
I assumed the woman was in charge. Probably had a plan for this. Did they have poison capsules in their teeth, like they did in the flicks? I gave them a second. If they wanted to take the honourable way out, that would give me fewer people to kill. A win all round.
The woman looked up at the ceiling, where hurried footsteps echoed, in reaction to my gunshot. I’d have company soon. She looked at me as if to say ‘now look what you’ve done’.
I stood with my back against the wall. I could cover the people in the room and keep my eye on the door, but if someone was out in the corridor they wouldn’t see me until they entered the room.
‘Anyone in here says a word I’ll shoot them first,’ I said, in my command voice.
‘Bunny!’ the woman shouted.
Keeping my eyes on the door, I pointed my gun at the woman. I’d given the ultimatum and she’d broken it deliberately. Like a test. You let one person do that and you’ve lost control. Only one response possible.
It took a moment to sink in, above the pounding blood in my ears. My finger was on the trigger.
‘Bunny!’ she shouted again. Her voice wobbled. She was scared. She knew she was hanging by a thread.
Bunny.
Heavy footsteps on the stairs – we were about to have company. Along the corridor, following the bundle of wires, past the kitchen door, over the bunched-up rug.
The door opened. A man hurried in. He was in his sixties, wearing a rumpled suit that looked like he’d slept in it. He beamed when he saw me.
‘Cook!’ he said, holding out his hand to shake. I moved the gun from the woman to him. He didn’t seem to notice.
‘You took your bloody time,’ he said. ‘I told these chaps you’d be here days ago.’
52
I’d met Bunny in London a month earlier, when the Germans had invaded France. I’d travelled to London to sign up, join the army and give my life to the fight against the oncoming Blitzkrieg.
Bunny had told me the army had different plans for me. He’d given me my marching orders and sent me on my way. He’d told me I’d never see him again. Our conversation hadn’t taken place. All that kind of thing. Standard military intelligence rubbish, as if we were all playing a big game.
A lot had happened since then.
Now, Bunny looked from me to the couple on the couch, and back again. He beamed.
‘John Cook, meet Helmut and Frieda. Helmut, Frieda, meet John Cook. Good chap. Got a farm down in ...’ He looked to me for help.
‘Uckfield,’ I said.
‘Uckfield! Slap bang on the invasion route, as far as we can tell.’
I lowered the gun.
‘We’ve met,’ I said.
More footsteps from the corridor heralded another arrival. It was going to get crowded.
‘Ah!’ Bunny said. ‘Cook, this is Adams.’
