‘Sounds like we should all get evacuated,’ Beaumont said.
‘About your style, isn’t it? Running away from the fight?’ This from Reynolds.
‘Didn’t see you at the recruiting office?’ Beaumont replied.
‘Got to keep the country fed,’ Reynolds said.
‘So pilfering’s a noble occupation now, is it?’ Beaumont said.
There was a quiet sound, almost inaudible. A snick of a well-oiled mechanism. A flick knife appeared in Reynolds’s hand.
‘You want to be careful,’ Reynolds said.
‘Oi,’ Grace snapped, from behind the bar. ‘None of that.’
Cook stepped in front of Beaumont, putting himself in harm’s way, keeping his eye on the knife that seemed to dance in front of his face.
Suddenly the pub was quiet. Cook realised he’d broken some kind of delicate social code. No matter. He’d never been much for following the rules.
Reynolds assessed Cook, as if seeing him for the first time. He took his time.
Cook knew the moment, he’d felt it often enough, in the trenches, and behind enemy lines. The moment enemy contact is made, each side assessing the other. A breath, before the fight.
There was a movement in the crowd and Frankie appeared in the space between the two men.
‘Dad, this is Mr Cook. He’s been looking after me. Doing a good job of it.’
Reynolds gave it a moment, deciding which way it would go. He smiled, closed the knife, handed it to the boy.
‘Brought you this,’ Reynolds said.
Frankie took the knife, eyes wide.
‘What do you say?’ Reynolds snapped.
‘Thanks,’ Frankie mumbled, flicking a glance up at Cook.
Reynolds winked at Cook.
There was a distant sound. A roll of thunder, muffled by the thick walls of the pub. If Cook had been out in the fields he’d have been able to judge the distance. The smell of the earth would have told him when to expect the downpour.
The threat of a fight gone, talking returned. Almost loud enough to cover the distant noise, but not quite.
More thunder. Cook felt it this time. Thunder, but not thunder. A tremor in the ground.
11
Cook hurried outside, followed by Reynolds – the two men with the same goal, to make sure the thunder wasn’t anything worse than a summer storm. In the canyon formed by the surrounding tenements, Cook could only see a thin sliver of sky. Reynolds hurried away, disappearing into a narrow alley. Cook followed, and found himself in an open space – a churchyard, and an adjoining park. More sky.
Thick cloud gathered on the eastern horizon. The source of the storm. But this cloud was unlike any Cook had seen before. It was rising quickly, like steam from a kettle left too long to boil. Flashes of light lit the cloud from inside.
Cook smelt the air. There was an acrid smell, oddly familiar.
‘Coffee,’ Reynolds said. ‘They’re hitting the royal docks. There was a shipment in from Brazil last night.’
Now he’d said it, the smell was unmistakable. And the sound. Not thunder. Bombs. As many bombs as Cook had ever heard. Took him back to the Somme. But that was impossible. It would take hundreds of bombers. Thousands. It would take the entire Luftwaffe.
‘Any military targets over there?’ Cook asked.
