‘Beaumont?’ he shouted.
Cook waited. Knocked again. Louder. A waste of time – the shelter couldn’t have been much more than six feet wide and ten feet long. If someone was knocking on the door and you were inside, you’d know about it, no matter how soft or loud they were.
Cook tried the handle.
It was locked. A brass padlock.
Why would you lock a shelter? If he was going to build a bomb shelter, he’d want a clear path to it, no zigzagging through a vegetable garden, and he’d want the door unlocked all day every day, knowing that the time you forgot the key would be the time you really needed it.
Cook looked back at the house. No movement. He tried to summon the anger that had brought him here, but it was gone. He felt sick, the departing adrenaline leaving his stomach in knots.
With the anger gone, the guilt returned.
This was your fault. You had a job to do – protect the boy – and you failed.
40
Annie stood on the end of the wooden dock, the one that stuck out into the Thames. She’d loved coming here as a girl, some of her best memories, when they’d dangle their feet in the water, the boys showing off, jumping in. The sun on her face, the smell of the river, the sheer busyness of it all – ships coming from the far ends of the earth, and the island the centre of it all.
She’d seen an elephant once, walking off a clipper all the way from India, bound for the new zoological gardens. All the things she’d seen.
Her apron pockets were heavy. She’d gathered bits of rubble on her way. An easy enough task – the island was one big pile of rubble. The canyons she’d grown up in, between warehouse and tenement, now mostly gone.
The tide was halfway out. It would be a big drop down to the water. She hadn’t thought about that. She’d never liked heights. Still, once it was done, she could sleep.
There was a boy down on the foreshore. He was looking out at the water.
She’d wait until he left.
But he didn’t leave. He took a step forward, into the water, never mind his shoes and socks. He took another step, the water swirling up over his short trousers.
‘What you doing?’ she shouted. But the boy didn’t hear her. He took another step into the water.
Annie hurried back along the dock, then down the slippery stone stairs, green with algae. She waded out into the river and grabbed the boy. It was the lad from the pub. Gracie’s boy.
‘Going for a swim?’ she asked him. He looked up at her as if he’d just woken up.
‘Let’s get you home,’ she said.
41
Cook stood back as a chair flew out of the pub, through the open door. It landed with a crash on the street.
Cook took stock. He didn’t have any weapons. If a looter was inside, he’d have to rely on surprise.
He took three quick steps to the door and strode in.
Another chair flew towards him, and Cook caught it with a smack of wood on palm.
‘Sorry, love, didn’t see you come in.’ It was Gracie. Standing in the midst of the dust-covered interior, she looked ready for battle. A fresh turban covering her hair and a fresh apron. Thick rubber gloves on her hands.
‘Would have been easier if there’d been a direct hit,’ Gracie said, gesturing at the destruction.
The inside of the pub was coated with the same dust that covered every inch of the island.
‘They took the clock,’ she said, gesturing at the mantelpiece, where an empty space gaped like a missing tooth. Cook thought of the kind of person who’d steal from his neighbour at their darkest hour. If that was the city, Hitler was welcome to it.
‘Was it valuable?’ Cook asked.
