‘It was ugly,’ she said.
She looked past Cook, as if expecting someone else.
‘Where’s Frankie?’ she asked.
A creak at the door heralded another arrival. It was Beaumont.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Cook asked.
Beaumont ignored Cook. He was juggling something in his hand. A red cricket ball.
‘Where’d he leave that?’ Gracie asked.
Beaumont didn’t reply.
‘You’d better sit down, Gracie,’ he said.
She stared at him.
‘Don’t you dare,’ she said.
Beaumont nodded, turned to Cook. ‘You shouldn’t have brought him back,’ he said.
He was two steps away. Two steps that Cook took with no conscious thought. Two steps for every part of his civilised mind to shut down, to give way to rage.
‘Cook!’ Gracie shouted.
Her hand was on his arm, and he dimly registered her voice, shouting his name. When the fog cleared, Beaumont was in front of him. His face was purple. Cook’s hand was wrapped around his throat, simultaneously pushing him against the wall and choking him.
Your fault, he’d said.
‘How much did you skim off?’ Cook asked.
‘Let him go!’ Gracie pleaded.
‘How many other shelters like that?’ Cook pressed.
The door swung open again.
‘Found this one on the beach.’
Frankie stepped out from behind Annie’s skirts, ran past everyone and disappeared upstairs.
Cook let go of Beaumont. As soon as he was free, the ARP man ran, the door slamming behind him.
‘You all right, Annie?’ Gracie asked. The old woman was shaking. Gracie pulled a chair over and sat her down.
‘Where’s Bertie?’ she asked.
‘He’s gone,’ Annie said.
‘Where you been stopping?’ Gracie asked. It had been a week since her and Cook had pulled Annie and the old man out of the ruins of their house. She’d assumed they’d been taken care of.
‘Here and there,’ Annie said. ‘Got a cup of tea?’
Gracie nodded to Dottie. ‘Get the kettle on,’ she said, then knelt down in front of Annie.
‘You’ll stop here,’ Gracie said. ‘No arguments.’
