He was completely cut off from the city. Cook wouldn’t have believed it, but here he was, in the heart of London, and all he could see on every horizon was the dark silhouette of grassland and trees. He could have been out in his own fields.
Time to deal with his shadow. He made for a thicket of trees – a wall of darkness against the glowing sky. Even before he reached it, he’d be invisible to anyone behind him. He dropped to the ground and crawled sideways, through the long grass. If his pursuer followed in his footsteps, he’d see them against the sky.
Cook lay in the grass. He could smell damp earth and dry leaves. The smell of England, in autumn. A faint hint of coal-smoke from the invisible city, and fainter still, an acrid smell, from the burning docks. Or perhaps that was his imagination, filling gaps, telling stories.
He couldn’t hear the other man. It had been a minute since he’d last heard the crunch of a leaf or even the whisper of grass. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Imagining enemies. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Give it another minute. Worst case, you’re lying in the grass, the stars overhead, a chance to forget you’re in the big city.
A snap of a twig. He tensed. Listened. An animal. A fox, probably. On its own night manoeuvres.
Cook rolled, fast. Instinct had alerted him, and then launched his body into action while his conscious mind was still wondering about the bloody fox. Instinct, and then training.
It was training that stopped the roll, countering the movement to launch back, towards the attacker. Never do what your opponent expects. Take control, set the tempo. He was onto the man in an instant, using momentum to throw him.
The man was lighter than he’d expected. He’d thought it would be one of the brothers from the hotel. Big, bigger or giant. This assailant was half the weight of the smallest of those men.
‘Cook!’ she yelled, as she hit the ground with a thud. He was on top of her before he had a chance to think, pinning both arms down, his weight on her legs.
It took him a second to realise.
It was Margaret.
Impossible of course. The last time he’d seen her she’d pointed a gun at him, ordered him out of the rowing boat they’d both taken, then disappeared into the darkness, to rendezvous with a German U-boat out in the Channel, her pockets stuffed with details of a secret radio installation.
‘Whose side are you on?’ he’d shouted back then as she’d disappeared into the dark, heading out to sea, but she hadn’t answered. Her silence had been enough.
Now, she lay underneath him, writhing to get out from his grip.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he asked, his blood still up.
‘Good to see you too,’ she said.
She grinned. It annoyed him. This was no laughing matter. She’d crept up on him in the dark and attacked him. Cook could think of several men who’d tried that same trick who wouldn’t be trying it again.
‘What the bloody hell,’ he said.
‘Don’t be ticked off,’ she said. ‘Just a bit of fun.’
He kept her pinned down, in the darkness. He felt her pushing her body up, testing his weight, trying to escape.
Cook had a lot of questions. A lot of things he’d imagined saying since the night she’d left him. All led back to the big question – was she on his side, or theirs? He hadn’t known then, and in the intervening time he hadn’t come to any conclusions.
He still didn’t know.
She craned her head forward and kissed him. A surprise attack. He pulled back, better to look at her. He tried to think. To weigh the logic. But rational thought eluded him.
He kissed her back, keeping his hands on hers, either side of her head, pushed into the grass.
She pushed her body against his, a memory of the weeks they’d spent together, living as man and wife. She rolled, and he let her, reversing their positions, her above, looking down, her hair a curtain around her face.
‘Why the hell would I trust you a second time?’ Cook asked.
Margaret kissed him again. She let go of his hands, and he ran them down her back, finding bare skin under her dress, then back up, under the fabric.
He rolled her again, the grass whispering against her dress. She arched her back as he drew the dress up, over her shoulders.
‘You missed me,’ she said.
