Charlotte Pearson. 44 Swynford Grove.
That left nine names. Nine people who’d thrown their lot in with the Germans, no doubt feeding the American with bits and pieces of intelligence.
94
‘I’ve got a name for you,’ Margaret said, waiting for Bunny to catch up. They’d taken a stroll around the block but Bunny had stopped to buy a newspaper. They both ignored the siren, buffeted by people running to shelter.
He scanned the front page and grimaced, folded the paper and stuffed it in his suit pocket.
‘Go on then,’ he snapped, ‘or do I have to drag it out of you?’
She passed him a folded note, The Empire on the letterhead, watched him closely as he read the name.
‘Don’t tell me you’re surprised,’ she said.
‘Of course, I’m not surprised. Of course, I know she’s a bloody spy. But I can’t go around arresting Americans left, right, and centre. We’re playing a very dangerous game as it is. If we don’t win them over we’ll be speaking German in a few months, those of us who aren’t dangling from a rope.’
‘So she gets a free pass?’ Margaret asked.
‘This won’t do,’ Bunny said. ‘It won’t do at all. I didn’t put you in there so you could bring me problems. You’re better than that. Bring me solutions. Use your imagination, for Christ’s sake.’
95
The key in the lock brought her out of her dream. She’d been stuck in a hole, earth falling on her. Buried alive.
The door opened.
‘Ruby?’
She almost fainted when she moved her head.
The shelter was a mess – soil everywhere. The woman hadn’t paid attention, had thrown Ruby in like an escaped chicken returned to the coop.
But he would see.
Ruby was out of ideas. The only thing left was to fight. Fight for her life.
It was blindingly bright as the door opened. A sunny day outside. He’d be stepping into the darkness, eyes adjusting. An advantage to her. A slim advantage, but something was better than nothing.
‘Ruby?’ he said, as he stepped into the shelter. She heard him shuffle through a pile of loose soil. ‘What’s this?’
The plate was where she’d left it, on the ground, by the entrance to her tunnel. She brought it down, hard, across the bedstead. It cracked in two. She felt the broken edge and winced – it cut her finger – a wickedly sharp porcelain blade. She was angry with herself. She should have thought of this from the beginning. He’d been using the same plate day in, day out. Left it for her more than once.
‘Ruby, are you all right?’ he asked. He sounded absurdly concerned for her. As if he hadn’t been keeping her prisoner and taking advantage of her.
‘I’m here, Father,’ she said.
He took a cautious step forward, into the darkness. She saw his silhouette against the bright daylight from the door.
He reached out for her, or where he thought she’d be.
Ruby took a quick step to the side, felt for his head with her left hand. She got a handful of his hair, slick with tonic. It was enough. He tried to jerk backwards, but she held his head steady, and quickly drew her makeshift blade across his throat. She barely felt it, the edge of the plate was so sharp.
He cried out, but the cry turned to a gargle as his throat flooded with blood. She felt it against her, gushing from his neck, pumped straight from his heart. It splattered against the corrugated metal wall, splattered against the ceiling. She stumbled backwards, trying to get out of the way, but he fell towards her, grabbing her as he went down.
His lips moved. ‘Ruby.’ But no sound. No air from his lungs, the connection severed. In the darkness, she saw his eyes, pleading with her. But there was nothing she could do.
She stepped over him, the open door within reach. The freedom she hadn’t dared hope for. She needed to get away, to breathe fresh air. To run as far as she could from this place.
