Chapter 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.
‘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.’
‘I thought it was gas,’ Annie said. ‘They said there was going to be gas.’