Chapter 73
The Anderson shelter was at the bottom of the garden.
No logic to the location, just a thing that felt right when you had to decide where to put it.
War was on the horizon, you couldn’t admit the idea of the worst happening, so you signed up for your free shelter but when it arrived you felt silly parking it right up by the house, so you put it in the far corner.
Out of sight, out of mind. A bad idea, in practice.
When the bombs came, you’d want to get to the shelter as quickly as possible.
A path had been trodden down across the grass. Little more than a discolouration in the dew.
Cook and Reynolds exchanged glances. No words needed. Cook took the lead, walking quietly, listening for any sign someone was in the shelter.
Rifle shots cracked in the otherwise quiet evening. Cook spun around, looking for the source. Two more shots, then a roar.
Reynolds shook his head.
‘Said in the paper they’re shooting the animals in the zoo,’ he said. ‘Poor bleeders.’
Cook pictured a zoo-keeper checking his list. Reloading his rifle. Off to the next enclosure.
At the end of the garden, the door to the shelter was locked.
‘Ruby?’ Reynolds shouted. They listened, but there was no reply.
‘Let’s have a look,’ Reynolds said, and Cook stood back as Reynolds set to with the lock-picks.
There was a rustle. Was it from inside the shelter?
‘Quiet,’ Cook hissed to Reynolds. They listened.
‘Hello?’ Cook called out.
‘Ruby?’ Reynolds shouted.
Nothing.
Reynolds fumbled the picks and Cook heard a jangle as they fell to the ground. Reynolds bellowed in frustration and kicked the door, his boot hitting the sheet-metal with everything he had, but the lock held.
‘Ruby? We’re going to get you out,’ Reynolds shouted, as he scrabbled in the long grass for the picks.
‘Don’t rush,’ Cook said. ‘Do it once, do it right.’
Reynolds found the picks and returned to his task.
There was a click.
‘There you go,’ Cook said.
‘Not there yet,’ Reynolds said.
The click had been too loud, Cook realised. It was a click he recognised. A sound that had become a part of him. A Webley revolver being cocked, the hammer pulled back, ready to fire.
‘What’s going on here?’ a voice said, from the darkness.