These Dark Wings (26 page)

‘Uncle, you must do something.’ My voice is breathless. ‘He is here for Grip. To kill Grip.’

Uncle has lit a candle. He wears brown pyjamas, and a blanket cast hurriedly across his shoulders. He looks so old, so tired.

‘Anna. Anna. What are you talking about?’

‘The prisoner. Hess.’

His eyes are open now. He shakes his head. ‘Anna. There is no prisoner here—’

‘I saw him! I stood not five feet from him.’

‘You are to stay away from King’s House. Do you understand?’

Uncle looks at me with pleading eyes.

‘He was at the roost. I don’t know why – why the guards weren’t watching him. I went to check – Grip was calling – and he was
there
. He means to kill Grip, Uncle. That is
why
he is here. Don’t you see? He is here on purpose. Oakes let him in. Now he knows the prophecy – he knows about the Tower ravens.’

‘Anna, there is no—’

‘Stop lying to me.’

‘Anna,’ he begins again, but my voice rises over his.

‘Stop lying. Stop. Please.’

‘My dear, this prisoner is top secret. No one knows he is here. No one. Yeoman Oakes did not let him in – Hess was captured, in a field in Scotland. He is under guard – the best guard in the world. Do not fear him. Grip is safe, and so are you. Now go to bed, please.’

I go. My body is heavy with exhaustion; my mind spins. To have been
that
close to such an evil man, to a Nazi.

What would Timothy Squire say to that? How brave I was.
Flo will never believe it, not a word of it.

With a start, I remember the note Hess handed to me.

We are allowed fires again, and the flames bring welcome heat to the damp room. I reach into my coat, take out the small paper. It is a poem. I cannot keep it, not something given to me by a German.
Not even to show Flo the proof.

I read it once, mouthing the words, before adding it to the flames.

LET THE WAVES IN THUNDER ROAR
,

LIFE OR DEATH MAY BE YOUR LOT
–

WHETHER WRECKED OR SAFE TO SHORE
,

EVER STAY YOUR OWN PILOT
.

Tuesday, 27 May 1941

The smiling face of Hess dissolves. No guards stand outside the King’s House. On the Green, too, the Warders have left, and the watchfulness of the Tower seems at rest. Grip is fine, if somewhat flustered by the late-night visitor.

I hurry back to the Bloody Tower in hopes of an early breakfast. If Uncle is in the Stone Kitchen alone, maybe I can ask him more about what happened to Hess. Why was he here? Did he really fly to Britain to make peace with Churchill?
But Uncle will never tell me.

But Uncle is not alone. I can tell before I reach the door. He is talking to Oakes. Just hearing his voice, I can see his bald spot even through the stone wall. Why is he at breakfast so early? At first I think they are discussing Hess; they are not. They are talking about me.
Is that all they do? Hide behind closed doors and talk about me?

‘What she did, yes, it is tragic, but it is also pure selfishness.’

Me?
Is
Uncle cross with me?

‘Please, Henry. Her husband – the girl’s father, after the war broke out... She needed to protect her. At any cost.’

Uncle cuts him off. ‘It was a senseless, twisted scheme. The child should have been evacuated. With her school or with some group. Overseas, the countryside, wherever they would take her. She should not be here. It is not safe. Anna does not belong here.’

I don’t hear anything after that.

I do not belong here.

So I will leave. All day I have planned it. But first there is something I must do.

I try to lure Grip back to his cage. The sick bird does not meet my gaze, but waddles silently into the roost. I place the meagre food beside him, closer than I would normally dare, before taking a slow step back. Grip glances at the meat, and finally at me. Does he know? Know that I am keeping a shred with me? I need to.

You understand.

Whether the bird understands or not, he turns to his food, eating weakly. He is half his usual size, and clearly very ill. No croaking, not a single
Orrk.
There is something deeply unsettling about a silent bird. Uncle would diagnose an infection. I know better.

I close the cage tightly.

I cannot wait. By the morning feeding, they will notice that Raven Grip is dying. The last of the Tower ravens. Hope will be lost.
If the ravens leave the Tower, the kingdom will fall.
I remember the prime minister’s words, hear the serious, gravel voice in my head.

Hitler’s eagles are no match for Britain’s ravens.

The words ring around my thoughts.

She should not be here. Wherever they would take her.

I may not belong here, but Mabel does.

I kneel down, speaking through the bars.

‘Grip, don’t be scared. Oakes is mean, but he will not hurt you. If Mr Brodie returns, it is okay. He is not a terrible man, not truly. Uncle will keep you safe. You are more important to him than anything else.’

My voice cracks on the last words.

I stand, take a long breath. I move from foot to foot. Ravens respond better to motion than stillness. I ensure that he sees, truly
sees
me. I watch Grip for another minute before I speak.

‘Don’t worry. I will bring her back.’

No one escapes the Tower alone
.

I have help, even if he doesn’t know it.

Entering the barracks is easy. Even from here shouts of laughter ring out from the tavern; voices singing ‘Roll Out the Barrel’. No one is inside.

I take the steps slowly, feeling with my toes for each one, my hand on the curving wall. Blind, I go on, twisting into darkness, the whole left side of my body leaning against the stone. I am not frightened, not this time.

Finally, the stairs come to an end; the floor is level. I am here.

Timothy Squire’s flat.

I take the nail from my pocket.
Getting through a locked door is nothing
. Sliding the nail into the keyhole, I try to remember his exact instructions.

Just sweep it around until you feel the catch, then twist – and push
.

It takes a minute, and makes a little more noise than I hoped, but I
do
feel the catch. I twist, hard, and lean my shoulder against the door.

It pushes open.

I take a step into the room. My breathing relaxes as I close the door softy behind me. I am alone.

Of course Timothy Squire has left most of his stuff behind. I am looking for something in particular. Something even he would not bring along with him to the countryside.

You stole from my room, remember? It’s only fair.

Once I am inside his room I risk using the torch I bought when Nell took me to Boots. Rummaging through the closet
– so many comic books
– I finally find it, wrap it tightly in my jumper and hold it inside my coat. It is small, but heavy.

I feel for a moment the great heat, the searing pain of that night I saved Malcolm. Instinctively, my hand reaches for my hair.

It is nothing anymore, only an empty piece of metal. Only a trick.

It’s a dud, he said.

Oh, Timothy Squire, please tell me you weren’t lying about this.

I put the thought from my mind, focusing instead on negotiating the narrow steps downwards. I make it back with only one missed step and a muffled curse. I still don’t risk the torch, and push quietly through the door and hurry across the Green.

Warders pace before the watch post. I come to a stop in front of the White Tower.

I wait, watching the barracks clock: 9.49 p.m. The Ceremony of the Keys is about to begin. A Warder in a red coat emerges from the Byward Tower, a lantern in his hand. The elaborate ritual of locking the Tower is under way. Once Uncle told me the ceremony had never been interrupted in 700 years.

That is about to end.

I’m sorry, Uncle.
But you’re right.
I don’t belong here.

I slip the silver metal free, place it gently on the ground, in plain sight, directly in his path to Traitors’ Gate. Less than one minute.
Oh, Timothy Squire, you horrible boy, you promised this was safe.

Swiftly, I turn the corner and hurry towards the West Gate.

I have warm clothes and an extra jumper – the heaviest I could find. Mrs Ballard’s hat I have left behind in my room. If anyone sees me, they will think me a boy.

Uncle lied to me. He lied to me about what really happened to Mum; he lied about wanting me to be here at all. Horrible Oakes, talking about Mum – about me! I see them all, Oakes and Miss Breedon and Timothy Squire, laughing, lying, stealing. And even Mr Brodie, driven mad enough to kill poor MacDonald.
I must be free from this place.
And then, almost at the same moment,
I must save them all.

Just as I expected, a deep voice cries into the night.

‘Shelter! Move, everyone to the shelter! Incendiary!’

A whistle screeches through the darkness, soon echoed from the north.

Certain everyone is headed to the shelter, I begin to run back across the parade grounds. Panting, I reach the Casemates, up the steps to the crown of Brass Mount. The flint-towered walls sprawl down to the cold Thames.

There. A drainpipe. Timothy Squire may have been teasing me, but it is my only chance. If I can climb down the drainpipe and drop into the rubbish dump in the moat, I’ll be in the Tower Hill gardens.

Voices shout for order, more in confusion than fear.
I have little time.
They will see that is not a raid, just an old empty bomb.

Problems immediately arise. From the moment I press the thin metal between my fingers, I know the drainpipe will never hold. As soon as it takes my weight, it will snap, crashing down a hundred feet into the darkness.

There is no time. I
must
leave.

I hurriedly throw a leg over the side. It is not too far. My other leg is over, hands alone holding me up. My right foot finds a space between the stones, my left another. I climb down the wall.

Twisting, I release my left hand from the jagged stone, and with desperate fingers grab the next hold. I draw my eyes up from the invisible ground below, look straight ahead. My mouth has gone completely dry.

If only if I can reach the next hold, I might be able to—

Too quickly, I realize, and my foot slips on the next hold. I drop hard on to the grass below.

Balk
.

For a moment I am unsure what has happened, my breath crushed out of me.

Balk.

The noise. It is a hen, cackling from its perch. I have lost my jumper and, I realize immediately after, my knife. I scramble around in the dark allotment and see, among the tall shoots (carrots?), the glint of metal. My jumper too is tangled among the rough leaves. The tiny silver dog is safe in my pocket.

I stand, my eyes drawn to the gleaming river. I look south, where the city of London hides in the safety of darkness. For a brief moment I imagine if the moat still held water – filthy, stinking water filled with bodies – and quickly begin to climb the steep slope. The hens have been shut up for the night; I do not even think about the pigs. I am back on my feet, my legs moving on their own.