Queenie and Jack begin to talk in lowered voices. I lean across the table as far as I dare, straining to hear what they’re saying.
‘Do you ever wish you hadn’t got involved in all this?’ I hear Queenie say, surprisingly softly, her voice trembling a little. Amazingly, Mum was right. I can see it now. Queenie’s scared. ‘God, what if we get caught! We’d get a police record, wouldn’t we? My family would kill me if that happened.’
‘No one ever said it was going to be easy when we signed up for this,’ Jack tells her. He speaks quietly, but I can hear the same all-consuming anxiety in his tone. ‘We wanted to make a difference. We will make a difference. If not this time, then the next, or the next. We didn’t know there was anybody living here. We’ll get it done and then get the hell out of here.’
‘I know,’ Queenie replies, but she sounds not at all sure. ‘I keep telling myself that.’
‘It’ll be all right. Honestly.’ Jack lowers his voice even more, but my ears are sharp and I can just about catch what he says next. ‘And go easy on the kid, will you? It’s not her fault that she’s involved in all this. She’s only looking out for her mum.’
It takes me a couple of seconds to realize that Jack’s talking about me. I’m expecting Queenie to jump down his throat, but to my amazement, she doesn’t. I see her head drop a little, then she shrugs and nods.
‘I know, I’ve been a bit crazy,’ she says apologetically. ‘I’m just so nervous about tomorrow. Sorry. I’ll try harder, promise.’
‘I feel bad about keeping them prisoner,’ Jack confides. ‘Really guilty. If there was any other way . . .’
I can tell he means it, and this puzzles me. I thought I knew what a terrorist was, before this night. Someone evil. Someone who wants to maim, kill, destroy for their own beliefs. Now I’m not sure what to think. My thoughts are confused, a maze of doubt. These terrorists seem fairly – normal. Even Queenie, the loud crazy woman, is beginning to quieten down a bit. Can this be right? Can terrorists appear to be everyday members of society, and then be able to switch off all their feelings and emotions to become cold-hearted killers? I suppose they can, because otherwise it would be easy to spot them, wouldn’t it?
I’m caught out, then, when Queenie unexpectedly whips round to check on me. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks nosily, but in a slightly softer way than usual.
‘History,’ I reply, relieved that she didn’t turn round a few minutes earlier and see me noting down what kind of phone she has.
Queenie turns away. As silently as I can, I tear a blank sheet of paper from my notebook.
Help! SOS!!! I scribble on the top sheet. Please send police to The Gables, Silver Birch Lane IMMEDIATELY. I write the same thing on five other torn-out sheets. Then I fold each one individually into small squares. I stash them all away in the pockets of my jeans. Then I scribble a few more notes on Roman Britain before laying my pen down.
‘I need the loo,’ I announce.
Surprisingly Queenie doesn’t moan and object. She instantly stands up. ‘Do you want to go too?’ she asks my mum, and I feel a stab of dismay. But, luckily, Mum shakes her head.
Queenie escorts me out into the corridor. As usual, she watches me go inside and then pulls the door to. She doesn’t close it, which is annoying, but it can’t be helped.
I calculate that I have two minutes, max, before Queenie starts to get suspicious. I must be quick. I climb up onto the edge of the bath and, balancing there, take one of the folded bits of paper from my pocket. Through the frosted window glass I can see the faint silhouettes of the trees in our garden and, every so often, the beam of headlights from passing cars. The police are probably patrolling the area all night before tomorrow, unaware of the drama that’s happening in our house right under their noses.
I dare not open the window to throw the SOS message out, but there’s a small gap between the window and the frame where the wood has rotted. Carefully I poke my message out through the gap, into the blackness of the night. My hope is that the wind will lift it out of our garden, and someone may find it and read it and take it seriously. Not very likely, I know, but it’s all I have. I push the pieces of paper through, one after another, each square a desperate cry for help.
‘Are you ready, Anni?’ Queenie calls.
I know that any moment she’s going to burst in, and I still have one square of paper left in my hand. I jump down from the bath, shoving the message into my pocket. I’m just in time. I flush the toilet and Queenie immediately opens the door.
‘You were a long time,’ she says, but mildly, for her.
‘Sorry,’ I reply, washing my hands quickly. If Queenie can be reasonable, then so can I. Two can play at that game.
As Queenie leads me, like a jailer, back to our prison, I think about those tiny bits of paper blowing around outside, begging for help, and I wonder if anyone will come to save us.