19

The night was still cold: so cold it forced a single tear from Mrs F’s eye.

She wiped it away quickly with a rough woollen glove, but Joseph spotted it regardless.

Was she just cold or had the prospect of pulling the trigger become too much for her? He looked for more signs, but frustratingly she gave none, pulling her hat lower and her scarf higher, the perfect camouflage.

Joseph shivered next to her, but not close. The cold had starved him of energy. There was little of him visible either, bandaged in blankets and scarves retrieved from the office.

He kept his eyes forward, fixed on the bars of the cage, but every now and then he risked a glance to see if she was still awake, if her grasp on the rifle remained tight. It was exciting and boring all at the same time.

An hour passed.

The night darkened, so dark even the stars seemed blunted and useless, and it lulled the woman, pulling her down inside her coat, her breathing deepening until it echoed the grunts from the cage.

Joseph waited till he was sure sleep was just about to grab her.

‘I don’t think you’d do it.’

Her eyes flashed open, body tensing in surprise, finger tightening instinctively on the trigger.

‘Hhhhm? What?’

‘Pull the trigger. If you had to. I don’t think you would.’

She stretched and yawned, irritated at herself for nearly falling asleep. ‘You know everything, you,’ she said, eyes slit-like.

‘If you’re tired, you can let me hold the gun.’

‘It’s a rifle, not a gun. And besides, do you honestly think I’d let you hold this? You took such an instant dislike to Adonis, you’d be pulling the trigger even if Hitler waved a white flag from Berlin.’

Joseph fell silent, thinking about it. Wouldhe pull the trigger if he had to?

Ask him a few days ago and he’d have pulled the rifle clean out of her hands. Damned ape had scared the life out of him. But, as much as he hated to admit it, he had no idea if he could squeeze the trigger either. He’d seen Adonis behave differently at times: not just his playfulness tonight, but the way he was with Mrs F. The way he allowed himself to be fed with her so close by. They didn’t even need bars between them, such was their trust. He tried to imagine being able to feed the ape like that, before coming to his senses. It was pointless thinking of such a thing. That wasn’t how life worked for him. Friendship and trust counted for nothing. He knew that.

Silence fell, and darkness grew. There were no signs from above but the sirens hadn’t called it off yet either. The night was cold. So cold he resorted to the balaclava she had made him, daring to pull it over his head without feeling guilty for doing so.

The noises from Mrs F told him she’d succumbed to sleep, but he had not. He was awake and prepared to pinch himself whenever sleep dared to sneak up.

Her breathing deepened further and he felt her slump gently against him. His instinct was to push her off and as he did so, her grip on the rifle fell altogether and it slid, gently, onto his lap.

He cradled it, out of fear of it falling to the floor and setting itself off. But the second his hands grasped its bulk, it confused him, making him feel too many things at once. He felt the danger in it, the power in its weight. But with that power came an overwhelming and immediate sense of fear, too. He expected to feel brave, but he didn’t. He felt scared.

Was this how soldiers felt, he thought, the first time they picked up a gun? And did it change over time? Did it feel lighter, more normal the more you pointed it? Or did it only feel better when someone was pointing one straight back at you?

He thought of his dad, hundreds of miles away, and wondered if he was doing the exact same thing. Was he scared, too? He hoped not. He hated him for leaving him to struggle here on his own, but at the same time, felt a burning love for him, a desire to know that he was alive and breathing, and coming home.

Rustling broke from the cage, pulling Joseph from his thoughts. Adonis dashed along its length: not loud enough to wake Mrs F, but enough to see Joseph swing the rifle in his direction, pulse quickening.

Could he do it if he had to?

He looked to the sky: nothing. Empty. If they were coming again, they weren’t here yet, or even close.

So he waited, just like Mrs F did, hands tingling, and not just from the biting cold. But nothing happened. No one came, and just like her, eventually, he found his own clothes and blankets growing, pulling him under, until finally, and despite his protests, his eyes closed for the first time, the rifle slipping to the ground between them both. He didn’t pick it up.

Inside the cage two eyes remained open and alert.

Open, alert and fixed on the boy: keeping guard from a distance.

And they stayed that way, until the all-clear siren finally sounded.