41

When they came, they came from nowhere, and they came with fury.

They hunted in packs, terrorising single houses first, then whole streets at a time, not moving on until every semblance of life had been snuffed out.

The first explosion blew Joseph from his bed, the second hitting by the time he rose from the floor: plaster fell from the ceiling, the walls groaned in terror.

The siren played as it always did, but it was an apology of a warning, a whisper eaten by a Nazi roar.

Joseph was afraid. Perhaps he’d become blasé with the bombs only ever landing in the distance, putting on a firework display without him ever feeling under any real threat. But this was different. It was loud, deafening. He could hear walls tumbling, people screaming, the incessant, looping howl of Tweedy from downstairs.

Pulling on his shorts and socks, he tore on to the landing, but there was no sign of Mrs F. Normally, they met at the top of the stairs as she forced shocks of hair inside her coarse woollen hat. But tonight, nothing: though her bedroom door was open, bed covers neat, unbothered.

He thundered down the stairs, two at a time, vaulting the final three. He did not need to open the kitchen door as another blast saw the walls shake and the door open onto a scene he had not expected.

The top of the kitchen table was covered in the contents of Mrs F’s tin. There was also a glass tumbler knocked onto its side, spilling red liquid across the documents. And there amongst the mess, was a sleeping Mrs F, head on the table, arms splayed either side of her, left hand gripping a scrunched-up document.

The only life in the room came from Tweedy, howling as he made his way through an obstacle course of chair legs, weaving and diving between them, stopping occasionally to nudge at his lifeless mistress.

For one awful instant, Joseph thought her dead, mistaking the spilled liquid for blood. But his fears were soon allayed. He dipped his head to hers, scraping the stained, sticky hair from her cheek, which woke something in her: a thick, sloppy cough that reeked of booze.

She wasn’t dead, just dead drunk.

Another bomb landed, closer, causing the lights to flicker and the walls to quiver. It didn’t put a dent in Mrs F’s slumber, but Joseph needed to, and quickly. Who knew how long it would be until the walls tumbled?

‘Mrs F?’ he said, in hushed tones, before wondering why. Did he think the Nazis were listening in? He shouted, louder, but to no avail. Her eyes remained shut. So he shook her, her shoulders heavy and lifeless.

‘Mrs F, wake up, come on. They’re coming. They’re COMING!’ What was she doing? Why get herself into such a state when the threat of a raid was always hanging over them? It wasn’t like her, that was for sure.

He tried to lift her head and prise her eyelids open, but if she could see him, then she was doing a damned good job of pretending otherwise.

Another bomb, closer again, edging Joseph towards blind panic.

In all the nights past, he’d never truly believed that a bomb would land on them, he was too cocky for that, and Mrs F had played her part in his naivety too. He thought Adolf wouldn’t dare flatten her house.

But finding her like this changed everything. No one was keeping guard, of the house, of him, of... the zoo.

The zoo!

The thought of the place jolted him upright. If she was drunk and unmovable, then who the hell was going to stand guard there? What if that bomb did finally fall on Adonis’s cage and set him free? There’d be a whole lot more than just Bert’s coat being ripped to shreds.

He had to wake her, sober her up and get her through the streets until she stood sentry, rifle in hand. He’d push her in a wheelbarrow if he had to, but first he must get her to her feet.

He tried to lever her up, before his mind was pulled elsewhere. The photos. He had to do something about them! So he threw them hurriedly back into the tin, safe from the bombs’ clutches. Then he pulled her upright, her head lolling backwards, unintelligible slurs shooting to the ceiling.

Joseph wasn’t listening. ‘Come on, Mrs F!’ he yelled into her ear. ‘We have to move. Please!’ But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shift the weight of her, and she flatly refused to wake up.

So he went looking for help, out into the back yard, feet thundering towards the shelter, ripping the door open so quickly it threatened to come off in his hand.

‘Help me!’ he cried, spotting three silhouettes already crouched and cowering in the far corner.

‘What is it?’ replied Mrs Twyford.

‘Mrs F... she’s passed out and I can’t move her.’ He made no reference to the alcohol. He didn’t want the Twyfords to judge her any more than they already did.

Sylvie didn’t move, but her husband did – once he’d been shoved by his wife. Within seconds he and Joseph were back in the kitchen.

‘What the hell’s wrong with her?’ Mr Twyford asked.

‘Dunno. Found her like this, and I can’t move her.’

Fortunately, the man could, out the back door and through the yard, though he made quite a meal of it, the darkness of the shelter hiding his beetroot complexion, Joseph clutching Mrs F’s tin like it contained the Crown Jewels.

‘She’s not ill, Thomas,’ Mrs Twyford spat, leaning over to inspect her, while Tweedy tried to revive her with endless licks to the face, ‘she’s drunk!’

‘Could do with a tipple myself after that,’ said her husband, though he was so out of breath only Joseph heard him.

There was more tutting, and questions and judgements, but Joseph heard none of them. The bombs still rang in his ears, focusing his mind on getting Mrs F comfortable and safe. Falling plaster inside the house was replaced by falling mud here, snuffing out the candles as quickly as they could light them.

Joseph reached for a blanket to keep her warm, but as he tucked her hand beneath it, he realised he had missed one final piece of paper, still scrunched inside her fist.

Whatever it was, she didn’t want to let go of it, her fingers locked, corpse-like. But if it was important, then Joseph needed to keep it safe with the rest of her memories. When her fingers finally opened under more pressure, the crumpled sheet slid into Joseph’s hand. It was old, but well-preserved, another official-looking item, so austere that it filled him with fear as soon as he saw it.

Printed in bold at the top were three words. Words he couldn’t read.

‘What does this say?’ he said, pointing at them as he thrust the paper under Mrs Twyford’s nose.

‘What?’ she replied, confused.

‘These words at the top here. What do they say? Quickly!’

‘Certificate of Death.’

Joseph felt sick. But who did it belong to?

‘Can you see a name on there? Can you read it to me?’ He didn’t want this woman’s help, far from it, but there was no time for his pride to get in the way.

Mrs Twyford read, eyes squinting in the poor light. ‘It says Violet. Violet Evelyn Farrelly. Died... fourteenth of March, nineteen-nineteen.’

Violet. Mrs F’s daughter. But why today? Why did Mrs F drink herself silly today?

‘What’s the date?’ Joseph asked suddenly.

‘I beg your pardon?’ came Mrs Twyford’s reply.

‘The date. Today’s date.’

‘The fourteenth of March.’

He felt his body sag. Today was the anniversary of Violet’s death. No wonder Mrs F had got herself into such a state, he thought. Especially as she’d dragged the whole thing up again so recently. He wanted to be angry with her for resorting to such extremes, but he couldn’t. After all, she hadn’t got angry. Just drunk. Joseph couldn’t help but feel responsible, because she’d opened up all those old wounds to help him. To make him see that he wasn’t alone in what he was going through.

And if that were the case, then it was up to him to help her. He had to do what she couldn’t do tonight. He had to get to the zoo.

Kneeling beside her, he made sure the tin was discreetly within her grasp and put his mouth by her ear, ignoring the stale stink of wine as he whispered, ‘I’ve got to go now. But I’ll be back, I promise. Just as soon as I’ve taken care of Adonis.’

What that statement actually meant, he couldn’t be sure. Different outcomes lay ahead of him, depending on just how angry and accurate the bombers were.

He breathed deeply as reality hit him in the face. What on earth was he going to do if a bomb dropped on the zoo?

‘Look after Mrs F for me,’ he announced to the Twyfords. ‘And keep Tweedy here, will you? If you can.’

And before Sylvie’s protests could reach his ears, Joseph Palmer ploughed through the doors of the shelter, straight into the jaws of hell.