Page 65 of Don't Let Me Go
So what do I do?
I shut my eyes and try to think, but it’s no good. Maybe it’s the stress of this impossible decision or maybe I’m just drained from this impossible day, but I’m suddenlyso tired. I can feel my body sinking into the bed as my mind surrenders to the sweet oblivion of sleep. I don’t fight it. I welcome it.
At least if I’m asleep, I don’t have to think about today. Or the fact that I might just have lost Riley forever.
London, England
(May 10, 1941)
Chapter 25
Jack Hartnell
“Jack, are you sure about this?” Charlie asks when he notices where we’re headed.
The moon’s so full and bright in the sky that I can see the worry in his eyes plain as day. It’s no wonder the Germans decided to have a go at us tonight. It’s the best flying weather they’ve had in months. And they’re certainly making the most of it. Even here in Mayfair, where we’ve come for our latest bit of adventure, I can still hear the low buzz of their planes as they drop bomb after bomb on the other side of the river.
“Don’t worry,” I laugh, giving Charlie a reassuring pat on the back. Though he’s not wrong to be nervous.
Strolling through a posh neighborhood like this, with our dirty faces and ratty jackets, the two of us must stick out like a pair of tarts at a christening. Or we would if anyone was here to see us. But that’s the thing about people with money, innit? They don’t have to see us. They don’t have to see anything that’s inconvenient. And war is pretty bloody inconvenient.
That’s why when the bombs started falling back in September, anyone who could scrape two shillings together got themselves out of London. Not that I blame ’em. I’d pop off to my house in the country too if I could. But since I can’t, I reckon I ought to make the best of a bad situation.
I lead Charlie past a row of tall white-brick homes with big windows and fancy columns. It’s funny, but just walking down a street likethis makes me feel kind of grand. Important-like. Charlie’s still a bit anxious, but I can tell from the twinkle in his eyes that he’s excited. He’s always liked fancy things. And since it’s his birthday, I figured I’d treat the lad to a night out.
“Wait here,” I tell him, jumping the waist-high iron gate of the house we’ve stopped at. I scamper down the stone steps of the servants’ entrance, which, like most servants’ entrances, is conveniently out of sight of the rest of the street.
“All right, it’s clear,” I call back to Charlie, picking up the bottle of lager I left outside the door a few nights earlier.
It’s an old trick one of the Bermondsey boys taught me: If you’re casing a joint, and you want to know if anyone’s about, you leave a bottle of beer outside the servants’ entrance. If the bottle’s gone when you come back a few days later, you know someone’s been about the place. But if the bottle’s still there, untouched, then odds are no one’s home.
I pocket the lager as Charlie pads down the stairs, then I get to work trying to budge the door. I’d like to boast that I have a sophisticated approach to dealing with locks, but the truth is, all I’ve got is my hammer and chisel. Not very subtle, I know. But between the bombs in the distance and the sirens wailing at the end of the street, I ain’t too worried about making a ruckus. Four good strikes, and Charlie and I are in.
The air in the kitchen is stale and musty-like. Another sign no one’s been home for a while. Hopefully it’s not beentoolong a while. I’d like to find something to eat that ain’t spoiled over and covered in mold.
“You check the icebox, I’ll see what’s in the cupboards,” I instruct Charlie as I pull open the pantry doors.
I know it’s not exactly patriotic to be stealing food in the middle of a war. But the way I see it, if you can afford to toddle off to the country while the rest of us get pounded by the Germans every night, you canafford to make a contribution to the Jack and Charlie Emergency Food Fund. Consider it doing your bit.
“Icebox is empty,” Charlie says, shutting the door.
“Thought it might be.” I slide some tins of veg and a couple of packets of biscuits into my sack. It ain’t much, but we’ve only just started. “Why don’t you take a look around upstairs, see if there’s anything valuable lying about?”
Most of the time, people fleeing the city have the sense to take anything that’s worth anything. Especially when they don’t have any idea if their house will be standing when they get back. But every once in a while, you get lucky, and someone leaves behind a piece of jewelry or a fancy bauble.
Charlie heads up to the first floor while I keep rummaging through the cabinets. It’s pretty slim pickings. Whoever lived here must’ve cleared out a while ago. In fact, I’m starting to reckon this house is a proper bust when I notice an alcove under the stairs. I almost missed it in the darkness, but as I light a match I’m pleasantly surprised to spot six bottles of wine.
That’smore like it. Personally, I’m a Guinness man myself. But these bottles will fetch a pretty price down at the black market tomorrow. They look old. Expensive-like. We won’t have no trouble finding someone to take ’em off our hands.
I shove the bottles in my sack, then hurry upstairs to show Charlie my score. I can hear him humming (Charlie’s always humming something), so I follow the tune to the library, where I find him squinting in the moonlight as he tries to read the titles on the spines of books.
“Look what I found,” I announce, pulling one of the bottles out of my bag.
“Oh, good,” Charlie says, barely glancing my way before turning back to the shelves.
I have to laugh. Here I am, showing him a fortune, or whatwillbe a fortune, and he’s more interested in a bunch of bloody books. But that’s my Charlie. Never met a book he wouldn’t stick his nose in.
Me, I never really saw the point of books. I mean, they just sort of clutter up a place. But then, I’m not much of a reader, am I? Not like Charlie. He’d read a new book every week if he could. And he knows all sorts of big words that I’ve never heard before.
