Mr.Churchill's Secretary(106)

“Am I terrible for not wanting to let myself care about my own father?”

John sighed. “He might do something tomorrow that might hurt you. How would you—will you—deal with that?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Does that make me a bad daughter?”

John put his arms around her, and together they began to dance once again. “You’re a good person,” he replied, and kissed the top of her head. “And you’ll figure it out. You’ll see.”

Much, much later, John walked Maggie to the door of the Blue Moon. They stood in the silver-papered entrance hall, while men in dark jackets and women in low-cut dresses made their way past them. They stepped out onto the sidewalk, into the bruised blue of the evening. The light from the passing traffic was dim, and a cool breeze had begun to blow, whispering through the tree leaves. The air smelled of damp and petrol fumes.

“I’m fine, really,” she said, pulling her wrap more tightly around her. “I’ll just take a taxi back to the hotel.” It was late, she was exhausted, and her arm was starting to throb again.

“Are you sure?” he said. “I can go with you. I mean, as an escort.” He put his hand up and started to rub the back of his neck. “What I mean is, to escort you to your room—and leave you there. To go to bed. Er, I mean, get some sleep.”

“Poor John,” David said, walking up to the duo. “Just kiss him and get it over with, won’t you?”

Maggie put her hand on his arm. “I’m fine, really.” She lifted up onto tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”

A shiny black cab pulled up. “This is my ride,” she said.

John opened the door. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said firmly. “But thank you, just the same.”

Maggie smiled and got into the backseat of the taxi. John closed the door. “To the Savoy, please,” she said to the driver. Then she let her head lean onto the seatback. It felt so good to finally rest, to be still, if just for a moment.…

As the cab pulled out and headed on its way, she felt a crawling sensation on her skin, as though someone was watching her. She opened her eyes and looked up to the rearview mirror. The driver was staring at her.

“Hello, Miss Hope,” the man said, with a charming grin. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Just like that?” Back at their banquette, Frain was incensed. “You let her get into a taxi that pulled up”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that?”

“She insisted she was fine, sir,” John said.

Chuck wasn’t about to let someone like Frain intimidate her. “Maggie’s a big girl now—she can take care of herself.” Then, to Edmund, “Er, sorry.”

“What’s going on?” Edmund asked.

“Our brilliant friend here just let Maggie get into a taxi. Alone,” Frain said.

David considered. “Well, it’s not that late. I do think she’ll—”

“You don’t understand,” Frain said, rising to his feet. “Michael Murphy is still at large.”

“What happened to Claire?” the driver asked, his eyes in the rearview window wild. “What happened at Saint Paul’s?”

“Claire’s … in custody,” Maggie managed.

“Liar!” he spat. “They’ve probably already hanged her, haven’t they? My dear, sweet Claire …”

Even through her fear, one corner of her mind kept working. This is the man Claire was in love with? God help us.

Without warning, the low wail of the siren began.

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered. “Fucking raid.”

Then, without further preamble, bombs began to drop.

There was a terrible crash as they passed alongside a building as it was hit. The glass of the front windows shattered, and dazzling orange-and-blue flames began to devour the structure. The taxi was caught in the rain of broken glass, papers, and books. A pink knit baby bootie landed on the windshield.

The vehicle lurched and swerved, and crashed into a metal streetlight post with a resounding crunch. The car’s hood was suddenly folded like an accordion. Metal rubbish bins fell over, clattering on the pavement, and a dog began barking in the distance.

Maggie’s head hit the seat in front of her, and she blinked, several times, trying to think. Her hands worked at the door handle, now seemingly stuck. “Come on, come on, come on,” she muttered.

All she saw was Michael Murphy’s fist coming at her face, and then everything went black.

Maggie turned over and groaned, waves of pain and nausea washing over her. As she blinked her eyes open, she realized she was in complete darkness. She rolled over and started to feel her way around. Hard-packed dirt floor, a few cigarette butts, a bunk bed, low curved aluminum roof—she realized he must have knocked her out and then dragged her into the house’s Anderson shelter.