Mr.Churchill's Secretary(107)
The raid seemed to be over, for the moment.
Of course, she now had bigger problems to worry about.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” she heard him muttering outside the shelter’s door.
She groped around in the dark to see if there was anything handy to use as a weapon.
Nothing.
She tried the door. It was locked. There was no way out. The air suddenly felt hot and suffocating. She took a ragged breath in.
“Dear Maggie—what have they done with Claire?” His voice was coming from overhead. He must be sitting on top of the Anderson.
“I told you already.”
“I’ll let you out when you tell me where Claire is.”
“That’s all right,” she said, knowing that he wouldn’t like the truth and it would be pointless to lie. “I’ll just stay right here, thanks.”
She heard Murphy’s footsteps, then the sound of liquid hitting the Anderson’s steel roof. Then there was the smell of gasoline, sharp and heady.
“You want to know something about Claire, Maggie Hope? She was ready to die for her cause. But she’s not going to die in a British prison. I won’t let her! Where is she?” He screamed into the night, “Where is Claire?”
Maggie was frantically trying to dig a hole in the dirt underneath the Anderson large enough to fit through. It was an impossible task, and her hands were scratched and filthy, but she continued digging, flinging the dirt behind her.
“Where is she, Maggie?” he called. “Where’s Claire?”
She bit her tongue and kept digging at a furious pace.
Maggie jumped when she heard a crack and felt the shell of the Anderson shudder and shake. He must have punched it.
“She didn’t get to Churchill. It was all for nothing. Well, I’ll tell you, Maggie Hope, I’m not going to let you—and her—ruin everything I’ve worked for.”
“She’s in a women’s prison, just outside of Sheffield. Just go away. Please.” She kept digging.
From the distance, she heard John’s voice calling, “Maggie! Maggie!”
“Here!” she yelled, as loud as she could. “I’m here!”
John followed the muffled sound of Maggie’s voice and sprinted around the side of the house.
Michael Murphy heard him coming. He hid himself behind a rubbish bin, let him pass, and then jumped him from behind.
The two men wrestled on the ground, knocking over metal lawn chairs that crashed in the darkness. Murphy kicked John in the groin, then got him into a headlock.
“So you’re the boyfriend, huh? Pierce didn’t get you? Guess I’ll have to finish the job. But first,” he said, administering several vicious blows to John’s face, “I’m going to take care of your girl.”
John lay, writhing in agony, as Murphy took a packet of matches from his inside front pocket and lit one, throwing it onto the Anderson.
It made a sparkling red arc as it flew. The Anderson ignited with a whoosh of air. Bright orange flames crackled merrily on the curved roof.
“She’s in there, mate.” He knelt down to John and whispered in his ear, “Now we’ll both have girls who died for the cause, won’t we?”
Through the aluminum roof of the Anderson, Maggie heard the fire catch and then ignite with a dull roar. Instantly, heat started permeating the shelter. She kept throwing the weight of her body against the back wall, until the metal gave from the fastenings and there was enough room to force her body through.
She wriggled out from the Anderson, choking and coughing, her white dress tattered and covered in dirt, just as the flames engulfed it. Her lungs cried out for oxygen, and her hands were scratched and bleeding. She rolled as fast and as far away as she could, the heat still radiating onto her skin. She retched into the grass, and as she wiped her mouth she realized she wasn’t dead after all.
She crawled blindly on her hands and knees, dress torn and dirty. She saw John lying on the ground a few feet away, nearly unconscious. “John,” she whispered. “John?”
John, can you hear me? Please be all right. John? John?
Murphy staggered away, still disoriented from grief and anger. He made it back to the road, lit by the flames from the bombed house across the street. The air stank of thick smoke.
He got back into the taxi and turned the key. It was badly damaged and wouldn’t start. “Shit,” he cried, banging his hands on the steering wheel. “Shit, shit, shit.”
A shadow passed silently across the dashboard.
Murphy looked up to the figure of Peter Frain looming over him, pistol in hand. “Do you have a license for that vehicle, sir?” Frain asked pleasantly, pointing the gun at Murphy’s head.