That the courtyard should be so oblivious seemed a little disrespectful, and I crossed to Peggy’s room to remind myself that she had really passed away. Since I’d last been in there, the family had lit candles, a whole flotilla of them, and the room smelled strongly of hot, melting wax. Under their golden flames, Peggy’s skin was at last glowing with her longed-for tan, and I smiled for her benefit. Her body looked heavier than it had, but also deserted, and I remembered how my mother’s corpse had looked the same way, unoccupied by the person I loved.
For good measure, I added another candle to the blaze and bent to kiss Peggy’s forehead, bidding her farewell. Beneath my lips, her skin felt cold but firm—blood turned marble—and I was still thinking about how unexpectedly dense it was when out of the corner of my eye I saw something move. It was very fast, a shadow passing quickly from one side of the room to the other, and when I looked behind me to see what it was, Peggy’s door clicked shut, as though whatever it was had slipped outside.
I remembered what Peggy had said near the end about how Madeline would visit her at night and sit by her bed. How she would keep vigil. I had thought at the time that it was only the ravings of a dying woman, but now I couldn’t help but wonder: had the spirit of Madeline come to pay her final respects? It seemed to make an absurd sort of sense that if I could return to Ladbroke Gardens from Greece, Madeline might be able to travel the other way, that perhaps she had been doing so all along. A chill went through me and I was seized with an urge to bolt from the room. In a fraction of a second, I reached the door, swung it open, and strode out into the courtyard—then abruptly came to a halt. Spread out in front of me was not Elena’s courtyard but the garden, my old garden, only viewed from a different angle than on previous nights.
Behind me, the door closed with a satisfied thud, and I froze, too stunned even to breathe.
I stood in the center of the patio looking straight out toward the white picket fence and the narrow gate to the communal lawn. I had not come out of the service door this time, but had walked out through the French doors—straight out from our old flat. When I turned around, I could see into my parents’ old bedroom, and farther, all the way through to the living room beyond, where dim lights and laughter flared. The sight of the impromptu party in full swing was too much for me, and I hurried toward the service entrance to make my way out.
But the door there was shut—literally painted into its frame, unopened since the paint had been applied. As my fingers scrabbled at its edges, desperate to find an opening, I heard a man’s footsteps land on the stone patio and turned around, my own feet betraying me with a shuffling noise. The man—my father—looked over in my direction just as I ducked behind the barbecue and waited, chest sucked in, paralyzed, for him to walk over and find me. But he didn’t, and after a time I peered over the brick ramparts and searched for him in the garden. He was weaving in the direction of the air-raid shelter, tripping on uneven flagstones and flowerpots and I could tell he was drunk. The hatch was open, and he bent loosely over the heavy iron trapdoor and tried to lift it. When it didn’t budge, he wedged something long and thick underneath it—a branch perhaps—and the familiar scrape of metal on concrete sounded out across the yard.
The hatch moved a few inches before the branch snapped and my father tossed it aside and gave up. He turned around and stomped across the patio, this time kicking aside whatever got in his way.
I knew what had to happen next, had been over it in my head a thousand times. I had ten minutes, perhaps fifteen—the length of time it would take for my father to round up Jean Luc and Henri.
The open hatch was about ten meters away, and I crossed that distance in no time at all. I got down on my knees, peered into the hole, and braced myself against the side. A waft of cold air reached my face, followed by a faint whine, and I got to my feet and shook off the soil that had already stuck to my hands. Balancing my weight on one leg, I slowly lowered the other foot onto the top step and pressed down on it to make sure the surface was as solid as it looked. Though the stairs appeared to be made of concrete, I half-thought they might be an illusion that would give way and swallow my foot, then the rest of me. But the step held my weight, and I placed both feet on it and stared squarely into the dark cavity in front of me. I thought of all the candles burning so brightly in Peggy’s room, how useful they would have been for what lay ahead.
The staircase was narrower than I remembered, and when I passed beneath the opposite side of the hatch I had to duck my head. Once I had gone under the hatch, it became harder to see, and I remembered how the time I had been down there as a child, it had at least been daylight outside. This time, only a pale wash of moonlight filtered down, and after a few more steps even that was gone—when I waved my hand in front of my face, I sensed the air displace but could not see my fingers. Without visual bearings I was forced to use the wall to steady myself, even though I cringed each time my fingers touched the cold, wet surface. With every step, I fought the urge to turn back, but when some moist thing writhed under my palm, and I cried out, my short yelp was answered by a soft whimper from farther down in the bunker. Someone was definitely down there—a child who needed my help.