The Gunner Girl (27 page)

She heard another thud, further away to the west and then there was silence. He lay still. Drool from his mouth slid across her cheek. His grasp loosened on her hands. His ribs pressed against
hers; she could barely breathe. The skin of his cheek was moist with cooling sweat against hers. Edie lay there for what felt like for ever, scared that if she so much as flinched, he would start
again. It's not happening, she told herself. This can't be happening.

He didn't move. She could feel his breath, warm and rhythmic against her skin, but the rest of him was utterly still. When she looked up beyond the blonde strands of hair, she could see
why. A thick plank of wood lay on top of his skull. He was knocked out cold, with the weight of a fallen joist on top of him. She managed to inch sideways. The thing, now soft as a slug, slithered
out from inside her as she shifted. His shoulder was jammed against her cheek now, hard as a cricket ball. If she could just push against something – but her feet were trapped underneath his
legs, and he was on top of her, melding into her. She could smell his hateful scent of whisky and hair oil and smoke and that sickly almond cologne.

Faintly, in the distance, she could still hear the strains of the orchestra, playing on through the raid. And there was another sound, too: the steady rush of water. The bomb must have hit a
water main.

His arms, his legs, his torso, were all over her, like a giant sandbag, pinning her down. There was all that stuff on top of him, the crushing weight of it. The blackness pressed in. The sound
of water got louder. Soon she felt a rivulet of cold liquid begin to run through her own hair and down towards her neck. She renewed her efforts, and as she tried to move, the water seeped
downwards. The cool wetness began to seep into her ears like worms, curling up and inside. Her uniform blotted up the dampness, drawing it in towards her flesh. She continued to struggled, until
the wet from the flooding shed rose up to meet the damp sweat of her trapped body. It was surprising how quickly the water rose. Before long, she was lying part submerged. She could barely breathe,
let alone shout for help.

With a heave, she jolted sideways and, suddenly, her cheek was no longer pinned under his shoulder; her head and neck were free. With small, strong movements, she managed to unpin her arm, too,
and cast about, paddling the water, until she found something to catch hold of. The door was ajar, shattered by the blast. Her fingers found jagged wood. She ignored the pain and grasped, feeling
the splinters dig in, feeling the muscles in her arms shake with the tension. Her body slid through the wetness, an inch, no more, but enough to wriggle her other shoulder free from under him and
then to be able to push with her other arm. Pushing and pulling and heaving up and away from the horrid cloth-load of him, until her torso was free and she was half sitting in the rising water.
Just her legs. He still had her legs. She twisted and shook but couldn't break free. It was her shoes, her army brogues, stuck fast underneath him. She leant forward in the darkness, feeling
with her fingers through the wet, over the curve of his calf, tense under his trousers, into the space between his legs where her shoes were caught. She fiddled with the wet laces, picking and
pulling until they loosened. With the shoes undone, she could begin to wriggle out of them, dragging her feet free from under him. With a splash, she was away. She pulled off her stockings like wet
seaweed and sat barefoot in the rising tide.

Her eyes, used to the darkness now, could make out Art. His face was sideways, one cheek in the wetness. On top of him were the roof joist and a mess of broken crates and bricks. She sat in the
water and looked at him. She looked at the joist. She sat, feeling the water rise up her thighs and watched the little silvery bubbles of air come out of his mouth and into the dark water. She
listened to the rushing water sound, and the faraway music, and the little sticky breathy coughs as Art began to breathe in liquid.

The water climbed higher, reaching her buttocks, moving upwards just like Art's fingers had done under the table. She began to recite the Lord's Prayer, just a whisper, barely
audible above the sound of water and the gurgling from Art's throat.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done

On earth as it is in heaven

Above the sound of the water and Art's snorting breaths was the mewl of the all-clear. The raid was over.

Give us this day our daily bread

And forgive us our trespasses

The water still wasn't deep, but it covered half his mouth and one of his nostrils now. He made guttural, frothy sounds. His eyelids fluttered.

As we forgive those who trespass against us

Then, just as the water was inside his mouth and one nostril was covered, Art opened his eyes, and he looked sideways at her. But his gaze was glassy and unfocused.

And lead us not into temptation

A loud rasping sound came from his throat: heaving, sawing, urgent. The water foamed at his lips, churning out.

But deliver us from evil

Edie watched as his arms and legs tensed and relaxed in rapid succession. Had he been in open water, they would have been paddling furiously, propelling him up towards the surface. But he
wasn't. He was trapped under the debris from the blast in an inch of flooding mains water, which was now covering both nostrils and filling his open mouth.

For Thine is the kingdom

He made a horrible choking sound as the water slid right inside him and his body shuddered, tensed and then relaxed.

The power and the glory

His eyes stayed open, looking at her.

Forever and ever

Amen

Edie sat, pulling her gaze away from his lifeless eyes. Her skirt hung wet, clinging to her bare legs. She brought her hands up to brush the debris off her uniform and noticed that two buttons
were missing, ripped from her shirt, which flapped open, showing her brassiere. The distant sound of the orchestra suddenly blared loudly and a door banged nearby.

‘Edie,' came a voice. ‘Edie, are you out here?'

Where was she? Bea called again. She wasn't anywhere on the dance floor or up in the lobby. That yellow-haired Yank had disappeared, too. She looked round. The clouds
were covering the moon, so it was hard to see; she could just make out some boxy shapes, drinks crates probably. The outhouse had caught the edge of the blast. There was the sound of water, burst
main, most likely, but no flames, nothing on fire. So wherever Edie was with that Yank, she was probably okay, wasn't she?

Bea turned, closing the door behind her, and went back into the club. The band was halfway through a rousing version of the Lambeth Walk, and the dance floor was rammed, with everyone desperate
to keep the party going and cock a snoop at Hitler. Bea scanned the throng and caught sight of Joan. She pushed her way through the crowd and tugged at Joan's sleeve; Joan was teaching Ron to
do the Lambeth Walk.

‘Like this, “Oi!”,' she cried, sticking out her thumb. Bea felt an arm at her waist.

‘Hey, where have you been, stranger?' said Hal.

‘Sorry, I just need to have a word with Joan,' she said, shoving his arm away.

‘Joan!'

‘What?' Joan turned, laughing, cheeks pink. ‘These boys were scared during the raid, but I said we don't let a couple of measly bombs worry us. Gunner girls, we're
made of sterner stuff than that, aren't we?' she yelled, swaying slightly.

‘Oh, you are some dame!' said Ron, falling into her and kissing her neck.

‘Cheeky,' she retorted, pushing him playfully away.

‘Joan, listen, I can't find Edie,' said Bea.

‘Oh, I'm sure she'll be around somewhere,' said Joan, swaying her hips and rolling her eyes at Ron.

‘No, she's not. I've looked,' said Bea, feeling Hal's hand snaking round her waist again.

‘C'mon, sweet cheeks, why don't you teach
me
the Lambeth Walk?' said Hal. She turned to him.

‘I'm really sorry, but I'm worried about our friend. I can't find her anywhere.'

‘She's with Art, right?' said Ron.

‘She was last time I saw her.'

‘Oh, he'll take care of her,' said Hal.

‘Yeah, he'll take care of her, all right,' said Ron. The two GIs looked at each other and smirked.

‘Hey,' said Joan, frowning. ‘That's my pal you're talking about.'

‘Whassamatter?' Ron slurred. ‘All we said was that Art knows how to take care of—'

‘I know exactly what you said. And I know exactly what you meant. But Edie's not like that, and neither are we,' Joan pouted.

‘If you'll excuse us, we're off to powder our noses,' Bea said, thrusting her arm through Joan's and dragging her off the dance floor. They made a bumblebee path,
bouncing off dancers, finally making it to the Ladies'.

‘Oh, I do feel a bit giddy,' said Joan as they pushed open the door. ‘Edie, Edie, Edie!' she called, slapping thighs as if trying to find a lost puppy.

‘She's not in here. I've already looked,' said Bea. But Joan continued, knocking on toilet doors, calling and laughing, and then she went to the lavvy herself and washed
her hands and put on more lipstick and powder. She smoothed her hair in the mirror, and stumbled a little as she turned back around. She's drunk, thought Bea. Joan's drunk and
Edie's missing and I've got a really bad feeling about this.

‘Joan, drink some water, for goodness' sakes,' she said.

‘What?'

‘Drink some water, girl.'

‘Why?'

‘Because you need to sober up so that we can find Edie. I don't trust that Yank she's with.'

‘Edie's a grown-up. She can look after herself.'

‘Can she?' They looked at each other across the crimson carpet, with the shiny oval mirrors endlessly reflecting. ‘Can she look after herself ?' Bea repeated.

‘All right,' said Joan. She sighed and then put her head under the tap and took a long draught of water. When she stood upright again, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand
and her lipstick smeared up towards her cheek.

‘Oh, look at you, girl,' said Bea. Without thinking, she spat on her hanky and leant across to wipe the red smear away. As she did so, two debs in cocktail dresses swayed in,
pointing and giggling. Bea glared at them. Joan didn't seem to have noticed. She was humming along to the orchestra and tapping her foot.

‘Listen, Joan, I need you to concentrate,' said Bea. ‘We need to find Edie before it's too late.'

‘Too late for what?' said Joan, as the posh girls slid past them, giving sly sideways looks. But Bea didn't know for sure. There'd been something wrong in the lie of
those tea leaves, something violent. She had a bad feeling about Edie and that GI.

‘Any luck?' said Bea, waiting under the potted palm by the stairs. Joan shook her head. ‘The doorman says he hasn't seen either of them leave. But they
can't just have disappeared.'

‘Maybe we should try the side door again.'

‘What side door?'

Bea led Joan back round the edge of the dance floor to where the little exit was half hidden behind some stacked chairs. ‘Watch out for the Yanks,' she said.

‘Oh, they've lost interest. They've found a couple of debs to keep them happy.' Joan gestured across to the other side of the dance floor and Bea caught a glimpse of Hal
gazing longingly down the cleavage of one of the posh women who'd been in the lavvy earlier. So much for ‘sweet cheeks', she thought. Anyway, I've still got Jock. When he
writes back.

Bea led Joan to the little side door. In places like this, there was always a little door leading to the other side, the dirty, practical place where the staff took care of things. She knew that
from the pub – the crates had to get stacked somewhere. She quickly checked that nobody was looking, but all the bar staff were busy. She and Joan slipped outside.

The moon was out now, bright as a new penny. She could see the crates stacked higgledy-piggledy and the smashed-in shed. There was water underfoot and a rushing sound. In the distance she could
hear fire engines, shouts, and see the smoky orange air where other bombs had struck. But here was just the tumbledown outhouse and the sound of water.

‘She's not here,' said Joan.

‘Wait,' said Bea. ‘I thought I heard something.' A rustle, a movement. It could just have been the sound of some debris settling, but—'

‘I can't hear anything,' said Joan. From back inside, there was a cheer, as the band began the Conga. Bea realised she couldn't hear the sound any more. Maybe it was
nothing.

‘Come on, let's get back inside,' said Joan.

‘Shouldn't we just check the shed first?' said Bea.

‘Why would Edie be in the shed?' said Joan. But Bea was already walking towards the outhouse, her feet splashing in the water. The door was broken, splintered, partially ajar. Bea
pushed it.

‘Edie?' she called, so quietly that it was almost a whisper. ‘Edie, are you in here?' As she pushed the door further open, the moonlight flooded in, illuminating the
scene inside.

‘Joan!' Bea hissed. ‘Get here, quick!'

Edie was sat in the water, her forehead on her pulled-up knees. Next to her, a mangle of joists and broken masonry, and something underneath it. Edie didn't look up at them as they
entered.

Bea and Joan were standing in water. Bea looked down. The moonlight picked out odd strands of yellow hair, floating on the surface, underneath the joist. Underneath, there was an eye: open,
glassy. A fishy mouth gaped, but there were no air bubbles. The water was seeping into Bea's shoes, making the toes of her stockings wet.

Edie was shaking, making ripples on the surface of the water, which caught like waves against the dead man's face. Bea went over to Edie and knelt next to her. The water crept coolly over
her knees. She put an arm round Edie's quaking shoulders.