I may not belong here, but Mabel does.
I kneel down, speaking through the bars.
‘Grip, don’t be scared. Oakes is mean, but he will not hurt you. If Mr Brodie returns, it is okay. He is not a terrible man, not truly. Uncle will keep you safe. You are more important to him than anything else.’
My voice cracks on the last words.
I stand, take a long breath. I move from foot to foot. Ravens respond better to motion than stillness. I ensure that he sees, truly sees me. I watch Grip for another minute before I speak.
‘Don’t worry. I will bring her back.’
No one escapes the Tower alone.
I have help, even if he doesn’t know it.
Entering the barracks is easy. Even from here shouts of laughter ring out from the tavern; voices singing ‘Roll Out the Barrel’. No one is inside.
I take the steps slowly, feeling with my toes for each one, my hand on the curving wall. Blind, I go on, twisting into darkness, the whole left side of my body leaning against the stone. I am not frightened, not this time.
Finally, the stairs come to an end; the floor is level. I am here.
Timothy Squire’s flat.
I take the nail from my pocket. Getting through a locked door is nothing. Sliding the nail into the keyhole, I try to remember his exact instructions.
Just sweep it around until you feel the catch, then twist – and push.
It takes a minute, and makes a little more noise than I hoped, but I do feel the catch. I twist, hard, and lean my shoulder against the door.
It pushes open.
I take a step into the room. My breathing relaxes as I close the door softy behind me. I am alone.
Of course Timothy Squire has left most of his stuff behind. I am looking for something in particular. Something even he would not bring along with him to the countryside.
You stole from my room, remember? It’s only fair.
Once I am inside his room I risk using the torch I bought when Nell took me to Boots. Rummaging through the closet – so many comic books – I finally find it, wrap it tightly in my jumper and hold it inside my coat. It is small, but heavy.
I feel for a moment the great heat, the searing pain of that night I saved Malcolm. Instinctively, my hand reaches for my hair.
It is nothing anymore, only an empty piece of metal. Only a trick.
It’s a dud, he said.
Oh, Timothy Squire, please tell me you weren’t lying about this.
I put the thought from my mind, focusing instead on negotiating the narrow steps downwards. I make it back with only one missed step and a muffled curse. I still don’t risk the torch, and push quietly through the door and hurry across the Green.
Warders pace before the watch post. I come to a stop in front of the White Tower.
I wait, watching the barracks clock: 9.49 p.m. The Ceremony of the Keys is about to begin. A Warder in a red coat emerges from the Byward Tower, a lantern in his hand. The elaborate ritual of locking the Tower is under way. Once Uncle told me the ceremony had never been interrupted in 700 years.
That is about to end.
I’m sorry, Uncle. But you’re right. I don’t belong here.
I slip the silver metal free, place it gently on the ground, in plain sight, directly in his path to Traitors’ Gate. Less than one minute. Oh, Timothy Squire, you horrible boy, you promised this was safe.
Swiftly, I turn the corner and hurry towards the West Gate.
I have warm clothes and an extra jumper – the heaviest I could find. Mrs Ballard’s hat I have left behind in my room. If anyone sees me, they will think me a boy.
Uncle lied to me. He lied to me about what really happened to Mum; he lied about wanting me to be here at all. Horrible Oakes, talking about Mum – about me! I see them all, Oakes and Miss Breedon and Timothy Squire, laughing, lying, stealing. And even Mr Brodie, driven mad enough to kill poor MacDonald. I must be free from this place. And then, almost at the same moment, I must save them all.
Just as I expected, a deep voice cries into the night.
‘Shelter! Move, everyone to the shelter! Incendiary!’
A whistle screeches through the darkness, soon echoed from the north.
Certain everyone is headed to the shelter, I begin to run back across the parade grounds. Panting, I reach the Casemates, up the steps to the crown of Brass Mount. The flint-towered walls sprawl down to the cold Thames.
There. A drainpipe. Timothy Squire may have been teasing me, but it is my only chance. If I can climb down the drainpipe and drop into the rubbish dump in the moat, I’ll be in the Tower Hill gardens.
Voices shout for order, more in confusion than fear. I have little time. They will see that is not a raid, just an old empty bomb.
Problems immediately arise. From the moment I press the thin metal between my fingers, I know the drainpipe will never hold. As soon as it takes my weight, it will snap, crashing down a hundred feet into the darkness.
There is no time. I must leave.
I hurriedly throw a leg over the side. It is not too far. My other leg is over, hands alone holding me up. My right foot finds a space between the stones, my left another. I climb down the wall.
Twisting, I release my left hand from the jagged stone, and with desperate fingers grab the next hold. I draw my eyes up from the invisible ground below, look straight ahead. My mouth has gone completely dry.
If only if I can reach the next hold, I might be able to—
Too quickly, I realize, and my foot slips on the next hold. I drop hard on to the grass below.
Balk.
For a moment I am unsure what has happened, my breath crushed out of me.
Balk.
The noise. It is a hen, cackling from its perch. I have lost my jumper and, I realize immediately after, my knife. I scramble around in the dark allotment and see, among the tall shoots (carrots?), the glint of metal. My jumper too is tangled among the rough leaves. The tiny silver dog is safe in my pocket.
I stand, my eyes drawn to the gleaming river. I look south, where the city of London hides in the safety of darkness. For a brief moment I imagine if the moat still held water – filthy, stinking water filled with bodies – and quickly begin to climb the steep slope. The hens have been shut up for the night; I do not even think about the pigs. I am back on my feet, my legs moving on their own.
A gull calls shrilly from above. Keeping left, I pass the permanent scaffold and gallows, leap over the low wall, pass All Hallows Church, and hurry towards Great Tower Street. I have done it.
The summer night air comes cool and crisp. Again, I have forgotten the gloves. I stand tall, looking back. The wind blows endlessly along the river.
I stare hard at the Tower, the old turrets and battlements. I think of the Warders, not just Uncle, but all those who protected me and gave me a home. I must do this, for all of them.
My eyes are drawn to a flash of light on the east wall. A torch.
I freeze in terror. Did the Watchman hear me sneaking away? I squint into the darkness of the bridge and see the steady cone of light. My stomach rises.
A Warder, peering over the edge. The light is on me. Somehow, even in the black night, I know the face. Oakes. From the great distance we stare at each other. He recognizes me.
I should say something, yell back some curse, throw up my hands in confusion, in anger. Instead I turn towards the city and run.
VI
THE RAVENMASTER
We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage.
King Lear, V.iii.9
14
Tuesday, 27 May 1941
Along Great Tower Street, and crossing two broad roads, I run, so fast that even Flo would never catch me. St Paul’s, swathed in darkness, I can barely make out. I keep running, along narrow alleys and lanes glittering in a snowfall of powdered glass. Everywhere I look, empty window sockets, melted pipes, sandbagged doorways. Moonlight jumps through the buildings.
Without the s
treet signs, it is impossible to orientate myself. Must they take down all the signs? The dust here is different than in the Tower, heavy yellow clouds. The largest city in the world, and my only guide is the occasional tree, ringed with three white bands of paint. And the smell is like the Underground.
Oakes will send out Warders. Or will he simply set guards to ensure that I don’t return? You put an incendiary in the middle of the Tower. He will have you arrested if you return.
There is no sense dwelling on it. I have no choice.
When I see Mabel, I will wrap her inside the jumper and hold her still inside my coat. I clear my head of any thoughts of her great beak and sharp talons.
I must find her, and bring her home.
I stare into the night until my eyes burn. All around, piles of ruins. Are people... buried in there? Did the houses fall in on them? The huge masses of crushing stone, the downed telephone poles. The raid was so long ago. Surely repairs have at least started.
This is not a high street, that much I can tell. The front of one house has been sheared off. Is there someone in there? I see a table, leaning at a bizarre angle; glass and bricks everywhere. With horror I notice a shape moving in the shattered building. Before I can cry out, the shape leaps suddenly forward and races past, a clock in his hands.
Looters, I realize in disgust. Of course it’s not him.
Where? Where are you going?
I will need to wait for dawn, when Mabel wakes. And then what?
The voice is cancelled by a distant light, faint blue and high above. At any moment, the siren will wail. Why isn’t it wailing?
‘Hey! You there!’
The voice is loud. Without thinking, I am off and galloping. A patrolling warden. What does he want? To arrest me? I dodge the debris, my feet oddly heavy. Panic makes it impossible to focus. The warden is probably yelling at the looter. Likely he didn’t even see me.
A quick glance over my shoulder shows that he is chasing me.
Move.
My sense of direction is confused. Have I turned east again?
After several endless minutes I huddle against the bricks, panting quietly. I slow down my thoughts; breathe. Why is he hunting me when a raid is about to start? Is this a raid? Where is the siren?
What did Timothy Squire say again? His voice comes to me, I can hear it clearly; all it says, over and over, is run. I run.
Faint cries from the darkness. I need a shelter. There is meant to be a distance of only eight minutes between them. I am running and I see nothing. Not a Tube station, railway arch, or even a doorway. No Public Shelter sign.
I will have to find my own. Lifting my feet, again and again, trying not to fall. There. Across the street, a white concrete building, a red flag on the roof. I push the heavy door. It is not locked.
For a moment I stand in the new darkness, my eyes slowly adjusting. Outside, any moment now, will come the whistle and crunch of bombs. Will this concrete protect me? I don’t know, but it has to be safer than the streets. The warden too will have to make for cover.
But the siren never came.
I slide down the wall and keep near the entrance, remembering to stay near the doorway. I clutch the silver dog in my pocket. Outside sounds fall silent.
Nothing happens.
As my eyes take ages to adapt, a smell settles, heavy and powerful. A familiar smell, something I remember from home. It is very strong, and I wonder how I didn’t notice it immediately.
I will survive at least until I find Mabel.
Another sound, close. Guns restarting? I inch nearer to the doorway. Why has nobody else taken shelter here? Unless they have, and dozens of strange men and women sit crowded in the corners. Somehow I am sure that I am alone, here in the darkness with the pungent smell. Like Flo’s father’s car. Why is the siren still silent?
I take a moment to check my things. I have food, in addition to Mabel’s food, but only a bite. How am I expecting to find a black bird in the vast city? At least, I am sure, she is not in here, under a concrete roof and surrounded by...
My heart does not beat. I cannot move. Yet I must, and now. I know where I am, why I am the only one sheltering here. The heavy smell.
I know now what this building is.
A fuel depot.
Day is slow to arrive. I walk the quiet streets. No siren wails; no bombs fall. I am merely tired, exhausted, seeing and hearing things in this broken city. Dawn is only a few minutes away. The outlines of buildings are almost clear.
A whole night, hiding from an imaginary raid. In a fuel depot. Timothy Squire will never hear a word of this. Even Flo would laugh at me.
Serves me right for what I did with the bomb at the Tower.
What would the warden have said if he caught me sneaking out of there, thinking it was a shelter? Lock me in a mad house?
‘Hey!’
It seems I am about to find out. It is the bloody warden again, and I am running, directly towards an entrance like a cave in the mountains. Someone is standing in a doorway, a woman, and she pulls me inside.
Valerie has invited me to sit and have tea, ‘Blitz soup’ and toast. She is the owner of The Rose and Punchbowl and she has even dealt with the nosy warden. When I ask if I can please use the lavatory, she points to the back.
The mirror shows a small, pale face, lost and frightened, with ragged hair like a boy’s. I don’t know where I am, where Raven Mabel is, how to get home, if I can even go home... The smell of toasting bread pulls me back.
I return to the table, trying to smile. My legs, heavy and sore, are grateful for the rest. And the fire, roaring in the grate.
She sees my look, gestures to the plate. I begin to eat. Mum used to go lunching with a woman named Valerie – Valerie Willis – and I never liked the look of her. This Valerie, however, with her short black curls and firm jaw, seems kind. For some reason she reminds me of Nell. A kindly Nell.
As she watches me, Valerie asks questions, quiet and unhurried, ducking her head whenever she speaks.
‘What about you, dear? You live in the Tower, you said. That must be quite something.’
I nod, and return to the toasted bread. It is warm and delicious.
‘Hmm. I always thought of that place as some kind of tomb. But I suppose the whole city is, nowadays. Living in that old medieval castle, though. You always walk around by yourself at night?’
‘Yes. I mean, I have to be back by sunrise – I’m the Ravenmaster now – so I need to be back for the dawn feeding.’
‘Aha. Well, just enjoy your toast for now. Worry about the birds later.’
She does not believe me – it does sound strange, and with my hair I must look a right mess – but I don’t try to explain further. It doesn’t matter. I have toast and tea and a kind woman to talk to. I shift towards the warm and welcome fire. I think of Nell, trying to frame my questions politely.
‘So you work here?’ I ask.
‘You’re in my pub, dear. Bought it just before the war started. Not the best bit of luck. Beats getting torched by a bomb, though.’
I think of all the damage along the street and though I don’t say anything, it seems Valerie can see my thoughts easily enough.
‘Last raid, bomb fell right outside.’ She tosses her head dismissively. ‘Can’t even explode properly. I watched it just simpering away.’
‘You didn’t go down to the shelter?’
‘No one bothers any more. Only the crazies in there now. I’m ill, I’m ill, is all they say.’
She is eyeing me strangely. She thinks I’m one of the crazies. A thirteen-year-old, the Ravenmaster at the Tower of London, wandering the East London streets at night? Hollow laughter builds up inside me.
I try to block out my time cowering in a fuel depot because of an imagined siren. I turn back to what’s left of the soup, eating noisily but unable to slow down.
‘Thank you so much,’ I say, my spoon scraping against the porcelain bowl. ‘I was terribly hungry.’
; ‘You can’t count on the food centres. Have you seen the queues outside the Exchange? Even during a raid nobody moves. The staff shut it up and run for cover, but not a person budges out of that line. We have to rely on each other.’
I smile up at her. Even with the generous meal, the ache in my stomach won’t fade. ‘I heard Prime Minister Churchill’s speech. He said – he said the people of the East End have been the most brave during the war.’
‘Suits him fine, doesn’t it? “Hey look, the Cockneys aren’t grumbling. And who’s not better than a Cockney?” Yeah, some people around here are putting up with an awful lot. But we were just as brave when there was no work, when we got sick, when food ran out. It’s not a compliment to say it now, just ’cause bombs are falling. Nobody asks for his applause.’
I sit in silence, unsure what I can possible say. Surely it is a compliment, that they keep on working when people are dying all around? And what is so wrong with applause, whether you ask for it or not? The look on Valerie’s face says otherwise. I remember that Mum used to say ‘No one’s brave. People just have different ways of looking at the world.’
Little else is spoken on any topic. Valerie only says that I should stay and warm up until day breaks, and then begins her own day of setting up the pub. Dawn is not yet here. And I can use a few moments’ rest by the fire.
Pots bang in the back room. The chair is warm, comfortable. Different from the ones at the Tower, I flip through the black headlines of the newspapers. Berlin Claims 1,000 Tonnes of Bombs on London.
The Evening Standard is in the pile. I have not seen a single copy, not even among the stacks in the Casemates shelter. Mum didn’t like me reading it either; she didn’t hide it from me.
I recognize the strange, difficult-to-read font of the paper’s title. The headlines, grave though they are, seem warm, familiar: Bismarck Sunk. Ulster Not To Have Conscription.
I flip the thin pages, remembering the lettering, the sections. It looks almost the same. Eight pages. One penny. I turn to the back, before Amusements and Radio. Her writing would be right here, usually, though sometimes it was closer to the front. And then I see an article I somehow missed. An excerpt from a German paper, translated.
These Dark Wings Page 17
