Page 53 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

T he flat was still and dark when Catherine opened her eyes.

A faint whistle of wind slid under the eaves.

Morning had broken, but the blackout curtains held back the waking city.

She sat up slowly, her legs trembling beneath the thin cotton of her nightdress.

She had spent the previous day pacing the flat, making excuses to avoid her flatmates’ questions.

Now, it was the morning of the ninth, and there was nowhere left to hide.

She reached for the book on her nightstand – a thick, nondescript hardback on naval strategy.

Of course it wasn’t. Daniel had gutted it with quiet expertise, pages glued, centre hollowed, every detail precise.

And that was what unsettled her most – not the invention, but the ease.

What else was he capable of? She stared at it for a long moment, then closed the cover carefully, as if it might bite.

The night before rose behind her eyes in half-formed flashes: the Savoy’s golden warmth, the band music, Lizzie’s laughter, Ellie’s sharp gaze that rarely left her.

Catherine had told the girls she was working an overnight shift from eight that morning to eight a.m. on the following day.

Another lie. Her actual shift was eight a.m. to three p.m., but they wouldn’t know.

The deception gave her the perfect excuse not to return home that night.

Once she’d carried out her duty, she would take the train home and gather her things.

She’d packed quietly last night, folded all her worldly possessions tightly into a battered suitcase now hidden behind her wardrobe.

The fresh identity papers were sewn into the lining of her coat.

Daniel had thought of everything. Grasmere. Please let him keep his word.

Her hands shook as she dressed. She buttoned her utility blouse wrong the first time, knocked over the Coty face powder, had to begin again.

She slid the book carefully into her carpet bag along with a night dress, dressing gown and a washcloth.

She had to look the part even though she’d never sleep in the bunker again.

Pulling on her coat, she stepped into the chilly hallway, her footsteps muffled on the worn floorboards as she moved like a ghost. The others would still be asleep.

A brief check of her hair in the circular mirror hanging on the wall beside the door.

Her gaze drifted to the silver dove brooch on her lapel.

She brushed it with a fingertip either through habit or for luck, she wasn’t sure which.

Outside, London stirred to life. Buses rumbled by.

The smell of coal smoke mixed with morning fog.

Men in trilbies and women in sensible lace-up shoes passed her on the pavement, anonymous and distracted, all carrying their own secrets.

I’m no different, she told herself. I’m just doing my part.

But her stomach twisted all the same. She caught the trolleybus to Whitehall, then walked the rest of the way. It wasn’t far.

She paused at the Treasury entrance, the familiar Marines standing to attention by the door.

What am I doing ? This was Churchill, the man who’d led Britain through its darkest hour.

But then Daniel’s voice whispered in her memory.

You’ll have a cottage by the lake, Cat. Children playing in the garden.

A real family at last. Her hand steadied on the door handle.

She forced a smile, showed her pass. What if they stop me?

What if they search the bag? They didn’t.

No one looked twice, she was simply ushered through the door.

The descent into the War Rooms was colder than usual.

Damp stone, the faint scent of disinfectant and stale cigarettes.

Catherine headed all the way down to the dock in the sub-basement, slipped through the red door and into the women’s dorm.

The room was empty, luckily, and she chose a cot at the far end, placing her carpet bag on the bed.

Then, she slipped off her overcoat and laid it on the top before heading back upstairs.

She passed through the corridor in silence, heels clipping lightly on the floor, and slipped into the typing room without a word.

The usual hum of machines hadn’t started yet, just the quiet rustle of papers and the click of tea cups being set down.

She smiled faintly at another girl, then sat at her desk and lifted the first letter from her in-tray. Everything ordinary. Everything normal.

She typed up the first letter and the minutes soon ticked by as the morning wore on. The sounds of the War Rooms grew around her, the clatter, the shuffle, the measured chorus of the day’s beginning. She watched the clock. Waited. At ten fifty-five she rose quietly. No rush.

‘I’m nipping to the wash room,’ she murmured to her supervisor, who didn’t look up from the telex machine.

Down the corridor. Down the stairs. She passed no one on the way to the dock.

The dormitory still sat in dim silence, cots neatly made, the air cool and still.

She stepped between the rows with quick, light feet.

At her cot, she knelt. Opened the bag. The hollowed-out book sat nestled beneath her cardigan, waiting.

Her hands didn’t shake. She removed it, opened it and adjusted the dial. One click equals ten minutes.

She clicked it six times, no hesitation, then knelt and slid the book beneath the cot, tight against the wall.

Standing, she smoothed her skirt, picked up the bag and strolled out through the heavy red door, upstairs, past the offices, until she reached the Treasury.

It’s only noise and smoke . Daniel promised no one would be hurt, just shaken.

And afterwards, no more war. No more lonely nights.

And it’s far safer under the cot, a level below. He need never know.

Pressing her crimson lips into a tight smile, Catherine lifted her chin and strolled across the tiled floor, walking out into the late autumn air, where scarlet leaves rejoiced, swirling around her heels. No one looked twice. No one questioned her.

No one knew. She quickened her pace, thoughts racing.

My God, I’ve done it . She swallowed the bile that surged in her throat and gulped greedily at the fresh breeze as she strolled towards the Underground at Westminster.

The sky was grey but brightening. She didn’t breathe properly until she turned onto Great George Street and weaved herself into the crowd.