Page 11 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Morrison's hands clenched. “You're a fussy little bastard, aren't you? Always have to be right, always have to make everyone else look stupid.”

“I'm not trying to make anyone look anything. I'm correcting an error.”

“Nobody asked you to correct anything.”

“The error existed regardless of whether anyone asked.”

I could see the moment Morrison decided to escalate. The shift in his weight, the way his shoulders squared. Pembroke didn't see it. He was too focused on the argument, on being right, on the pure logic of his position without understanding the social dynamics swirling around him.

I stood up.

Morrison's hand was already reaching for Pembroke's collar when I stepped between them, not touching either man, just occupying the space in a way that made further movement impossible.

“Problem here?” My voice came out flat, the tone I'd used on raw recruits who needed reminding of the chain of command.

Morrison pulled up short, face purpling. “Mind your own business, Sergeant.”

“Mr. Pembroke is my business. Captain Finch's orders.”

The silence stretched. I didn't move, didn't blink, just stood there and let Morrison decide whether he wanted to make this into something official. Behind me, I could feel Pembroke's confusion, his uncertainty, the way he'd gone still and silent.

Morrison backed down. They always did, eventually, when they realised the other person wasn't going to flinch first.

“Fine,” he spat. “Keep your pet boffin on a shorter leash, then. Before someone teaches him some manners.”

He turned and stalked away, and the canteen slowly resumed its normal noise level, people looking away, pretending they hadn't been watching.

I turned to Pembroke.

He was staring at me with an expression I couldn't read. Surprise, maybe. Or anger. His hands were shaking slightly, though whether from fear or fury, I couldn't tell.

“I didn't need rescuing,” he said.

“You were about to get hit.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Against a man twice your weight who was two seconds from putting you on the floor?” I kept my voice low, private. “You're brilliant, Pembroke. Everyone says so. But brilliant doesn't stop a fist.”

His jaw tightened. For a moment I thought he might argue further, but instead he just gathered his notebook and papers with sharp, jerky movements.

“I have work to do,” he said, and walked out without looking back.

I watched him go, feeling the eyes of the room on me, and wondered if I'd just made everything worse.

The whistle cameat twenty-two hundred sharp.

I was already positioned outside Hut X, torch in hand, when the lights died. The darkness was total, absolute, the kind that swallowed depth and distance and left you navigating by memory and sound alone. Across the estate, I could hear other whistles, other voices calling instructions, the controlled chaos of two hundred people trying to move through blackness without killing themselves.

The hut door opened, spilling a brief wedge of light before someone inside killed the lamps. Bodies emerged, bundled shapes moving too quickly for safety, breath steaming in the frigid air.

“Single file,” I called, voice carrying without shouting. “Follow the person in front of you. If you can't see them, stop and call out. Anyone who tries to run gets to explain to Finch why they're in the infirmary.”

They listened. Mostly. I counted them as they passed, checking names against the roster I'd memorised: Ruth Adler, moving with calm efficiency. Noor Bennett, muttering something in Urdu that sounded like profanity. A string of clerks and typists, some steady, some stumbling. Peter, grinning even in the dark like this was some grand adventure.

No Pembroke.

I grabbed Rowe's arm as he passed. “Where's Pembroke?”