Page 64 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“You're certain of that.”

“I am, sir.”

Finch studied me, and I had the uncomfortable sense that he was seeing more than I wanted to show. But when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful rather than accusatory.

“Pembroke reminds me of someone I served with. Brilliant. Dedicated. Carried the weight of every decision like it was personally his fault.” He paused. “That man worked himself into a breakdown by the end of the war. Couldn't function. Couldn't live with what he'd done, even though what he'd done had saved thousands.”

“Sir?”

“I'm not accusing Pembroke of anything, Hale. I'm concerned about him. The same way I'm concerned about everyone in this facility who's pushing themselves past breaking point.” Finch's expression was unreadable. “If you notice him struggling, if he shows signs of approaching that edge, I want to know. Not to punish him. To help him. Before it's too late.”

The words didn't match the Finch I'd come to expect. The suspicious, rigid security officer who saw threats everywhere. This was something else. Something almost paternal.

“I'll keep an eye on him, sir. But not as a spy. As someone who gives a damn whether he survives this war.”

Finch's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “That's all I'm asking, Sergeant. Dismissed.”

I saluted and made for the door.

“Hale.”

I turned.

“The weight you're carrying from this mission. Don't let it sit alone in the dark. Find someone to share it with. Someone you trust.” His eyes held mine. “We all need that. Even those of us who pretend we don't.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and stepped out into the corridor.

The canteen was packedwith the evening shift change, bodies pressed close in the steamy warmth, voices layered over voices until the noise became a solid wall. My usual corner table had been claimed by a group of WAAFs, so I'd ended up near the centre of the room with my back exposed and too many people in my peripheral vision.

Wrong. Everything about this felt wrong. But the alternative was skipping the meal entirely, and I'd learned the hard way that missing too many meals led to shaking hands and worse judgment, neither of which I could afford.

So I sat with my back to the room and my tea going cold in front of me and tried to pretend the noise wasn't crawling under my skin.

“Sarge! There you are.”

Peter materialised beside my table with his usual cheerful energy, tray balanced in one hand and that too-wide grin that made him look younger than his twenty-four years. He slid intothe seat across from me without waiting for invitation, already talking before his arse hit the chair.

“Been looking for you. Got something that'll make that sad excuse for tea actually drinkable.” He pulled a small twist of paper from his pocket and set it on the table between us with the air of someone presenting the Crown Jewels. “Real sugar. Proper stuff, not that saccharine shite that tastes like chemicals and disappointment.”

Real sugar. Hadn't seen any of that in months, maybe longer. Rationing had turned luxuries into memories, and sugar had been one of the first casualties.

“Where'd you get that?” My voice came out sharper than I'd intended, suspicion automatic.

“Told you. Mate in town. He's got connections with the supply depots, can get things now and then if you know who to ask.” Peter's grin didn't falter. “Don't look so serious, Sarge. It's not stolen. Just... redistributed from people who have more than they need to people who appreciate it.”

Black market, then. Or close enough to make no difference. Not uncommon. Half the country was running on under-the-table deals and favours traded in the dark. But coming from someone who worked at a classified installation, someone who had access to information that could be worth more than sugar...

“Take it,” Peter said, pushing the paper twist closer. “Go on. When's the last time you had tea that didn't taste like misery?”

He had a point. And refusing would be churlish, would mark me as suspicious or ungrateful or the kind of bloke who couldn't take a gift without making it complicated.

So I took it. Unwrapped the paper, dumped the precious white crystals into my tea, stirred with the battered spoon that came with the cup.

First sip hit different. Sweet and almost shocking after months of bitter, unsweetened brews. My whole body seemed to recognise it as something good, something worth savouring.

“Better, yeah?” Peter was watching me with satisfaction, like he'd personally solved all my problems with a teaspoon of contraband sugar.

“Yeah. Better. Thanks.”