to end ecstatically,” Julian says, squeezing her fingers. Blushing, she doesn’t return his gaze.
“Fight! Fight!” the crowd keeps yelling. “Show us a real fight! A boxing match! There must be some plonker in your group who’ll fight you. Come on! Give us something!”
“We’re not going to do that,” Mia tells the audience. “But if we’re still here tomorrow, God willing, and you return, we might have some whiskey for you … and we’ll tell you another story—which one, Julian? The murder in a brothel?”
“That one’s good.”
“Okay,” she says. “Are there any details to the brothel story besides cold-blooded murder?”
“Oh, one or two,” Julian says, making Mia blush again. He smiles. She smiles.
“How about a hot-blooded fight right now, Swedish?” Wild yells from the sidelines. “Finch over here just told me he’ll fight you.”
“You bet I will,” Finch says. “I’ll kick his arse. He won’t know what hit him.”
“Finch is dying to fight you, Swedish!” Wild yells. “What do you say?”
“Fight! Fight!”
The howl of the siren sounds. There’s a collective groan of disappointment and misery. The bad part of life has intruded on the good part of life.
“ARE THE DOORS OF ST. PAUL’S STILL OPEN?” JULIAN AND MIA are walking briskly down Whitechapel. Earlier that morning, they rode with Shona to the Royal London Hospital to get resupplied with bandages and antiseptic. With Julian carrying the heavy canvas bag, they’re headed back to the jeep on Commercial Street, where Finch is undoubtedly steaming and waiting.
“Sure, it’s open,” Mia says. “Why, do you want to hide inside?”
“Yes,” Julian says. “Inside the Bank of England, inside St. Paul’s. Inside the Stock Exchange. Inside Monument.” Inside things that don’t fall. Things that won’t fall. The gods of the city have cloaked the Bank of England and St. Paul’s in an invisible shield, as if the mystical dragons of London jealously guard its greatest treasures.
“I’ve never seen London like this,” Julian says as they walk, “without its people.”
Mia nods. “It’s like a ghost town. But believe me, the people are still here.”
“Yes,” he replies, not looking at her. “They’re just ghosts.”
The rain turns to ice. Frozen pellets drop out of the sky and pound Julian and Mia like gunfire. He notes her falling apart boots as they hurry down the street.
“Did you know,” he says to her, “that if you run in the rain instead of walk, you won’t get as wet?”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“I’m serious. If we run, we won’t get as wet as when we dawdle and take in the sights. Want to try it? Here, give me your hand.”
They race down Whitechapel to where it crosses Commercial Street and duck into a covered archway at Aldgate East tube station to catch their breath and get out of the hailstorm for a minute.
“I don’t know, Swedish.” Mia laughs. “I’m pretty soaked.”
“Well, you started out soaked,” Julian says, “so it doesn’t count. Try it when you’re dry. Run through the rain. You won’t get as wet.”
“If you say so.” She is full of good humor.
His newsboy hat on, her winter hat on, they resume their dash up Commercial Street, slowing down when they realize they’re almost at the jeep, parked at the usual spot near the Ten Bells pub.
“Hey, so where’s the best place for me to get things?” Julian asks. “Things that aren’t rationed.”
“Like on the black market? They cost a lot.”
“I didn’t ask that. I asked where to go.”
“Find the back of a lorry,” Mia says. “Not in the center of town, or where you need to be good.” She points to the police station they pass on Commercial. The sign on its door says, “BE GOOD. WE’RE STILL OPEN.”
Mia tells him to try north Cripplegate. “Though I should warn you, if you haven’t been that way recently, you’re in for a nasty shock. But if you manage to get beyond it, in the back of Smithfield Market there’s a lot of stuff being sold off lorries. Watch out, though, because Finch doesn’t like that stuff.”
“What doesn’t he like, whisky, bacon, wool blankets?”
“All that.” She pauses. “But also be careful because stray bombs are always falling, even during the day. You keep forgetting that. They fall without a siren. Are you looking for something in particular?”
“I promised Finch good Scotch whisky, so that’s one thing I’m getting.”
“You’re not going to win him over with that.”
“Trust me, nothing I do is going to win him over,” Julian says. Mia bites her lip. “What else should I get? What would your friends like?”
“Bacon rashers. Eggs. Anything out of ration would be good.”
“What about you? Would you like something?”
She gets flustered. “I wouldn’t mind putting on a costume and singing a song. All the girls would love some nylon stockings, even tough old Shona, even Kate, who pretends to be hard but that’s only because she doesn’t want people to think she’s soft and take advantage of her.”
“Is she soft?”
“Nah, she’s hard.”
“What about you?” He pauses. She blushes. “I mean … would you like some nylon stockings?”
Not answering, she points to her thick black hose. “I wouldn’t say no. We’re saving our money to go dancing sometime. And to the cinema. Gone with the Wind is playing at the Empire. They’re charging something exorbitant for it like half-a-shilling, and it’s always sold out now that there’s only one show a day, but we’re definitely going. I wouldn’t mind some nylon hose to go to the pictures. We’re planning to take a day off from the war for it. Would you like to come, too?”
“Would love to,” Julian says. “What else?” He points to the soles coming off her boots, the mud leaking in. “Maybe some new boots?”
“Good luck finding a pair of those.”
They’ve arrived at Finch’s vehicle.
