He hauled his cousin to his feet as another great crash sounded, no more than a street away. There was a brief yellow flash and a wave of blast almost toppled them over but Harry had his arm round Will and managed to keep him steady. There was a feeling of pressure and a whining noise in Harry’s bad ear. Will leaned into him and hopped on his good leg, smiling through gritted teeth.

‘Don’t get blown up,’ he said. ‘The sneaky beakies will be furious!’ So he had guessed who wanted me, Harry thought. More bombs fell, yellow flashes lighting the road, but they seemed more distant now.

Someone had been watching from the shelter, holding the door open a crack. Arms reached out, taking hold of Will, and they fell together into the crowded darkness. Harry was guided to a seat. He found himself next to Muriel. He could just make out her thin form, still bent over Prue. The little girl was still sobbing. Ronnie was huddled against her as well.

‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ Muriel said quietly. ‘I just couldn’t bear any more. My children, every day I think about what could happen to them. All the time, all the time.’

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s OK.’

‘I’m sorry I went to pieces. You got us through.’ She raised an arm to touch Harry’s, but let it fall, as though the effort were too much.

Harry leaned his throbbing head against the gritty concrete wall. He had helped them, taken control, he hadn’t fallen apart. He would have a few months ago.

He remembered his first sight of the beach at Dunkirk, walking over a sand dune then seeing the endless black columns of men snaking into a sea dotted with boats. They were all sizes – he saw a pleasure steamer next to a minesweeper. There were smoking wrecks too, and German dive-bombers buzzing overhead, shrieking down and dropping their bombs on the boats and the men. The retreat had been so fast, so chaotic, the horror and shame of it had been almost too much to take in. Harry was ordered to help line the men up on the beach for evacuation. Sitting in the shelter, he felt again the numb shame that came then, the realization of total defeat.

Muriel muttered something. She was on his deaf side and he turned to her. ‘What?’

‘Are you all right? You’re shaking all over.’ There was a tremble in her voice. He opened his eyes. The gloom was spotted with the red pinpoints of cigarette ends. The shelterers were quiet, trying to hear what was happening outside.

‘Yes. It just – brought everything back. The evacuation.’

‘I know,’ she muttered.

‘I think they’ve gone now,’ someone said. The door opened a crack and someone peered out. A draught of fresh air cut through the odour of sweat and urine.

‘It’s dreadful, the smell in here,’ Muriel said. ‘That’s why I don’t like to come over, I can’t stand it.’

‘Sometimes people can’t help it – they lose control when they’re frightened.’

‘I suppose so.’ Her voice softened. Harry wished he could make out her face.

‘Is everyone all right?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ Will answered from Muriel’s other side. ‘Good work there, Harry. Thanks, old man.’

‘Did the soldiers – lose control?’ Muriel asked. ‘In France? It must all have been so frightening.’

‘Yes. Sometimes.’ Harry remembered the smell as he approached the line of men on the beach. They hadn’t washed for days. Sergeant Tomlinson’s voice came back to him.

‘We’re lucky – things are going faster now the little boats are coming over. Some poor sods have been standing here three days.’ He was a big, fair-haired man, his face grey with exhaustion. He nodded towards the sea, shaking his head. ‘Look at those stupid buggers, they’ll capsize that boat.’

Harry followed his gaze to the head of the queue. Men stood shoulder deep in the cold Channel. At the head of the line men were piling into a fishing smack, their weight already tipping it over at an angle.

‘We’d better go down,’ Harry said. Tomlinson had nodded, and they began marching to the shore. Harry could see the fishermen remonstrating with the men still piling in.

‘I suppose it’s lucky discipline hasn’t broken down completely,’ Harry had said. Tomlinson turned to him, but his reply was lost in the scream of a dive-bomber, right above them, drowning the fainter whine of the falling bombs. Then there was a roar that felt as though it would burst Harry’s head as he was lifted off his feet in a cloud of red-stained sand.

‘Then he wasn’t there,’ Harry said aloud. ‘Just bits. Pieces.’

‘Sorry?’ Muriel asked, puzzled.

Harry squeezed his eyes closed, trying to shut out the images. ‘Nothing, Muriel. It’s OK, sorry.’

He felt her hand find his and clutch it. It felt work-roughened, hard, dry. He blinked back tears.

‘We made it tonight, eh?’ he said.

‘Yes, thanks to you.’

The warble of the all-clear was audible. The entire shelter seemed to exhale and relax. The door opened fully and the leader stood silhouetted against a starry sky lit with the glow of fires.

‘They’ve gone, folks,’ he said. ‘We can go home again.’

THE PLANE LEFT CROYDON at dawn. Harry had been driven there straight from the SIS training centre. He had never flown before. It was an ordinary civil flight and the other passengers were English and Spanish businessmen. They chatted easily among themselves, mostly about the difficulties the war had made for trade, as they flew out over the Atlantic before turning south, avoiding German-occupied France. Harry felt a moment’s fear as the plane took off and he realized the railway lines he could see far below, smaller than Ronnie’s train set, were real. That passed quickly, though, as they flew into a bank of cloud, grey like thick fog against the windowpane. The cloud and the steady drone of the engines grew monotonous and Harry leaned back in his seat. He thought of his training, the three weeks’ coaching and preparation they had given him before, this morning, they put him in a car to the airport.

The morning after the bombing Harry had been driven from London to a mansion in the Surrey countryside, where he had spent the entire three weeks. He never knew its name or even where it was exactly. It was a Victorian redbrick pile; something about the layout of the rooms, the uncarpeted floors and a faint, indefinable smell, made him think it had once been a school.

The people who trained him were mostly young. There was something eager and adventurous about them, a quickness of reaction and an energy that made them seize your attention, hold your eye, take charge of the conversation. Sometimes they reminded Harry oddly of eager salesmen. They taught him the general business of spying: letterdrops, how to tell if you were being watched, how to get a message out if you were on the run. Not that that would happen to Harry, they reassured him – he had diplomatic protection, a useful by-product of his cover.

From the general they moved to the specific: how to deal with Sandy Forsyth. They made him do what they called role-plays, a former policeman from Kenya playing Sandy. A suspicious Sandy, doubting his story; a drunk and hostile Sandy asking what the fuck Brett was doing here, he had always hated him; a Sandy who was himself a spy, a secret Fascist.

‘You don’t know how he’ll react to you, you have to be prepared for every possible eventuality,’ the policeman said. ‘You have to adapt yourself to his moods, reflect what he’s thinking and feeling.’

Harry had to be absolutely consistent in his own story, they said, it had to be watertight. That was easy enough. He could be absolutely truthful about his life up to the day Will had received the telephone call from the Foreign Office. In the cover story they had rung looking for a translator to replace a man in Madrid who had to leave suddenly. Harry soon had it pat, but they told him there was still a problem. Not with his face, but with his voice; there was an uncertainty, almost a reluctance, when he told his story. A sharp operator, as Forsyth appeared to be, might pick up that he was lying. Harry worked at it and satisfied them after a while. ‘Of course,’ the policeman said, ‘any oddness in tone could be put down to your little bit of deafness, that can affect the voice. Play that up, and tell him about the panics you had after Dunkirk as well.’