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A waiter delivers more coffee. Did we order it? Can’t remember. “Would any of you like something else?”
“I’d prefer tea,” I say, tapping the empty pot and pushing my fresh cup toward Cress. I’m sure she’ll drink mine after hers.
“No, thank you.” Ian’s voice is exquisite with politesse before he gulps down a large mouthful of brandy, then coughs. I pound his back as he splutters.
“Easy, old man.”
He straightens, his watery, frosty blue eyes boring into me. Then he turns his gaze away.
“Sorry, Max. All this must bring back memories.”
I wave his comment away. My voice is tight. “I’m fine.”
Cress weaves her fingers through mine. I’m not fine, and she knows it.
We sit, toying with our postprandial drinks for another two hours. At some point, Allan takes his leave. “Places to go, people to talk with.” He disappears, not exactly in a puff of smoke, but about as close.
“Like a magician,” Cress says.
“Quite right, dear.” Mum’s comment cuts her off. “He does come and go rather like a conjuror.”
It’s already midnight. Normally the restaurant closes at ten thirty, but in the circs, they have been kind enough to let us stay. “Time to check out the damage.”
Dad pushes his chair back and helps Mum to her feet. He has been up and down since he’s not supposed to sit for too long at a time. When he wasn’t walking out and pounding the pavement, he was consoling Mum.
Now she puts on her coat. “Thank God all of you are here. No sitting and waiting for phone calls.” I know she’s looking at me.
“Liz and Diana will take all the children back to the Club,” Les tells us. Despite loud protests from exhausted young ones, they herd the small gang out the door where a taxi is waiting.
I help Cress on with her coat. When I stand in front to button her up, I’m shocked by the state of her. Deep blue smudges under her eyes stand out like bruises. Her skin is so pale she could almost pass as a ghost. Curls tangled around her shoulders, she suppresses a yawn.
“Should have sent you back with Diana and Liz,” I grumble.
“Stop fussing.” She pushes her hair back out of her face, then checks her wrist, sliding off a hair tie and pulling the mess back. Then she yawns again. “Sorry. You’d think all that coffee would have kept me more alert.”
I lift her chin with a finger and press a soft kiss against her lips. “The food makes you sleepy.”
As we walk down St. John’s Lane, I slip my arm around Cress, holding her close through the square and out the other side. Police are still everywhere, as are barriers, bright lights, and crime scene tape. As we walk into the space between the barriers, two police constables come up.
One of them shouts out in an East London accent, “Can’t come through here!” He makes a push back motion.
“Our house.” Ian draws Cress’ attention to an enormous crater that has swallowed up the pavement and the street in front. Bits of twisted metal poke up from the cars parked there. “A Grade II listed Georgian townhouse.”
I peer into the darkness. It looks as if the front door might be gone as well.
Cress whispers against my shoulder, “Looks like a war zone.” A shudder runs through her and I pull her even closer.
“Come with me, sir.” The cop waves Ian through, and we all stream after him.
Another constable comes over. “These people are the owners of that house over there. The one with the door blown in,” the first one informs her. She takes out a small notebook and a pencil to record our information. Except for our destroyed front door, it looks as if the buildings were only slightly affected, but much of the street around the crater has turned to rubble.
“Do you have a vehicle parked here?” The constable looks up from her notebook, where she has been recording our particulars.
“No cars.” Ian responds quickly. “How much damage to the properties?”
“Not sure, sir. We will notify all the owners once we assess everything.”
I focused on the activities going on around us and trying to make out as much as I could about the damage. “We are supposed to leave for Scotland tomorrow,” I tell her.
