The rain was easing as we set off, pulling on dark-coloured clothes and tucking our hair up into old woolly hats. Mags wore her satchel. She had packed a torch, an emergency jam sandwich, Pa’s brass telescope (as the police had the binoculars), and a notebook and pencil to write down the exact details of everything we saw. What we really needed was a camera, but we didn’t have one. We crept out of the house without turning any lights on and closed the door softly, so we wouldn’t wake Pa.

In the spring, our clifftop used to be bright with blossoming gorse, the new grass nibbled by a hundred baby rabbits, but now it was a grey, thorny wilderness of metal and concrete. The government had reinforced the coastline with trenches, barbed wire, pillbox guard posts. Perhaps this should have made me feel safer, but instead it reminded me of how close the enemy really was – a bit like when you’re playing tag and you slam the door behind you and shove a chair up against it. The wind had dropped and it was eerily quiet outside. As we made our way up the dark, wet path to the south cliff, my imagination conjured the sound of enemy boats landing on the beach below us, the crunch of enemy boots on the sand.

‘Where are we going, Mags?’

‘Not far. Not far at all now . . .’

Spooky Joe’s cottage loomed ahead of us – a low, dark, square shape. From a distance, it could almost have been one of the pillbox concrete bunkers. I was reminded of that misty morning a few months before when I had followed Mutti up on to the south cliff.

‘Quiet now,’ Mags hissed. ‘We don’t want him to know we’re here.’

Her plan suddenly became clear.

‘Spooky Joe?’ I breathed. ‘You think he’s the spy?’

Mags nodded. ‘Think about it, Pet,’ she whispered as we left the path and tiptoed behind the cottage. The blackout blinds were still down. ‘He moved here just before the beginning of the war. He’s got this amazing view out over the Channel – it must be nearly as good as our view from the Castle. And he’s virtually a recluse – no one really knows anything about him.’

I considered her arguments. They certainly seemed to make more sense than Mutti being the spy.

Mags and I took up our positions behind a gorse bush.

‘What are we going to do, Mags?’ I whispered.

‘I’m not sure yet,’ she replied, taking the bag off her shoulders and rummaging inside for Pa’s telescope. ‘Let’s just see if he . . .’

And then there was a noise from the cottage. A grating sound, like a bolt being drawn back.

‘He’s there!’ Mags squeaked, pulling me down into a crouch beside her. ‘It’s Spooky Joe – he’s coming out!’

Chapter 17

17