‘They blew up Lichtensteinbrücke,’ she said. ‘But I’ve heard the razor wire has gone, and perhaps we can walk along the banks of the canal. It’s quiet.’ She nodded, sombre once more, and pointed with her finger. ‘It’s just down there, down that street that leads from the gardens.’

‘Let me walk you to the Tor.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’ She stood for a moment, added, ‘You have to pay me.’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot.’ He felt the hot grasp of a blush as he fumbled for the cigarettes. How stupid of him. She put them in her pocket, turned, swinging her bag with the chipped jug, walked away. He watched as she grew smaller and smaller.

Arthur stepped forward, took his elbow.

‘Let’s find a bar,’ he said. ‘Before a redcap sees us.’

Round a corner, out of view. She hadn’t looked back, not once.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

London: July 1958

There was an empty bench outside the station and Betty crumpled onto it, her toes still throbbing from the kicking she’d given John, her lungs tight from running. She shut her eyes, memories shifting through her mind, montage after montage. Had he grabbed her as he fell, or when she ran past him? He had been alive, hopscotch over the body, terror thundering through, fast as a train, driving her on. A trolley bus trundled past, its engine silent, its poles sparking on the overhead wires. She stared at it, batting away the angry ghosts scrambling from the wastes of her past.

She lifted her knees up against her chest, held them tight, sobbing. Anger began to billow, and with it a burning rage. She unravelled her arms, pushed them straight out, hands close together, two fingers stretched and pointing. Blood was on the floor, splattered on her shoes, a bloody handprint on her calf where he’d grabbed her.

‘Bets.’ A woman’s voice. ‘Betty. Is that you?’ Someone was shaking her shoulder and Betty looked up. ‘Bets, it is you. Are you all right?’

Betty blinked, stared. ‘Dee?’ Behind the woman were two small boys in short grey trousers and white shirts, holding hands. ‘Dee?’ She shook her head, memories falling and reshaping like pick-up sticks. She put her feet back onto the ground, sniffed a dribble from her nose. This was London, summer 1958, not Berlin 1945. Pull yourself together.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘More to the point,’ Dee said, ‘what are you?’ She sat down next to her. ‘It’s been years, Bets.’

‘I was thinking only yesterday that I’d give your dad a ring, get your new address.’

Dee brushed the hair from Betty’s face. ‘What’s happened? You look terrible.’

A small, tender gesture. Betty leaned forward, tucked her head against Deirdre’s shoulder, felt Dee’s arms circle her and rock her gently. She pulled away, wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. What could she say?