Nine Underdogs went into the exit tunnel, with not one word spoken between them. Simon gave a worried look towards McCormick, and Raj gave a hopeful thumbs up. Gracie looked like she was trying to avoid the sight of him altogether. They were gone a moment later, leaving McCormick in a Spitfire’s Rise he did not recognise: one that lay completely silent.

In order to break that silence, the first place he visited was the living room. Thomas was there, spread out on the empty sofa with his face buried into the backrest. He should have been in bed an hour earlier, but McCormick didn’t mind. The boy had spent the entire day processing the news of the operation, and still needed more time.

‘Thomas,’ he said.

‘What?’ came the nine-year-old’s whisper.

‘I’m going to the clinic in a few minutes. I just thought I’d say good night.’

‘Good night.’

There was no expression in Thomas’ voice. He was giving the response expected of him; the next line in the script.

Once in a while, he would leap at McCormick and cling onto him like some kind of cuddly leech, keeping his thin arms wrapped around his chest until he had been told to let go at least three times. It was problematic for an ageing man, but on principle McCormick never objected. At that moment, a hug attack from Thomas would have been most welcome. McCormick was frightened. More frightened than he wanted any of his Underdogs to know.

But there would be no hugs that day. Thomas, like most of the crowd in the cellar, despised him that day. McCormick sighed, and walked to the foot of the stairs.

‘I love you, Thomas. And I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Mum used to say that.’

It wasn’t worth pushing the issue. McCormick left the living room and made his way up the stairs.

If only to delay the inevitable, he opened the trapdoor to the attic and pulled down the ladder. There must have been enough time to see Barbara.

He would forever be thankful to his old friend Polly for letting him lodge in her house after Barbara’s death. She couldn’t possibly have predicted her home would become a place like Spitfire’s Rise. McCormick’s most treasured possessions had been in Polly’s attic long before Takeover Day, just metres above a houseful of people who had no idea he had any prior link to the house at all.

He found the cardboard box in its place next to the boiler and, as always, picked out the Anglesey honeymoon photo first.

When he knelt down to grab it, his arm brushed past a second cardboard box. Momentarily distracted, he checked inside it to see if the envelopes were still there, and counted eleven as expected. He wondered how many would remain when the time came to hand them out.