The Safest Place in London by Maggie Joel Page A

a moment later, she heard the sound of a tap being turned on and a match being struck. He returned a moment later and pulled out the other chair and sat down, regarding her exactly as he had in the cafe. But now the tension between them was of a different nature—they were no longer strangers linked by a young man’s death. Now they were co-conspirators. The rules had changed subtly. Not subtly, for Diana felt like someone standing on a precipice about to jump.
    The kettle began to whistle softly.
    Would Lance expect more from her than just payment in money? If he did, would she oblige? She did not know. The rules were unclear to her. He had guessed so easily at the loneliness inside her. The room was horribly cramped and sordid and his hat and sandwiches were on the desk. He had swept them aside and, if he did expect more than just money, perhaps it was here on the desk that they would do it.
    ‘Milk? No sugar, I’m afraid. Come to think of it, no milk either. Black tea okay?’
    ‘Fine. Thanks.’
    He handed her a cup, took a mouthful of his own tea, placed it on the desk and leaned forward.
    ‘So, Diana, tell me. What do you want? I have pretty much anything you can name: tinned sardines, tinned pears, tinned peaches, condensed milk, powdered milk, cigarettes, spirits, soap, American chocolate, Brazilian coffee and as much Spam as you can carry. Nothing perishable, of course, but other than that, sky’s the limit. What’s it to be? I’ve even got a couple of US Air Force parachutes back there—’ he indicated the back room with a jerk of his head ‘—don’t ask how! So if you feel like running up your own pair of under-things on the Singer, be my guest.’
    Diana’s head was spinning. The cornucopia of goods he had just reeled off was making her feel a little faint. Were they here, in this room? She could smell them, surely; yes, she could smell each item. Her mouth went dry. The room, Lance, faded from her vision and she saw, with frightening clarity, herself pushing a bowl of tinned peaches towards Abigail, pouring the condensed milk over, Abigail’s eyes wide and bright as searchlights, her delighted, astonished squeal as she tasted the peaches, the condensed milk for the very first time.
    ‘Doesn’t the US Air Force need its parachutes?’ she replied faintly.
    ‘Not these ones!’ He laughed. ‘Bloody great tear in them.’ Then he became serious. ‘Diana, if you’re worried about where this lot came from, you should be. It’s contraband. Black market. Don’t delude yourself. Everything I have here is purloined and someone, somewhere is going to go without so that you and your little girl can have it.’ He paused and gave an expressive shrug. ‘If you don’t want it, well, that’s okay. I won’t think less of you.I might even think more of you. But if you do want it, don’t kid yourself.’ He took another sip of his tea. ‘And so we’re clear, if you get caught with this lot on you, you’re on your own. This office shuts down and disappears on a regular basis. It has to. I wouldn’t have survived this long otherwise. You get caught, you’re on your own, and we’re not talking a minor motoring offence. This is serious. You understand?’
    ‘Of course. I am not a child. I understand the risks.’ She spoke quickly because his words terrified her. And her reply terrified her more. ‘How much does it cost?’
    ‘Tell me what you want and I’ll tot it up.’
    So she wrote down her order and he did some arithmetic and she pulled out her purse and handed over a large number of notes then waited as he packed the various articles into a bag for her and handed them over. At the last minute he silently placed an extra tin of condensed milk into her package with a wink and she remembered that he was her dead brother’s school friend, that Lance had waited outside the church at John’s funeral to shake her parents’ hands, and the dismay that she had been keeping in check swelled inside