‘You all right, luv?’ asked the young ginger-haired soldier who had pulled her out of the sea, his concern not preventing him goggling at her. Drunk with fatigue, Polly glanced down at herself and saw that her soaked blouse was now utterly transparent, her nipples protruding as a result of the cold water, and that her skirt had ridden up to her waist, revealing knickers that had also been rendered transparent.

‘I’m cold,’ she said.

The youth blushed and glanced at his companion, who had now moved closer to get a good look. Polly observed that this youth carried a machine gun, whereas the first had a rifle strapped across his back.

A Sten gun and a Lee Enfield rifle—that’s definitely from Muse as I wouldn’t be able to identify a ‘bolt-action.303 rifle’ if one bit me on the arse.

Ignoring Nandru’s commentary, Polly pulled her skirt back down and folded her arms across her all-too-noticeable breasts. She felt foolish doing this, considering her daily occupation, but suspected these two would not possess cash euros or chip cards. She was also experiencing a horrible cringing shame at what that occupation had been. This, she now realized, had been just one of the many reactions she had deadened with the drugs and alcohol. The two young soldiers were both now staring with puzzlement at her folded arms. Glancing down she realized what might have attracted their attention: the strange object had lost its spikes and sharp edges and was now completely moulded around her right forearm, from her wrist to just a few centimetres below her elbow. Lowering her arms, however, immediately gave them something else to concentrate on.

Leaning out of the wheelhouse, the captain called to them. ‘Are you two just going to stand there ogling the young lady, or is one of you going to offer her a coat?’

Both youths moved into action. The one with the Sten gun said, ‘Come on, let’s get you below… You can have my greatcoat.’

The ginger-haired youth reached out to grip her biceps, then hesitated and turned the movement into a gesture for her to move ahead of him. On unsteady legs she preceded him to the hatch, and down splintered wooden steps into a hold heated by a small stove and thick with cigarette smoke. Without speaking, ginger hair moved past her to take a heavy army coat down from a wall hook. The machine-gun holder, following them, took up a piece of blanket from one of the cases that they had been using as seats down here, and passed it to her. Still shivering, Polly dried her arms and legs and tried to blot the rest of the moisture from her clothing, thoroughly aware of the silence of the two soldiers and how they could not keep their eyes off her. When she accepted the greatcoat, shrugged it on and moved closer to the stove, the spell broke.

‘They spotted you from one of the pillboxes. How did you end up in the sea?’ asked ginger hair.

‘Toby, get that bloody kettle on!’ came a yell from above, giving her time to try and think of a plausible answer. Toby, the ginger-haired one, moved over to where one crate being used as a small table was cluttered with cups, tea-making stuff, and two overflowing ashtrays. Taking up a large teapot, he emptied its remaining contents into a nearby bucket, which by the smell of it also served a less sanitary purpose. He then spooned in loose tea. The other soldier unhooked his Sten gun and sat down on one of the lower steps, propping the weapon against his knee. He took a pack of Woodbines from the top pocket of his army shirt, knocked out a cigarette and lit up.

Not too bright: an oil stove and cigarettes down here. You’d think they’d be a bit more careful considering the load they’re carrying. But then I suppose you get blasé about that sort of thing after a while.

Polly desperately wanted to ask what Nandru was on about. She studied the crates stacked everywhere and saw stamped on them ‘Corned Beef, and in one case ‘Pilchards’. Over to one side were stacked hessian sacks, which she guessed contained potatoes.

Over to your left.

Polly glanced in that direction, wondering if Nandru was much closer to her thoughts than she would like, and observed a stack of metal cases roped down to hooks and partially concealed by a tarpaulin. On one of these she could see, stamped in white letters, the label ‘3.7 inch AA’, which meant nothing to her.

That looks like a shitload of ammunition.

‘Well, what happened to you then?’ asked the one with the Sten gun, shaking out his match then grinding it underfoot.

I’ve been thinking about this and there’s no easy story. Say you had a row with your boyfriend or something, and he tipped you out of his boat.

‘What’s your name?’ Polly asked the youth.

‘Dave,’ he replied, hoisting his Sten gun into a more comfortable position. ‘This is Toby, and the captain up there is Frank. What about you?’

‘Polly.’

Dave continued staring at her, evidently still waiting for an answer to his previous question.

Polly said, ‘Nandru… my boyfriend… he died and I was going to join him.’

The kettle Toby had just filled from a jerrycan clanged down on the cast-iron surface of the stove. He was staring at her with his mouth open, not knowing what to say.

‘Gurkha?’ Dave asked. Polly thought it safe to affirm this.

‘He died fighting then, I take it?’

‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘I think he did.’

Oh, very funny. Now they’ll ask you where and when I was killed, and we don’t even know the damned date.

‘Where’d he cop it then,’ asked Dave.

‘He was killed at… in the desert. They said he died doing his duty.’

Dave stared at her for a moment. ‘He was with Monty?’

Polly numbly nodded her head.

Ah fuck, yes. Tell them I caught it at El Alamein.

‘Yes, at El Alamein,’ she added.

‘Yeah, well that Rommel was a tricky sod, but the bastards are on their last gasp now,’ said Dave. He gestured at the ceiling with his cigarette, and they all paused to listen to the distant gunfire. ‘Probably trying to hit Marconi again. That’s one they haven’t given up on,’ he finished.

Polly did not know what to say to this. She had heard the name Marconi once but could not remember in connection with what. Dave observed her for a moment, then took out his cigarette packet and held it out to her. Polly stepped over to him and took one, then stooped low to light it from the match he struck and cupped for her. Drawing on it, she found it tasted of nothing but burning paper and gave her no satisfaction at all.

‘You were going to kill yourself?’ asked Toby, then got a warning look from Dave and flushed with embarrassment.

‘I was,’ said Polly, ‘but now I wonder if that might just be giving in to the fuckers.’

Silence immediately followed and, glancing at the two youths, she realized they were shocked by her swearing. She moved to one of the crates and sat down. Drawing on her cigarette again, she got a bit more of a hit this time, and immediately sensed movement from the thing on her arm. She took another drag, ignoring it.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

‘If I told you that I’d have to shoot you,’ said Dave, in mock reproach.

‘OK,’ said Polly. Glancing over at Toby, now pouring boiling water into the teapot, she tried to remember the last time she had drunk any tea. Her mother used to make it and, ever since, the stuff had left a bad taste in her mouth.

‘No big secret,’ admitted Dave. ‘Cock-up on the supply front from Heme Bay to Knock John. So we’re running some stuff down from Goldhangar to keep ‘em going for a week or so. We all know something big is coming up.’

‘Knock John?’ Polly repeated, before she could stop herself.

Toby said, ‘I always wanted to go out to them. I’ve never seen them.’

‘Not many people have,’ added Dave. Then, to Polly, ‘Knock John naval fort is where we’re heading. It’s one of the Maunsell sea forts.’