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course. Our deserters
     in the first lot had had names, but that didn’t mean those in charge hadn’t lied to their families about their deaths. They’d
     all been ‘killed in action’ not shot by Ken White or Francis Hancock. Morale had to be maintained and to hell with the truth,
     or so those above us, those real lunatics, in the army and the Government had felt. Decent men killed for being afraid. The
     truth willingly sacrificed for something called ‘the war’. Life is difficult now and the last thing this city and this manor
     need is a murder. Bad for morale. Once Fred had gone I ‘forgot’ to telephone Albert Cox and went over to see Hannah.

Chapter Four
    I ’m not keen on markets. Too many people. Just as being underground or enclosed can make me go barmy, so can lots of jabbering
     people. It’s the noise, I suppose – voices coming at you from all over, muffling and distorting the words and sentences, making
     ordinary people sound mad. Not that Rathbone Street is anything like it once was. There’s nothing much to look at, not much
     to buy now. Well, not on the stalls anyway.
    I know that the Duchess draws the line at knocked-off goods, but I’m no Snow White myself. And with the tea ration down to
     two ounces, butter down to four since June and clothes under price control, I felt I had at least to keep my eyes peeled.
     But there was nothing doing. Just a lot of empty tins with ‘Not for Sale’ written on them and a couple of rough-looking ’erberts
     flogging knives and forks. No more than twelve either of them, running wild like so many of the kiddies round here. I did
     think for a minute that I might ask them where they’d got their cutlery, but then I thought better of it. I hate looters as
     much as thenext man, but when I look at some of these kids’ faces I just can’t bring myself to speak to them. A lot of the Canning Town
     children were half starved before the war. Now some of them look like they’ve spent a year in the trenches. Cheekbones like
     seagulls’ wings.
    When I arrived Hannah had only just got up. Because the raid the night before had been so small, her business had been brisk.
     She was tired and, with her hair all over the place and no makeup on, she didn’t look her best and I could tell that she knew
     it too.
    ‘It’s all right, love,’ I said, as I took my hat off at the door. ‘I only want to talk.’
    ‘Thank God.’
    She moved aside and I went in. Hannah, like a lot of the local girls, lives in one room. Because it’s damp, it’s cold most
     of the year round. Even when she makes a fire, it doesn’t do a lot. She hasn’t got much. There’s a bed, an old range, a couple
     of cupboards for her clothes, a table and a chair but not a lot besides. Hannah doesn’t have bits and bobs or photographs,
     at least not where anyone can see them. I went and sat down while she turned the gas up. Even at midday her room doesn’t get
     a lot of light.
    ‘Want a cuppa?’
    I said that would be lovely so Hannah went down to the scullery to fill her kettle and put it on the range to boil. While
     she was busy with all that, I rolled up a fag for myself.
    ‘What do you want to talk about, Mr H?’
    She obviously wanted to get this over with so she couldgo back to bed. Jealousy reared up inside me. What she’d done and with how many men isn’t something that I like to think about.
     Not that I can do anything about it. Hannah, like all of us, has to live.
    ‘You ever heard of a bloke called Kevin Dooley?’ I said. ‘About six foot, black hair, long nose.’
    Hannah shrugged.
    ‘Looks a bit like a fighter,’ I said. ‘Bit mean and that.’
    ‘Bit mean and a fighter could be almost anyone as comes down here,’ Hannah replied bleakly. ‘Why?’
    I sighed. It wasn’t easy doing this, mainly because I wasn’t sure what I wanted Hannah to say. However, if I was to get any
     way to finding out if my own and Aggie’s thoughts about Kevin’s injuries had