The Declaration

frowning intently. Then he looked back at Mrs Sharpe. ‘The Underground Movement will be very grateful,’ he said stiffly. ‘If you can help.’
    Mrs Sharpe raised an eyebrow. ‘Underground Movement?’ she asked archly. ‘If you say so. But I want to make it very clear that I’m not doing this for any Movement. I’m doing this because you’re too young to . . . to . . .’
    She looked at Anna, then looked away again. ‘Well, anyway,’ she continued briskly, ‘I’m going back to the house now in case anyone decides to pop in. They’re . . . well, they’re searching the village for you at the moment. The tricky thing is going to be getting you into the car with Catchers snooping around everywhere, but there’s a petrol station not far from here – you can walk there from the back of the garden, once it’s completely dark, hide there, and I’ll meet you there with the car. I’ve got a friend in London, and there’s no reason why I shouldn’t pay her a visit this evening. What with everything going on . . .’
    She ran through the details of her plan with them, then left the summer house again, and Anna turned to Peter. ‘If they’re searching the village, do you think they’ll come back here?’ she asked nervously.
    Peter shook his head. ‘No,’ he said firmly, but Anna noticed that his brow was furrowed.
    ‘Are . . . are you OK?’ Anna asked tentatively. She didn’t know how to talk to Peter at the moment; felt awkward saying the most straightforward thing.
    ‘Yes,’ Peter said abruptly. ‘I’m fine. I just . . .’ He sighed. ‘I don’t like depending on other people,’ he said after a pause.
    Anna nodded silently and crept back under the curtains.
    They set off at 7 p.m., as soon as it had got properly dark and once Mrs Sharpe had discovered that the search party were safely back at Barbara’s drinking sherry. She had bulked Anna and Peter up with jumpers so they didn’t look so obviously thin, and had given them each a cap of her husband’s to wear, pulled down over their faces. They skulked across the fields at the back of her garden and Anna had to force herself to walk silently next to Peter because the fresh air was intoxicating and the crunching sound of their feet on the frosty ground made her heart leap with exhilaration, even if it was also clenched with fear.
    Finally, having sidled around the perimeter of an empty building site because of the bright lights shining everywhere, they arrived at the garage. They ducked down behind a wall and peered out on to the forecourt.
    Mrs Sharpe’s estate car was already there.
    ‘Stay here,’ Peter whispered, and inched around the wall, then he came back.
    ‘She’s seen us,’ he said softly.
    Anna heard an engine start, and a few moments later, she heard Mrs Sharpe’s voice.
    ‘No, thank you,’ she was saying to someone. ‘I’m just getting some air for my tyres.’
    Anna waited for another agonising minute, and then Mrs Sharpe spoke again, this time to her and Peter.
    ‘OK,’ she said quietly. ‘No one’s looking. I’m going to open the boot and I want you to get in quickly and cover yourselves with the blankets. It might smell of dog, I’m afraid. I used the car to drive a friend’s Labrador to the vet the other day.’ Her voice was shrill, Anna noticed, as though she was trying to sound normal, but couldn’t, because this wasn’t normal, not at all.
    Anna followed Peter silently into the boot of Mrs Sharpe’s car, as Mrs Sharpe walked up towards the garage shop. A few minutes later, she returned to the car.
    ‘No one even mentioned the escape,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about at all.’
    Anna wasn’t sure whether she was talking to them or to herself. The whole car seemed to be filled with tension and fear, and even the engine sounded uncertain as it started up.
    ‘You can put your head on my shoulder if you want,’ Peter said softly.
    Anna bit her lip, unsure what to say. She longed to put her head on his shoulder, to feel the warmth and security of having his arms around her. But she didn’t think she deserved it. Ever since she’d discovered that her journal was no longer in her overall pocket, she had barely been able to look at Peter, hadn’t been able to cope with his inevitable disappointment and anger.
    Peter shrugged. ‘It’s just that there isn’t much room,’ he said casually, his eyes barely meeting hers. ‘So it might be easier . . .’
    Grateful for the logical