Free Mammon by J. B. Thomas

your gunlight.’
    A small click, and something brighter lit the way. The shadowy party made their way to the rear of the house.
    â€˜Dad . . .?’
    â€˜It’s all right, honey. Keep walking.’
    She heard the click of a door handle, and then she was being led again, step by careful step, slowly descending into the sweet, musty air of the cellar. Beneath a small window, which allowed dim light through, she could identify the outlines of Mum’s pickling jars, standing in rows, and a lumpy shape poking its head up: a sewing machine, layered in swirls of fabric.
    So they would hide here. Fine. She reached out, trembling hands searching for the soft comfort of the old armchair. She needed to rest her foot: the stabbing pain had started again.
    A clunky creak filled the air, then a slam. Grace stiffened. ‘What’s going on?’
    â€˜Come on.’ Dad’s fingers pressed into her forearm. He led her a few steps away from the window light. ‘Step down, one leg first.’
    Grace stared down into the unfamiliar void. ‘What is this, Dad?’
    â€˜Just climb down.’
    â€˜Are you serious? What’s down there? You can’t expect me to –’
    Dad’s voice was hard. ‘You never needed to know about it. Now, move.’
    â€˜But my ankle!’
    â€˜Do it!’
    Grace winced, lowering her good ankle until she touched wood, then she gently brought her other foot down. ‘Okay . . .’ Looking up, she gazed at Dad’s face, silhouetted by the glow from Mum’s gunlight pointed unnervingly in her direction. Even so, she felt the calm emanating from her father’s eyes.
    â€˜Good girl. There are eight rungs. One at a time, honey.’
    â€˜I’ve got it.’ Grasping the wooden sides, she stepped down again on her bad foot, wincing. Okay. Six to go. She felt the ladder give, lurching to the right as Joe climbed on.
    â€˜Okay, son?’
    â€˜All good, Dad. If Grace can just move her arse.’
    She was on the final rung now. Joe’s impatience hit her in waves; he was practically stepping on her. In her haste to get to the bottom, her foot swung past the last rung and hit hard ground.
    She’d misjudged the distance – now her ankle felt as though a giant had stepped on it. Gasping, she hopped on her good foot, holding her sore ankle. A heavy click, and a hum filled the air. Steadying herself against a cold, rough surface, she glanced up at the cold light spreading across a ceiling that seemed to bear down on her.
    â€˜Okay.’ Mum swept over, pulling a plastic chair behind her. ‘Sit down, Grace.’
    Dad shoved the ladder against a wall, yanked open the fuse box and snapped a switch. ‘Okay. EMF’s back on.’
    â€˜They had plenty of time to get inside, Daniel.’
    â€˜Iknow . They won’t get in here, though.’
    From her seat, Grace watched the intermittent flicker of the fluorescent light, humming and buzzing as though it were zapping flies. A bunker. That’s what this place seemed like.
    â€˜Why won’t they get in here, Dad?’ Joe folded his arms tight, leaned against the wall and swallowed hard. He cast a wary look around the room.
    Grimacing, Dad snapped his phone shut. ‘Damn. No signal.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘God. We’ve done everything we were trained not to.’
    From the centre of the room, Mum threw Dad a tense look. ‘Stop it. We did the best we could. We’ll just have to wait, Danny. She told you it would be an hour – and that was how long ago?’
    He sighed. ‘An hour, Suse.’ He began to pace around the cramped room.
    â€˜Everything will be fine, Danny.’ Mum looked at her children: pale, terrified, vulnerable – and her fingers tightened around the gun.
    Grace’s eyes searched the room: over the grey walls, along the stubbly cement floor and up to the anaemic light, flickering and buzzing. ‘Why