If you find yourself in a queue, you will remain until you reach the front.

Do not return the gaze of the Sandy Men.

Be patient.

You will enjoy the music.

Talk without raising your voice.

White noise interventions keep us safe.

This is the way.

The queue is for the butcher. My feet ache after three hours of standing on cobblestones and I shift my weight from one to the other. The Ink Spots sing Whispering Grass, the sound from the tannoy speaker hollow like a funeral parlour.

“I like this song,” says Mrs Harrison behind me. I nod and mumble agreement, and so does everyone else.

A military truck bars the way to Leeman Street, barbed wire barricades to either side. Nobody thinks about that. An open-topped staff car rumbles by. Next to the truck, a Sandy Man stands watching from behind his mask. They don't smoke or whistle, they just watch. His great coat doesn't move with the breeze as it should. Another watches from beside the butcher's door, a third beneath the telegraph pole. They each hold truncheons, black as the sun would be if it was beaten to death.

Mr Green is first in the queue, in front of me. When his wife passed away he moved in with his daughter who lives next door to me. He taught the neighbourhood children to whittle last summer, and leans on a stick when he walks.

“I hear your husband was promoted, Mrs Rees,” says Mrs Harrison.

“Yes.” I hold out my ration book, show her the extra endorsements. She smiles.

The music stops playing, replaced by white noise, and the world pauses to listen. My insides twist like a vice, compressing my lungs so I can't breathe. A pigeon takes flight, wings booming as it gains height, and I watch it soar over the houses. A whistle of static cuts across the white noise, and the Minister's voice calls out a name that sounds like “Rees”. I look at the butcher, and he is staring at me. My mind darkens at the edges.

But it isn't Rees, it's Green, and I release my breath. In front of me, Mr Green is shaking. He turns and tries to catch my eye, but I look down.

“Papers.”

A Sandy Man steps in front of me and I move back. Three of them surround Mr Green.

“Papers.”

“My family. They're waiting at home.”

“Green.”

Mr Green tries to run, but the truncheon knocks him to the floor, his stick and his bones clattering against the cobbles. He tries to shield his face with his hands, but the Sandy Men are stronger than he is.

“Mrs Rees,” the butcher says. He smiles when I look at him and I thumb the corner of my ration book.

The Sandy Men are packing Mr Green into a black bag, his arms still moving as if they might protect him, while Whispering Grass plays over the tannoy.