Get off the streets.
People milled around in all directions. I managed to grab a couple of apricots and when we returned chez nous, Peterson had a flat loaf tucked under his armpit.
‘What do you think’s going on?’ said Peterson.
‘The news is out. They’re clearing the streets to prevent trouble. It might only be for today. If not, we could have a problem.’
‘We should eat all this bread now,’ said Peterson. ‘It’ll be uneatable tomorrow.’
True. Never, ever underestimate the wonderful properties of food preservatives. In this dry climate, bread was as hard as nails after only an hour or so. Bakeries produced small batches all day non-stop. Loaves were snapped up and often eaten warm and on the spot. So we ate the bread and kept the apricots for later.
I was so thirsty. My tongue seemed too big for my mouth. I had the beginnings of a dehydration headache. And it was hot. And getting hotter.
‘Keep your mouth closed,’ advised Peterson. ‘Don’t breathe through it.’
For the first time ever, I entertained the possibility that St Mary’s might not find us in time. That they would find us, I was sure, but they might be too late.
Years ago, we lost five historians in two separate incidents. It was before my time, but I know they searched and searched for months afterwards. Not a trace of any of them was ever found. And that was our worry. Not whether we would be rescued, but whether we would still be alive to be rescued. Which we wouldn’t be if we didn’t get some water soon.
The long, hot day wore on.
The well was only a hundred yards away. The question was whether to break curfew and go at night, when the dark would be both friend and enemy, or try it during the day when we could see but as easily be seen. If soldiers were stopping everyone on the street then, as all foreigners are in times of unrest, we could be in trouble. And they might still be looking for their witnesses as well.
We both plumped for breaking curfew. It was like being back at school. If you’re going to break the rules – go for it big-time. There are only so many detentions you can possibly attend in one term. Sadly, the penalty for being caught on the streets was probably slightly harsher than detention, but the need for water was becoming imperative. And we now had a bowl. A bit brown, but we didn’t care. We could bring water back to the alley at night and wait out the day. It seemed a good plan.
We left it as late as we could, partly to give the heat time to dissipate and partly to let the moon rise. Finally, we set off.
We slunk out of the alley like a couple of street cats up to no good. Hugging the walls, we groped our way down the streets, flitting from shadow to shadow. Three soldiers lounged at the corner. One leaned against a wall, one squatted on his heels, and one was staring vaguely in the other direction. They’d have to wait more than twenty centuries before they could pass round a cigarette.
We slipped past them and out on to the main road.
Peering anxiously up and down, we could see no one. The entire area was deserted. I could see the darker shadow, which would be the top of the steps leading down to the well. Already I could picture the cool damp cistern, the wet slap of water against the stone walls … taste the ice-cold water … And there was no one in sight. Surely we couldn’t be that lucky.
Of course we couldn’t.
We were just easing our way cautiously along the front wall of someone’s house, when I heard Guthrie’s voice in my ear.
‘Max?’
I jumped a mile and knocked over something that fell with a clatter. A dog barked. Inside the house, a nervous voice called out.
‘Shit,’ said Peterson.
We’d have been all right if it hadn’t been for that bloody dog. It just wouldn’t shut up. A shutter was thrown back and a light appeared.
We ran. No choice.
‘We’re in trouble, Major,’ I said to Guthrie. ‘You’re going to have to get us out. And quickly.’
A voice shouted behind us. The dog was having hysterics.
I followed Peterson.
In the surrounding houses, other, flickering lights appeared. Doors opened. Men stuck out their heads, presumably demanding to know what was happening. We pressed back hard into a patch of darker shadow.
And then someone let the bloody dog loose.
‘Go up,’ directed Guthrie.
We went up, scrambling up on to the low roof.
Not the best idea he’d ever had. In the summer heat, half the city was sleeping on their roof.
All around us, people sat up, heads appeared, children started to cry, women shrieked.
‘For crying out loud …’ muttered Peterson and we dropped off the roof again, abandoned any attempt at silence and just ran for it.
‘No go, Major,’ I panted. ‘And no time to chat. Just find us.’