Alistair took his revolver, aimed it quickly and fired with his eyes almost closed. It was not a good shot, the bullet striking to the side of the man’s forehead, lifting away a part of the scalp and exposing the skull but not penetrating it. The force of it had knocked the head to one side. It was Alistair’s last round too. The man took another breath, and another.
Alistair dropped to his knees and did the only possible thing, taking two handfuls of the yellow dust and pressing them into the man’s mouth. He still felt the hot breath hiss from the man’s nostrils, so he pinched the nose closed and held the body down until it ceased to struggle.
When it was over, Alistair stood. He and Simonson watched the man in silence, not at all sure he was dead. If the war had proved anything it was that life had unexpected resistance to the instruments with which men had been issued.
Simonson lit a cigarette. “I shan’t forgive you for this.”
“No,” said Alistair. “I don’t suppose I would.”
“We have to go. When we get to Bingemma we’ll send a burial detail.”
“I’d sooner stay and bury him now.”
Simonson shook his head. “It wouldn’t make either of you feel better.”
The Maltese, who had watched the whole thing from their doorways, emerged into the street to give the two officers a slow, ironic handclap. The sound rang in the square while Simonson and Alistair walked to the truck.
Between the yellow stone buildings, in front of the soot-blackened church, the cold northwesterly began its work of covering the dead man in dust.
March, 1941
MARY ARRIVED AT ST. Helen’s church at ten to four, in premature twilight under smoke. The city smelled of brick dust and charcoal. The hush was already on it—people had gone down to the shelters early.
“Sleep well?” said Huw.
“Dreaming of you.”
“Go on with you. The little one’s out the back already.”
Mary joined Hilda in the cab of the Hillman. In the yard behind the church the wall was down, revealing the acres that used to be Bishopsgate. In drizzle, boys in shorts picked through the ruins for shrapnel and brass.
“Look at it all,” said Hilda. “They say we shall win, but how?”
“Father says the city will have to move underground if this goes on.”
“I should hate that, shouldn’t you?”
“I suppose there will be ventilation shafts and skylights.”
“Well there’s something to look forward to. And are there to be murals down there, of woodland glades and seascapes?”
“Look on the bright side,” said Mary. “There might be—”
“There isn’t a bright side underground. It’s just dark.”
“We must simply do our best then, with Tilley lamps and ‘Kumbayah.’ ”
“Lovely,” said Hilda, “but I might take my chances on the surface.”
“They won’t let you. Even after we win, Father says preparedness will be the thing. Society will be organized, and people will live where they’re told, and do the jobs they’re given, and be permanently ready to fight. Father says that was our mistake, after the last war. We let people live willy-nilly.”
“Yes, it was lovely.”
“Father says it lasts about twenty years. After that, anyone half organized will do this sort of thing to us.”
Mary cranked the wipers to clear drizzle from the windshield, the better to indicate the rubble.
Hilda said, “If that is really the future, then what is the point in living?”
“We could have hobbies.”
“One of my hobbies is tea. Shall we go to the crypt and drink some?”
“Don’t you care about the future of civilization?”
“No,” said Hilda, “I care that Alistair still hasn’t replied to my letter.”
“Oh,” said Mary.
“I can’t stop thinking of him. Aren’t you the slightest bit sympathetic?”
Mary’s heart caught. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it isn’t your fault. Come on, let’s go for that tea.”
Soon the sirens howled up to their huge C-sharp and swooped down to A again to start their cycle. The first bombs fell and the night was underway, and they were sent out to the first casualties.
Clive was drunk before they even began. Huw was white with fatigue. They picked up two deceased and were halfway through their first run to the mortuary when Mary took a corner and both the bodies on the roof flew into the street. Clive and Huw had forgotten to strap the stretchers down. The men worked together to recover the first body, making a count of one, two, three, lift, but they discovered—after two attempts and a long interval of confusion in the slits of the ambulance’s headlights—that Clive had been lifting the arms of one corpse and Huw the legs of the other. Mary watched them curse and begin again.
As softly as she could, she said, “I’ve been writing to Alistair.”
Hilda looked straight ahead and said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” said Mary. “If that counts for anything.”
“You’re sorry . . .”
“I waited for what I thought was a decent time. I wouldn’t have written if I thought that you and he were hitting it off.”
Hilda still looked straight ahead. “Who wrote first? You, or him?”
Mary rested her forehead on the wheel. “I don’t blame you for being angry.”
“ ‘Angry’ isn’t the word. You’ve done this since we were children.”