Page 103 of Strangers in Time

He cried out, “Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey. Are you in there?”

He knew they had an Andy bomb shelter in the back garden. Perhaps…?

He hurried around to the rear, his teeth gnashing with every step from his injured leg. He saw that the Andy with its corrugated top and sides—which gave the structure its strength—was covered with dirt. That was intentional, he knew. But a section of wall from the house behind theirs had fallen on the Andy, partially collapsing it.

He threw himself down at the entrance to the shelter and pushed bricks and wood and shattered glass away from the opening, cutting his hands in the process.

He saw one shoe and then a hand. The shoe was a man’s, the hand a woman’s. He edged farther into the Andy and shone his torch around.

The Ramseys were there, all right. They had died together, and from the extent of their injuries, it looked like they had perished instantly. During wartime that seemed to largely constitute God’s mercy.

He limped back to the hotel, where he found Parker helping the wounded and dying.

Parker said, “Everyone in my shelters is okay. I think the planes have passed over us now.” He suddenly fixed on his fellow warden. “Bloody hell, Ignatius, you’re wounded.”

“I’m fine actually. The stirrup?” said Oliver.

“Oh, right.” He filled the bucket from a hose pipe, and, using the stirrup, they doused people covered with burning embers, and put out modest fires that had sprouted up in several spots. When the fire brigades arrived, they helped the men to put out the rest of the flames in this sector. Then the search for people in the rubble began in earnest as the Heavy Rescue Division showed up to perform work no person should ever have to do.

They found far more dead than living.

A half-cremated young couple still in their bed in the hotel. Oliver later learned they had been on their honeymoon. The man still standing at the front desk, his hand fused to the reception bellby the flames and his lungs crushed by the concussive force of the detonation. He actually looked fine despite being dead. A waiter in the restaurant. A cook in the kitchen. Why they had not heeded the warning sirens, Oliver didn’t know. They had paid for that decision with their lives.

They could still hear bombs exploding in other parts of the city. The horizon was so full of smoke it seemed the entirety of London was aflame.

Three hours later the all clear sounded, and Oliver had never been so relieved to hear it. He knew that many damaged but still standing buildings would need to be demolished.

He had taken members of the Heavy Rescue Division to the Andy in the Ramseys’ rear garden and shown them the bodies. The unfortunate couple’s remains would be removed and their family notified. That constituted normal these days.

The bomb disposal unit had been called in to take care of several unexploded munitions that had landed in buildings and yards.

He and Parker worked steadily until they had done as much as they could. Then they had some coffee and food to eat at a mobile canteen, including some hot soup from a large vat. After the men filled out and delivered their incident reports, they slowly walked back to their homes.

“Oh my Lord!” exclaimed Parker. “Is that another body?”

They rushed forward and came upon the person. He was battered. And unconscious. And for some reason he looked familiar to Oliver, who felt for a pulse and found it. “Quick, the ambulances are all busy. The clinic’s a block over. We can carry him.”

Between them he was not heavy, and they made it to the Covent Garden Medical Clinic in short order.

Parker rapped on the door. The sisters came, and the lad was duly transferred onto a stretcher and taken away for examination. Oliver ventured farther inside and noted people in various states of injury lying in the beds lining the walls, with some also on temporary cots and still others simply huddled on the floor. One ofthe sisters, who had noted his injuries, came over and said, “Do your wounds need cleaning and dressing? We would be glad to do so,” she added wearily. Her face was streaked with grime, as was her starched uniform, which was also covered in blood. She looked dead on her feet.

He looked at the mangled bodies writhing in pain and waiting for help.

“No. I think they need you more than I do.”

Oliver said goodbye to Parker and trudged back to The Book Keep.

He let himself in, went to the bathroom, undressed, cleaned himself up, and used a pair of tweezers to pick out as many pieces of glass from his limbs as he could. He bandaged what he could and put on fresh clothes.

He checked in on Molly’s room and found her back home and sleeping soundly. He knew she would surely need her rest for what faced her tomorrow at the clinic.

Unable to sleep, he made a cup of coffee from days-old grounds. He used a set of interior stairs to climb to the top of the building where The Book Keep was located, carrying with him his trusty pair of binoculars. He took a sweep of the city and was gratified that he didn’t see nearly as many flames as he thought he might. But the smoke was ominous, and the gaps where buildings had stood before last night more ominous still.

Will this damn war never be over?

The general theory was that day bombing raids were bad, but those that came at night induced widespread terror. Oliver thought they were both awful.

What was the phrase he had heard once?

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