Sarah Waters - The Night Watch

He lost his footing, then righted himself and went on without speaking. Partridge was coughing because of the dust. Mickey was rubbing grit from her eyes. The chaos was extraordinary. Every time Kay put down her feet, things cracked beneath them, or wrapped themselves around her ankles: broken window-glass mixed up with broken mirrors, crockery, chairs and tables, curtains, carpets, feathers from a cushion or a bed, great splinters of wood… The wood surprised Kay, even now: in the days before the war she'd imagined that houses were made more or less solidly, of stone-like the last Little Pig's, in the fairy tale. What amazed her, too, was the smallness of the piles of dirt and rubble to which even large buildings could be reduced. This house had had three intact floors to it, an hour before; the heap of debris its front had become was no more than six or seven feet high. She supposed that houses, after all-like the lives that were lived in them-were mostly made of space. It was the spaces, in fact, which counted, rather than the bricks.

The rear of the house, however, was more or less intact. They went through a creaking passageway and emerged, bizarrely, into a kitchen, still with cups and plates on its shelves and pictures on its walls, its electric light burning and its black-out curtain up. But part of the ceiling had come down, and streams of dust were tumbling from cracks in the plaster behind; beams were still falling, the warden said, and the place was expected to collapse.

He took them out to the little garden, then went back through the house to the street, to check on the neighbours. Kay put up the brim of her hat. It was hard to see, through the darkness, but she made out the figure of a man, sitting on a step with his hands at his head; and a woman, lying flat and very still on a blanket or rug, with another woman beside her, perhaps chafing her hands. A girl behind them was going dazedly about. A second girl was sitting in the open doorway of a shelter. She had a whimpering, yelping thing in her arms-Kay took it at first to be an injured baby. Then it wriggled and gave a high-pitched bark, and she saw that it was a dog.

The dust was still swirling, making everyone cough. There was that queer, disorientating atmosphere that Kay had always noticed at sites like this. The air felt charged, as if with a rapidly beating pulse-as if still ringing, physically vibrating-as if the atoms that made up the house, the garden, the people themselves, had been jolted out of their moorings and were still in the process of settling back. Kay was aware, too, of the building behind her, threatening its collapse. She went very quickly from person to person, tucking blankets over their shoulders, and shining her torch, looking into their faces.

Then, 'Right,' she said, straightening up. One of the girls, she thought, might have a broken leg or ankle: she sent Partridge to look at her. Mickey went to the man on the step. Kay herself went back to the woman who was lying on the rug. She was very elderly, and had taken some sort of blow to the chest. When Kay knelt beside her and felt for her heart, she let out a moan.

'She's all right, isn't she?' asked the other woman, loudly. She was shivering, and her long greyish hair was wild about her shoulders; probably she'd had it in a plait or a bun and the blast had ripped it free. 'She hasn't said a word since she lay down. She's seventy-six. It's all on account of her we were out here at all. We'd been sitting in there-' she gestured to the shelter, 'as good as gold, just playing cards and listening to the wireless. Then she said she wanted the lavatory. I brought her out-and the dog came tearing out behind us. Then the girls started crying, and then he comes out,'-she meant her husband-'with no more sense than to start running round the garden, in the black-out, like a fool. And then- Honest to God, miss, it was like the end of the world had come.' She clutched the blanket, still shivering. Now that she'd started talking, she couldn't stop. 'Here's his mother,' she went on, in the same loud, chattering, complaining way, 'and here's me, and the girls, with God knows how many broken bones between us. And what about the house? I think the roof's come off, hasn't it? The warden won't say a word-wouldn't let us back into the kitchen, even. I'm afraid to go and look.' She put a jumping hand on Kay's arm. 'Can you tell me, miss? Are the ceilings down?'

None of them had seen the front of the house yet; from the back, and in the darkness, it looked almost untouched. Kay had been moving her hands quickly over the elderly lady, checking her arms and legs. She said now, without looking up, 'I'm afraid there's rather a lot of damage-'

'What?' said the woman. She was deaf, from the blast.

'I'm afraid it's hard to say, in the dark,' said Kay, more clearly. She was concentrating on what she was doing. She thought she'd been able to feel the jut of broken ribs. She reached for her bag and brought out bandages, and began, as swiftly as she could, to bind the lady up.

'It's all on account of her, you know-' the woman started again.

'Help me with this, if you can!' Kay shouted, to distract her.

Mickey, meanwhile, had been examining the man. His face had seemed black to Kay, at first; she'd imagined it covered with earth or soot. Once she'd shone her torch on it, however, the black had become brilliant red. His arms and chest were the same, and when she'd moved the light over him it had sent back dainty little glints. He had shards of glass sticking out of him. Mickey was trying to get out the worst, before bandaging him up. He was wincing as she did it, and moving his head as if blind. His eyes were half-closed-stuck together with thickening blood.

He must have felt Mickey hesitating. 'Is it bad?' Kay heard him ask.

'It's not so bad,' answered Mickey. 'It's made a bit of a hedgehog of you, that's all. Now, don't try and speak. We've got to stop up those holes. You'll never be able to drink a pint again, otherwise; it'll all come sprinkling out.'

He wasn't listening, or couldn't hear. 'How's Mother?' he said, over the end of her words. He called hoarsely to Kay. 'That's my mother.'

'Do try and not speak,' said Mickey again. 'Your mother's all right.'

'How are the girls?'

'The girls, as well.'

Then the dust caught in his throat. Mickey held his head so that he could cough. Kay imagined his cuts reopening as he shuddered and jerked, or the glass that was still in him moving in deeper… She was aware, too, of the buzz of planes, still sounding monotonously overhead. And once there came the slithering, splintering sound of a falling roof, from a street nearby. She worked more quickly. 'OK, Partridge?' she called, as she tied off the bandage. 'How much longer?'

'Nearly there.'

'And you, Mickey?'

'We'll be ready when you are.'

'Right.' Kay unfolded the stretcher she'd brought from the van. The warden reappeared as she was doing it; he helped her lift the lady on and tuck the blanket around her.

'Which way can we take her?' Kay asked him, when she was in place. 'Is there a way to the street through the garden?'

The warden shook his head. 'Not this garden. We'll have to go back through the house.'

'Through the house? Hell. We'd better go right now. Ready to lift? OK. One, two-'

As she felt herself rise, the old lady opened her eyes at last and looked about her in amazement. She said in a whisper, 'What you doing?'

Kay felt for a firmer grip on the arms of the stretcher. 'We're taking you to hospital. You've hurt your ribs. But you'll be all right.'

'To hospital?'

'Can you lie still for us? It won't take long, I promise. We must just get you out to the ambulance.' Kay spoke as she might to a friend-to Mickey, say. She had heard policemen and nurses address injured people as though they were idiots: 'All right, dearie.' 'Now then, ma.' 'Don't you worry about that.'