Sarah Waters - The Night Watch

Someone was talking with the warden. She recognised him, in the darkness, by the leanness of his face, and by his glasses. It was Hughes, from the station. He'd been running. He'd taken his hat off, to come more quickly, and was pressing at his side. He saw her and said, 'Kay'-and that made it worse, for she didn't think he had ever called her Kay before; usually he called her Langrish. 'Kay-'

'What is it?' she said. 'Tell me!'

He blew out his breath. 'I've been with Cole and O'Neil, three streets away. The warden took a call, from Station 58… Kay, I'm sorry. They think it was a packet of three that was aimed at Broadcasting House but went east. One was caught before it could do much damage. The other two have started fires-'

'Helen,' she said.

He caught at her arm. 'I wanted to let you know. But they couldn't say where, exactly. Kay, it might not be-'

' Helen ,' she said again.

It was what she had dreaded, every single day of the war; and she'd told herself that, by dreading it, she'd be calm when it finally came. Now she understood that the dread had been, for her, a sort of pact: she'd imagined that, if her fear was only sharp enough and unbroken, it would earn Helen's safety. But that was nonsense. She'd been afraid-and the terrible thing had happened anyway. How could she be calm? She drew her arm from Hughes's grip and covered her face; and she shook, right through. She wanted to sink to her knees, cry out. The violence of her weakness appalled her… Then she thought, How will this help Helen? She lowered her hands, and saw that Mickey had come, and was reaching for her, as Hughes had reached. Kay shrugged her off, beginning to move.

'I have to go there,' she said.

'Kay, don't,' said Hughes. 'I came because I didn't want you to hear from someone else. But there's nothing you can do there. It's 58's area. Leave it to them.'

'They'll funk it,' said Kay.

'They'll fuck it up! I have to get there.'

'It's too far! There's nothing you'll be able to do.'

' Helen's there! Don't you understand?'

'Of course I understand. That's why I came. But-'

'Kay,' said Mickey, grabbing at her arm again. 'Hughes is right. It's too far.'

'I don't care,' said Kay, almost wildly. 'I'll run. I'll-' Then she saw the ambulance. She said, more steadily, 'I'm taking the van.'

'Kay, no!'

'Kay-'

'Hey,' said the warden, who'd been looking on all this time. 'What about these bodies?'

'To hell with them,' said Kay.

She'd begun to run. Mickey and Hughes came close behind her, trying to stop her.

'Langrish,' said Hughes, growing angry. 'Don't be idiotic.'

'Get out of my way,' said Kay.

She'd gone to the back of the ambulance first, to fasten its doors. Now she went to the cabin and climbed inside. Hughes stood in the doorway, pleading with her. 'Langrish,' he said. 'For God's sake, think what you're doing!'

She felt for the key; then caught Mickey's eye, over Hughes's shoulder.

'Mickey,' she said quietly. 'Give me the key.'

Hughes turned. 'Carmichael, don't.'

'Give me the key, Mickey.'

'Carmichael-'

Mickey hesitated, looking from Kay to Hughes and back again. She took out the key, hesitated again; and then threw it. Her aim was true as a boy's. Hughes made a grab at it, but it was Kay who caught it. She fitted it into its socket and started the engine.

'Damn you!' said Hughes, striking the metal frame of the door. 'Damn you both! You'll be thrown out of the service for this! You'll be-'

Kay punched him. She punched him blindly, and caught his cheek and the edge of his glasses; and as soon as he'd fallen back she let down the handbrake and moved off. The door swung to, and she grabbed for its handle and drew it closed. Her tin hat had fallen low on her brow; she tugged at its strap and pulled it from her head, and at once felt better. She glanced in the mirror-saw Hughes sitting in the road with his hands at his face, and Mickey standing slackly, doing nothing, looking after her as she pulled away… She made herself drive with maddening care across the soil- and glass-strewn street; and then, when the road was smoother, she speeded up.

As she drove, she pictured Helen; she pictured her as she had last seen her, hours before: unmarked, unharmed. She saw her so clearly, she knew that she couldn't be dead or even hurt. She thought, It can't be Rathbone Place, it must be some other street . It can't be! Or, if it is, then Helen will have heard the Warning and gone to the shelter . She'll have gone to the shelter, for my sake, just this once …

She had got on to Buckingham Palace Road, and now sped on past Victoria Station. She turned into the park-hardly slowing, so that the tyres squealed on the surface of the road and something was tilted out of its place in the back of the van, and tumbled and smashed. But ahead was that glow, irregularly pulsing, like a faltering life-dreadful, dreadful. She changed up the gears and went faster. The raid was still on, and the Mall, of course, was empty; only at Charing Cross did she meet activity: a warden and policemen attending to another incident, they heard her coming and waved her on, thinking she'd been sent to them from her station. 'Just along that way,' they called, pointing east, along the Strand. She nodded; but she didn't think, even for a moment, of stopping, of giving help… When, a little later, another man, seeing the ambulance crest on the front of her van, came lurching off the pavement, his hands at his head, his face dark with blood, she swerved around him and drove on.

Charing Cross Road was up, because a water main had been struck there three days before. She went west, to the Haymarket; drove up to Shaftesbury Avenue, and got on to Wardour Street, meaning to get to Rathbone Place like that. She found the entrance to Oxford Street blocked by trestles and ropes, and manned by policemen. She braked madly, and began to turn. A policeman came running over to her window as she was doing it.

'Where are you trying for?' he asked. She named her mews. He said at once, 'I thought your lot were there already. You can't get through this way.'

She said, 'Is it bad?'

He blinked, catching something in her voice. 'Two warehouses gone, so far as I know. Didn't you get the details from Control?'

'The furniture warehouse?' she said, ignoring his question. 'Palmer's?'

'I don't know.'

'Christ, it must be! Oh, Christ!'

She had wound the window down to talk to him; and could suddenly smell the burning. She put the van into gear, and the policeman leapt back. The engine shuddered as she reversed. She changed gear again-double-declutching as usual, but timing it badly and crashing the cogs: swearing, enraged by the clumsiness of the mechanism; almost weeping. Don't cry, you fool! she said to herself. She struck at her thigh, savagely, with the ball of her fist. The van swayed about. Don't cry, don't cry …

She was heading south now, but saw an unblocked road to the left, and turned sharply into it. A little way along it she was able to turn left again, into Dean Street. Here, for the first time, she saw the tips of the flames of the fire, leaping into the sky. There began to come smuts-dark, fragile webs of drifting ash-against the windscreen of the van. She pressed hard on the accelerator pedal, and sped forwards; she got only a hundred yards, however, before the road was blocked again. She stuck out her head. 'Let me through!' she called to the policemen here. They made gestures with their hands: 'No chance. Go back.' She turned and, in desperation, went west again, to Soho Square. Another road-block; but a less well-manned one. She stopped the van and put on the hand-brake; then got out, ran, and simply vaulted over the trestles.