Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [94]
She swung around to face him, her eyes huge, her body stiff. She put her hands on his arms and gripped him till he could feel the strength of her fingers through the cloth of his jacket. She was breathing hard. She knew it could drop bombs anywhere. There was no point in running, and nowhere to run to anyway.
They stood together, staring up as the lights picked out the gleaming object, then lost it, and found it again.
Then the first bomb came. They did not see it fall, only heard the crash and the explosion as it landed somewhere to the south, near the river. Flames burst upward, then rubble and dust. Not far away a woman screamed. Someone else was sobbing.
Matthew put his arms around Detta and held her. It seemed a natural thing to do, and she leaned against him, still clinging to his coat.
Another bomb came down, closer and far louder. They felt the jar of it as the ground trembled. He held her more tightly. There was no point in running because the balloon could change direction at any moment, drift or hover as it willed, or the wind took it, before it finally turned and powered its engines to take it home again.
“How many does it have?” Detta asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied. There was something in her fear that made him think the violence of the explosion woke some memory in her.
He looked up and saw the next bomb quite clearly. He could make out the dark, cigar-shaped shadow, black against the lighter sky. He watched it fall with a growing sickness inside, his stomach clenched as it came closer until finally it landed in the next street, shattering the night with a sound that bruised the eardrums. The blast knocked him sideways and tore them apart. He staggered against the wall of the shop behind him, and Detta fell to her knees on the pavement. The air was full of dust and they could hear rubble landing on the roofs and in the street. People were screaming.
Then the flame shot up and the red glare lit the clouds of dust and smoke, and the stench of burning caught in the throat.
Matthew went to Detta, but she was already climbing to her feet. She was dirty, her beautiful dress torn. “I’m all right,” she said clearly. “Are you?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Stay here. I’ll go and see if I can help.” He looked at her, his eyes stinging. He could feel the heat already. “Stay here,” he repeated.
“I’m coming with you.” She did not even consider obeying him. “We’ve got to do what we can.”
“No . . . Detta . . .”
She started forward, moving swiftly toward the corner and the only clear way around to where the shattered building had collapsed into the street.
He went after her, afraid for her and yet with a lift of pride that her only thought was to help. For the moment English and Irish were the same, all capable of courage and pity.
The scene was horrible. Broken walls gaped, and scattered about were household goods, furniture, bedding, a mattress on fire on the footpath, clothes tattered like rags. The body of an old man, his legs missing, lay in blood on his own footpath.
A woman was standing paralyzed, her dress on fire.
“Oh, Mother of God!” Detta gasped, then swung to Matthew. “Coat!” she demanded. “Quick!”
He tore it off and she snatched it from him, lurching forward to throw it around the woman and then knock her to the ground, rolling her over and over.
Someone was shouting, words indistinguishable.
The fire was taking hold of the buildings. Timbers were exploding and showers of sparks arced through the air. Another blast shook the street and splintered glass crashed onto the pavements.
Matthew saw a body trapped under a fallen beam.
“Help me!” he yelled as loudly as his lungs would bear. “Help me lift this!” He charged forward, still shouting, and put all his weight to moving the massive length of wood. “Stay still!” he ordered. “We’ll get you out. Just don’t move.”
More rubble was falling and the heat was intensifying. Someone was there beside him and he felt the timbers begin to give.