Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [83]
“Gawd!” Yancy let out a long breath. “Mr. Simbister ’is-self? Grover’d kill me!”
“Higher than that, even,” Pitt replied with a smile. “Are you in?”
Yancy opened his mouth to reply, and there was a shattering roar from two streets away. It was so violent the ground shook, and on the roof above them, slates broke loose and slid off the eaves to shatter on the streets. There was another ear-splitting roar and a gust of flame shot into the air. Someone was screaming, over and over and over. The crash of masonry drowned out voices and the smell and heat of the fire filled the dusk.
8
PITT TURNED ON his heel, Yancy forgotten, and ran to the end of the street, round the corner, and towards the flame filling the sky. Behind the jagged outlines of the roofs, ripped open and spewing fire, the belching smoke already caught in his lungs as he came closer. People were crying out, weeping. Some were standing motionless as if too stunned or confused to know what to do. Others were running one way then the other, some just stumbled about aimlessly. Rubble was still falling, with charred and burning pieces of wood, and flying glass, the shards bright like daggers.
As Pitt came to the end of Scarborough Street, the smoke caught in his throat and he felt the heat on his face. There were injured people lying in the roadway, some motionless, crumpled over like heaps of rags, their limbs twisted. Someone was screaming. There was blood, smoking wood, bricks, and shards of glass everywhere. A dog barked incessantly. Above it all was the sound of flames soaring up inside what was left of the last three houses. In the heat, wood exploded, and slates flew off like hurled knives, edges sharp as blades, dust and rubble poured into the air.
Pitt stood still, trying to quell the horror inside himself and to keep control. Had anyone sent for the fire brigade? Burning wood was already falling onto the roofs on the next street. What about doctors? Anyone to help? He moved forward, trying to find any sort of order in the terror and chaos. He could see clearly now in the glare of the fire.
“Has anyone called for the fire engines?” he shouted as another wall caved in. “Get the people out!” He took an old woman by the arm. “Go to the end of the street!” he told her firmly. “Away from the heat. Things will fall on you if you stand here.”
“My ’usband,” she said, blank-eyed. “ ’E’s in bed. ’E were drunk out of ’is skin. I gotta get ’im. ’E’ll be burned.”
“You can’t help him now.” He did not release her. A young man was standing a few yards away, barefooted, shaking uncontrollably. “Here!” Pitt called to him. He turned slowly. “Take her out of the way,” Pitt told him. “Move everyone. Help me!”
The young man blinked. Slowly awareness returned to his eyes and he obeyed. Other people were beginning to react, trying to help the injured, picking up children and carrying them away from the heat.
Pitt went to the nearest body lying on the stones and bent to look more closely. It was a young woman, half on her back, her legs doubled under her. A single glance at her face told him that she was beyond help. There was blood in her hair and her wide eyes had already misted over. He knelt beside her feeling sick and twisted inside with rage. They should have been able to stop this. This was not any kind of idealism or desire to reform; it was madness, inhumanity driven by stupidity and hate.
Someone was moaning a few yards away. There was no time to spend in emotion now. It helped no one. He clambered to his feet and went over to the person moaning. It was getting hotter. He found himself blinking and turning his head from the flying ash. More slates were sliding off the roof and falling onto the road or the pavement. He reached the person: