Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [84]
“You’ll be all right,” he said with conviction. He tore a piece off her petticoat and tied up her arm. He was afraid it might be too tight, but he had to stop the blood gushing through. Surely someone would have gone for a doctor?
“There.” He stood up, then bent and lifted her onto the good leg. She was heavy and awkward, and it took all his strength. He nearly lost his balance. “Lean on me, and I’ll get you as far as the main road,” he said.
She thanked him, and as he turned towards the street again he saw Victor Narraway outlined against the flames. He was lean, all tense angles, his hair wildly on end, his face smeared with soot and lit red in the reflection.
Pitt’s first reaction was disbelief. “How did you get here?” he had to shout above the noise. “So soon? Did you know about it?”
“Of course I didn’t, you fool!” Narraway snapped, coming closer to him. “I was following you!”
“You were?” Pitt could scarcely grasp it. “Why? Didn’t you think I’d do it?”
Another house collapsed inward, sending fire belching upwards like the roar of a volcano. The blast knocked both Pitt and Narraway backwards, the heat searing their hair and faces. Pitt stumbled, tripping over timber and the dead body of a man. Only Narraway catching his arm and almost twisting it out of its socket prevented him from falling. He righted himself with difficulty.
The first fire engine arrived, its horses panting and rolling their eyes, the driver steadying them with difficulty. Another followed immediately behind, but a glance was enough to show them it was useless trying to control any of the fires here. Only in the surrounding streets was there any chance of trying to keep it from spreading.
A young man with a bag in his hand was picking his way through the rubble, and every now and then he bent down.
Narraway shouted something, but Pitt could not hear the words. He shook his head and started towards where the man, presumably a doctor, was assisting someone onto his feet, but the weight was too much for him.
Pitt worked for as long as there was anything more he could do. He was aware of Narraway coming and going. Several times they searched the rubble together, for more people still alive, tearing off timber and broken bricks and glass. Narraway was stronger than Pitt would have expected, looking at his lean body, but he knew how to balance himself, and his will drove him on.
Finally the flames died down and the noise of the crashing and falling abated. There were more people helping. There seemed to be vans and wagons taking the injured away, and perhaps the dead as well. Many times Pitt saw the red light glare on polished buttons or the familiar tall shape of a police helmet. It was not until he stood still at the outside edge of the wreckage that he realized with dismay that it was not as comforting a sight as it had been only a few weeks before.
He stood beside a cart with rubble piled high, and Narraway was a couple of yards to the other side. Wordlessly he held out a tin mug with water in it. Pitt tried to speak but the sounds were strangled. He took the cup and drank. “Thank you,” he said at last. It was completely dark now, and all he could see was the red glow of the fires that were still burning in two of the houses. The fire brigade had soaked the roofs farther over, and it had not spread.
Narraway took the cup back and raised it to his lips. Pitt was startled to see that his hand was trembling. His skin was smeared with blood and ash, and for the first time that Pitt had seen, there was fear in his eyes.
It was not physical fear. Narraway was not foolhardy, but he had gone towards the flames without hesitation, even close enough to the crumbling and exploding walls, in order to pull people out. Pitt didn’t need to be told that it was the escalation of violence that frightened him, and the reaction there would be to this destruction. Almost the whole street was damaged