The Rescue Man

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘I could not’ – the last words he wrote – would stand as his melancholy epitaph. Could not build his library; could not fulfil his potential; could not see that his marriage was in crisis; could not finish the last sentence of his journal.

  14

  IT WAS THE soft clicking sound that he couldn’t get out of his head. Of all the terrible noises he had known during the Blitz – the uneven drone of the Heinkel, the scream of a bomb falling, the maniacal roar of a fire – it was the clicking that haunted his dreams now. Weeks later he read through separate incident reports, trying to piece it all together. The broad outline was clear enough: from 1 May, a Thursday, the city had endured seven consecutive nights of bombing, in which 1,453 people died and 1,065 were injured. Nobody had yet calculated the exact number of buildings destroyed.

  It seemed to him that the whole city was on fire that week. Night was turned into a continuous day by the brightness of the flames. The Saturday would be recalled as the white-hot centre of this inferno, a night when an airborne armada of hundreds of German bombers rained destruction from ten thirty until five in the morning. Baines and the rest of the squad had been kept busy by an incident in Mill Road Infirmary, where a huge HE had wiped out three large hospital buildings. It was the worst that any of them had yet seen – seventeen members of staff, fourteen ambulance drivers and thirty patients had been killed outright, with at least seventy injured. The mortuary vans could not cope with the numbers, and by dawn rows of bodies wrapped in tarpaulin shrouds were lined along the cobbles in a nearby courtyard.

  When Baines walked through town on Sunday afternoon he could not properly take in the level of the damage. He had become inured to the sight of tumbled masonry, glinting carpets of tiny glass shards, streets choked with pumps and the intestinal coils of rubber fire hoses. But at least then there were streets. His first inkling of what had happened to the centre came when he saw the view that closed the south end of Basnett Street. The grand old Victorian block facing him on Church Street now resembled a flat stage set, or a silhouetted elevation painted by de Chirico. What had once been the city’s busiest thoroughfare was now a sulphurous shambles, its shops blown out or burnt to a skeletal front, behind which all else had fallen into dust. The demolition squads would soon be on the scene to knock down the tottering remains. As he continued towards the junction of Lord Street the air became so acrid and gritty that he had to tie his handkerchief over his mouth. Then he discovered the source of this drastic elemental shift.

  What had once been the corner of Paradise Street and Lord Street was a jagged acreage of blackened brick and swirling dust, so much dust he could barely keep his eyes open to focus. A blizzard of burnt paper mingled with it, the flotsam of so many incinerated offices. On the south side not a building stood between here and the junction of South John Street. Baines, still in his rescue overalls and helmet, was allowed through the cordon and made his way up the street. A similar scene awaited him at the top. St George’s Crescent, Preesons Row and the Goree Piazzas were gone, while a long vista of desolation led down South Castle Street all the way to the wrecked Customs House. But it wasn’t just the historical landmarks he lamented; hidden, unchronicled nooks of the city had fallen to ashes and would be lost for ever. He thought of the little jeweller’s where he had bought the cigarette case for Bella a few weeks ago – gone; the clockmaker’s shopfront he had once asked Richard to photograph – gone. Whole streets looked amazed at their own shattered state, mortified at their nakedness amid pulverised bricks and sullen little fires. Still standing, however, was the Victoria Monument, and the public lavatories beneath it. Its survival was ironic, he thought, given how unloved the statue had been. He looked up at the Queen, still resplendent in bronze beneath her dome, and very much not amused by the view in front of her.

  Firemen were still at their branches, cooling the ashen wastes with water that sizzled as it fell, and crowds gathered to watch them. There was an urgency in bringing the fires under control before night fell, otherwise their light would make a convenient flight path for the returning bombers. That they would return was now beyond doubt: the concentrated attacks on Merseyside had become an item of national news. By Tuesday, after five nights of raids, Baines heard the sirens’ wail with a stoical sense of inevitability – it had become business as usual. Hackins Hey, as one of the few depots to escape damage, had become chaotic from the overspill of displaced rescue squads. At about eleven in the evening he spotted Richard across the room and waved, but he didn’t appear to have noticed him. Just before midnight they heard the planes overhead, and a few minutes later a call came directing them to a fire in Abercromby Square.

  When they went down to the van they found a lively crowd of emergency workers milling about in search of a lift. Farrell pushed his way through them, and as he opened the driver’s door an ARP warden stepped forward.

  ‘Eh, mate – is this your van?’

  Farrell nodded brusquely, and the warden asked if he had room for passengers.

  ‘Could take a few in the back.’

  Soon the unspecified few had become a surge of bodies piling into the van as if it were the last ride out of town. Baines found himself almost fighting for space on the bench as five became ten, then fourteen, until Farrell came round and barred the way to any further boarders.

  ‘All right, enough’s enough. This isn’t fucken Dunkirk – yous’ll have to wait for the next one.’

  He slammed the back door, and soon they were bumping west, through streets pitted with craters and strewn with building debris yet to be cleared. Now and then the van would be thrown violently to one side as Farrell pulled the wheel to avoid a collision. Mike and McGlynn were facing Baines on the adjacent bench.

  ‘Have you seen Liam?’ he asked Mike.

  ‘He called to say he’d be late – had to look after some neighbour who got bombed out.’

  Baines noticed that McGlynn was more than usually withdrawn this evening; his face was the colour of unbaked dough. Mike had noticed too, and turning to him said, in a kindly voice, ‘All right, Glynnie? You OK?’

  McGlynn kept his eyes to the floor, and nodded almost imperceptibly. The nervous exhaustion of the last few days had evidently got to him, as it had got to others. Baines had overheard talk in the depot of a publican who had hanged himself rather than face another night of bombardment. The strain of waiting, of knowing that this night might be your last, could not but affect you – it was simply a matter of how you dealt with it. He considered the proximity of others to be the best psychological safeguard. One could feel terror in his heart, but two or three together could not show it. That was how it had been so far, but looking at McGlynn now he wondered if some had reached their breaking point.

  They were almost at the crest of Mount Pleasant when they heard what sounded like a sack of spanners being emptied on to the van’s roof. A few of them jumped, then looked around at one another.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Mike, ‘it’s just shrapnel fallen from the ack-ack guns.’

  A few moments later the van pulled to a halt, and Farrell shouted ‘Everybody out.’ Baines noticed that as each man climbed out he immediately raised his eyes towards the sky. Now they could see what they had heard all the way there, formations of German bombers hovering as thickly as gnats in midsummer. Shells were bursting around them. The van had stopped at the foot of Oxford Street, aswarm with firefighters and engines and trailer pumps, all dazzlingly lit in the glow of burning buildings. Their path was blocked unless they went by foot. The ARP warden who had talked to Farrell at the depot raised his voice so that he could be heard above the roaring flames.

  ‘There’s a short cut to the square through Egypt Street – it’ll be safer than goin’ through that.’

  As the others walked off, Mike called to Baines and Farrell.

  ‘McGlynn’s still in there.’ He nodded at the van. ‘I don’t think he’s comin’ out.’

  Baines quietly opened the door and climbed into the
back. McGlynn was sitting in exactly the same position he had occupied during the drive, head bowed, hands clasped together, as if he might have been in church. Farrell climbed in after him, and they sat down on the bench opposite.

  ‘All right, mate?’ said Farrell. ‘You comin’ out?’

  McGlynn kept his head down, and said nothing. Farrell cleared his throat.

  ‘Been through some rough times, ’aven’t we? But we’ve always got through it, you know – by sticken together … us lot against the world!’

  His cajoling tone found no purchase with McGlynn, who only shook his head.

  ‘Come ’ead, Glynnie, we can’t leave you ’ere.’ This was Mike, who was standing at the van door. He received no reply. Farrell turned to Baines, and with a helpless shrug gestured at McGlynn, as if to say, ‘Your turn.’

  Baines felt he had no better powers of persuasion than either of them. He looked at McGlynn’s bowed head, the sand-coloured hair carefully wetted and combed – his side parting revealed the whiteness of his scalp. He didn’t know a great deal about him, aside from that he was young, lived with his parents, wasn’t altogether bright but had a good heart.

  ‘Mark,’ he said, realising he had never heard anyone address McGlynn by his Christian name before, ‘I know it’s tough. None of us wanna go out there, but there are people depending on us to help them … and Terry’s right – we stand a much better chance of getting through it if we stick together.’

  McGlynn had stopped shaking his head, and sat eerily still. After a few moments he said, in a low, decisive tone, ‘I’m not goin’ out there. So don’t ask me to.’

  Baines and Farrell glanced at one another, and there was silent agreement in their look: this kid wasn’t going to move. Not now. Possibly not ever. They sat there for another minute, waiting, until Baines stood up and patted McGlynn on the shoulder.

  ‘We’ll see you later.’

  Outside, the night sky was canopied in a pinkish-orange haze, like the last gasp of a Turner sunset. The whole day had been spent putting out fires and now an even vaster number seemed to have sprung up in their place. Baines glanced at Mike and Farrell, who had not said anything since they had left McGlynn in the van; there was something disheartened in the set of their shoulders. They reached the turning into Egypt Street, a narrow back alley entirely deserted but for two firemen who were holding their gushing hose against the wall of a Victorian almshouse, its high windows and parapet dancing with flames. They had just started up the alley when they heard an ominous swish behind them, and incendiaries began clattering on to the pavement. Then they were falling in front of them, too, bouncing and rattling against the cobbles.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ shouted Farrell as they began to run. ‘A lot “safer” this is!’

  They hurried past the two firemen, who were perfectly oblivious to the fizzing cylinders and their greenish-white flames. They had only the fire raging above them in their sights. Baines marvelled at this sangfroid, and at the same time briefly registered the strange clicking noise that rose above the crackle. He almost instantly forgot about it as they continued dodging down the gauntlet of spitting magnesium flares. As they emerged from the alley on to Mulberry Street they were met by a familiar face – Mavers had just arrived with another party of rescue workers. He must have come straight from a dig, because his clothes were coated in plaster dust. He lifted his chin in greeting.

  ‘You look done in,’ said Baines, alarmed by Mavers’s exhausted pallor.

  ‘House collapsed at the end of our road – four hours diggen them out.’

  ‘Then you need a lie-down.’

  Mavers snorted ruefully. ‘No chance of that tonight. Where’s McGlynn?’

  ‘Couldn’t get him out of the van,’ said Farrell. ‘The kid’s lost it.’

  ‘We did try,’ added Baines, seeing Mavers’s brow darken.

  ‘Where did you leave the van?’

  Farrell sighed. ‘Look, he’s ’ad enough.’

  ‘We’ve all ’ad enough,’ said Mavers curtly. ‘Where’s the van?’

  ‘End of this alley, round the corner.’

  ‘I can’t believe you left him there,’ he muttered, and stalked off down the alley.

  ‘Wait for me,’ he called over his shoulder. They watched him run, weaving past the incendiaries, then past the two firemen, until he was lost from view round the corner.

  ‘Is he tryin’ to make us feel bad?’ asked Mike. While they waited they dealt with the incendiaries crackling away on the pavement; most of them had burnt out, finding only cobblestones to feed on, but some had lodged in doorways, blistering the paint, then torching the wood. Extinguishing them was vital, for just one left unattended could set a whole building alight. They had retraced their steps to within thirty yards of the two firemen when Baines heard the liquid clittering again. He stopped and turned to Mike.

  ‘D’you hear that?’

  Mike nodded. ‘Sounds like it’s comin’ from there,’ he said, pointing vaguely to where the jets from the firemen’s trailer pump were still going strong.

  ‘Should they be spraying that wall so hard?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Mike, ‘but I’m not gonna be the one to tell ’em.’

  Just then a coping stone flew down, narrowly missing the firemen as it crashed to the ground. Smoke was pouring from the windows. Baines watched the men briefly dip their heads together in consultation; he heard one of them laughing as they took a few steps back, steadying the hose. Beyond them he saw two more figures walking up the alley: through the gloom he could make out Mavers and McGlynn. Both of them were smoking companionably. That sardonic but friendly assurance of Liam’s – he could imagine the way he’d joked with McGlynn, given him a cigarette, made him feel protected and necessary to the team.

  ‘Tuh – look who’s back in town,’ said Farrell, with a grudging laugh. But Baines was listening to something else, the clicking had become a kind of grinding, and only then did he realise that what they could hear was the unstable chemistry of red-hot bricks and cold water. He should have known. Slates were now peeling away from the roof one after another and cracking on the street like dinner plates. He should have known. As he saw Mavers and McGlynn approaching the point where the firemen stood, Baines opened his mouth to shout ‘Liam’, but his voice was torn away by a monstrous rumbling – the wall bulged and suddenly, massively, began to topple. It fell as if in slow motion, though not slow enough for those below to escape the roaring avalanche of incandescent brick and plaster and glass. It fell, smothering all before it, and such was its impact that the earth vibrated beneath their feet.

  ‘Liam,’ he repeated, turning away from the huge black dust cloud that was rolling towards them.

  ‘Oh Jesus, Jesus,’ he heard Farrell cry, in a voice so forlorn it seemed that nothing could ever be right with the world again. They had staggered back to the end of the street, coughing from the smoke that had burnt up the air. Others had come running to see what had caused the crash, and soon he heard low muttered voices describing it. Minutes that seemed as long as years ticked by while they waited for the maelstrom of dust to clear. Baines felt his eyes streaming; he presumed it was from the acrid smoke, but then he wasn’t sure. Mike had started walking towards the fallen building; he and Farrell followed on his heels.

  ‘Oi, where are yous goin’?’ A chief warden had overtaken them and was holding off Mike’s advance. Mike stopped and looked at him.

  ‘Our mates are lyin’ under there – that’s where we’re goin’.’

  Sensing his mood, the warden became conciliatory. ‘Look, I’m sorry, there’s no way I can let you work on that. It’s a dangerous site –’

  Farrell interposed himself. ‘We can see what the fuck it is, la’. Just get your lot to give us a hand.’ But the warden’s ‘lot’ were now ranged around him, blocking the way. A scuffle broke out as Farrell tried to barge past, and Baines realised that at this stage a fight was probably unavoidable. He was just bracing himself when out of th
e night another rescue squad materialised, and a voice called his name. It was Richard.

  ‘Tell your friends – we can’t work on this now. The brick is too hot, there’s a chance of more collapses.’

  ‘We’ve got two of ours buried under there.’

  ‘I know. And it would take another three squads to dig them out.’

  ‘I don’t care how many it takes!’ Baines said tightly.

  ‘Listen –’ Richard paused. ‘You won’t bring them out alive.’

  The baldness of this winded him – it was so unlike something Richard would say that he knew it was true. Baines turned to Farrell and Mike, looking from one to the other. He swallowed hard.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s …’ He couldn’t manage anything else.

  Farrell looked Richard up and down. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Richard Tanqueray, a rescue squad leader.’ He let that sink in, then continued. ‘we’ll dig them out – later. Right now we need to evacuate the Heart Hospital by Abercromby Square. There are fires all over the place.’

  Richard had kept his voice low, but there was a decisiveness in it that even Farrell seemed to acknowledge. He really was a man for a crisis, Baines thought. He took one more look at the smoking rubble of the almshouse, around which the ARP men were setting up a cordon. In the distance they heard the clanging of a fire engine’s bell.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said to Richard.

  With the wardens and fire-watchers they now made up a team of about twenty, all hurrying towards the hospital. On either side of them the rooftops and chimney stacks were silhouetted against the torrid night sky, the result of fires that were outstripping the city’s emergency resources. The frequency of explosions had stepped up to one every two or three minutes. As they entered Abercromby Square they felt a gale blowing in their faces; they could see fires burning fiercely, but what they didn’t yet know was that these fires were devouring the oxygen at a startling rate. The vacuum created at ground level was producing a wind, which in turn whipped up all the flames in its path: this was the beginning of a firestorm. At the south-east corner they were accosted by a white-haired man, almost breathless with anxiety, whom Baines could now overhear pleading with the chief warden. The latter trotted over to Richard and held a brusque consultation. Richard, turning to the rescue workers, had to shout to be heard.