Four other houses on their street need dousing, and on the next street, the fire already rages. Julian can see it over the rooftops. Because of the fire, there is now light. Night is now day. It’s a perversion of what’s good in the world.
From the back of the jeep, Wild grabs one of the buckets filled with sand and runs into the woman’s house, through the gaping hole in the wall. He heads to the kitchen.
“What is he doing?” Julian asks Duncan, watching Wild fling sand on the woman’s cabinets. “By himself, with one arm? Why don’t you go help him?”
“You go help him,” Duncan rejoins. “Wild used to be a fireman. Who else is crazy enough to run inside a burning house? Don’t worry about him. He’s wearing a flameproof coat. He knows what he’s doing.”
The HMU with Shona at the wheel and Phil Cozens shotgun pulls up to Finch, patrolling the street to assess the damage. Finch gives Phil the all clear—meaning there are no injuries at the moment requiring the doctor’s immediate attention. This does not seem credible to Julian.
“Duncan, go!” Mia calls, gesturing down the street. Standing next to Julian, Duncan doesn’t move. “You’re needed there, not here,” she says, stepping over the bricks in the street to get closer to them. “Wild will be fine.” Julian resists the urge to give her his hand. “Julian, will you go with Duncan, please? The valuables in the bombed houses need to be protected from looters.” She must see Julian’s expression because she shrugs. “War brings out the worst in some people. Though not that many, fortunately. But if they do come, it’s immediately after the bombing. They hurry to get here before the police do.”
“The thieves like the jewelry,” Duncan says, “but prefer not to put themselves in any real danger.”
Mia nods. “Somehow they always manage to find the street with the least catastrophic damage.”
Julian glances up and down the block. “This is not catastrophic damage?”
Mia chuckles. “I thought you were from the East End? This is nothing. No real fire, no major casualties. Go, you two. Take the cricket bats.”
“Don’t need a cricket bat,” says Julian.
“I’ll take one,” Duncan says to Mia. “But I don’t need him. I’ll be fine. What’s he gonna do?”
“Wait, where are you going?” Julian catches Mia’s arm. “Don’t wander off,” he says, holding her. “It’s not safe.” The planes have droned off farther west. But the street is full of flying debris, of falling unstable beams. The air raid siren continues to howl.
“What do you think I do, sit in the car and knit like Lucinda?” Mia says. But she hasn’t disengaged from him.
“That sounds wise.”
“Wise but not helpful. Look at that poor woman.” Mia points down the block where a dusty disheveled older woman stands wailing. “I’m going to help her get her things out before the house falls on her head.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t do that,” Julian says earnestly.
Mia chuckles, as if he is being so funny! and rushes off. Julian fights off the urge to rush after her.
Duncan smirks with amusement.
“What?”
“Nothing. Stay put. Watch over Wild. He should be done soon.” Both men shake their heads as Wild swats one-armed at the remnants of the flame, using blankets and a piece of cardboard. “He’s bloody mental,” Duncan says with gruff affection. “As if the mother is going to be able to warm up the milk for her baby in that kitchen. What’s the difference if her house burns down now or is demolished in a week? There’s no repairing it. Kitchen cabinets! Mental, I tell you. Stay with him, okay?” He walks away.
“If you need help, holler,” Julian calls after Duncan, who turns, glances at Julian’s fingerless hand, and says yeah, I’ll be sure to do that.
A minute later, Wild comes to stand by Julian’s side, smelling of heat and smoke.
“How did you do?”
“Not great. There’s no saving that kitchen.”
“You knew that going in, though, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Wild says. “But you gotta do what you can. What are you standing guard for?”
“Doing what I can.”
“Duncan left you alone? That fucker.”
“Not alone,” Julian says. “With you. We’re going to protect this house together, Wild.”
“Nah,” Wild says. “I’m no good in a scuffle. Not anymore. I know my limits.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Sometimes those bastards bring sticks and bricks. We need Duncan. Duncan!”
Julian stops him. “We don’t need him, and he’s busy besides. Just stand on my right, will you? And look tough.”
“I got no problem looking tough,” Wild says, moving around to Julian’s right. “But usually only Duncan can take care of the looters.”
“Tonight, you and I are going to take care of them.”
With skepticism but no fear, Wild points at Julian’s hand. “You want my glove to cover that up? As it so happens, I have an extra.” He grins.
Julian shakes his head. “I want whoever comes to see my hand. It acts like an anesthetic. It lulls my opponents into a false sense of confidence in their own strength. My missing fingers become my lucky fingers.” He smiles.
“Okay, say they’re lulled. Then what?”
“Then, you and I will solve problems together. We’ll get creative.”
“I can’t use a bat.”
“Do you see a bat on me?” Julian says. “But you should carry a knife, Wild.” Recalling Edgar Evans’s Bowie knife that saved his life even as it nearly ended it.
“I’m a righty. Can’t use a knife with my left hand.”
“Sure you can. I was a righty, too. Once.”
Wild appraises the severed half-hand, the man. “You want to show me how?”
“Not in the next five minutes. Have you got a hammer at least?”
“For you?”
“No, for you.”
Wild shakes his incredulous head.
“What, you can’t even swing a hammer left-handed? You just spent fifteen minutes whacking a useless kitchen cabinet!”
For now, knifeless and batless and hammerless, Julian and Wild stand shoulder to shoulder on a pile of bricks and wood. The siren wails up and down. What
