But the woman lets go and makes a waving motion with her fist. She’s angry with God and cursing her fate. Or she’s angry at him for his uselessness, the fact that he hasn’t saved her yet, or — maybe she’s angry at nothing at all, because Andy realizes she’s making a hammering motion — she isn’t weak; she isn’t helpless; she wants to free herself. Andy hands her his hammer, and she bends at the waist to reach her foot. Stone grinds against stone, and Andy winces as she strains and tugs, but — but she moves closer, a cascade of pebbles like rain, her skin washed of dust by sweat; she puts her arms up above her head, a surrender, and Andy grabs her wrists and inches backward; her arms pop in their sockets, and she shakes her torso, trying to get free; she looks up at him, the skin tight on her skull, and she nods, and Andy pulls, every muscle tense and straining, and it’s a cork coming out of a bottle: her chest, her waist, her legs, her feet; as soon as she’s loose, she crawls after him with fire in her eyes, and soon, Reg and Phil have his feet, and the world opens up, filled with overhead lights, and it’s so blinding that Andy turns off the torch on his helmet because nothing can compete with that light; medical personnel load the woman onto a stretcher; the light blots out the moon and could overpower the sun if it wanted to; the medics speak to the woman, and she closes her eyes because perhaps she has lost everything, her family, her children; she has nothing but this brightness, and Andy squints in its intensity, feels crushed by it, and an Indian fellow hugs Andy full throttle, an assault for which Andy is unprepared; he stands, awkward, as the man cries into Andy’s suit and says incomprehensible things; Mike steps forward to shake his hand, then Colin, and, off to the side, Les nods, and Andy feels oddly alone, because he can’t stop thinking about the hammer the woman has left behind in the darkness. His best hammer, his only hammer.
At the end of the night, exhaustion covers Andy like cling film. His head buzzes. His nerves are alight, twinkling. This must be the way superheroes feel when they transform from ordinary humans into vessels of power. He can hear the trapped miles away, frightened heartbeats, shallow breaths in dry throats. I will come for you.
Les, standing as far from the cots as possible, motions to Andy. “I’ve got something for you,” he says, conspiratorial. He roots in his pack and, from its bowels, produces a can of Guinness. It’s completely forbidden — contraband — and the can is dented and scraped and nicked and bruised, but never before has Andy wanted more to give Les a big, sloppy kiss. Les gestures toward the others. “They asleep?”
Ian, Marc, and Oliver are lumped in their cots like sacks of laundry. Ian gurgles, making clicking noises as he switches from nose breathing to mouth breathing.
“We should celebrate,” Les says. They shouldn’t; they need to be alert as soon as they wake tomorrow, but one beer isn’t going to kill them. Les pries back the flip top in microscopic increments until the seal breaks and foam spurts from the breach. He passes the can to Andy, who slurps the overflow as quietly as possible. It geysers over his sore thumb, down the side of the can, onto the ground. He has a mouthful of head. His cheeks bulge until they hurt. His lips pucker tight. The bubbles pop against the top of his mouth, and the residue sticks like candy floss. He imagines burping, the smell invading everyone’s dreams.
After what seems like minutes, the can stops foaming, and Les kicks dirt over what’s on the ground. Andy takes a sip and feels like a dying man who’s been granted one last wish. He’s never thought about the flavor of beer before. It’s always been a social convenience. A method to meet men. Can I buy you a pint? Simple, generic, effective. But tonight, he swishes it in his mouth, bathing his tongue. He tastes roasted barley, hints of caramel, flavors that don’t materialize in cigarette-choked pubs or clubs suffocated by coconut-scented smoke machines.
“Brilliant,” Andy whispers.
He’ll be up to his ears if Colin or Mike catches him, but it’s worth the dressing-down. He loves Les, but not in a romantic or sexual way, and anyway, he doesn’t want to fuck up things between them with those sorts of feelings. What he wants most of all is for Les to put his arm around him and kiss him on the forehead.
“You’ve earned it,” Les says. His smile disappears. “I have to warn you. It doesn’t get easier from here. After pulling that one kid from the mud, I didn’t find another living person. It fucks with your head, it does. You’re a good kid.” Les smiles again, no longer celebratory. “I shouldn’t call you kid anymore, should I? You’ve had your first.”
“You can call me kid if you want.”
Les pats Andy’s head, the closest they’ll ever get. He’s OK with that.
“I know. But I shouldn’t.” He stretches both hands above his head. “I’m going to hit the sack. You should too.”
Andy nods.
“And for fuck’s sake, dispose of the evidence.”
Andy’s too wired. He steps out of the tent into the open air. He looks to where city hall should be. Something once existed there. High above him, a cascade of stars, a sight he’s never seen in London before, never seen in his life. They remind him of embers spraying against a soot-black chimney when a burning log breaks in half.
Huh. He doesn’t understand the fuss people make about stars.
This is the first time he’s been out of the UK. The closest he’d come was the holiday he took when he was thirteen, the last vacation he’d taken with his family. Back then, his father was still normal, and his mother still had an air of youth. They were in Dover. He remembers salt in the air, salt on his tongue. On the ferry that rounded the cliffs, his mother turned away from the spray, throwing her head back when she laughed, sending good cheer into the clouds. Andy and his father stood at the rails, taking the full brunt of the sea, and Andy imagined himself a sailor, a pirate, a traveler from afar, and his father put his hand on Andy’s shoulder, as if to keep him from going overboard.
Things turned into shit quickly after that.
The can is half-full, but he can’t finish it. Not because he’s incapable of drinking it, but because around him, soldiers shuffle back and forth, maintaining some sort of order, while civilians claw at the rubble or themselves. Tomorrow, he has to be back among them. His fingertips buzz, not from the alcohol, but from the need to do something. He’s had his moment, but inertia is a fatal trap, and if he rests for a moment, he will dissolve into nothing.
Up ahead is a campfire where people have gathered. The firelight falls across a pair of shoes, a man sitting cross-legged, an open notebook in his lap. Andy’s surprised to see another Anglo.
“Sorry,” Andy says. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”