“Did you?” Mike asked. “Get the date wrong?”
“No. All the Oxford Street raids were implanted. We just can’t see it from here.” Which was true, but they’d be able to see the fire engines and hear the ambulance bells. And see the blue light of the incident officer. “When we get a bit farther down, we’ll see it,” she said firmly and set off after Eileen.
“Or I changed the course of events somehow so it didn’t get hit,” Mike said, limping alongside her. “I didn’t tell you what I did at Dunkirk-”
“It doesn’t matter what you did; historians can’t alter events. Padgett’s was hit by an HE, not an incendiary. They don’t necessarily cause fires, and if it happened early last night, the fire could have been out for hours-”
Ahead of them, Eileen called, “Padgett’s is still there. I can see it,” and Mike took off toward her at an awkward, hobbling run.
It can’t be, Polly thought, racing after and then past him, but it was. Before she’d run halfway she could make out Lyons Corner House in the darkness, still intact, and beyond it the first of Padgett’s pillars.
Eileen was nearly there. Polly ran after her, straining to see through the darkness. There were the rest of Padgett’s pillars, and the building beyond it. No, she thought. It can’t still be there.
It wasn’t. Before she was even to Lyons Corner House, she could see the side wall of the building beyond Padgett’s, half destroyed, and the empty space between it and Lyons.
Eileen had reached the front of the store. “Oh, no,” Polly heard her gasp.
She turned to call back to Mike, “It’s all right. It was hit,” and ran on to the store. Or the space where it had been. The pillars-and beyond them a deep pit-were all that was left. The HE had totally vaporized the department store, which meant it had been a thousand-pounder. And when we read the newspapers tomorrow, it will say that, and that there were three fatalities.
They had strung up rope at the edge of the pavement, blocking off the incident, and Eileen stood motionless just outside it, staring. In relief or shock? Polly couldn’t tell-it was too dark to see the expression on her face.
Polly reached her side. “Look,” Eileen said, pointing, and Polly saw she wasn’t staring at what was left of Padgett’s. She was staring at the glass-strewn pavement between the pillars. And at what Polly hadn’t seen before because it was too dark.
The pavement was strewn with bodies, and there were at least a dozen of them.
Be careful. Should you omit or add one single word, you may destroy the world.
Oxford Street-26 October 1940
POLLY SQUINTED AT THE BODIES SPRAWLED ACROSS THE pavement. Even though she could only just make them out in the darkness, she could see that their arms and legs had been flung into tortured angles.
Mike limped up. “Oh, Christ,” he breathed. “How many are there?”
“I don’t know,” Eileen said. “Are they dead?”
They had to be. It wasn’t light enough to see their faces-or the blood-but it was impossible for necks to turn that far. They had to be dead. But they can’t be, Polly thought. There were only three fatalities. Which meant some of them had to be alive, in spite of the angles of the necks, the severed arm. “Mike, go fetch help!” she said.
He didn’t seem to hear her. He stood there frozen, staring past Polly at the bodies. “I knew it,” he said dully. “This is my fault.”
“Eileen!” Polly said. “Eileen!”
She finally turned, a look of disbelief on her face. “Go back to the station and fetch help,” Polly ordered. “Tell them we need an ambulance.”
Eileen nodded dumbly and stumbled off.
“Mike, I need a pocket torch,” Polly said, and ducked under the rope. She crunched across the broken glass to the bodies, but as she ran she was already processing the scene.
It was all wrong. The bodies should be under the rubble, not flung free of it. They must have been standing at the windows looking out when the bomb hit, but no Londoner in his right mind would do that. And where was the rescue squad? They’d clearly been here. They’d put up rope around the incident. And gone off again?
They wouldn’t just leave them lying there, she thought, kneeling beside a woman. Not even if they were all dead, which they clearly were. The woman’s arm, still in its coat sleeve, had been blown off. It lay, bent stiffly at the elbow-
Polly sat back on her heels. “Eileen! Come back!” she called. “Mike! It’s all right. They’re mannequins. They must have been blown out of the display windows.”
“You, there!” a deep voice called from beyond the rope. “What are you doing?”
Good Lord, it’s that same ARP warden who caught me going to my drop, Polly thought a little wildly, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t even a man. It was a woman wearing ARP coveralls.
“Come out of there at once!” she said.”Looting’s a punishable offense.”
“We weren’t looting,” Polly said, putting the arm down and standing up. “We thought the mannequins were bodies. We were trying to help.” She pointed at Eileen, who’d come running back. “She works here. She was afraid it might be someone she knew.”
The warden turned to Eileen. “You work at Padgett’s?”
“Yes, I’m Eileen O’Reilly. I work on the fifth floor. In Children’s Wear.”
“Have you reported in?”
Eileen looked at the gaping hole where Padgett’s had been. “Reported in?”
“Round there,” the warden said, leading them on to the corner and pointing down the side street, where Polly could see a blue incident light and people moving about. “Mr. Fetters,” the warden called.
“Wait,” Mike said. “Were there any casualties?”
“We don’t know yet. Come along, Miss O’Reilly,” she said and led Eileen over to Mr. Fetters, who’d apparently come here straight from bed. He was wearing pajamas under his coat, and his gray hair was uncombed, but he sounded brisk and efficient. “I need to know your name, floor, and department,” he said.
Eileen told him. “I was transferred up from Notions last week,” she said.
Which explained why she hadn’t been on third.
“Oh, excellent,” Mr. Fetters said. “You were one of the ones we were worried about. Someone said they thought you might still have been in the building.” He checked off her name, and then turned expectantly to Polly. “And you are-?”
“I’m-we’re friends of Miss O’Reilly’s. Neither of us works at Padgett’s.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said with dignity in spite of the pajamas, and turned back to Eileen. “Who was still on your floor when you left?”
“No one. I was the last one out.”
Literally, Polly thought.
“Miss Haskins and Miss Peterson both left before I did. Miss Haskins had asked me to switch off the lights.”
“Did you see anyone on your way out? Do you know if Miss Miles or Miss Rainsford had gone?”
And there are two of the three casualties, Polly thought.
“Are they unaccounted for?” Eileen asked.
“We haven’t been able to locate them as yet. I’m certain they’re in a shelter and perfectly all right.” He smiled reassuringly. “You need to go see Miss Varden,” he pointed at her, “and give her your address and telephone number so we can contact you when we’re ready to reopen.”
Eileen nodded.
“Wait,” Mike said to her, “what floors did Miss Miles and Miss Rainsford work on?”
“They were both on fifth,” Eileen said. “I do hope they’re all right,” and went off with Mr. Fetters.
The moment she was gone, Mike said accusingly, “You said there were supposed to be three fatalities.”