Sowerbutt's Blitz

Spluttering in the ash and dust, the two men started to walk back to East India Dock Road, only to be almost knocked off their feet by another blast. Clutching each other like a couple of drunks, Spaghetti gasped: “Hardly breathe, guv. Look at that.” The bomb had hit a small laundry on the corner of the street; the fire was out of control, canisters of chemicals exploding in the heat one after the other. The front of the building had disappeared, rubble, pieces of timber and shards of glass strewn across the road. The roof had gone and a burning staircase could be seen, leading to nowhere. The upstairs floor, hanging in space with charred furniture and boxes, was about to crash into the fires below.

Two bodies, obviously dead, were partly covered in bricks. Sowerbutt grabbed a pile of singed clothing and threw it over the bodies. “Nothing else we can do, Spaghetti. No rescue services or Fire Brigade, I guess they’re busy at the Docks. Can’t even hear any of those AA guns they talk about. We’re on our own. Come on, let’s check the other properties.”
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