Sowerbutt's Bombs

East India Dock Road was almost deserted by the time the two men got there. A couple of familiar buildings had disappeared, flames licking at the ruins and rubble strewn across the road. A trolleybus leant drunkenly against a line of warehouses, the blast from a bomb having pushed it sideways. A couple of bodies on the pavement covered in bloody sheets were evidence of the mounting death toll. A solitary ambulance zigzagged along the road, bell ringing, heading for Poplar Hospital. As the two men looked around, the whistles of bombs falling and the steady crump, crump of explosions could be heard; rubble and smoke shooting into the sky. Daylight had become a black and yellow pall. The sky over the Docks was blood-red, criss-crossed by huge plumes of thick black smoke. The warm afternoon sun had disappeared; a commentary on the future, Sowerbutt thought, shaking his long hair.

“This is the big one, Spaghetti. The beginning of the end unless we can do a deal. Let’s check the remaining larders and our houses."
He spun round, a sudden movement near the Admiral Fish shop catching his attention. “Jack, you little bastard,” he shouted at the small urchin running along the pavement clutching a bag. “Forget stealing chips from Mrs Harris, get in the shelter now. More bombs are coming our way.” The small boy waved and headed across the deserted street towards the council shelter.
The two men heard a loud whooshing noise and a huge blue pillar of flame shot into the sky to the north. “That’ll be one of the gasometers going up at the Gas Works. We’ll feel it if they all go up,” Spaghetti said.
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