Sowerbutt's Nightmare

East India Dock Road was almost deserted by the time Sowerbutt and Spaghetti 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 nearby bomb pushing 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.

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