16
They came out of a little shabby pub into the darkness. Away to their right, the sky glowed red where the fire still raged, burning the row of garages, flaring up every now and then as the flames reached a reserve of petrol.
They stood for a moment in the shadows watching the glow in the sky, the whisky they had swallowed steadying their nerves, bolstering their courage.
“When they hear we weren’t found,” Cora said, pushing her hands deep into her trouser pockets, “they’ll begin looking for us again.”
George glanced up and down the dark, deserted street. It was just after ten o’clock. His legs ached and his body sagged. The exertion of breaking out of the flat, the wild scramble over the roofs with the flames pursuing them, the nightmare climb down a water pipe had exhausted him. Dust and grit scraped his skin every time he moved. His clothes were white with plaster, his face streaked with smuts. Cora was no better off. She had a triangular tear in the knee of her slacks, and her elbows had burst through the woollen sleeves of her sweater. The smell of smoke still clung to her hair
But she had recovered her nerve. She had swallowed three double whiskies in rapid succession, and George had seen the terror drain out of her like dirty water out of a sink.
“Plans,” she said, and took out a crumpled packet of cigarettes from her pocket, stuck a cigarette between her lips and lit it. She drew hard on the cigarette, and then forced a stream of smoke down her nostrils. “We’ve got to go somewhere tonight.” She cocked her head at him. “Got any money, George?”
He pulled out a handful of loose change. He had twelve shillings and a few coppers.
She grimaced. “That’s no use,” she said. “Any money at home?”
He shook his head. "I don’t think it’d be safe to go to your place. We’ve got to duck out of sight, and keep out of sight.”