But even if it wasn’t blood, he was clearly injured. Perhaps the blast only knocked him unconscious, she thought hopefully, but when she moved the remaining newspapers off, he was buried from his waist down in bricks and chunks of plaster. She dug through them with both hands. His left leg was covered in blood, and this time it wasn’t printer’s ink. All the blood and the darkness made it difficult to see just how bad the injury was, but the lower half of the leg looked like it was badly mangled, and his foot had been severed.

Mary fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief and tied it round his leg just below his knee. She broke off a short length of wood, tied it into the knot, and twisted the tourniquet till it was tight.

“Is he alive?” Fairchild asked, appearing out of the darkness to kneel down next to him and peer into his face.

“Yes,” Mary said, trying to see if the bleeding from his leg had stopped. “Did you bring the torch?”

“No, I’ll go fetch one. How bad is he?”

“He’s unconscious and his leg’s crushed. His foot’s been cut off,” she said, and the man murmured something.

“What is it?” Mary asked, bending over him, putting her ear close to his lips.

“Wasn’t …,” he said, and his voice was hoarse and rasping.

From the plaster dust, she thought.

“Done …” His eyes closed again.

Done for. “You’re going to be all right,” she said, patting his chest. “I’ll get you out of here, I promise. I’ve tied a tourniquet,” she told Fairchild. “Is Croydon here yet?”

“No,” Fairchild said, looking off toward where their ambulance was parked. “I thought I heard a motor a moment ago, but I must have been mistaken.”

“We’ll have to get him to the ambulance ourselves then,” Mary said. “Go and fetch the stretcher.” Fairchild nodded and ran off.

“Don’t forget the torch!” Mary called after her, and went back to uncovering his other leg, shifting bricks and a metal case of type, which was impossibly heavy. “You mustn’t worry. We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

He seemed to flinch at the sound of her voice. “No,” he murmured. “Oh, no … no …”

“You mustn’t be frightened. You’re going to be all right.”

“No.” He shook his head feebly. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Poor man. “It’s not your fault. You’ve been injured by a flying bomb,” but her words had no effect on him.

“Still been here …,” he said, his hoarse voice anguished, “… dead …”

“Shh. Don’t try to talk.”

“I thought I could … not supposed to be here …”

“Just lie still. I need to look at your leg.”

She went back to uncovering his other leg and his foot, which, thank God, wasn’t cut off, but it was bleeding badly, and she didn’t have another handkerchief for a tourniquet. She pressed on it with both hands. “Fairchild!” she called. “Paige! I need the medical kit.”