I reeled wildly around, looking for anyone who could help. But the smog was so thick I couldn’t see more than a few metres. I ran towards the end of the street, feeling for anyone there. ‘Please help!’ I yelled, tripping into the gutter and banging into low walls and cars.

A radio somewhere was broadcasting Blunt’s Liberation Day speech once again. ‘… where the people who create the wealth have equal shares in that wealth, instead of being forced …’ The crowd were cheering under his words. I ran blind, flailing about in the thick mist, hardly knowing in which direction I was moving. I blundered into the road, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car that was creeping through the blanket of smoke mixed with wet fog, and cried out for anyone to help. Anyone.

Then, from ahead of me, a shout answered mine.

‘Jane? Are you there?’ I recognized the voice, hardened by years of rough, cheap spirits. I couldn’t see him but Tibbot was there somewhere. I ran towards the sound, hoping to touch him, winding my arms through the dirty air. His face came out of the mist, a severe look on his face. ‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded, grabbing me by the shoulders.

‘God, come quick!’ I cried, latching on to his coat.

From the other side of the road I heard more footsteps running. A man sprinted past, followed a moment later by three Teddy Boys, whooping and shouting. One got a hand to the man’s jacket and brought him down. ‘Informant cunt,’ one of the boys shouted, while the others kicked him. He struggled up, tore clear of them and began to run again. ‘Off to the Secs?’ they screamed at his back.

Tibbot and I turned and dashed back to the house, stumbling and catching each other. ‘What is it?’ Tibbot asked urgently.

‘It’s Charles. And Nick,’ I said.

I went to the side window but all I could see were flames, divided into six by the lead-framed panes of glass, surging along the hallway. The pile of newspapers that we had to send each month to be destroyed in the National Records Office, the stack of our collective madness of accusations and denunciations and fury, was alight. The bottles of paraffin had exploded in the heat, fuelling the fire.

Something unseen was smacking against the wood from the other side – feet or fists. Tibbot put his shoulder to the door and I pushed against it too, but, whether it was the strength of the lock or the weight of the bodies on the other side, it wouldn’t give. We heard someone cry in pain from the other side of the wood.

‘The back door?’ Tibbot shouted to me.

‘It’s bolted.’

‘I’ll call the station.’

‘There’s no time!’ The heat was coming through the wood.