The Liar's Dictionary

Winceworth’s knees were unsteady and for some reason, even as he watched the bucket of water leave his hands and pass on down the line, he had no sensation in his fingers. All of a sudden he was watching a reflection of his face distend and warp in some kind of gold flux in front of him. He accepted that the world had entirely changed and that natural processes and dimensions no longer applied. He concentrated and shook his head as if dislodging something. His reflection in the fireman’s helmet shook back at him. He looked dismayed. The fireman was leaning down and shouting something at him, pointing, but Winceworth did not understand the words.

‘He says we should leave,’ another voice then said, calmly, in his ear. It was the man with the impressive moustachios with whom he had shared a train carriage – he too must have climbed down to the site of the newly ruined factory to help. He was also caked in debris and ash. All of the people around him were panting and one was being silently, violently sick by a sweetshop’s storefront.

Winceworth let himself be led away by the group. He murmured agreements to their No more we can dos and Gave it our best shots. He allowed his face and hands to be towelled clean by a bystander. Despite this kindness, more dust fell. He felt the grit in his face stiffen as he grimaced. The world came to him muted and muffled – he hoped this was due to dust plugging his ears, or else his hearing must have suffered in the blast.

Fragments of masonry lined the streets: spars and splinters of wood. The group he joined milled for a while, communicating by nodding and catching each other’s eyes. They walked aimlessly down side streets with no destination in mind other than trying to be away

, at times doubling back on themselves. Some seemed to join the party, others to leave it, until eventually they stopped outside a public house where people were taking an early supper. Patrons put down their papers and their pies as the group entered, all grey-faced and caked in cinders and soot. The landlord either must have known what happened or recognised a look in their eyes, for immediately Winceworth had a drink in his hand and found himself pushed into a wing-backed chair by the fire.

Distantly, the sound of a fire engine: whistles and hooves.

A dimpled glass mug was lowered in front of him.

‘Sharpener – get the blood going,’ said the landlord, and Winceworth drank it all in one pull.

‘Where are you meant to be, lad?’ the landlord asked.

Winceworth did not have a good answer. He felt for his new pen in his loose jacket pocket and saw that its nib was, miraculously, unbroken.

‘Volume S. Back in Westminster,’ Winceworth said. He patted his pockets for his train ticket. ‘Sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me. I’ll walk.’

‘To Westminster?’ said the man. He looked at the sky through the window, which was turning apricot and black. ‘Don’t be daft, you’ll keel over by the time you reach Plaistow.’

‘I don’t know where that is.’

The man gave him a long look. ‘I say, you really don’t look well at all.’