Surviving the Fall: How England Died by Stephen Cross

their way out of here, I reckon.”
    Suddenly the lights came on. Mac squinted in the sudden brightness as he pulled the curtain shut, but he knew it was too late, the woman’s head had snapped round at the light.
    “Bill MacIntyre, you let those poor people in,” said Angie, who was stood at the bottom of the stairs. She was in her nightgown, holding on to the door frame, breathing heavily, sweat on her brow. Her left hand held on tight to her walking stick, shaking.
    “Bloody hell woman, what the hell are you doing down here! You’ll bloody kill yourself coming down those stairs,” he ran to her and took her by the arm. She shrugged him off and pushed him away, nearly falling over as she did so.
    “You let them in Mac! We don’t turn away people who need help!”
    Mac, surprised at the sudden ferocity in his wife took a step back. He looked back to the door of the pub, where the banging and shouting had returned, with increased vigour. Johnny and Gaz stood still, knowing this was not their argument.
    “Mac, let them in.”
    Mac shook his head and held out his hands. “We can’t, Angie, you don’t understand, they might have that virus, we let them in and we’ll all get it.”
    Angie steadied herself on the frame of the door and took a few steps forward to prop herself up on the side of the bar. She let go her hold and took a few tentative steps. Her legs shook.
    “We ain’t never turned anyone away from here that needed help.”
    Mac stood rooted to the spot as his wife struggled towards him. As much as he wanted to help her, he knew she wouldn’t let him.
    “And I didn’t marry no coward,” she breathed as she got within a few steps of Mac, the pain apparent on her face. “Now, you open those doors, and you help those people.”
    She fell the last few feet into Mac’s arms and let out a small moan.
    Mac grabbed her tight and quickly lifted up her slight body. He turned to the two by the door. “Let them in. Be careful. Any funny business…” He nodded to the crowbar he’d left propped up by the door.
    Mac carried his wife upstairs. “You silly old bat,” he said. “You know how to push my buttons alright.”
    He laid her down on the bed. She forced her eyes opened and smiled at Mac. “Told you I still had it in me.”
    Mac kissed her on the forehead. “I’d best get back down to make sure those two turnips don’t do something daft…”
    The injured man was laid out on one of the tables, the girl holding his hand and sobbing, her head down. Johnny stood by the man, his fingers pressing against the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse. A trail of blood led from the door to the table, its source obvious - the man had a large gash in his neck, a large square of flesh hung back exposing the man’s tendons. Blood was pooling slowly on the table.
    Johnny shook his head at Mac.
    “He’s dead?” whispered Mac, being careful the girl couldn’t hear him. Johnny shrugged. Mac came over and felt for a pulse. He felt nothing. The slowly trickling blood suggested he had bleed out. There was nothing left to give.
    “Have you phoned an ambulance?”
    Johnny held up his mobile phone, “Dead. Land line dead too.”
    Mac felt the man’s chest, no rise or fall, no beat.
    Maybe if he had opened the door earlier…
    He sat down next to the woman. “Hello love, my name’s Mac, this is my pub.”
    She looked up at him. Young, maybe in her late twenties, brunette, her cheeks stained with mascara and eyes red with crying. “He’s dead isn’t he?”
    Mac nodded. “I think so.”
    She sat back on the chair and let out a sob, a hopeless empty sound. Mac looked down to her two hands, holding her pregnant belly. Mac closed his eyes and cursed quietly. He wished Angie was still here, she’d know what to say.
    He took her hand. “Why don’t you come upstairs, we can get you a room. You can rest up for the night.” He nearly said that things would seem better in the morning, but he suspected that things would