AFTER THE BOMB

SHORT STORY

AFTER THE BOMB

By Michael Woods

Edinburgh. 2027. Fraser Finlay was angry with himself as he walked down Hanover Street when it happened, frightening the life out of him.

Shafts of sunlight had been reflecting off the spires and pinnacles but that chameleon of Scottish weathers had changed yet again. Looming clouds covered the sun as they sailed across what seemed a seascape, dimming the colours of the rainbow into a sodden pewter grey. The air lay heavy and misty.

He frowned as he strode past the tourists, so many of them ambling aimlessly and bumping into each other as they stared at their smart phones and guidebooks, oblivious, not hearing as they listened on their earphones. The townsfolk manoeuvred around them as they shopped or went to work. He thought why was it that people had to be so glued to their bloody phones; didn’t they have the sense to look around them to see what the city had to offer.

His eyes ached from staring at the screen most of the morning, trying to sort out a design problem on his new project. Furious with himself for not remembering that today is their wedding anniversary he’d left the studio early, needing to make amends with Kirsty and hoping a bouquet of her favourite white roses might put everything right. She had been so crestfallen when he left, despite his cringing apologies. 

Ewing’s, the florists was just closing as the flowers and containers were being brought in. He could smell in the soft autumn air the inescapable scent of flowers.

As he reached the shop his heart missed a beat. The air was split with a piercing shrieking hiss and he saw, as if in slow motion, the window bowing outward, then reversing inwards as the glass disintegrated into a shroud of grey splinters.

A shop girl bending down to pick flowers from a bucket seemed to float sideways away from the shop across the pavement, landing awry by the kerb, her skirt split and baring her spindly legs.

White smoke blocked his vision. He crashed to the floor, covering his head with his arms, just as he had done so many times before in Afghanistan. Deafened, his mind went into overdrive. 

Silence…..where’s the platoon - ahead ……

.Bodies…….. Land Rover on its side……

 petrol fumes…... two damaged helmets nearby…..

my carbine? ……where’s the bloody carbine. Must radio back……..! radio not working…

an arm, red with blood……….the driver slumped over the steering wheel……dead…….

Jesus Christ……. must get out…….radio…… radio….. no radio……. no bloody radio…….. 

Oh, help me !

A faint voice brought him back. Blinded by the flash and through a white mist he just made out the girl bent double on her knees on the pavement, skirt torn and her hair, grey with dust, hanging down and obscuring her face. He crawled over.

           ‘Are you’re OK?, stay still ’

           ‘I can’t see.’

           ‘I’m here… it’s ok…. you’re alright.. here…’

           He gently put his hand on her forehead and saw no injury to her eyes.

           ‘My leg hurts’

           ‘Keep still, lie still. You’re OK...help’s coming.’

He held her tight, putting his hand on her leg to stem the bleeding. It seemed not broken.

Slipping and sliding on plants and broken vases he eased her across the pavement. Everything was eerily silent apart from the distant bleeping of ambulance sirens growing nearer. Lights flashing blue. A yellow armband of a paramedic came into his blurred vision.

‘I think she’s OK but you check‘, he said ‘I’m alright though’.

The paramedic led them to one side and placed the girl gently on the ground. Fraser insisted that he was OK. The paramedic checked him over and helped him away. There were wails and screams echoing across the street. A small child, half naked, ran screaming “ Mummy! “ and an old man staggered out of the shop, with blood streaming down his face..

Fraser stepped forward and stumbled, and half fell to the ground, saving himself by reaching for a nearby bollard. His eyes were stinging, filled with grit and smoke. Exhausted and leaning down, he grappled in the pockets of his torn jacket for his mobile and found it, dented but still working. With cracked fingers covered in dust he phoned Kirsty.

           It rang…and rang …and then she answered. ‘Is that you, Fraser, thank God you rang. Something terrible’s happened, a bomb in Princes Street. It’s on the news. Where are you ?’

‘I was near it but I’m OK – just. It didn’t go off properly.’

‘Jesus!  Are you hurt ?’

‘I’m OK. I’ll walk back to clear my mind and get my breathe. Won’t be long.

‘Come home quickly, get away now.’

‘I’ll be there in a bit.’

Why does this happen here? he thought - bloody extremists, what the hell do they hope to achieve by bombing civilians? He walked slowly at first, passing crowds of people, some standing still and others gesticulating animatedly and running away from the scene. In front of him an elderly lady, dragging a shopping trolley, stumbled on the kerb and he leaned forward and helped her to cross the road.         

‘That’s so kind,’ she said, ‘what a commotion. It was a bomb.’

‘It was indeed,’ he said. ‘Are you OK now ?’

‘Yes, thank you, just have to wait for the bus – if it ever comes.’

His vision was still blurred and his leg hurt but he walked on. He wasn’t as fit as he used to be; too much time spent crouching over a keyboard and not enough time outdoors. Years ago in Kabul he would have strode away without any difficulty but now, nine years later, here he was limping along and helping old ladies to cross the road. Five years studying to be an architect and four setting up his studio had been good years and his army service memories had slowly faded but today they had raced back in a violent way. He’d been frightened out of his life by that lightning blast.

Customers had rushed out of the shops and were huddled in groups on the pavements which were strewn with collapsed notices and rubbish. Police were redirecting traffic and an outside broadcast van sped by, followed by an ambulance, sirens blaring and blue lights flashing. Passers-by paused and were animatedly talking, looking anxious. Mothers with push chairs were frantically racing to collect children.

The further he walked the air smelled less acrid but the street was still filled with white smoke as it drifted across in the slight autumn breeze. Everything seemed to be in monochrome, all black and grey and no colour.

As he turned the corner the colours re-appeared and he glimpsed further up the street Kirsty standing outside their front door on the upper level, looking anxious. Dressed in her favourite apple green shirt with an orange bandana, she waved franticly as he climbed up the steep flight of steps to the front door and embraced her, hugging her tightly. He cleared his throat as he climbed and could smell her favourite Dior perfume she was wearing. Her eye make-up was smeared and she had been crying.

It’s alright, don’t cry. I’m OK

Thank God, you’re alright. I knew you were in town this morning. I thought you might have been hurt - or worse.’ 

 ‘Aye, t’was a shock. You’d have thought I’d be immune to bomb blasts after three bloody years in Afghanistan.’

Are you OK ? You were lucky. I was so worried. ‘On the news they said that there were some injuries and one person killed.‘

I’m better now having walked back. It gave me time to calm down. My heart was racing after the blast.

He sat down gingerly and took his scuffed and dusty shoes off. ‘Yes, I was lucky – the bomb went off. just as I reached Unwins the florists’

‘What were you doing at Unwins?’

‘Well, guilty conscience - forgot our anniversary. Thought at least you deserved a bouquet.’

‘Ah well, kind thought – and you’re forgiven for forgetting.’ She kissed him. ‘From now on we’ll always remember our anniversary.’

‘I need a shower and a dram!’

‘Poor you, you’re covered in dust.’ She ran her fingers through his hair,‘Get rid of those clothes. Go and shower and tidy up and I’ll get supper ready.’

He went upstairs to run a shower and the gentle flow of the warm water was comforting and cleansing and it revived him. Clean clothes and a quick shave and he felt he was nearly new again. He realised that being away from the military world he’d forgotten how stressful it had been back then, with the constant fear and doubt as to where the next incident might be. A life on edge.

Kirsty was preparing supper in their modern kitchen. Strange and frightening, she thought, that we live a safe and sheltered life here in Edinburgh only to discover that terrorism is everywhere. After five years of peace she had hoped that that terrorism had gone away but now it had resurfaced in Scotland with the extremists ruining our lives. We’re slowly going downhill, with the poor getting poorer and the weakest being ignored by society, judging by the number of homeless sleeping on the streets. As she stirred the soup she thought how much we take our lives for granted.

 ‘Soup’s ready.’ she called.

‘I’m here,’ said Fraser, appearing behind her with a whisky in hand. ‘Here’s a dram for you. You need it as much as I do.’ He nuzzled the back of her hair and caught again that familiar favourite perfume. She always wore it and it had become for him the scent of home.

           ‘Well. It’s been a frightening day,’ she said, turning around and hugging him.

           ‘Too true. For a moment I was back in Kabul - back when that vehicle in front struck an IED.’

           I remember you telling me. That’s something which will never go away. My grandpa told me once, only once, how he felt during the war. He was shelled on the beaches as they landed in Normandy and he never wanted to talk about it. All his platoon was killed. Nobody knew what to call it then but some said it was shell shock.

That was then but now we’re more savvy and we called in PTSD. post traumatic stress disorder.

I think shell shock is a better description – it exactly describes how he felt and didn’t want to talk about it. And I know you still experience it from time to time. I can tell - even it you want to call it PTSD.

Certainly I did today, whatever you want to call it.

Well, eat up and relax now.’ she said,’ Let’s take some time out tomorrow.’

Later he managed to relax, sitting reading the newspaper and catching up with the latest from his journals. After a while he glanced across to see that Kirsty, who had been reading a book, had dozed off and was now stretched out on the sofa with the adjacent table lamp shade knocked askew.

He thought ‘poor girl, she’s exhausted, must’ve been worried out of her skin with what has happened. Leave her be’.

He smiled to himself and remembered the time when they first met. It seemed ages but it was only eight years back. He recalled going as a student with a couple of his architecture friends to their favourite Arts Cinema to see “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”. It was a great classic movie and when leaving and coming out he saw these two girls racing out of the cinema, and one of them slipped and veered forward down the stairs, grabbing frantically for the handrail and twisting her ankle. He helped her to her feet.

And then he had picked her up and carried her to a nearby bench. He learned that she was studying i law at Strathclyde. He helped her back to her digs where, at the nurse’s room, her ankle was strapped tight and she was given a stick.

 From that day on they had met every day and they were head over heels in love. A whirlwind romance. It all happened so quickly. Within a week they were lovers. And when term ended, he took her back home to Berwickshire. Her Mum would always say he wasn’t eating enough and that he should put on more weight. Her Dad, cautious at first, had relaxed when he learned that great-grandad had been a crofter in the Cairngorms; the talk was always about sheep and inevitably the weather. It became a private joke between them that that both had learned as kids to be sheep shearers.

‘Happy days indeed, ‘he thought, and he tidied up the papers, straightened the lampshade, gently woke the sleeping Kirsty, who was still his lover, and carried her quietly to bed.

2154 words