Lover by Laura Wilson Page A

the pavement pink and making the buildings flicker and glow in a sort of half light, rosy and magical. It was the most extraordinary sight, and for a moment I forgot that I was afraid, because it seemed as if the whole world had turned into a vast display of light, and I was at the centre of it—the strangest feeling, no awareness of danger, or even of myself, just wonder . Like being at the very heart of the universe.
    A policeman came up—his helmet blood-red in the glow—and asked me for my ID card. He said, ‘I’d get along home, miss, if I was you. They’re bombing this district.’ As if I hadn’t noticed!
    It was only when he’d gone that I realised I should have asked for directions. I called out to him, but he can’t have heard me over the guns, because he didn’t come back, so I gave it up and started blundering towards what I hoped was Oxford Circus, but I couldn’t recognise a thing. In the distance I could see the searchlights, like great bars of light, criss-crossing in the sky, and tiny white flashes from our guns, and the explosions got closer and closer. It sounded as if it was raining bombs: whistling and tearing noises all round and the loudest bangs I’ve ever heard, and it wasn’t awesome any more, but utterly terrifying and all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and hide.
    Pretty soon I was crunching across broken glass, the gas mask banging up and down on my hip, ducking into a doorway whenever there was a bang, huddling down with my heart thumping like anything, telling myself to keep calm but with the most awful frantic terror building up inside—not just of being blown to pieces but of Mums and Dad knowing why I was there, or worse, never knowing at all. I remembered standing with Dad in the hall when he put on his helmet, and the way he looked at me, and I wanted to cry again from sheer despair, but then there was a great woof! from somewhere behind me and the whole street flashed up like daylight. I didn’t stop to think, just let go of the railings and launched myself into the alley round the corner. I caught a flash of something snaking through the air towards me and then a hot, soft mass enfolded my mouth and chin. I tried to scream, but took in a great, choking mouthful of embers that scalded my throat, and for a second I really did think I was going to die. I tore at the stuff in sheer panic, but it wrapped itself around me, suffocating, clinging to my face and twisting round my neck like something demonic as I tried to beat it off, and then suddenly, miraculously, there were hands tearing it away, and I could see a face in front of me, but in pieces as if I were looking through a cobweb and nothing seemed to join up, and then it was over, and the air was cooling my face, and I was taking in great gulps of it, coughing and spluttering, tears in my eyes, and through them I could see a man standing in front of me. I say ‘a man’, but at that moment his face and hair—he had no hat-looked blazing and golden, and with the glow all around him he didn’t seem human at all.
    â€˜Keep still,’ he said. ‘Close your eyes.’
    I did as I was told, and felt him push back my hat, very gently, and pat my hair in the front.
    â€˜There. You can open your eyes, now.’
    I did as I was told, and for a moment, I was too overcome to speak. Then I croaked out the first thing in my head: ‘You must be my angel.’
    â€˜â€™Fraid not. A mere mortal. For the time being, at least.’
    I put my hand up to adjust my hat, felt frizzled ends of hair above my ears, and wondered what on earth I must look like.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. Does your face hurt?’
    â€˜Not really. It’s just a bit hot, that’s all.’
    â€˜I don’t think it’s burnt, anyway.’
    â€˜No. Thank you. For helping me, I mean.’
    He was wearing a uniform. Air force.