The Silent War by Victor Pemberton

for just one word of hope. ‘Anyone at all?’
    The constable tried a weak, comforting smile. ‘Too early ter say yet, darlin’. Just say yer prayers.’
    As the constable spoke, two stretcher-bearers brought out a victim, covered over completely with a red hospital blanket.
    Madge didn’t know what to say, or to think. The only thing the lifelong Salvationist could do was what she had done every day of her life. Dropping to her knees, she closed her eyes and clasped her hands together.
    ‘Oh God,’ she said, in a voice only barely audible. ‘Oh dear, dear God. Please don’t forsake me. Not now. Not now.’
    On the far side of the wreckage a young hospital nurse picked something out of the debris.
    It was a chunky rolled-gold bracelet.

Chapter 6
    It was a beautiful day, sun streaking through the branches of the big oak trees, their heavily veined rich green leaves shimmering in the bright sunshine. Ducks preening themselves along the sides of the lake. Greedy seagulls swooping down for the bits of bread that Sunday was casting into the water. Her mum was there too, kneeling on the grass, knitting Sunday a thick woolly jumper. Unfortunately, Aunt Louie was also there, lying flat on her back, eyes closed. Every so often, Sunday watched her, fascinated by the thin trail of smoke from her cigarette, which was curling up into the cloudless blue sky to form strange animal-shaped patterns. And all around, people were strolling about in their Sunday best, mums and dads with babies in prams, young men arm in arm with their girlfriends, small children on scooters and tricycles, and elderly couples watching it all from the comfort of a park bench, reliving their lives all over again. Finsbury Park had never looked more radiant. It was a beautiful day. A perfect day for everyone – especially a child. Sunday was seven years old. And yet – something was not quite right. There was no sound. Sunday couldn’t hear the ducks and seagulls fighting over her scraps of bread. She couldn’t hear the other children laughing and yelling as they played hide and seek with each other around the boat house. And she couldn’t hear what her mum was singing to herself, even though she knew it must be one of her favourite hymns. But there was something more. The surface of the lake – it looked different. No longer the blue reflection of the sky above, but a dark grey, and then black. And then a face. The face of a man – a young man, staring at her from beneath the surface. Gradually, it was rising up out of the water. It was horrifying. It was unreal. It was – Ernie Mancroft. Sunday screamed out as loud as she could. But no sound. She couldn’t hear her own scream. No sound! Ernie was laughing at her. And again – she screamed!
    Sunday’s eyes sprang open with a terrified start. The first thing she saw was a window. It was dark outside, but rain was streaming down the glass panes. She tried to move. But her body was aching all over and burning-hot. She was lying in bed, but not her own bed, and she was soaked in perspiration.
    It was several minutes before any logical thoughts formed in her mind. Yes, she was Sunday Collins all right. But she wasn’t seven years old. She was seventeen, a young woman, a beautiful young woman, with all her life ahead of her. But who
were
these people peering down at her, dabbing the sweat from her forehead, smiling sweetly, sympathetically. Why couldn’t she hear what they were saying to her? A nurse. A man in a white jacket. A doctor? Hospital? This was a hospital? And then she remembered. Slowly she remembered. The Bagwash. The sound of the flying bomb. The explosion. The screams. The silence.
    ‘You’re all right, Sunday. Everything’s going to be all right.’
    Sunday had no idea what the doctor – if that’s what he was – was saying.
    ‘You’ve had a terrible experience, Sunday,’ said the nurse, who was holding Sunday’s left hand, and stroking it tenderly. ‘We’re going to get you