Invisible Armies

Chapter 23

The noise and shockwave hit like a wall falling on them, the air itself pulsates, not like regular noise, but a force tearing at her ears. She doesn't hear anything after that, doesn't hear the sounds of buildings crumbling, cars flung into one another like childrens' toys, alarm sirens. The shockwave forces Danielle onto her knees. What she remembers most is seeing it ripple down the street like a gust of wind. The shockwave moves at six hundred miles an hour, the speed of sound, it takes only a fraction of a second to pass through her line of sight, but she swears afterwards that she saw the storm front of the explosion advance like a hurtling wave, shattering windows all the way down the street.

It actually takes a few seconds, stunned, deafened, and on her scraped knees, for her to associate what just happened with the bomb they built earlier today.

Laurent helps her to her feet, takes her hand, leads her on, walking away from the blast. His shirt is torn and there is blood on his arm from some kind of shrapnel. Danielle follows him robotically, in shock, unable to think, her legs marching by themselves. The world is soundless, as if someone pushed the global MUTE button. They pass ambulances and police cars racing the other way, sirens flashing. They keep walking. Her knees hurt. She looks down and sees they are bloody, the kneecaps have been scraped off her jeans. The world seems to be moving too fast around them, she doesn't have time to react to any sensory stimuli. People, old people and mothers mostly, are standing out in the streets or in their front gardens, talking to one another with concerned expressions, on their cell phones, looking back past Danielle and Laurent. A couple of them approach, meaning to help, but Laurent waves them off and they keep walking. They mustn't be noticed, mustn't be remembered, mustn't be caught. Danielle knows this but can barely remember why. A crackling buzz in her mind, overwhelmingly loud, drowns out all attempts at coherent thought.

She isn't sure how far they've walked when she begins to emerge from her cocoon of shock. Miles, she thinks. Her feet ache. So does her head. Her skinned knees have clotted over but bloodstains dangle like tongues on the shins of her torn jeans. Her ears ring as if she carries a fire alarm with her, but at the edge of her hearing she can hear the noises of the city, traffic, pedestrian chatter. They are in a more built-up area now, a busy street with a few stores, a Boots pharmacy, a newsagent, a post office, a café. A red double-decker bus passes. The people all around act as if nothing has changed, as if the world has not ended. She tugs on Laurent's hand to make him stop and turn to face her.

"I need to sit down," she says. She knows from the vibrations in her throat that she is speaking loudly, but she can barely hear herself.

He nods. They enter the café. The furnishings are cheap uncomfortable plastic, the plates and cutlery old and chipped, the stink of grease pervasive, the service malevolent, the décor nonexistent, but it seems like a sanctuary. They order bacon sandwiches and cups of tea. The fat old woman behind the counter gives them a sharp untrusting look, but Danielle suspects she does that with everyone. It is a great relief to sit on the plastic chairs. The sandwiches taste like ashes.

"Maybe they –" she begins, and then stops. She can't think of a maybe. Laurent shakes his head violently. "Not here."

She nods. It doesn't matter. Angus and Estelle must be dead. Danielle cannot even imagine how they might have survived the blast. The thought seems curiously unreal, as if it is not they who died, just their characters in a video game, Angus and Estelle can select New Game and pop back into this world untouched any time they like.

** *

Only minutes after returning to the apartment Danielle realizes she has no recollection of how they got there, of any time between the café and now. Laurent goes straight to the shower without saying a word. She slumps onto the couch in front of the television. After a moment, not allowing herself to think about it, she takes the remote turns on Teletext, the BBC's archaic pre-Internet system of textual news updates. The crude white letters on a black screen are like time travelling back to the 1980s. The lead story is BOMB IN NORTH LONDON – FIVE DEAD.