People fell from the sky. Some spread-eagled, some twisting and flailing, others drifting down as if weightless. Face after face after face passed her by, neared then disappeared into greyness. They were angels, falling from the angel roof. She understood she was to join them.
They were men and women and children. They were war dead.
She understood she was war dead too and reached out her hands.
Death is truth, they told her, falling.
Her mouth was caked in dust. Her throat was dust. Dust was in her nose. She took a breath and it was ashes. She coughed and there were knives in her chest. She couldn’t move her arms, her hands, her legs, her feet. She could move her head a little. She tried to call out but her voice was shut up in her throat.
Someone else called. She heard their thin cries. It was dark.
Her mother told her she needed a little colour at her neck. Her mother told her that if she’d had her opportunities when she was a girl she wouldn’t have thrown them away. ‘Half a pound of antimacassars,’ said her mother.
She was pinned. She couldn’t move her hands, her arms, her legs. Dust silted her mouth and choked her.
It was sunny and hot. The tide was out. She was walking down a shingle beach with a mermaid’s purse in the pocket of her dress. The sea was sparkling.
Something shifted, tilted, gave way. A cavity opened up, a vacancy. From above came a narrow probing beam of light.
Someone groaned; something moved. She smelled gas. The light went out.
She was walking down a shingle beach with a mermaid’s purse in her pocket.
Protect my family.