27

People fell from the sky. They were angels, falling from the angel roof. They were men, women and children. They were war dead. She understood she was war dead too and reached out to them.

Something shifted, tilted, gave way. A cavity opened up. From above came a narrow probing beam of light. An arm swung over her head. She saw the neat trimmed fingernails on the hand and the rosebud pattern on the quilted sleeve. She couldn’t think where she’d seen this before.

Someone groaned. The rosebud arm flopped down. It wasn’t attached to anything. It splattered her. She smelled gas. The light went out.

No, she wasn’t war dead yet. She woke, knew where she was, sensed it was day. This clarity told her she must struggle.

Her mother told her that she could do anything if she put her mind to it. She put her mind to it and her left shoulder moved a little. She worked her shoulder further and her hand came free.

All this time she felt no pain, which was strange. She rubbed her face with her hand. To rub your face with your hand. It was exquisite.

She tried to move her hips, her legs. They were pinned.

She made a noise. She made another, louder.

There was a patch of sky that belonged to you. You shot at it.

Cherry blossom.

‘Over here! I’ve reached her.’

‘Alive?’

‘A pulse, just.’

‘Can you hear me? Can you hear me?’

She could hear.

‘Hold on. Can you hear me? Hold on.’

Pain was a wild animal. Pain was a lion, a tiger, a wolf, biting, tearing.

‘I’m going to give you an injection. Can you hear me? She’s going into shock.’

She saw Peter. He said, ‘Madre.’