One

Outside my window, mortars fired rockets into the darkness and the night was rent by the crack of gunpowder and the screams of children. I flinched at every report and hugged myself, rocking back and forward, trying not to cry. One more hour, one short meeting in this blank little room, then I would be on my way to the airport, on a flight back to Edinburgh. Up and away, a continent and an ocean behind me.

There was a sudden lull in the shelling and I was sure I could hear footsteps on the stairs, thought I could smell a blast of acrid smoke from someone opening the street door. Then, after two of the loudest bangs yet, a pounding came at the flimsy door to the room where I was hiding, each blow making the cheap lock rattle. Why were they trying to break it down? I was expecting them. They were the reason I was sitting here.

I crept forward and whispered, “Is that you? What’s wrong?”

Another bout of hammering began and I heard something split at the hinge side. Then a voice bellowed, “Po-lice! Open up!”

I scrabbled with the latch and threw the door open.

“Police?” I said. “Has something happened?”

“Are you … ?” said one of the cops, frowning at a note in his hand.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s me. Officer, is something wrong?”

“You skipping town?” said the other one, pointing to my suitcase and roller bag.

“As it happens,” I said. “Look, why are you here? I was expecting Mrs. Bombaro.”

“She’s in jail.”

“And Mr. Bombaro,” I added. “Wait, what?”

“He’s in the morgue.”

“What? What did you just—” Then, as a bang like a nuclear bomb went off so close that the ground shook under my feet, I shrieked and threw myself into the arms of the bigger of the two cops, feeling some nameless object attached to his belt hit my hip with a clang.

“Ma’am?” said his partner, slowly. “What do you know? What’s got you so nervy?”

“I’m sorry,” I told him. I knew my voice was shaking. “I just really hate fireworks. I’m not trying to spoil it for you. Happy Fourth of July!”