There’s a simplicity in death.
Grey-white smoke from the hot barrels of the sidearms fills the room and when I inhale, I can taste the sharp chemical tang of cordite and feel its caustic burn at the back of my throat. Visibility is further worsened by a heavy snowfall of dust from the plaster ceiling, loosened by the reverberation of the shooting. And yet I can clearly see the effects of the gunfire.
I look across to my friends. There’d been no time for any show of courage. No brave last words or declarations of love. The deafening cacophony of gunfire still echoes in my ears. The reverberation still finds my bones and seems to rattle them. The plaster dust coats us all. The living and the dead.
I push Bulatov out of the way, but for a moment I can’t approach my friends. The sight of them shrieks at me. Their truth too appalling. Because the Colonel had been wrong in a way. History did not repeat itself. The victims here had no jewels and gemstones to protect them from the bullets. They lie contorted on the floor, their bodies drenched in blood.
I force myself to approach Stacey. My hand reaches for her throat, but I find no pulse.
Sophie’s mint-green top is sodden w ith blood, so much so that I imagine – or maybe I can – taste the salt of it. I reach for her throat, but I find no pulse.
Reggie lies prone, half underneath Stacey’s body. I pull her free. Turn her over. The blood leaking through her clothes is still warm. I reach for her throat, but I find no pulse.
I shuffle along. Molly Stone’s still, pale and blood-speckled hand is resting on Frank’s sleeve. I reach for her throat, but I find no pulse.
I drop to the ground. ‘Frank, Frank . . .’ I haul his body around and drag him towards me so his head rests on my lap. I reach for his throat, but I find . . . A pulse! ‘Frank! Stay with me! Frank!’
I must be crying because my vision of him has become blurred.
I see his eyes flicker open. ‘The girls?’
‘They’re all right,’ I tell him. ‘We all just need you to hang on! Do you hear me? Just hang on!’
He somehow musters a smile. Shakes his head. ‘Too late. But wanted you to know . . .’ He takes two quick shallow breaths. I lean closer to him and he whispers, ‘Jock was right. I love you, lad.’
I hug him so tightly, it feels like I might crush his bones. And I wait for another breath but hear nothing more. There is nothing more. Because there is, after all, a simplicity in death.