The boy is whining now, and his mother wraps her arms around him, trying to keep him still. We need to get away from the window. I move in a crouch down the aisle, and the woman follows me, crawling with her son clasped to her chest. We shelter behind the till with Martin and the old man.
“Is there a back exit?” I ask, and Martin shakes his head, wheezing too hard to speak. The bell over the door chimes. Someone is coming inside. I stare down at the carpet with my mouth hanging open, then close my eyes. Footsteps move toward us, and I hold Finn’s face in my mind.
“You can come out,” says a man, in a tired voice. I have to force myself to look at him. No ski mask, no gun. He says, “There was an accident.”
Slowly, holding on to the counter, I pull myself to stand and follow the man outside. Down the road, more people are emerging from the shops. A flatbed lorry is stopped in the street. From its back posts, blue ties twist in the breeze. A stack of broken pallets lies on the ground behind it. The ties must have broken and the pallets crashed to the ground, with a sound like a detonation.
Sawdust rises from the debris. A few people have started to laugh. Others are standing in the road with shocked faces. The driver sets himself in front of the pallets, like someone might try to take them. He says, to no one in particular, “I didn’t tie them on myself, they did that at the yard.”
I stumble into the Wildfowler. After the dazzle of the road, spots float across my vision. Everyone has run outside, their chairs knocked to the ground. Plates of half-eaten food have been abandoned on the tables, burgers and chips, a dish of melting ice cream.
My sandals crackle on the broken glass. In the toilets, I look in the mirror at the blood dripping down my forehead, then take a fistful of tissues and hold them against the cut.
A woman with silver hair comes inside. I recognize her, she works at the village library a few mornings a week. “That was the last thing any of us needed,” she says, resting her hand on my arm.
I lower my fist, and the tissues are bright red with blood. “Will you need stitches?” she asks. “I can give you a lift.”
“No, it’s nothing. Thank you.”
We squeeze hands and I walk back across the restaurant, past the broken glass, the plate of chips softening in the sun.
I stagger down the lough road toward home, covered in sweat and dust. It’s still a beautiful day. Sunlight glows on the pines, the rosehips, the water. I can hear sirens now, the emergency services coming to check for injuries and clear the road.
At home, I take off my dress and drop it in the hamper, then pull on an old pair of Tom’s rugby bottoms, tightening the cord until they fit around my waist. Once the dress is washed, maybe it won’t seem tainted by today, though I already know I’ll never wear it again, like the jumper I had on that day on Elgin Street, and the necklace I took off my throat while walking away from the collapsed building, like having it on was disrespectful, frivolous.
13
THE TIDE HAS GONE out in the lough. I walk toward the water across the wide stretch of sand, my jeans and towel rolled up on the rocks behind me. The heat has faded with evening, though the air still feels warm on my bare skin. Shafts of sunlight drop between the clouds onto the surface of the lough. A few boats are out, and around them the water shimmers.
The threat level hasn’t been lowered yet. A bomb was found this afternoon on a train in Lisburn. Something had gone wrong with the timer, so it hadn’t detonated. The police are out searching trains and buses for other devices, though they might not find any. That might be it.
I breathe in the mineral air, noticing that the last of my headache has vanished. This stretch of the lough is protected. A Neolithic logboat is buried in the sand, and at low tide you can see the remains of early Christian fish traps from thousands of years ago. I remember when the chessmen were found nearby. The pieces had been carved by Vikings, and then one day they surfaced from the mud.
I wade into the water. A hoop of seaweed floats by my ankles. I duck my head under the surface, and shivers crest over my scalp. My body tightens in the cold water, like a loose screw. I’ve hardly been aware of it all day, but now can feel every inch. My lips and the backs of my eyes tingle from the cold. The dust and sweat, the sun cream and insect repellent are all gone into the water, just like that. I feel clean.
I stroke toward the center of the lough, ribbons of cold water slipping over my body. This is the first time since seeing the helicopters that I’ve been away from my phone or the radio. I won’t know if anything happens, the bad news can’t find me here. I dive back under, swimming a meter below the surface until my air runs out, then settle into a slow crawl. I travel far into the lough before finally turning back.