Jacqueline: Bomb, Verona

The queue was long and slow, and he wished - on a regular, 10-second basis - that he'd had time to check-in online.  As he drew nearer to the desk, he could see that the Ryanair reps were, without exception, Muslim.  Searching his mind for the latest stint of Michael O'Leary, he wondered how far a decision to employ attractive Muslim women might be connected to the terrorist threat, or the well-being of his airline.  You cynic, he thought, and signed.  He didn't worry unduly on that score as far as flying was concerned, although he could see that the apparent threats to European cities was a cause of concern for one or two of his fellow passengers who were eyeing anyone with darker skin than the average white European, with some intensity.

The flight, as he expected, was uneventful, and Verona appeared as tranquil as it always had.  The Veronese women, tottering in their heels, made their way purposefully along the pink marble pavements to shops, lunches, hair appointments... and the men - tall and immaculate, mobiles clamped to their ears - strode quickly along.  All was well with the world, in Verona at least.

As his taxi slowly circled Piazza Erbe, he watched the familiar bustle of stallholders calling to customers, who jostled in the darkening light of early evening.  It was always a busy time of day, when the workers of  Verona - the bankers, the waiters and the shopworkers - turned out in force to get the fresh fruit and vegetables for their dinner, and then perhaps sit for a while, sipping an aperitivo outside any one of the ten cafe bars in the Piazza.  He looked up, automatically, as always, to admire the ancient, fading frescoes adorning the walls of the buildings above the cafes.

The taxi drew up sharply, outside his hotel, and as he turned to the driver to ask the fare, a violent and impossibly bright light filled the car, and while his brain was attempting to establish its nature, the taxi shook with the force of the loudest explosion he'd ever heard.  The noise seemed interminable and he was aware of a clear thought.  So this is a bomb.  Beyond the driver's head, he saw the glass door of the hotel shatter like a windscreen, and something pale and indistinguishable flying through the air.  Then, silence.  The two men sat, mute and still, temporarily deafened, for what seemed an extraordinarly long time until the silence was broken - a few seconds later perhaps - suddenly, and horribly, by the sort of screams he'd imagined he would never hear.  While his brain was urging him to act, to at least open the taxi door, his eyes were unwillingly taking in the carnage in the small square.  The market stalls were no more.  A pall of smoke hung over the entire area and bodies, and pieces of bodies, and clothing, and vegetables, and bits of wood, and pieces of china and glass, littered the beautiful pale pink marble.  He was aware of the taxi-driver speaking soft, unintelligible Italian into his hands which now covered his face, and his own brain was slowly registering the fact that he needed to do something.  He groped, with shaking hands, for his mobile and before his fingers could make contact with the keys, he heard the familiar wail of sirens.  Thank God! Help was on its way.