than the screaming and the shouting.
The garden was drenched and painted with blood.
There were splashes and gouts of it upon the white walls, there were
puddles and snakes of it spreading and crawling across the paving, dark
slicks of it sinking into the dust, ropes of it dribbling and pattering
like rain from the body of a musician as he hung over the rail of the
bandstand. The sickly sweetish reek of it mingled with the smell of
spiced food and spilled wine, with the floury taste of plaster dust and
the bitter stench of burned explosive.
The veils of smoke and dust that still drifted across the garden could
not hide the terrible carnage. The bark of the olive trees was torn in
slabs from the trunks by flying steel, exposing the white wet wood. The
wounded and dazed survivors crawled over a field of broken glass and
shattered crockery. They swore and prayed, and whispered and groaned
and called for succour.
David went down the steps, his feet moving without his bidding; his
muscles were numb, his body senseless and only his finger-tips tingled
with life.
Joe was standing below one of the torn olive trees. He stood like a
colossus, with his thick powerful legs astride, his head thrown back and
his face turned to the sky, but his eyes were tight-closed and his mouth
formed a silent cry of agony, for he held Hannah's body in his arms.
Her bridal veil had fallen from her head, and the bright copper mane of
her hair hung back, almost to the ground. Her legs and one arm hung
loosely also, slack and lifeless. The golden freckles stood out clearly
on the milky-white skin of her face, and the bloody wounds bloomed like
the petals of the poinsettia tree upon the bosom of her wedding-gown.
David averted his eyes. He could not watch Joe in his anguish, and he
walked on slowly across the garden, in terrible dread of what he would
find.
Debra! he tried to raise his voice, but it was a hoarse raven's croak.
His feet slipped in a puddle of thick dark blood, and he stepped over
the unconscious body of a woman who lay, face down, in a floral dress,
with her arms thrown wide. He did not recognize her as Debra's mother.
Debra! He tried to hurry, but his legs would not respond. He saw her
then, at the corner of the wall where he had left her.
Debra! He felt his heart soar. She seemed unhurt, kneeling below one
of the marble Grecian statues, with the flowers in her hair and the
yellow silk of her dress gay and festive.
She knelt, facing the wall, and her head was bowed as though in prayer.
The dark wing of her hair hung forward screening her and she held her
cupped hands to her face.
Debra. He dropped to his knees beside her, and timidly he touched her
shoulder.
Are you all right, my darling? And she lowered her hands slowly, but
still holding them cupped together. A great coldness closed around
David's chest as he saw that her cupped hands were filled with blood.
Rich'red blood, bright as wine in a crystal glass.
David, she whispered, turning her face towards him. Is that you,
