But he wasn’t.
I crawled from the slabs, glancing left and right, guiding myself around the glass shards littering the grass, looking to every nook for a foot, his small hands, anything as a sign of where he waited and that he hadn’t run off into the sight of the soldiers.
Edging closer to the shed where I’d left him, there wasn’t much more space for him to hide in. I peered forward as I crawled with my hands on the grass, when a sharp sting rose from my left hand. I pulled away, clenching my teeth and saw a shard the size of a cookie sticking out from the ground.
I looked at my hand and a cut the diameter of a coin, surprised to see no blood pouring out.
A little light-headed, I scanned the grass for more shards, then looked to my palm and the blood rolling slowly down to my wrist. My thoughts turned to my mum helping me to wash it under the sink, then dabbing it dry with such care. But I knew Mum would never make it all better again.
I was on my own.
With a tear rolling down my cheek, I felt so lost and helpless, but then I heard my name called from just ahead. There was Tommy on the edge of tears, emerging from the gap between the shed and the planter boxes.
“Tommy,” I said, seeing him safe and well and staring at my hand with his eyes so wide I thought he’d split open his head. “I’m okay. It’s just a little cut,” I said, getting to my feet, then stumbling forward with blood dripping to the grass as I regained my balance. My foot reminded me of its damage.
“Does it hurt?” he replied.
“Just a little,” I said and he nodded quickly as if he knew it wasn’t true, but he wanted to believe I was okay and everything would be fine.
“I just need to find something to stop the bleeding,” I said, pulling air as I tried flexing my hand, the blood quickening. I looked away, peering to the door I’d only just come out of. Being careful where I placed my feet, I headed back to the house.
A boom of pressure radiated from down the road, but quieter than the one from next door. The soldiers were making progress. Two gunshots cracked through the air and I ducked, even though I guessed they were two doors away. A flurry of incoherent voices shouted out; this was different and I couldn’t help but wonder what could have caught their interest.
I couldn’t let the noise slow me. I was at the back door, surprised it was still on its hinges. Peering in, I half expected to see a great crater in the centre of the hallway. But there was none. Instead, scorch marks centred around jagged metal buried in the plaster and across the wooden floor, with splinters everywhere. Smoke rose from the red embers in amongst the debris, the air heavy with chemicals.
The walls had taken the worst hit, great holes in the plaster with dust still settling. The walls on either side were ruined, but other than potted with dark marks, they were mostly intact. The toilet door seemed to have survived with only scorch marks.
I looked around to the breakfast bar and saw the tea-towel resting on the side next to the knife block. I hoped I could just about reach it, despite only able to use one hand pain free.
Leaning in through the missing pane, I pushed my arm out, wincing as I opened my hand and grabbed the towel.
Pulling the cloth through the opening, I stepped back and Tommy helped as best as he could, wrapping the towel around my palm.
To the continued soundtrack of explosions, I took a moment to regain my thoughts. A moment to remember the plan and think how I would make it around the houses and out to the front to start the car so we could make our escape through the fence. Then I remembered the key I’d held in my hand.
I searched at my feet, looking to the paving slabs spotted with my blood and then to the grass, but I couldn’t see the rectangle of black plastic anywhere, the grass too short for it to be hiding there.
“No,” I said, as I realised I must have dropped it inside and it would have been destroyed in the explosion. I sank to the cold of the slabs and pushed my uninjured hand to my eyes.
How could I have been so careless to drop the key inside the house?
But now wasn’t the time to relent with the soldiers only a few houses away and Mr Jackson probably catching up with us at any moment. If I took too long to act, one way or another we’d die.
Tommy wrapped his arms around my head. At first I protested, but he felt so warm, his small body such a comfort. As his grip tightened, I relaxed.
A rapid burst of gunfire rattled us both and he held on as if his grip would save us. I imagined a crowd of my neighbours facing the soldiers, the guns firing before they knew what was going on.
Screams told of their pain until the echo fell away, leaving nothing behind.
I had to do something. If not for me, for Tommy. I had to do something before I could no longer keep him safe.
Unpicking myself from his grip, I took slow steps to the door. Tommy picked up the planter box from where the explosion forced it towards the pond and set it back as a stool at the foot of the door.
Looking through the missing glass, I saw its battered and disjointed panels scuffed with red paint, but
