(1992) Prophecy Read Free

hair and a haggard, drained face, was buttering bread. There was a sharp ping and a girl in a white apron removed a dish from the microwave.
    ‘Chocolate milkshake?’ the father suggested, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the tears from his son’s face. He went to the counter and bought a milkshake and an espresso.
    The boy concentrated on his drink, his tantrum forgotten. Soon he was spooning the dregs from the bottom of the glass, and then he became absorbed in scooping up the last of the froth with a straw.
    When they left the café and were walking back down the alley into the street, he asked, ‘Are we meeting Mummy, now?’
    ‘Yes, for lunch. Then we’re going to Hamleys, and then the Planetarium. You want to see the stars, don’t you?’
    The boy nodded dubiously.
    In the distance, they both heard a siren; it sounded like a bag of stones being swirled through the air.
    ‘Daddy, why does Mummy always go to the hairdresser every time we come to London?’
    ‘Because she likes to look nice,’ he was told.
    They walked on for a moment in silence. The shops here contained nothing to distract the boy. Stationery. Men’s clothes. Masonic regalia. A bank. A silversmith.
    The swishing of the siren was coming closer and the boy heard the roar of an engine. They stopped, waiting for the lights to change to cross the road. A cyclist pedalled across, wearing a crash-helmet, his face covered in a smog mask which the boy thought made him look frightening. Then he saw a woman with short red hair on the other side of the road, and for a moment he thought it was his mother and tugged excitedly on his father’s hand, wanting to pull him across the road to greet her. Until he realized she was a stranger. His mother had long hair.
    The siren was still coming closer. The boy looked up at his father and tugged his sleeve. ‘Daddy, do you think I should have my hair done in London?’
    The father tousled his son’s curls fondly. ‘Like to come to Trumper’s with me next time I go?’
    The boy nodded, waited until his father was looking away, slid a hand up and flattened his hair down again. Then he looked across the road at the woman with red hair. She looked like his mother again now. It was his mother! It was. His heart leapt, then her hair blew in a gust, and it wasn’t; it was someone quite different.
    The lights changed to green, and the boy ran forward. Something jerked him back, holding his collar, a sharp yank. There was the roar of an engine, a shadow bearing down, the siren deafening now. The red-haired woman was halfway out in the road. His mother? Nothis mother? She was staring at him, her mouth open. She was trying to run backwards now.
    Tyres screamed. A shadow crossed, blocked his view for an instant. A van with two young men in it braking furiously, slewing across the road. Going to hit the woman.
    ‘Mummy!’ he screamed.
    The woman was splayed out on the van’s bonnet. It was careering across the road, mounting the pavement. A man in a business suit dived out of its path. A traffic-light post snapped and the coloured lights shattered on to the road. Then came an explosion like a bomb as the van, with the woman still on the bonnet, smashed through the plate-glass window of a bookshop.
    The woman seemed to elongate then disappear. For an instant the entire surroundings seemed paralysed. In the silence there was nothing but the sound of breaking glass. The boy saw a chunk of window fall. He heard a scream, followed by another. Doors slamming. A siren winding down. Policemen leaping out of a car. Doors of the van opening: one easily, one with difficulty, the man inside forcing it. The van’s engine was still running.
    ‘
Mummy!
’
    The boy broke free of his father’s grip and ran in terror across the road, through the crowd that was forming, pushing his way, sidestepping the opening door of the van. Another pane of glass crashed down. Blood. Books scattered everywhere. A poster lay on the ground,