After the Blast © November 2010 Elizabeth Mills

As the dust settled, I looked around the ruins of the bar. Where, a minute earlier, the room had been filled with the drone of many conversations, and the air heady with the sickly smell of beer, now the only sounds were the groans of the injured and the clatter of unknown things falling and the smell was of burning and destruction.

My first thought was of my companion, Patrick. Not exactly a boyfriend, but special nonetheless. I saw his body a few feet away, where he had been thrown from his chair by the force of the explosion, and now lay dreadfully still, covered with debris. I crunched over rubble and broken glass, and picked my way through scattered furniture to reach him, realising as I did so that my right arm seemed to be loose and unresponsive.

When I reached him, I knelt at his side and wiped some of the grey dust from his face with my left hand. “Pat,” I urged, “Patrick!” My voice was made hoarse by the dryness of the air and the cloud of particles that floated all around like a swarm of tiny insects. Still he did not move.

Something was laying across his body, so I tried to move it, to free him, but it was too heavy for me. I began to panic, scrabbling at the pieces of brick and plaster that covered him, howling with desperation, coughing with the thick powder that clogged my throat.

Then I heard a sound behind me and jumped , startled, as something landed on my shoulder. I screamed and clawed at it. It was warm and soft, and I realised that it was a hand. A voice behind me said gently “Relax young lady, help is here, let me see what I can do.”

I stood up and edged away, and he took my place at Patrick's side. Other people were also moving about among the wreckage, searching. One came over and carefully led me outside, where more devastation awaited. Cars were burning, every window I could see was shattered, and bodies were being carried from buildings.

Then fire engines and ambulances began to arrive, and soon I was whisked away to hospital. There, my broken arm was secured in a splint, and other injuries I had not noticed were treated, then I spent a night connected to various machines, to make sure nothing else had happened to me. Though I asked, no-one could tell me about Patrick.

The next morning, as soon as the doctor had checked me over and declared me fit to go home, I asked again about Patrick. They told me that he had been admitted, and was in a room near mine. His family was with him.

I hurried along the corridor and opened the door they had indicated, fearful of what I would find. There was a bed, but it was hidden from my view by the group of people clustered around it. They turned to look, and as I entered the room, I was so pleased to see everyone smiling, including my dear friend Patrick.