‘Just me,’ I gasped. Shining flowers of pain were blossoming where the broken glass had caught me. ‘Upstairs maybe—’ Whatever I might have said was lost, as I was gripped again and push-pulled up the steps and onto the pavement. Part of me dimly registered surprise that the pavement was empty – was it just these two firefighters? Where was their vehicle? Was no one else about? But there was no time to reflect, we were between the parked cars and out into the road, and they were shouting ‘Head down! Head down!’ at me – then more hands had me, and my head was pushed under a flapping blue tape, and there were people and lights all around.

Since no one was holding me down any more, I stood up. I was at the end of the street, in a crowd of uniforms and flashing blue lights. A helicopter staggered in overhead. From further away came shouting and siren whoops, and an amplified voice saying, ‘Move back, move back! We need this whole area clear right away.’

‘Is it going to go?’ someone asked. I thought for a second that they were asking me, but the question was directed at the firefighter behind me.

‘It’s going,’ she said, pushing her helmet back to rub her temple with the ball of her thumb. ‘It’s definitely going.’

What was going? I turned back to look at my house. The street appeared as it always did, with the addition of the helicopter, which had passed over and then wheeled back to hover nearby. But then, clear even against the noise of the helicopter, came a series of reports, a heavy board being dragged down stone steps, and then an ascending noise, the tearing of a sheet of heavy cloth. The facade of the house next to mine folded inwards as if it were no more than a tea-soaked biscuit; then my house moved, downwards, seemingly in a single piece, exactly how I couldn’t say, and the facade buckled and everything was on the move at once, crumpling and twisting and turning from solid to liquid, and an uproar of thick grey dust swallowed that part of the street, obliterating our view like a killer whale snatching a mackerel, and everything was noise, not crashing or banging but a continuous rushing jet-engine roar.

The dust arched and twirled and piled outwards, racing itself, and just before it reached the tape cordon and engulfed us, I had the impression of it rising over the broken heart of the street in a thick, malevolent column.

‘It’s gone,’ I said.

Once again, hands seized me, and I wanted to protest, don’t touch me, give me a damned moment. But I wasn’t being dragged – the arms that had been thrown around me were not manhandling but hugging, and a faint note of Jo Malone found its way past the stench of plaster-powder and ruin.

‘You’re OK,’ Bella said, pressing her head into my shoulder. ‘You’re OK!’