The third explosion was the loudest yet and it caused the giant espresso machine to lurch dangerously across the countertop. One of the valves broke open and pressurised steam began blasting out with a high-pitched whistle. The proprietress wrapped a cloth over her hand and tried turning a knob to stop it, but only succeeded in burning herself.

Her yelp brought an elderly man out from the back of the café. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

As he said this a bomb hit a building less than thirty metres away. Paul, Rosie and their father lurched one way before being thrown back the other. The large Venetian blind in the window clattered to the ground as a massive chunk of plaster dropped out of the ceiling.

Paul screamed out as it hit the woman at the next table with such force that her chair split and her face banged sickeningly against the tabletop. Out in the alleyway a great tearing sound erupted, followed by a storm of roof tiles and masonry. The electric lights flickered before going out and the metal tray of croissants clattered off the countertop as dust filled the air.

Mr Clarke caught a scent in his nostrils and immediately stood up. ‘Gas leak,’ he shouted, as he moved quickly towards the miraculously unbroken front window and looked up to check that the rubble had stopped raining down outside.

The others in the café could also smell gas and a man stubbed out his cigarette as Clarke frantically tugged at the door. The blast had made the building shift, causing the wooden door-frame to move and wedging the door itself firmly into position.

‘Come on, you two,’ he shouted to the kids, almost falling backwards as he got the door open.

As Paul, Rosie and everyone except the woman who’d been hit by the plaster piled out of the café, another bomb exploded. This one was several streets away, but the tremor was still enough to dislodge more roof tiles.

Paul looked up and saw a huge section of brickwork crashing towards him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

For the first time he could remember, Marc wasn’t woken by the director yelling or other kids jumping on his bed. He was on a sofa, covered with a blanket. It took a few moments to remember how he’d got here and be hit with the immensity of what he’d done the night before.

He sat up, aching all over from the beating, as he looked at the dressing on his knee. Sabine, the waitress, had fixed it using bandage and cotton wool and whilst it looked rather dramatic it was clearly the work of someone who had no clue what they were doing.