Celia woke with a pounding headache.  She lay in bed hoping it would go away, and thought long and hard about her behaviour the night before.  Everything had been fine in Edward's office.  She'd felt important and respected, confident that she might indeed have a potential future as a draughtsman.  It was merely a case of proving her capabilities, and then applying for a job.

      But now she'd blown all chances with her silly, reckless behaviour.  She wasn't at all used to wine, let alone a bottle full on top of her gin and orange.  Yet those few hours had brought her supreme contentment.  Was it due to Paul's presence and the way he'd taken care of her, or simply because she'd got thoroughly pickled and stupidly let her hair down?

      What did Paul think of the way she'd behaved?  Had she been wrong to kiss him?  She'd known him less than a fortnight - had she now given him the impression she was just a cheap tart?  Had he lost all respect for her, following that one spontaneous act?  Questions, questions - and a pounding headache.  The headache might be cured with an aspirin.  As for the questions, only time would answer.

      Celia thought about her job applications.  Downstairs on the mat there could be a letter calling her for a interview that very day.  Wearily she got up, and her natural desire to look attractive prompted her to wear the same green and gold summer dress.

      Downstairs there was no post, and she consoled herself with the notion that perhaps it was not meant to be.  But would Paul ever invite her again to practise at his drawing board?  Whatever the future might hold, Celia knew she had to get a job soon, or there wouldn't be enough money in the house to pay for Paul's meals.

      At dinner Robin was in a black mood with the painful realisation that Paul's innate good manners were making him feel inferior in his own home.

      "Poor Robin," Florence sighed afterwards as she and Celia tackled the washing up.  "He's still finding it difficult to accept Mr. Muller.  I had hoped the one might set a good example to the other.  The question is - who will learn what from whom?"

      The kitchen was little bigger than a phone box, but it served as a sanctuary where mother and daughter could always enjoy a private chat.  Robin seldom invaded the kitchen, claiming that neither cooking nor washing up would help in his accountancy exams.

      "You don't really mind that Paul's German?" Celia asked discreetly.

      "Now, now," her mother scolded her, "we mustn't be prejudiced merely because a man happens to get himself born in a foreign country.  And Paul does seem quite fond of you.  You got on all right together yesterday?"

      "Oh, yes.  Fine!  I'd like to know a lot more about him though."

      "So would I.  Come, you'd better hurry up and finish painting that special mug, or he'll grow impatient for his tea.  Hold the door while I take the rest of the things through."

      Paul thrust aside the evening paper as Florence appeared, rising at once to his feet.

      "Paul," she said, putting down the tray and going to the sideboard, "we love the way you do that, but there's no need to keep bobbing up and down every time Celia or I come into the room.  Oh dear, now the sugar bowl's empty.  Where's Robin?  That boy shovels so much into his tea, his insides must be like syrup."

      Paul explained that he'd gone to post another of his college papers.

      "Yes, and there's a corner shop right next to the pillar box, but will he think to stop and buy sugar?  I doubt it.  He's about to become a qualified accountant, yet he can't seem to realise that groceries cost money.  Well, I'm not going all the way down to the shop if I can borrow some from next door.  Celia's just seeing to your tea.  She's in the kitchen if you need anything else."

      Celia had chosen to remain out of sight for two reasons.  She was now quite wary of being left alone with Paul in case he raised the embarrassing subject of her behaviour the night before.  She was also planning a little surprise for him, a token peace offering.  She sat on the kitchen stool with a paint-brush in her hand, trying to relive the restful atmosphere of the drawing office.  Soon her tranquillity was shattered as Robin came crashing in through the front door.

      "Is this my tea?" she heard him bark.

      "I believe so," replied Paul.  "Your mother was on the point of taking it upstairs.  I told her you were out."

      "Only popped down to the pillar-box.  Ugh!  Where's the damned sugar?"

      "Apparently we've run out.  Your mother's gone to borrow some."

      "Good.  This tea's far too hot anyway.  God, isn't life boring!"

      "Is it?"

      "Well, studying.  The subject I'm on at present is all stodge."

      "Stodge?" Paul queried, hoping to improve his vocabulary.

      "Like plain suet pudding, without any jam or syrup."

      "Ah, yes.  I had plenty of stodge to read for my exams too."

      "I bet you never studied anything as boring as Executorship."

      "Not for the R.I.B.A., no.  But if you find it dull, why don't you choose some other career?"

      "Not allowed.  Have to do what Father would have wanted.  It was his firm, you see.  Dad set his heart on David and me becoming his partners, and you can't argue with the deceased."

      Celia eased open the kitchen door and saw Paul gazing up at the two memorial portraits.

      "But don't imagine they were killed in action," Robin added hastily.  "Dad didn't do any fighting.  He was in the Civil Defence.  Spent most of his time rescuing bodies out of bombed ruins, till he got caught in one himself."

      "I'm told your old house was completely destroyed," Paul said.

      "Yup!  Direct hit.  Dad must have died instantly."

      Celia could see Paul shaking his head sadly.

      "I'm so sorry," he said.  "That's how I lost my family too.  All five killed in one air raid.  Maybe it was a blessing they all went together.  The sadness of death is only for those left behind."

      Robin's eyes lit up.  "Hey, there's a thought.  If no-one got left behind, no-one would ever have to study Executorship.  Are you the only survivor from your family?"

      "Yes, but that's because I was on a bombing raid over London that night.  There's poetic justice for you."

      Through the narrow gap, Celia saw Robin's face take on a curious expression of scorn and fascination.

      "I reckon you must feel a bit of a lemon, with your German accent, talking here about the war?"

      Interested though she was, Celia couldn't hear the rest of their conversation because of the noisy pre-war refrigerator which resumed its intermittent throbbing.

      But Robin eagerly chattered on, glad to be clearing the air at last on this delicate subject.  "Of course, I saw it all through the eyes of a child.  It wasn't a time of danger or death, just a permanent shortage of sweets and the excitement as we all ran out to the shelter."

      "But you're much younger than Celia.  Her memories must be far more painful."

      "She's coming up to thirty-one, if that's what you want to know.  I'm twenty-two.  But obviously the war affected her more than it did me.  She's not likely to forget losing a leg, is she?"

      "She walks very well with her false one.  And yesterday she managed without that stick of hers.  I'm surprised she still uses it - how many years ago was it?"

      "Back in 1942.  We lived over in Essex then, on the other side of the river.  A lovely big house, three times the size of this dump, with a long garden that backed right down to the railway, marvellous for train spotting.  That was before they electrified it, of course, it was all steam in those days.  I used to spend hours perched on the fence with my camera.  Mostly little N7's, but now and then a Sandringham would come waltzing by, or one of the streamlined B17's.  But when the house got clobbered, Mum's old aunt insisted we came here.  She's dead now, of course, because was nearly ninety then, and thoroughly disapproved of the war.  She used to blame David for keeping it going.  That's David," Robin added, pointing to his brother's photograph.  "He was a fighter pilot.  Maybe he even took a pot shot at you up there."

      "Could be," Paul admitted.  "I was part of a bomber crew."

      "Did you score any direct hits, or can't you see where they land?"

      "You see plenty on a clear night when there's a full moon.  One thing your chaps couldn't camouflage was the river Thames.  A wonderful sight, like a twisted silver ribbon draped across a grey velvet cloth.  But I remember once I knocked out a cluster of oil tanks just north of the river.  Made an awful mess, I'm afraid.  Then as we headed for home, we watched a tall column of smoke rising vertically into the still air.  We took bets on whether it would obscure the moon before we were over the horizon."

      When the fridge finally stopped throbbing, Celia heard only a curious silence.  She peered through the doorway, and saw her brother staring angrily at Paul with half-closed eyes.

      "I asked you a question," he repeated.  "Did you bomb anything else that night?"

      "Oh, Robin, it was years ago.  We did aim for a railway, I remember, not wanting to spoil any of your Sandringhams.  But it was our job to disrupt important communication lines, and railways are easy targets with their continuous strips of shining metal.  Still, it's best now if we forget all that business - it's not a pleasant memory for anyone."

      Instead of accepting Paul's gesture of truce, Robin was now staring at him with  undisguised hatred, and Celia knew she had a duty to intervene.  She marched into the room carrying what looked like a clean white mug, taking care to conceal it from Paul's view as she leaned across the table and filled it with tea.

      "Sorry this took so long," she said mysteriously.

      Paul turned to see what she was doing, and couldn't fail to notice the tell-tale hip ridge beneath Celia's dress and her hollow knee-joint.

      "Are you ready for a surprise?" she asked with an encouraging smile.

      "Surprise?" he echoed as if in a trance.

      "Shut your eyes," she said, placing the mug firmly into his hands.  "Now, open.  See the name?  Be careful, the paint's still a bit wet."

      Paul opened his eyes and read the name PAUL neatly printed on the side.  He studied it in silence before staring blankly into Celia's face.

      "It's neat work," he said.

      Celia felt rather deflated.  She'd worked on the lettering for nearly an hour, determined to do her best, yet Paul's reaction seemed devoid of any feeling or gratitude.  Was it because of her faux-pas the previous evening?

      Then a chilling voice sounded from across the room.

      "Does it say NAZI?"

      Celia looked up in horror.  "Robin, how could you!"  She turned to Paul.  "I'm sorry, Paul.  I can't think what's got into him."

      "It's all right," Paul said quietly.  "We were talking about the war."

      Celia nodded.  "I heard you airing the taboo subject, but I couldn't hear much over the noise of that clapped-out fridge.  I suppose you now know how David and Daddy died, and how I got this?"  She rapped her knuckle against her skirt.  "I remember David saying that it was far better to hit your target than miss.  He said hitting a target meant doing good damage.  Missing it meant bad damage and killing lots of innocent people.  And he was right.  When our house was destroyed, that was certainly bad damage."

      "And I suppose," Robin bellowed in fury, "when those oil tanks by the river exploded a moment earlier, any half-brained Nazi would open a bottle of champagne and shout Heil Bloody Hitler!"

      "Robin, behave yourself!" Celia shouted.  "That's quite enough."

      Paul looked totally stunned.  "Oil tanks?"

      "Yes," she said.  "On the Essex side.  Quite near to where we used to live."

      Paul sat quite still, staring not at Celia but through her as if she and the rest of the world had become invisible.

      "I think we've heard enough about your damned war," scowled Robin.

      "Oh Robin, grow up," said Celia.  "For goodness' sake!  The war's been over for years, and it's not worth any more arguments or bad feeling, certainly not in this house."

      Celia could see that the animosity between Robin and their guest was far from over, but she felt it best to let the two men work out their differences alone.  Tactfully she retired with the empty teapot back to the kitchen, but no running tap or noisy fridge could mask Robin's anger as he continued shouting at Paul, something about his aim being fifty yards short, and that if he didn't get out at once and go back to Germany he'd kick his evil face in.

      "Look at the bloody mantelpiece," yelled Robin.  "See those two?  They used be members of this family.  Maybe they can't get you now, but I will - I swear it."

      Paul sounded very contrite.  "Robin, I'd give my life to undo what's happened, you know that.  But you're right - I can hardly stay here, not now."

      "Then piss off out of our lives before I bloody well kill you."

      Robin stormed up to his room, leaving Paul to face a bemused Florence who'd just returned with a fresh bag of sugar.

      "Why on earth is everyone shouting?" she demanded.  "It sounded dreadful, echoing right across the street.  Whatever's the matter with Robin?"

      As Paul stood wondering what to say, he noticed Celia in the kitchen doorway.

      "Paul?" she asked quietly.  "Tell us why Robin was shouting."

      "No," he replied bluntly.  "But it's best if I leave here tomorrow."

      "That young idiot," muttered Florence.  "Trust Robin to upset the apple-cart!  I'll go and give him a good talking to.  It won't happen again, Paul, I promise."

      Paul tried to prevent her.  "No, please.  It's not Robin's fault.  It's just that things aren't working out here as I'd hoped, and I may be taking a new job.  Somewhere near Bristol perhaps."

      "Edward's moving you to Bristol?" Florence exclaimed in disbelief.  "Well, I must say I'm surprised and very disappointed.  When will you be going?"

      "Tomorrow.  Perhaps even tonight.  I don't know."

      Paul was too upset to take any cross-examination, and for the first time Celia saw in him a streak of impatience, totally out of character.

      "But surely," Florence argued, "Edward wouldn't have brought you here if he thought you'd soon be leaving?  Aren't you partners any more, Paul?  What's happened?  And where does Robin fit into all this?"

      "I told you, it's not his fault," Paul stressed.  "You mustn't blame Robin.  And Edward doesn't know about this either.  But I'm afraid I can't stay here, not any more.  You've all been so kind to me, I feel terrible about this, especially after receiving this lovely gift." He picked up the hand-painted mug.  "May I take it with me?"

      Celia had slipped silently back into the kitchen, but Florence answered for her.

      "Of course you may, Paul.  Oh dear, she'll miss you, that one.  She hasn't had a lucky life so far.  But your coming here, Paul, and taking her out in your car - it's given her such a boost, you've no idea.  And what with all her other problems in trying to find a new job..."

      "I am sorry," he apologised.  "The last thing I wanted was to hurt anyone, especially Celia.  You must be very proud of her."

      "Oh, Paul," said Florence, turning away as she opened the pack of sugar and put several spoonfuls into Robin's tea.  "You don't know how proud.  What she's been through, that brave girl."

      "I'll make a point of writing to her, I promise, when things settle down."

      "Oh, please yes, keep in touch, Paul, whatever else you do.  You could still help her a lot, if only you would.  Look, I've got to go out for a while, so maybe you and she can have a quiet talk while I'm gone.  I doubt if Robin will disturb you.  Try to cheer her up a bit.  You've done so much already.  But first, be a kind man and take this tea up to Robin for me."

      As Paul obediently went upstairs, Florence hurried into the kitchen where she found Celia leaning forlornly against the sink.

      "Cheer up, my pet.  I'm off to phone Edward, to try and get to the bottom of this.  Robin's obviously upset our guest deeply, and if he won't confide in us, maybe he'll at least trust Edward.  Have a chat with Paul while I'm gone."

      "Do you think he means it?  About leaving?"

      "We'll have to wait and see.  But I'll tell you this - I had a long hard think about Paul Muller last night.  Now I definitely want him to stay, and it's not just the money I'm thinking of."

      As Florence left the house, Celia called softly upstairs, hoping to sound far brighter than she felt.

      "Paul, I'm just making some fresh tea if you want a refill."

      Paul came slowly down the stairs.

      "Thank you," he said, picking up his new mug.  "I'm sorry if I didn't say the right thing when you gave me this."

      "I quite understand," said Celia.

      "No, you don't," he smiled, "but it doesn't matter.  I must have hurt your feelings, and believe me, that's the last thing I ever intended.  It was very kind of you to think of me.  Did you paint this?"

      Celia nodded.

      "Good lettering.  I'd like to take it with me, as a souvenir of a very special girl."

      "Of course, but why go so suddenly?  I'm sorry if it's not my place to ask, but last night you seemed so happy and relaxed.  Something's obviously changed all that, and it can't be just my silly behaviour yesterday, which I now deeply regret - well, some of it.  But I love having you here, Paul, you know that.  Now it's all gone horribly wrong on account of Robin, opening that can of worms we tried so carefully to avoid."

      "No, Celia.  It's nothing any of you have done."

      "But there is something," she insisted, "to make you suddenly want to leave us.  Sorry, I'm being far too nosey.  Have a biscuit."

      Celia prised open the biscuit tin, and found it empty.

      "Typical," she said with an apologetic grin.  "Robin again!  Never mind, we've got some more in the sideboard."

      "Let me," said the chivalrous Paul, but Celia was insistent.

      "No, you sit still.  I was your guest last night.  Now it's your turn to be mine."

      With some difficulty, Celia managed to kneel down and open the door of the low sideboard.

      "Good.  There are some ginger ones here," she announced with an encouraging smile.  "And Paul, there's no need to look so concerned.  I can manage, truly."

      "I'm sorry," he apologised.  "I didn't mean to stare."

      "It's okay," Celia said, standing up and handing him the tin.  "I'm well used to being watched.  People seem to get magnetised by a kind of guilty voyeurism.  Sometimes I feel like a freak performing in a cheap circus."

      "Oh no," he cried, "you're certainly no freak.  I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."

      "Paul, you're the embarrassed one.  It's quite natural to be curious, but believe me, I have got used to this by now.  I assure you it won't upset me if you want to talk about it."

      "You didn't feel like discussing it last night."

      "Last night you weren't threatening to leave us."

      Paul didn't seem interested in the biscuits, so she put them on the table, and pulled up a chair beside him.  He looked so vulnerable, like a lost child, and Celia felt an overpowering surge of maternal instinct - though it wasn't entirely maternal.  Paul needed a close friend, and she wanted desperately to be that friend.

      "Well?" she prompted, munching on a biscuit.  "Ask me something."

      "That scar on your chin - did that happen at the same time?"

      "Yes," she said, "and I hate it."  Instinctively her hand went to cover it, but he gently lifted it away.

      "Don't hate it, Celia.  I don't.  Anyway, it's hardly noticeable."

      "Then why ask?"

      "Because you said I could.  I think it adds charm to your face.  I was noticing it last night, like an extra dimple."

      She couldn't resist a genuine smile.  "I thought you wanted to ask about my leg."

      "I do, but there's so much else.  I mean - being like this, did it totally alter your life?"

      "Not as much as people think, actually.  Of course, I'm useless at some activities, prone to falling over in shoe shops, and clumsy as hell in the bathroom.  But with a reliable stick, I can manage enough walking to see me through the day, and in emergencies I can do a sort of hoppity-skip.  I probably look ridiculous, but then who doesn't at times?  Sometimes I feel I'm a small-town celebrity, the way people notice me in the street.  You made me feel even more like a celebrity last night, until that wine took over and wrecked my golden image."

      "It doesn't hurt, does it?" Paul asked anxiously.

      In other circumstances Celia might have teased him, but she knew this wasn't the moment.

      "No, Paul, it doesn't hurt.  It gets a bit uncomfortable at times, especially on a hot summer's day, but it's more tiring than painful.  It's horribly frustrating though, when you want to do something that everyone else does without thinking, and you know you can't and never will.  This isn't going to get any better, you know.  Can't grow a new one like a crab!  But I never set my heart on being a ballet dancer or a tennis player, if that's what you're driving at."

      Paul finally accepted a biscuit and crumbled it thoughtfully.

      "What else would you like to know?" she asked, revelling in Paul's presence, and dreading the thought of him no longer being there.

      "Tell me precisely what happened that night," he begged at last, "when that awful bomb fell?  What was it like, waking up in the hospital and learning what had happened?"

      "But Paul, why does this trouble you so much?  Were you longing to talk about it yesterday when I tried to stop you?  I just felt last night I wanted us to discuss pleasant things, not spoil our evening with depressing details."

      His despairing eyes took on a look of hopelessness.

      "I can't explain," he sighed.  "I simply need to understand.  I want to share so much with you - though the way things are now, I truly can't."

      "You want the full story of what happened that night?"

      Prompted by his pitiful nod, Celia seated herself as comfortably as she could, and cast her mind back over thirteen difficult years.

      "Well, let me see - it began like any other night in the war.  The sirens started wailing soon after eleven, and we all got up and hurried out to the shelter.  Then Mother realised she'd taken our blankets into the house to air - the shelter used to get awfully damp at night.  So Daddy went back to fetch them.  Then we heard the most almighty explosion - terrifying, and it seemed to come from all around us.  It was like the end of the world, a deafening bang followed by utter blackness as the lights in the shelter all went out.  David and I opened the door to see what had happened, but all we could see were clouds of choking dust and dense black smoke.  Then as it slowly cleared we discovered the house was just a smouldering shell - no roof, no windows, just jagged walls pointing up at the sky like accusing fingers - it was horrible.  You've no idea what a shock it is to see something you thought so strong and permanent - there one minute, then suddenly gone.  It was pitch black, but David thought he saw Daddy's body under tons of bricks and rubble so he ran forward, and I followed into what had been our dining room.  Those were the last steps I ever ran, Paul.  Yes, I do miss that, not being able to run.  We were too late to help Daddy, but we had to try, didn't we?  We couldn't just leave him there.  We had to try."

      Celia blinked hard to fight off the inevitable tears.  Paul tightened his grip on her hand and gently wiped her eyes with a napkin.

      "But then," she went on, "the rest of the walls began to cave in on top of us.  There was a groaning, grinding sound, and I looked up to see huge chunks of wall hurtling down on me like a black avalanche.  It was very dark but I remember these horrid cruel bricks cascading over my head, making me so angry because they wouldn't stop hitting me, hitting me again and again, and hurting me.  One of them must have caught my chin, and cracked my jaw, but I don't remember anything else till I woke up in hospital.  My face was wired up like a tight birdcage, and they wouldn't let me have a mirror.  God, Paul, you've no idea what horrors ran through my mind, knowing I was too ugly to be given a mirror.  But after a few days I was allowed to look, and apart from the wires my face wasn't too bad.  They managed to get all the glass out of my body, and patched me up as best they could.  Then they had to find someone to tell me about my leg, and about David.  Uncle Edward did that, bless him.  I didn't believe him at first.  I could still feel it down there, hurting.  Only it wasn't there.  My right shin and my knee hurt like hell for weeks afterwards, but there was simply nothing there.  There still isn't.  I checked again this morning."

      She grinned feebly.

      "But I wasn't unduly worried about that.  I was more concerned about the others, and thinking - this can't be happening to us.  That awful theme ran round and round in my brain.  If only Mum hadn't moved those blankets.  If only Daddy had left them till later, or gone a minute earlier.  If only David and I had waited."

      "If only that bomb hadn't fallen where it did."

      "Well - there wasn't anything we could have done about that.  The bomb had to land somewhere."

      She gave a long shivering sigh.

      "After that came the long uphill struggle back to a half-happy life again.  It was never the same, of course.  No David, no Daddy, no money, no lovely house.  It was worse for Mum.  She must have felt so desolate, yet she had to maintain enough strength for the rest of us.  She's a wonderful woman, you know that?  You might think she's a bit funny at times, Paul, but she's only trying to protect us.  You'll never meet a finer person if you live to be a hundred and ten.  She's truly amazing."

      Paul managed a smile.  "So are you.  Thank you."

      "Well, I'd been offered a challenge, hadn't I!  Learning to walk again gave me plenty to occupy my time, I can tell you.  I had a mountain ahead of me which I was determined to climb, with or without sticks.  I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life dumped in that hateful wheelchair.  Of course, it seemed impossible at first.  But once I was given a new right leg which more or less matched the other one, at least I looked normal, and it didn't take long to get around again - plus coming to terms with a few other personal problems which you really don't need to know about.  Well, are you happy now, you beast, now you've forced that horrid story out of me?"

      "Oh, Celia, my love, it seems so unfair.  You're such a ..." he began, his voice fading into silence.

      "Well, don't leave a compliment in mid-air," she protested.  "They're far too precious - or even an insult if that's what you had in mind.  Come on, what am I?  I've taken worse knocks on the chin."

      "It's just the thought of such a horrid thing happening to someone like you."

      "Oh, Paul, no, don't start feeling sorry for me, please.  One thing I really can't stand is sympathy.  For goodness' sake, you've got to like me for what I am, not the way I might have been."

      "I do like you, Celia.  I like you an awful lot, but you simply don't understand.  And you mustn't ever understand, I can't allow it, it wouldn't be fair."

      Paul sprang from his chair and began pacing the room as if trapped in a cage.

      "What's so unfair, Paul?  Are you saying you still feel responsible?"

      He wheeled round, his eyes blazing.

      "You called me a beast.  Well, yes, dammit, I am!  I really am the beast."

      "Because you're German?  But Paul, the war was over years ago.  It was fought by a different generation.  It wasn't our war."

      "But it was my war," Paul shouted.  "I was on active service, dropping Hitler's wretched bombs all over London, killing hundreds of people like you.  So how do you think I feel, meeting families I've destroyed, seeing ruins that were once homes.  Up there we were detached from it all.  It didn't seem real, not then.  Celia, I didn't want to do it.  I hated every single bombing raid, but it was a job that had to be done.  There was too little thought given to human suffering and despair, the devastation of lives and precious loved ones.  Celia, you must believe me.  I never meant to hurt anyone, especially you, my love, I honestly didn't mean to, but I had no way of knowing you were there.  Oh God, I'm so unhappy."

      Paul slumped into a chair and wept uncontrollably.  Celia waited, unable to comfort him with words, simply pressing her hand onto his, and putting her arm across his shoulder.

      "Please," she said at last, "don't be so upset.  Think of all the good things you've achieved.  Remember, David was a pilot too.  He bombed and destroyed, killing people in the name of duty, and Paul, he hated it too.  David and I were very close, and I knew some of what that poor boy went through.  He was two years older than me, but still so very young inside."

      "For years," Paul continued, "I tried not to think of all the damage I caused.  But when I met you and your family, all those old ghosts sprang back to life again, all unbearably real."

      "I know, but you're not to worry about it.  Something like this was bound to happen.  It was silly of Robin to go blabbing about the war, but please, Paul, think about me instead.  I love having you here, and I certainly don't want you to go and leave us.  As for what happened all those years ago - that wasn't your fault."

      "But it was.  It was, don't you understand?  It's no good denying it, Celia, it was entirely my own doing."

      He turned to face her with grim dignity, and Celia felt the room suddenly turning cold.

      "I didn't want anyone to tell you," he said, "because I can't bear to think of you hating me for the rest of your life, but I'll go crazy if you try to carry on our friendship in ignorance of what I've done.  Celia, I've not met many girls I really liked, but you're different.  I've known you only a few weeks, yet I felt something special between us the very first day I came here.  If I hadn't felt that way, and if I didn't care deeply about you, I'd leave the rest unsaid.  But I respect you tremendously, and you've a right to know the truth."

      He drew a solemn breath, like a judge pronouncing sentence.

      "The night your house was bombed, some oil tanks near the river were also destroyed.  Celia, on that same night, I was up there.  It was these very hands that released those bombs, destroying those oil tanks and your house.  Now do you see why I can't stay, knowing I've caused you and your family so much pain?"

      "You?"

      Celia suddenly felt as if a new cascade of menacing black bricks had begun raining down on her head.  Paul thrust out a pleading arm, desperate to comfort her, but in backing away she caught her heel on the side of the settee and fell heavily to the floor in a most ungainly sprawl.  Paul came forward at once to help, but she knew instinctively she had to ward him off.

      "Leave me alone!  Don't come near me!"

      In that terrifying moment of panic, Celia kicked out blindly with her left foot, landing a stinging blow across the side of Paul's face before she scrambled wildly towards the door, and hobbled up the stairs.

      Overcome by this final rejection, Paul went to rest his sobbing head on the mantelpiece where two lifeless faces stared back with mocking smiles, as if aware that a just and satisfying revenge had finally been attained.

<<< Previous Chapter       Back to my Stories Page       Back to my Front Page       Next Chapter >>>

Prologue       Chapters:  1   2   3   4   6   7   8   9   10   11

Except where specifically noted, all music and stories on this web site are my own creations.   You may not use any of them for any purpose without written permission from me.     Copyright © 2003 Colin Johnson     All Rights Reserved.