Her fat hand had landed in front of him on the pavement. The index finger seemed to be pointing directly at him. It hadn’t been his fault; it wasn’t my fault he felt himself saying in his head, rehearsing what he would say to her. But of course he wouldn’t be saying anything to her ever again. The hand was all that was left. He grabbed it quickly, looking around, hoping no one saw. He needn’t have worried , the smoke and dust obscured all but a few feet around him. It was very quiet and nothing moved. He heard the first scream, behind him. He turned towards it standing up and placing the hand in his bag, zipping it up.

The scream was getting louder now and other noises were emerging: a faint siren, a man shouting Helen over and over. The screaming woman was the loudest; it drew him to her. He saw that she only had one leg and from the stump of her missing leg a steady stream of blood was gushing.

He took off his jacket and tore it into long strips, bent down and tied it on the remaining stump of upper thigh as tightly as he could. The woman continued to scream throughout, no actual words just a wailing moan, looking upwards and occasionally looking around and at him.

Once he had tied off her leg he stood up and walked away; away from the noise, the dust, the blood and guts covering the road and pavement. His feet sloshed through it and he almost tripped on the remains of an old woman’s head as he reached the outer edge of the chaos.

The sirens were louder now and from several directions. He slipped through the crowd of gathering onlookers and walked away as fast as he could.