Page 107 of Never Tear Us Apart
I see Nicco bearing down on me. Blood runs down his face; his eyes are red with fury; his balled fists smash into my ribs, one after another on repeat. I don’t know how he got out or why he’s here. All I know as I feel my bones crunch and my organs bruise is that he will kill me.
‘No!’ I shout into his face, feeling the word vibrate in my chest. Frantically, I try to push him off me, scratching at his wrists and face.
Nicco catches both my wrists with one hand, pressing them into the ground. I can feel the fragile bones in my hands bow and splinter.
His mouth contorts with furious, hate-filled words that I can’t hear; spittle from his tirade sprays in my face. As I turn away, his hand gropes for something – then he finds it. He picks up a large rock, some piece of masonry that is more than heavy enough to cave my head in.
Anger burns through me in a wild inferno. No! No, I will not die like this. I will make it to the airfield in time.
With all that’s left of my strength, I twist and buck, just enough to unbalance him a little. In that one second, I wrench my wrist free and, sitting up, punch my elbows into his throat. It’s not enough to really hurt him, but it gives me enough time to crawl from under him and to scramble to my feet.
Then we stand opposite one another, the world burning around us. The sun is blotted out entirely. He stands in the way of where I have to go.
Nicco rushes at me, the rock held high, ready to strike. All I can do is run at him, shoulder first. He is stronger than me, but he is not a tall man, and when we meet, my shoulder hits him dead centre in his chest. He swings the rock at me but misses.
I try to run past him and as I do, he falls. I keep running, hoping to gain some earth. A fighter swoops down, machine gunfire strafes the ground, a thousand tiny explosions surround me. I fall to the ground, hands over my head. The sound of the fighter recedes, and I turn over. Scratches but no injuries. Then I remember, where is Nicco?
When I turn to look, he is lying prone on the ground. Maybe he is dead, maybe unconscious. I don’t know. I could go back, but I don’t.
This is war.
Chapter Seventy-Six
The bombing has all but stopped by the time I finally hobble onto the airfield, but the Spitfires still wheel above us, fighting to the death.
The first thing I see is that casualties are lined up in makeshift rows on stretchers on the ground. Seeing me holding one damaged arm to my chest with the other, a nurse runs up to me.
‘Medic!’ she calls, but I shrug her off.
‘I’m fine, honestly. Where’s Dr Borg? I have to find her – it’s important.’
She shrugs, pointing down the field.
Shaking my head, I begin to limp in the direction she was pointing, my view obscured by drifting smoke. The nurse returns to her work.
Then I see the doctor kneeling over a young man on a stretcher, holding his hand.
‘Stella,’ I rasp and then again louder. ‘Stella!’
‘Maia, can you find him water?’ Stella hears my voice before she realises that I should not be there and looks up at me. ‘Don’t you worry, Terence,’ she tells her patient. ‘Water is coming.’ She points at a medic. ‘Fetch him some water please.’
Getting up, Stella runs over to my side, where I fling my arms around her, despite the pain that every movement shoots through my body.
Four Spitfires head out onto the pitted runway through the smoke of the fire.
‘What happened to you?’ Stella looks me up and down. ‘You need a stretcher, my dear child.’
‘What can they do up there when the smoke is so thick?’ I ask as the aircraft struggle into the air. ‘What can they see?’
‘Light’s still just about good enough,’ Stella says, her hand supporting me under my elbow.
Dimly, I wonder if I am in shock. ‘That’s good.’
I want to stop and stare at the sky, as if I could somehow make out Danny’s aircraft in the purple sunset. Stella lifts a canteen of water to my mouth. The medic must have returned with some for both Terence and me. I take a sip. It’s cool and clear.
When it happens, it’s almost as if I am one second ahead of time as it unfolds.
I see a Spitfire swoop in low with a Messerschmitt on its tail. It banks high, hotly pursued, heading steeply into the violet sky. The enemy’s chase is relentless. There’s no other aircraft from either side in view: just the two of them locked in a dogfight.
