Screaming

Screaming.

That was the only sound.

This was the last, they said. "The war to end all wars." That was a quote from somewhere - no one knew - but this wasn't a war. It was like a war. Cold. Terrifying. One of those things that, even if you don't experience it personally, can give you horrible, horrible dreams. Nightmares.

One of those things . . . a nightmare.

We were fine here. I knew that. Or rather, I'd been told that. I didn't drink the champagne or wine though, or stand, chatting, and wondering how ten minutes could seem so long.

Instead, every tick the clock made was like a bomb exploding, silently, in my ear.

When I say silent I mean very, very loud.

Get me?

No one "got" why I wouldn't join in with the celebration. 'Have some wine, boy!' an older woman said, thrusting a half-full glass underneath my chin. I glanced at the dark, crimson liquid, then at her, the grey, thinning hair, the wrinkles. She was old. Did she not care that men, women, teenagers, children, babies - would die? Were going to die, in less than seven minutes?

The whole of France, or most of it, anyway - would be dead.

Dead.

And we would hear the screaming.

Emily, my oldest sister, was drinking, but Isobel crawled to my feet, and hugged one, frightened. She didn't understand this, the screaming, or the celebration. The war to end all wars. I looked at Isobel, my sister, so much younger than the woman with the wine.

I pictured her in France, with an accent, darker skin, and the black hair we'd all inherited. It could've been her. It could've been us, our friends, our family.

It could've been our country.

'Here, Izzy,' I said, picking her up. 'You sit on my lap, yeah? I'll cover your ears for you.'

Izzy shook her head, defiantly.

'Izzy not scared,' she told me, stubbornly.

'Of course you're scared, Iz. You must be.'

No one else was . . . yet.

'Nope.'

I picked a sugary biscuit from the table behind me, before noticing the teeth marks on the side. I chose another one, a chocolate digestive.

'Does Izzy want a choccie biccie?' I said, in a baby voice. Izzy giggled, and hit me, playfully.

'Dumb Adam,' she said, kindly.

'Dumb Izzy.' I stuck my tongue out, and ate the biscuit myself, to Izzy's horror and distress.

Our family, I thought, suddenly.

It could've been us. Us.

Five minutes, now.

I wanted to break that clock.

'The war to end all wars!' one of our uncles shouted, his grin stretching his thick red beard, his mossy eyes bright and his glass of wine raised, high, towards the ceiling.

'The war to end all wars!' a woman cheered.

Laughter.

'Four minutes left!'

The volume increased, as people talked, excitedly, some hushing the people around them, some pale, some shivering - the room did seem colder. Scarier. Like we were suddenly caught in a war zone.

'Three minutes,' someone whispered, their voice full of quiet suspense.

Suddenly, the room was full of whispers. Then, silence.

'Adam?' Izzy whispered. I held her, tightly, and pressed my hands over her ears.

'Adam?'

Emily, nearly seventeen, asked me to hold her hand. She placed her other one over Izzy's left ear, and gave a nervous smile, as Karen came and wrapped her arms around her sister's waist.

I looked around me, my eyes searching for a flash of ginger hair, but Ginger, or Josephine, as was her real name, was soon beside me.

'Ten seconds, Adam,' she whispered, shaking, and jerking with fear.

'Cover your ears, G,' I said, sternly.

For once, Ginger did as she was told. Karen did, too, though she also pressed her face in Emily's back.

'Two sec-'

Screaming.

That was the only sound.

It seemed like one, first, piercing through our heads, and we heard a noise like a crash, or a thud, from across the ocean. It seemed to travel nearer, winding, metaphorically, around our bodies.

Like the screaming.

Then the thud seemed to halt, and travel back the way it had come.

A chorus of screaming.

One, long, scream. A shorter one. A male one, gruff, more of a yell than a scream, and the same man giving a strangled plea for help.

And then . . .

Silence.

My sisters, and many others, took their hands, or fingers, away from their ears.

'It's over!' a woman shrieked, hysterically, her fingers stroking at her cheeks.

A baby's cry.

'It's over!' the bearded uncle yelled.

A gasp, from far away.

Silence.

It really was - it was over.

And then, from across the room - a cheer.

And, to me, my sisters and probably those in France, the cheering was worse than the screams.