miles along the boulevards. She prayed that the truckloads of soldiers returning to their barracks would leave her be. Hopefully they’d just think that she was in a tearing hurry to get home before the curfew began. Her dark curls flew as she cycled along the quayside, following the curve of the Seine as the river swept southwards to create the deep bend in which the suburb of Billancourt nestled.
She knew where Claire was supposed to be meeting Christiane – it was a spot that she’d used as a rendezvous point a few times herself. She turned into the road where the café sat on the corner but it was deserted. Even through the pounding of the blood in her ears and the noise of the wind rushing past her face, she could hear the roar of the planes as they approached, preparing to unleash the biggest allied air bombardment of the war so far on the factory that was used to produce so many trucks for Hitler’s army.
Suddenly the sky lit up with falling flares, illuminating a slight figure in the side street she was passing. She leapt from the bike and called to Claire, running towards her. And then the first plane dropped its bombs on Billancourt and the streets exploded.
The rush of wind and debris engulfed the spot where Claire had been. It hit Mireille a split second later, but it was enough time for her to spin round and tumble into the recess of an adjacent doorway, shielding herself from the worst of the blast and from the shockwaves from the next explosions that sucked the air from her lungs. She picked herself up, ignoring her bleeding hands and knees, and ran into the cloud of thick dust that choked the narrow street. Another flare lit the scene, allowing Mireille to make out the huddled bundle on the pavement just in front of her. She grabbed Claire beneath her arms and dragged her inert body back into the doorway, shielding her with her own body as another blast rocked the earth beneath them.
The white light of the flares became tinged with a warmer orange glow as the factory buildings erupted in flames and the next explosion ripped through the air. She could hear the planes’ engines screaming as they sped up and banked away from their target having dropped their payloads.
Her eardrums rang with the force of the blasts after the first wave of planes left. The fires that raged through the nearby buildings added their crackling roar to the din. She carefully assessed Claire’s injuries by the light of the flames. She had suffered a blow to the back of her head and her hair was drenched with dark blood. But otherwise her body seemed to be intact. To Mireille’s relief, Claire’s eyes fluttered open then, her dilated pupils dark as deep black pools. Her gaze was glazed, but with a struggle she seemed to focus on Mireille’s face. After a few moments, while Mireille tried to blot the blood from her wound with her scarf, all the while speaking reassuring words, Claire tried to sit up. Her body swayed and then she leant forward and vomited trying, not entirely successfully, to avoid her coat.
‘Does anything else hurt?’ Mireille asked her.
Dizzily Claire shook her head and then winced, putting a hand up to her hair and looking in numb disbelief at the dark stickiness that stained her fingers.
‘You’re concussed,’ Mireille said. ‘And in shock too. But Claire, we need to move you. There may be more planes coming and we need to get out of here. Do you think you can try to stand, if I help you?’
Claire didn’t speak, but she reached out a hand and Mireille heaved her on to her feet. Claire retched again, acrid bile spilling from her mouth on to the front of her coat.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
Mireille slung Claire’s arm around her shoulders and wrapped her own arm around Claire’s back, taking a few tentative steps out from the doorway into the street. Everything was covered in a thick layer of grey dust, as if it had snowed, and they managed to totter along a little way. With a flood of relief, Mireille made out the shape of the discarded bicycle beneath the shroud of dust and debris. She propped Claire against the side of a shop and bent to retrieve it.
And then she felt the air begin to resonate once again as the next wave of bombers approached. ‘Quick,’