Squirming through, Dillon saw blanched faces crisscrossed with bloody streaks from flying glass, eyes wild with terror and blank from shock, desperate to get clear before the upper floor collapsed and buried them under tons of masonry. The girl with blonde frizzy hair stumbled into him, hands covering her face, blood pouring through her fingers and soaking the crochet top. 'Help me… somebody please help me, help me…' Behind her, a teenage boy with half his scalp ripped away, eyebrows and eyelashes burnt off, staggering blindly forwards, hands outstretched. 'Can't see, oh God I can't see…'

Dillon struggled on against the wall of human panic, the babble of voices all around, mingled with weeping and choking screams as the horror of it all sank in. 'My wife, where's my wife'… 'Brian, where are you'… 'Me sister's in there somewhere'… 'I lost me handbag'… 'Get out, gotta get out'… 'Johnny help me, please, please'… 'Where's me shoes'… 'Meg, Meg, MEG!'…

There came a soft whooosh, a sudden brightening of flames from the darkened interior of the bar, and a coil of smoke like an evil black tongue writhed through the gap where the door had been blown off its hinges.

'FIRE!… FIRE!… FIRE!…'

Above the pandemonium Dillon heard the braying wail of sirens – fire engines, ambulances, police – racing along country lanes, converging on the pub from all directions. But there wasn't time to wait for them. Minutes, seconds, were vital. He had to get in there now! Dillon had almost given up, raging and despairing that he'd never make it, but suddenly, magically, a space appeared and he dived for it, head down through the smoke, crouching low, eyes tight and stinging as he scanned the carnage of what five minutes earlier had been a roomful of happy young people enjoying themselves, having a great Saturday night to the sprightly rhythms of the folk group and the pounding of Jerry Lee's piano.