The Silent War by Victor Pemberton

underpants, took hold of Sunday’s hands and arms and curled them around his neck, and then positioned himself. ‘You’re fantastic, Sun ,’ he whispered, his breath and body now burning-hot. ‘This’ll be much better than Lennie Jackson.’
    At this sudden mention of Lennie’s name again, Sunday felt the urge to pull away. But gradually, the idea excited her, and for a moment, whilst Harry was probing her body with his fingers, her imagination visualised Lennie with his arms around her, Lennie’s bare abdomen pressing against her own, and Lennie . . .
    But at that crucial moment when Sunday’s fantasy was about to take full flight, a voice suddenly yelled out from the dark. ‘Yer dirty bastard!’
    Sunday was horrified, for she had recognised the voice immediately. ‘Ernie!’ she shouted.
    Ernie Mancroft sprang up from nowhere, and leapt at Harry, tackling him straight to the ground.
    Sunday quickly stepped out of the way, but could only hear the desperate fight that was going on at her feet. There were shouts of ‘
Bastard!
’ and ‘
Yer sod!
’ and the thudding sounds of fists as they struck home at face and body. Although she couldn’t see the two men tearing at each other, the sounds of pain coming from Harry were enough to convince Sunday that the young RAF boy was getting the worst of it.
    ‘Stop it, Ernie!’ Sunday yelled, over and over again. ‘Get out of here! It’s nothing to do with you!’
    The fact that Ernie wouldn’t respond meant that he was determined to go on with his brutal attack.
    ‘Ernie . . .!’
    Sunday’s desperate shout echoed across the park, sending the inhabitants of Duck Island into a frenzied chorus of panic. Simultaneously, Harry let out an agonised gasp before falling silent. Ernie had clearly laid him out for the count.
    ‘Harry!’ yelled Sunday, totally disoriented in the pitch-dark.
    Sunday’s yells provoked another sound, this time coming from a distant part of the park. It was a long blast on a police whistle.
    Sunday fell to her knees, desperately trying to feel around for Harry on the ground. With her outstretched hands, she finally located him. ‘Harry!’ she cried, trying to lift his head. ‘Harry! Talk to me!’ As her fingers followed the outline of his face, she felt the blood trickling down his chin from his nose and from his mouth. ‘Oh Christ, Ernie!’ she said, trying hard to see him in the dark. ‘What have you done to him, you sod!’
    Ernie’s voice came from an unexpected direction. ‘I told yer, Sun.’ He was standing directly behind her. ‘Din’t I tell yer? You’re mine, Sun. Yer’ll always be mine. No poncy little bastard like this is goin’ ter take you away from me.’
    ‘You’re mad, Ernie!’ she called back. ‘You’re stark, raving mad!’ Whilst she was yelling at him, she was cradling Harry’s battered head in her lap. ‘I wouldn’t touch a mad sod like you with fifty thousand barge-poles!’
    At that moment, the police whistle echoed out again. The sound was getting closer.
    ‘Over here!’ Sunday bellowed. ‘Over here!’
    She had to raise her voice as loud as she could, because the ducks were flapping in and out of the water in panic on their island, making it difficult for Sunday to hear which way Ernie was running off to get away from the rapidly approaching police whistle.
    ‘Ernie! Come back – you bloody coward! Come back . . .!’
    Her shouts, however, were smothered by yet another sound. It was some way off, but its impact sent a chill down Sunday’s spine. It sounded like an aircraft, with an engine that seemed to chug rather than hum. And as she looked up at the dark night sky, in the far distance beyond the park, she could see a bright flame burning. Then the chugging sound stopped, and the flame extinguished. The silence that followed was climaxed by the most devastating explosion, which terrified Sunday so much that she threw herself right across Harry’s lifeless body.
    The extraordinary sounds