The Reinvention of Ivy Brown [antikvár]

1963 I April I t would remain a black and white photograph in the spectators' and survivors' minds for most of their lives. Over time, the picture would get touched up and bleed into colour by those furthest from the blast, then embellished into their own personal drama. Someone else's agony kidnapped by strangers as a piece of future entertainment. Twenty or more onlookers stood on the spot, catatonic statues of horror. Their hands welded to their faces. From high above, office windows were thrown open and heads shoved out to scan the mayhem below. From streets away, everyone came to a halt, waiting for something more to occur. After the final boom came a steamy hiss and ooze of diesel, swirls of smoke, and the billowing of papers and city detritus blocking out the sunlight. Nothing else moved. Not a sound. Only the distant clip of heels trotting rhythmically through puddles somewhere along the street. Ivy passed by on the other side of the road without a blink