“She’s gonna blow!”
Thirty-two years Sheila has been waiting for this holiday. Thirty-two years. Thirty-two years of the same old, of the sniping and the bickering.
“We’ll go away and everything will be better.” What a bloody cliché. And here they are, six thousand miles from home; she, barefoot on the sand, watching the sunrise, livid; Cynthia, in their suite, complaining about the heat.
The sky glows redder.
She ignores the running behind her, the voices calling her back to safety, through the sulphur-laden air. Ash scorches her scalp.
“Yes,” Sheila shouts, lifting the bottle to her lips, “she’s gonna blow!”