It is a place I only go to clean. I pause at the door and lean my ear against the panel, listening to see if you are on the phone or on a video call. ...You are not. I take my time with the handle, turning the antique brass knob to release the well-oiled latch. I slip my lithe body through the small gap that a gentle push creates. Closing the door behind me, I lean heavily against it; settled in my well-intentioned deceit, I paint on my happiest face. You hear me and look up, taking me in, in. An American bomber named Enola Gay had ended it all after six years of madness and slaughter.I lit a cigarette, watching the train huff and puff slowly out of the station. Looking out over the station car park, everything was green. Peaceful, too.Picking up my case, I meandered into the street. I was a fifteen-minute walk from home and there would be no Stukas with their insane, banshee screams, and no ME109s strafing civilians. Above all, no shooting whatsoever.One or two people looked. More

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