June 15th 1996, 11:16 a.m.

Smarties or Skittles? The young lad can’t choose.

Tiptoeing on his size five shoes to see if his

Dad is still waiting, he catches a glimpse of

That scarf and the programme’s gleaming cover.

The man looks up to see his son peer over the rows

Of sweets, and says to him with a knowing grin:

“Get me some Skittles will you, mate?”

Outside the shop the crowd is now a stream of red.

The lad is nearly swept away in a rumbling wave,

But the man with the programme grabs his hand

And whispers in his ear: “Keep close.”

They hurry past a transit van parked on yellow lines,

Two figures jump from out the back of it,

Leaving a winding trail of wires behind them.

Bricks, bodies and glass are flung into the air

And pour down upon the pavement.

All sobs of confusion are lost in shock,

And the flow of support has stopped.

The young lad still keeps close to his Dad,

Their hands still clasped together tightly,

But only the eyes of the lad are blinking.