bourbiza mohamed
The scream from behind me jolted me back to reality. ‘Get in, John!’, yelled a voice. Howard Turner, my sergeant, was ordering me into the ambulance. I hesitated, uncertainty paralysing my leg muscles as my brain tried to process what had happened. WPC Yvonne Fletcher, my tiny, cheeky, perpetually smiling friend, had been shot. I could not take it in.
Around me outside the Libyan Embassy my mates were getting stuck in, ripping open first aid kits, pressing hands onto wounds, calling on radios to warn others what had happened. One of the men they were treating was crying out in pain as he…
